Flawed

by Tracy Wolff

  I snort. “Yeah, one that’s written in code maybe.”

  She laughs, then, her brown eyes sparkling in a way I’ve rarely seen. It’s a good look, one I can’t help but drink in—at least until she turns back to the center island and begins chopping the asparagus into one-inch pieces.

  “I really can do more than wash tomatoes,” I tell her as I put the now clean fruit on the counter. “I may not be the best cook, but I can chop with the best of them.”

  “Fine,” she says with a long-suffering sigh. “If you have to do something, you can set the table and open a bottle of wine that will go with a light summer pasta.” She points to the patio. “Out there.”

  “In other words, I should just stay the hell out of your kitchen while you’re cooking.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Oh, I think you said it loud and clear.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me as she moves from the asparagus to the broccolini. “And who says men don’t get subtext?”

  “Someone who’s never met a man trying to keep up with you,” I tell her as I grab plates from the cabinet.“

  For long seconds, she doesn’t say anything. But then, just as I’ve moved to pull silverware from the drawer, she asks, “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Trying to keep up with me?”

  “Absolutely. If by trying to keep up with you, you mean running half a mile behind while trying desperately to keep you in sight.”

  She laughs, bright and bubbly, then shoos me out of the kitchen. I do as she asks, but as I go I can’t help wondering if she gets that I meant exactly what I said.

  Chapter 11

  Tori

  Miles is surprisingly good company.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised—after all, because of Chloe, we’ve hung out together dozens of times in the last year—but somehow I still am. I guess I’ve been too busy hating the idea of him to pay attention to the fact that I don’t really hate him.

  Then again, it’s hard to hate a guy who’s gone out of his way to help me. And who, I’m learning, is working his ass off to make it up to Chloe for his past mistakes. I may not like the fact that he was so self-absorbed, he never clued in to what their parents made her sacrifice to get him the money he needed to make his first patent a reality. But I am beginning to realize he really didn’t know.

  And as he stands up to clear the dishes—“You cooked, I’ll clean”—I realize I’m not going to be able to go back to how I felt about him before this whole debacle unfolded. More, I don’t want to. After all, it’s hard to hate a guy when he already hates himself.

  When he was talking in the kitchen earlier, telling me that I should never have to thank him or any other man for doing what’s decent, I could see the regret in his face. The pain. The self-loathing. This is not a man who blithely turned his back on his little sister for his own gain after she’d been violated in the most heinous way. And this is not a man who lives his life unaffected by his sister’s pain.

  No, I can’t hate him. Not now that I’ve seen who he really is.

  With that thought in mind, I follow him into the kitchen, the open bottle of Pinot Grigio dangling between my fingers. It’s tempting to pour another glass—so, so tempting after the day I’ve had—but I ignore the temptation. I may not be planning on doing much thinking tonight, but tomorrow will come soon enough and I’m damn well not going to start my new life, whatever it may be, with another hangover.

  So instead of emptying the remaining half of the bottle into a very large wineglass, I slide it into the fridge and settle for pouring two glasses of water instead.

  “Do you want to watch a movie?” I ask as I hand one to Miles. I’ve decided I’m going to give myself the rest of the evening to hide from the mess that is my life. Tomorrow is soon enough to start trying to fix things.

  He doesn’t answer right away and I find myself holding my breath as I wait to see what he’s going to say. It’s not that I’m afraid to be alone or anything, I assure myself. Because I’m not. It’s just that I want to do something to keep busy. Otherwise, all there is for me to do right now is stare at the ceiling and wonder how the hell I’ve let my life get so off track.

  Because the truth is, no matter what Miles says, no matter what Chloe says, there’s a voice in the back of my head telling me that this mess is all my fault.

  After all, I’m the one who was stupid enough to date Alexander in the first place.

  I’m the one who was fucking moronic enough to seek him out at the party last night, even if it was just to show off a little.

  And I’m definitely the one who was stupid enough to turn him down in a way that was guaranteed to piss him off. Guaranteed to make him lash out.

  If only I’d known what he had in his possession. If only I’d known how quick he would be to use it against me.

  But if I’d known, would I really have done anything different? Would I have given in and slept with him as my father suggested, just to avoid embarrassment?

  I don’t think so. I sure as hell don’t want to think so. But looking at where I am now, dependent on my best friend and her brother to house and feed me because I can’t take care of myself, I’m not so sure.

  It’s the uncertainty that enrages me the most, the idea that if I had known where I was going to end up, I might have fucked Alexander just to save myself. The fact that he has that kind of power—that I unwittingly gave him that kind of power over me when I dated him two years ago—makes me more than furious. It makes me sick.

  For the first time since I talked to Chloe, I let myself think about what she said. Let myself think about what standing up for myself in this situation would look like. Alexander’s people will dig up every piece of dirt on me they can. Every indiscretion. Every drunken party. Every guy I ever slept with. Before they’re done, I’m sure I’ll be labeled everything from a party-girl socialite to a whore.

  It’s not fair.

  Believe me, I know better than most that life isn’t fair. It’s a lesson I learned at an early age, despite my life of privilege, and it’s a lesson that this whole nightmare is just reinforcing.

  But it isn’t fair—not to me and not to all the other girls and women this same thing has happened to.

  So what if I wasn’t a saint before tonight. So what if I drank too much and slept with too many guys because I wanted to feel connected to someone, even if it was just for a little while. Does that give Alexander the right to do this to me just because he can? Does it give him the right to violate my trust and put my whole future in jeopardy just because he wanted to build himself up as the next big action-movie stud?

  It doesn’t. It really, really doesn’t.

  “Hey!” Miles’s sharp exclamation draws me out of my head, has me staring up into his concerned blue eyes even as he wipes his thumb across my cheek. It’s not until I feel his skin rubbing over the wetness there that I even realize that I’m crying. “You know he’s not worth it, right?

  “Shit!” I dash my own hands over my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”

  “Stop,” he growls, taking my hand in his and leading me from the kitchen into the family room with its big-screen TV and huge, overstuffed sofas. “For Christ’s sake, don’t apologize for being upset. It just makes me want to beat the hell out of that jackass even more.”

  Before this whole thing happened the idea of brilliant inventor and engineer Miles Girard beating the hell out of anyone would have been laughable to me. After all, I’ve always thought of him as a total tech geek, one who is way more comfortable in his workshop than he’ll ever be punching someone’s lights out.

  But that was before he looked down at me with such fierce protectiveness.

  Before he dipped me on the dance floor and held me there, effortlessly, with just one hand.

  It was definitely before I’d kissed him and felt his surprisingly ripped and powerful body pressed against my own.

  Now
that all that has happened, the idea of him taking on Alexander isn’t laughable at all. It’s sweet and comforting and shockingly arousing all at the same time. I’ve never been one to be turned on by men going all muscle-bound and mad for me, but I’d be lying if I said all the protective vibes emanating from Miles weren’t getting to me. And if the idea of him flattening Alexander—whose overinflated muscles are pretty much all for show anyway—turns me on, then nobody needs to know about it but me.

  “Alexander’s lawyers would have a field day with you if you so much as came near him,” I tell him a little regretfully.

  “Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got lawyers of my own.” What he leaves off is that in tech and business circles, he’s way more powerful than Alexander will ever be. Money still makes the world go ’round, and Miles’s inventions have made more money for more people and companies through the years than Alexander can even dream of…

  I do my best to ignore the fact that so much of Miles’s success—especially in the beginning—came at Chloe’s expense. And I sure as hell refuse to draw the parallels between that and all the extra publicity and fame Alexander is getting right now at my expense. After all, Alexander knew exactly what he was doing when he released that tape. Miles didn’t have a clue what his parents had done.

  So instead of thinking about the very loose parallels between the situations, I flop down on the couch and grab the universal remote. “What do you want to watch?” I ask.

  “You choose.”

  “Really?” I eye him doubtfully. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to choose some girlie love story or something?”

  He laughs. “First of all, I don’t mind love stories, girlie or otherwise. And second, I’m pretty sure a Nicholas Sparks movie is the last thing on your mind right now.”

  “Um, first of all,” I say, deliberately mimicking him, “those are not love stories. Those are love-and-then-die stories. It’s a totally different genre. And second, I think you’re bluffing.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do. And since I’ve never been able to resist calling a bluff…” I turn back to the TV and skim through the movies to buy, looking for the sappiest one I can find. Almost everything on the list is an action movie or a thriller, though, so in the end I settle on Me Before You. I’d wanted to see it when it was in the theater but it was gone before I could get out from under my finals.

  This time, it’s Miles’s turn to give me a look. “No offense, but I’m pretty sure that’s the epitome of a love-and-then-die story.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a really good one.”

  “Oh, and that makes a difference, does it?”

  “Obviously.” Only then does it register what he said. “Hey, wait a minute. How exactly do you know that the someone dies in the end?”

  “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually live in a cave.” He reaches out and gently pulls at a lock of hair that’s fallen over my forehead and into my eyes. “Plus, I read the book.”

  “You read the book?” By this point, skepticism is all but dripping from me.

  “Again, I don’t actually live in a cave. Plus, I’m nowhere near as sexist as you are, obviously.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair!” I exclaim, sitting forward in my enthusiasm to prove my point. “I don’t doubt that you read the book because you’re a guy! I doubt it because you’re you.”

  “Seriously? Wow.” He studies me for a long moment before eventually shaking his head. “I’m not sure how you’ve managed it, but you’ve somehow gotten more insulting with every minute that this conversation has gone on.”

  “Oh come on.” I flop back against the cushy sofa in exasperation. “You have to admit that my disbelief is valid.”

  “I don’t have to admit any such thing.” He reaches over and pulls on the lock of hair again, then pushes to his feet. “Now, why don’t you order the movie while I make popcorn. Before I end up choosing some blood-and-gore fest just to torture you.”

  “Hey! Now who’s being sexist?”

  “Exactly,” he answers with a wink that is somehow adorable and sexy and a little bit intriguing, all at the same time. And then he’s gone and I’m left sprawled on the couch wondering why my libido has chosen now to wake up with a vengeance.

  He’s Chloe’s brother, for God’s sake. Isn’t there some kind of rule about not getting involved with your bff’s brother? Not to mention up until two hours ago, I was pretty sure he was as big a douchebag as Alexander. How ridiculous is it that I’m suddenly looking at his big, scarred hands and wondering what they would feel like on my body?

  Between my ridiculous blind date last night and Alexander leaking the sex tape, the last thing I should be thinking about is a guy, any guy, let alone Miles freaking Girard. And yet I can’t help staring after him as I wait for the movie to load, can’t help wondering what it would be like if we kissed again. Would it be as hot as it was the first time, or was that just some momentary aberration brought on by too much angst mixed with too much proximity?

  Not that I’m ever going to find out, I assure myself as he comes back into the room carrying a big bowl of popcorn in one hand and a bag of M&M’s in the other.

  “Ooooh chocolate!” I make grabby hands for the bag. “Give me.” After the day I’ve had, I figure I deserve all the chocolate in the house. Hell, in the city. Maybe even in the whole damn world. It only seems fair—comfort food, and all that. Plus, endorphins. I could really use some endorphins right now. Or some hemlock, but since that seems out of the question I’ll go with the endorphins…

  Except Miles is having none of it. Instead of handing over the candy, he gently smacks my hands away as he sits down. “Just wait.”

  “But I don’t want to wait!” I tell him, sinking back into the corner of the sofa with a pout.

  “Tell me about it,” he answers with a snort. “If there’s anyone I’ve ever seen who has instant gratification written all over her, it’s you.”

  “What’s wrong with instant gratification?” I demand, burrowing my toes under him for the express purpose of lifting them up and digging them into his thighs. “It’s fun. And satisfying.”

  He yelps a little, even as he leans forward to drop the popcorn on the coffee table in front of us. Then he’s grabbing my feet and pulling them out from under him.

  I expect him to push my legs back onto the floor or to at least grab on to my ankles to keep me still. But he does neither. Instead he cushions my feet in his lap and digs his thumbs into the arch of my uninjured foot.

  And I swear to God, I almost have an orgasm right there in the middle of Ethan and Chloe’s family room. And not just any orgasm—I’m talking the monster of orgasms. That’s the kind of pleasure that swamps me, that drags me under as sparks shoot from my foot to my pussy in one hot, electric wave that nearly has my eyes rolling into the back of my head.

  I shudder when he does it a second time, then let out a low, breathy moan that has Miles’s thighs tensing under mine and his fingers trailing light as a feather over the top of my foot. It’s one more sensation added to my already overloaded body, and when he combines it with more of the steady pressure against my arch, every nerve ending in my body stands up and does the tango all at once.

  Only serious self-control—and the not-so-sexy act of biting the inside of my cheek all but bloody—keeps me from moaning again. It’s a hollow victory, though, especially considering how the rest of my body is reacting. Miles doesn’t need to be the genius that he is to figure out I want him. It’s in every clench of my fists, every squirm of my hips, every shallow rise and fall of my chest.

  I should stop him. I know I should—with everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, I know I’m in no emotional state to even think about wanting anyone, let alone Chloe’s brother. But what I know doesn’t really matter right now, not when every muscle in my body seems to have liquefied right along with my brain. No matter what I tell myself, the only thing I’m good at right now is lying he
re and taking it as Miles gives me—bar none—the best foot rub of my life.

  Somewhere in the middle of all the pleasure, the movie started. But not even the amazing chemistry between Sam Claflin and Emilia Clarke can tear my attention away from the magical things Miles’s fingers are doing to me. And they are magical. Oh my God, they are So. Fucking. Magical.

  Some women might be surprised at how good he is at this, but in my mind it makes a weird kind of sense. After all, if I’ve learned anything over the last year, it’s that Miles—like Ethan—is good at everything he does. Adding in the fact that he’s inventive, not afraid to experiment, and an absolute stickler for detail, is it any wonder that he gives what might just be the best foot rub on the whole damn planet?

  It makes me wonder—not for the first time today—just what he would be like in bed. I can usually tell how it’s going to go pretty early on—although every once in a while I do get a surprise. Like Stephen. When I walked into that restaurant last night and saw him sitting there in his staid navy suit with his staid accountant haircut, it never once occurred to me that I’d be dodging offers of erotic asphyxiation before the main course had even arrived.

  But that one mistake doesn’t take away the fact that normally I’m really, really good at this. If you’d asked me anytime in the last year, I would have said I thought Miles would be good in bed. He’s got that subtle confidence about him, the kind that says he knows he’s capable of doing whatever he puts his mind to. Plus, he’s got those great hands and that world-renowned attention to detail.

  But I also would have guessed that he was a little selfish—that he took what he wanted and left his partner to catch up, which is how he is in real life. He’ll explain something his way, and if you’re too stupid to keep up, then that’s on you.

  This foot massage is changing my mind, though. Nothing about this reads selfish. Just the opposite, actually. It’s so obviously about me and not him that I feel a little guilty for just lying here and reveling in every second.