Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure I’m still sporting some of my face paint from last night and...oh, no. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, which fill quickly—too quickly.
No. Abort! Abort!
Too late. My tears grow fat and fall onto my cheeks. I can’t stop. I’m sobbing like a baby in front of my booty call. What the hell is wrong with me?
He’s across the room so quickly I wonder if he has superpowers, and then his arms are around me. My wet cheek presses against his chest and the tears flow harder. I hate fighting with my sister. It makes me feel physically ill. And I equally hate crying in front of people. I didn’t even cry at my uncle’s funeral three years ago. I bottled it all up and then went outside by myself to bawl.
But now I’m a jumble of emotions.
“This is all your fault.” I hiccup and he strokes my hair. “Too many orgasms.” Hiccup. “Now I’m emotional from all the endorphins.” Hiccup. “And your cousin is a douche canoe.”
The stroking motion is soothing. It shouldn’t be. I should be alone with a pillow and a bottle of vodka. “I know, Blondie.”
“Which part?” I squeeze my eyes shut.
“All of it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Flynn
I COULD ONLY hear one side of her conversation, but it was enough. Sibling relationships are complicated. I’ve been in Drew’s position. I know her pain.
And she’s right, my cousin is a douche.
The way he talks about his wife-to-be is gross, like she’s a check in a box. Like she’s an achievement he’s unlocked, not a real person. I’ve stayed out of it, because I’ve already caused one relationship in my family to fall apart. I didn’t want another weighing on my conscience.
I hold Drew close to me, feeling her slender shoulders shudder with each breath. Her hair tumbles messily down the back of the shirt she stole from my bedroom floor. Her hands are tucked between our bodies, as if she’s trying to keep some barrier between us. But she’s melted into me, her face pressed to my chest and her tears soaking my skin.
“I’m worried she’s going to get hurt,” Drew says. Her fists finally unfurl, and she relaxes in my arms. “I’ve been with a guy like that before—they like to control things. They want to have the last word on everything. She won’t be happy, because he’ll want her to be this quiet, submissive wife. And my sister is sweet and kind, but she’s not submissive.”
Drew cranes her head up and she’s a mess—mottled cheeks, black makeup smudged around her eyes, a dot of blood on her lip where she must have bitten down too hard.
“She always wanted to get married,” she continues. “But her first fiancé didn’t work out and she left him at the altar—and I’m worried that she thinks because that happened before, she can’t do it again. That she can’t walk away.”
“You can always walk away.”
People do it all the time, these days. Hell, it’s the reason I barely date—because if I did, I’d want long-term and I know that isn’t the way most people operate. Sometimes there’s a good reason—like in Presley’s case—but sometimes it’s pure selfishness, like what happened with my brother’s wife.
“What would you do?” Drew’s voice wobbles. I’m getting a glimpse of her without her armour now. And the soft, raw vulnerability beneath.
“I’ve been in your exact situation before,” I admit. I guide her down to the couch and pull her against my side. She swings her legs over my lap and rests her head on my shoulder like we’ve been doing this forever. “My brother was married to a woman who treated him and their daughter like crap. Things started to go bad after Zoe was diagnosed with a rare disease. My brother’s wife couldn’t cope. She started drinking and partying, and forcing my brother to shoulder all the burden on his own. So I spoke up.”
“What did you say?”
“I pulled her aside one night and said that she needed to think about how her behaviour was impacting her husband and her child.”
Drew’s eyes are wide, red-rimmed. There’s not a hint of her defensiveness now, not a shadow of her walls. “And?”
“She walked out on her family and we haven’t seen her since.”
Drew gasps. “She just...left? That’s horrible.”
“It’s been really hard on Gabe, trying to work while taking care of Zoe’s increasing needs. I help them out as best I can.” There’s a lump in my throat. I never talk about this...with anyone. It’s not in my nature to open myself up. Especially given my parents’ marriage ended the same as Gabe’s—my father was saddled with two rambunctious boys after my mother decided she’d prefer to party than deal with her needy children.
He would never understand why Gabe had married a replica of their mother.
“I think you might be a good person under all that frowning.” Drew is calming down, and her teasing tone is back. I shoot her an exaggerated frown and she rewards me with a watery laugh. “Do you feel guilty for having that conversation with her?” she asks quietly.
“Yes.”
She nods. “I don’t know what to do about Presley.”
“Lay it all out, but ultimately it’s her decision.”
“If you had to do it over, would you still have had that conversation with your sister-in-law?”
Was it better for Zoe to have no mother at all than to have one who flitted in and out, paying attention only when she felt like it? I had a mother like that until I was fourteen. I know how much it hurts to see the look of disdain in a parent’s eyes. I knew she couldn’t stand being a mother, couldn’t stand the weight of her responsibilities around her neck.
“Yes, I would still say it all.” I sigh. “A leopard doesn’t change their spots.”
Drew makes a hmm noise. “You don’t think people can change?”
“Not fundamentally, no.” My mother never changed a damn bit until the day she died from an overdose. It made me driven. Made my goals crystallise. Made my understanding of the world and people so sharp it kept me at a distance from almost everyone but my brother and niece. “I think at some point we become set.”
“Like concrete?”
I laugh. “Yeah, like concrete.”
Silence descends over us and we’re lost, but together. Lost in our thoughts, lost in the past. I keep my arm tight around her as if it might stop her running away.
“I don’t like people seeing me cry,” she says eventually. “It makes me feel weak.”
“You’re not weak.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Not even a little bit.”
I turn and brush the hair from her face, staring into her beautiful silvery-blue eyes. Her lashes are spiky and stuck together, her skin is ruddy, and she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Because there’s something genuine about her—something that if I’m not careful, I’ll fall for.
Would that be the worst thing in the world?
At this point, I’m really not sure.
* * *
About an hour later, I’m sitting on the couch with Drew and she’s fast asleep. After our talk, she took a shower and I made us eggs for breakfast. Then we decided to chill on the couch and watch a movie. She barely made it past the opening sequence. Now she’s hugging a throw cushion and has her face mushed into the soft fabric. Her hair—that glorious, glorious hair—is like a tangled blond cloud around her body. She refused to give up my white shirt and damn if it doesn’t look delectable on her. She’s on her side, feet in my lap, and her glittery black toenail polish catches my attention.
We barely slept last night, because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. This insatiable desire is new. I’m cool with women—always keeping the upper hand and making sure I get what I want. Only nobody wants to commit to anything these days.
Yeah, yeah. Call me old-fashioned. And while you’re at it, get off my lawn.
&nb
sp; I reach for the remote and pause the movie before scooping Drew into my arms. She stirs, her eyes creaking open for a second but drooping back down almost immediately. She’s exhausted. Wrung out from the emotional argument with her twin sister.
I take her to my bedroom and place her on the mattress. I hadn’t even made the bed yet, so the covers are a mess and I pull them up over her. She burrows in deep, wrapping herself up like a sexy blond burrito.
Shaking my head, a big goofy smile on my lips, I walk back out to the main area of my apartment and shut the door quietly. That’s when I hear someone outside.
“Drew?” Knock, knock, knock. “I know you’re in there.”
The woman, who I can only assume is Presley, isn’t knocking on my door. Shit. I do not want to get involved in another family’s arguments. I spoke the truth when I said I would have the same conversation with my sister-in-law if I went back in time, but that doesn’t mean I want to break Drew’s family up, too.
But the knocking continues. Stifling a groan, I head to my front door and yank it open. Presley is in the hallway, her head resting against Drew’s front door.
“She’s not in there,” I say.
Her head snaps toward me, her expression morphing from sad to angry to confused. “Flynn?”
“Yeah, your sister and I are neighbours. Weird coincidence.” I shrug. I’m not sure whether I should tell her Drew is at my place. Our being together—in whatever impossible-to-label thing this is—is supposed to be secret.
Presley looks confused, but she shakes her head in a way that’s just like Drew. It’s striking how similar they look, even though their vibe is totally different. Presley’s in a neat pair of blue jeans and a baby pink jumper with ballet flats and a beige trench coat draped over one arm. She’s beautiful, obviously, but in a totally restrained, utterly controlled kind of way.
Nothing like the wild, antagonistic sexiness of Drew.
“What happened to you two last night? You both disappeared and then I called Drew this morning and...” Presley’s face crumples. “Oh, God, this is turning into a huge mess. We both said terrible things and then I hung up on her and now I feel sick.”
“I brought Drew home last night. She was pretty upset.” I’m choosing my words very carefully. “And I suggested that staying at the party in her costume might make things worse.”
“Probably. Mike is so angry.” Presley sighs. Darkness rings her eyes, and I bet she and my cousin argued well into the night. “He always thinks Drew is trying to steal the spotlight from me. But it’s not true...she’d need to be around for more than five seconds to do that.”
I consider whether I should go and fetch Drew from my bed, but my gut tells me that’s a bad idea. “What do you mean?”
“She’s a nomad, my sister. Flits from one place to the next, always packing her bags and running away from commitment of any kind.” Presley shakes her head. “Every time she moves back home it’s only temporary, and she usually leaves earlier than planned. I love her so much, but we’re very different, I guess. She’s allergic to putting down roots. I don’t think she’s ever held a relationship for longer than a few months and she always leaves first. Even when it comes to her family. She never stays. I know I shouldn’t say that, but I just... I really miss her.”
The words are a cold fist around my heart. A timely reminder of why I can’t let Drew get into my head—I’ve seen one too many free spirits crush those around them with their flightiness and their inability to commit. And I’m Mr. Commitment. I’m committed to my work, to my brother and my niece. To making a difference.
“Why don’t I walk you downstairs?” I reach inside the doorway to where a pair of my sneakers sit and I scuff my feet into them. Then I shove my keys and phone into my pocket. “When I see Drew next I’ll tell her you came by.”
If I fall for a woman like Drew, I’m at risk of repeating the mistakes of my father and brother. And what if I ever introduced her to Zoe...and then she left? I can’t have that.
Which means, no matter how drawn I am to Drew, I can’t let her get too close. I won’t.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Drew
FLYNN SURE DOES run hot and cold. After he consoled me on Sunday morning, I woke up in his bed, the scent of him on my skin, and yet the man was nowhere to be found. He totally ghosted me.
There was a text on my phone in Flynn’s usual spare tone:
Sorry. Had to go to the office.
Was it an emergency? Did the amazing sex give him a sudden burst of inspiration? No idea. But then I put the pieces of the puzzle together. There was another text, one from my sister saying she came by and that I wasn’t home, but that she spoke with Flynn.
Given there wasn’t any mention of me being in his apartment, I assume he didn’t offer up that little fact. Probably for the best. I’m sure Mike would somehow spin it to make it look like I was trying to hurt Presley.
God, I hate that guy.
I know, I know. I should be supportive. My sister loves him, so I should too...or at least tolerate him. But the closer we get to this wedding the less I understand why they’re together. If I say anything, my sister will put it down to my history of avoiding relationships. Avoiding being vulnerable with another person.
If only she knew I cried in Flynn’s arms this morning.
Not my proudest moment. But it felt...nice. It’s been a long time since I let it all out and had someone there to comfort me. My ex certainly wouldn’t have tolerated me crying. He told me once that there was nothing more unattractive than a woman who let her emotions run free.
Red flag? Uh, yeah. One of a dozen I ignored because I wanted so badly for our chemistry to mean something beyond sex. More fool me.
And does it mean something beyond sex with Flynn?
I honestly don’t know...and I don’t know what I want it to mean. Which is why I’ve been steadfastly ignoring him for the past few days. Only now I need to partner up with him—as maid of honour and best man—to deliver a speech for the rehearsal dinner. We’re doing a slide show with funny pictures of Presley and Mike, along with some anecdotes from their childhoods.
Annaleigh told me to “keep it light and funny.”
Can do. Keeping it light is my MO—no ties, no commitments, nothing serious.
But now I’m riding the elevator up to Flynn’s office with a box of photos from my mother’s house and I’m...nervous. I want to see him again. I know that because I changed my outfit five times before settling on a black skirt, chunky platform boots and a tight white top over a padded bra that makes my boobs look extra perky. I want to torture him. But I did my makeup so it looks like I’m not wearing any at all—as if I “just woke up like this.” I don’t want him to think I tried too hard.
Ah, girl logic.
Clutching the box under one arm, I hold my breath while the elevator shoots up to the top floor. Butterflies swirl in my stomach. The anticipation is like a fizzy drink that’s been shaken up and is ready to burst.
A soft ping announces my arrival and I exit along with two men dressed in business casual. It seems people don’t really suit up in this office. Actually, for an office, the place has a nice vibe. It’s relaxed, with lots of pale, warm wood and green hanging plants. I don’t know much about it, other than it’s a medical research firm so I assume they also have labs somewhere. Or perhaps they partner with one of the hospitals? This must be their head office.
A receptionist sits behind a simple wood and silver metal desk. It’s very spare and minimalist, a lot like Flynn’s apartment.
“Hi.” The young guy looks up with a friendly smile. He’s wearing a purple-and-white-check shirt, which sits open at the collar. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Drew Richardson. I’ve got a meeting with Flynn.”
“Mr. Lewis?” The guy quirks an eyebrow behind his thick-rimmed glasses as he scans
his computer screen.
“Please don’t make me call him that.” I wrinkle my nose. “He’s already got a big enough head.”
The guy looks a little shocked by my response. “Right, of course. Sign your name here and then you can head straight through to Francis—her desk has the big yellow flowers in a gold pot. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” I scrawl my name on the electronic signing pad and then follow his directions.
Deeper into the office, I see a small bank of desks where people sit with headsets. There are a few glass-walled offices along one side and a small, open kitchenette in one corner. It’s not like any of the cube-farm offices I’ve seen in movies.
The woman who can only be Francis spots me before I make it to her desk. Her lips are pursed and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s judging my outfit or if she hates me because of the whole Jack and Jill party thing. Probably both.
“Melanie? Or is it Drew?” Her voice is cold enough to flash-freeze the sun.
“Miss Richardson is fine.”
Chances of me getting stabbed with a letter opener? High.
“You can go straight through,” she says with an air of reluctance.
Flynn’s name is embossed on a silver plate on his office door. I enter and find him standing at the window and looking delectable as ever.
Let me tell you, Mr. Suit is in fine form today. His red hair looks brighter with all the sunlight streaming into his office. And, unlike everyone else here, he’s dressed to kill in a charcoal three-piece suit that’s slim-fitting and obnoxiously hot. Not to mention he smells like soap and coffee and all good things. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to launch myself into his arms.
For a moment we eye one another up, like two territorial animals, neither one willing to make the first move.
The Fling--A Scorching Hot Romance Page 11