My girl.
That feels so strange to think, even to myself. And yet I want to shout it from the rooftops.
She reaches up to pull down the seatbelt, then frowns when it doesn’t move.
“I’m sorry, it sticks,” I say, reaching out to give it a good tug. “I’ve only had someone in the passenger seat four or five times, so it’s still stiff.”
Her bottom lip quivers just a hair and her brow furrows, as if she wants to say something but stops herself.
“Once a month or so, I drive my mom for a big grocery haul,” I explain. Her eyes relax completely.
Instead of buckling her in, I slip an arm around her lower back and pull her tight against me on the seat. “Claire, it’s okay to ask me things,” I say gently. “I’ve never had a girlfriend before. I’m not naturally good with people, or being social. I really am that moody loner type. So please, you should feel free to ask me anything you need to know.”
Her eyes light up as she places her hand on my knee. “That was a question I had,” she says softly. “The whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing. I mean, I know that a lot of guys don’t like to get serious right away.”
Turning, I take both of her hands in mine. “I’m serious. I think you’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, and I want to make you happy.”
Where those words come from is a total mystery. Maybe I fell asleep with the TV on and it played some bizarre chick flick at my subconscious mind. But Claire clearly loves it.
“I want to make you happy too,” she says softly.
Damn, the way those brown eyes lighten to caramel in the amber light of the street lamp.
My hands drop hers to slip into the back of her hair and around her waist, pulling her against me for a long, slow kiss. My lips tease over hers, testing her reaction before allowing the kiss to deepen.
Her fingers reach up to clutch at my neck, holding me as our bodies instinctively try to find every single point of contact.
Before I realize what’s happening, I’ve pulled her on top of me, straddling my lap. My hands skim along the back of her thighs, cupping her firm peach of an ass as I groan into her mouth.
Her lips part wider, making way for my tongue to taste her sweet mouth. My left hand grips her cheek firmly, as the right slips around her hip and over her black cotton pants to slip up the front of her shirt.
There is no way any man could stop themselves from staring at her incredible breasts, but after admiring them close up for days, I need more. My hand slips up her soft stomach, reaching under her bra to cradle her silky skin in my hand.
Our deep, sensual kiss doesn’t end, our mouths melting together as she wriggles on top of me.
She’s mine. This is real. The connection to her is positively addictive.
Then I hear that indescribably hot little sound deep in her throat, as both of my hands clench. My thumb skims over the nipple of her perfectly round breast, and I realize I need to stop before I go too far.
I honestly try for half a second to push her off me, but Claire spreads her legs wider, sinking down to press more of her body against mine.
I’m pretty sure it’s innocent, not intentional. But as she rubs herself against my painfully hard erection, her body seems to be running on pure instinct.
“Claire, sweetie, I’m sorry but we should stop.”
Two notes of a tiny high-pitched whine.
Both of my hands tighten again on her sweet, soft flesh. “We’re in a truck. In a parking lot.”
Her lips crush to mine as her hips rock slightly, searching for just a bit more contact. Damn, I need to give it to her right now. Give her everything.
But more than that, I need to be a good man for her.
“Sweetie, if you can’t wait, I’ll reach into your hot little panties and get you off right now. But I worry what might happen if the cops show up and think I’m doing a lot more to you.”
Her head jerks back as she blinks hard.
Then she scrambles off my lap, back into her seat. “I’m sorry,” she sputters.
“No, Claire, no,” I smile, grabbing her hand. “Don’t be sorry. I want so much more, too. I just don’t want us to be interrupted, or for you to be embarrassed.”
Even under the yellowish light, I can see her blushing.
Lifting her hand to my lips, I kiss each finger. “Sweetie, that was the hottest thing ever. And we’re just getting started.”
I reach over to give her seatbelt a good yank so that she can buckle in, then start up the truck. As I turn out onto the road and head for her house, I ask, “Do you have plans Friday night?”
“No.” I can hear the smile in that one syllable before my head even swivels to check her expression.
“May I take you to dinner?”
“Yes, please.”
“What’s your favorite kind of restaurant?”
As I pause at a red light, I glance over to see Claire looking out the window, thinking. “I like everything, really. But with all my mom’s swanky dinners and parties, there’s a lot of fancy catered food. I’d be up for something different. Something simple.”
“Like a normal burger and fries?”
“Absolutely.”
“I know just the place.”
Pulling into her driveway, I see five extra cars across the generous parking area at the side of the house.
“Oh, right,” Claire says, pursing her lips as if annoyed. “My mom has friends over tonight.”
She turns to give me that dazzling grin. “If you’re hungry, I’m sure there’s tons of food. Want to come in?”
“Not today, thanks. I’ve got paint stains on these jeans.”
She nods, clearly understanding. I sneak a glance in the front window, where there is a beautiful antique lamp with a wide base.
“Is that bronze, that lamp?” I asked, peering through the windshield.
“Yes. One of my mother’s prized possessions. There are actually two of them, but the other one had a little mishap involving my dad and a new set of golf clubs.”
“That’s a shame. Was it completely smashed?”
“No, it’s just a scratch. But mom won’t display anything unless it’s perfect.”
“Hell, I’m sure I can fix it for you, if you like.”
I get out quickly, racing around to her side of the truck to help her out. The truck isn’t that huge, but it’s a big step down, and Claire is a bit petite.
Naturally, I need to both be a gentleman, and take any excuse I can get to have my hands on her.
“That would be amazing,” she said, her eyes shining up at me.
“No problem. But I’ll need both lamps. I’ll have to treat them with the same polish so that they match.”
“Okay.”
Even though I really don’t want to engage with any of her family members, I can’t seem afraid either.
Holding Claire’s hand, I walk her right up to the front door. Through the front window I can see several people in the living room with wine glasses, laughing and chatting. Luckily, they don’t see us.
I glance again, focusing on the faces inside. An elegant lady in a savagely stylish dark blue dress is holding court. From the cheekbones, it’s Claire’s mom, for sure.
Everyone surrounding her is dressed to the nines, flashing diamonds and watches that cost more than my truck.
These are her people. And I’m standing here with paint on my jeans and silver polish under my nails.
“Thanks for the ride home,” Claire says sweetly, looking up at me strangely.
I search her eyes for the answer to a question that is very clearly there.
Then it clicks. She’s wondering if I’m brave enough to kiss her right here, so close to her family.
Pressure in my chest begins to form as I realize I’m in the process of doing something very, very wrong. Claire belongs with a cultured man. Someone who has traveled the world, has a favorite brunch patio in Spain, and has a formal education. Someone well-connected. Who can s
et her up with everything she could possibly want.
I have and am none of those things. I’m just a big, rough, scrapyard dude who can’t stop himself from kissing her.
Guilt and shame flood me like acid through my veins, yet I lean down, brushing my lips against hers in a tantalizing tease. Apparently that’s not good enough, as she grabs me before I can back away, pressing her lips to mine firmly.
Damn, my girl can kiss. I can feel her heat. Her hunger. The way she wants more, but she’s afraid of it.
She’s so incredibly expressive that it’s impossible not to know what she’s thinking when she kisses me.
Right beside the window of her parent’s party is not an appropriate place for my hands to be squeezing her ass. Her doorstep is not the place to be coaxing her to moan in my arms.
Finally I gently push her away. “Naughty girl,” I growl into her ear, making her giggle.
“I’ll see you soon,” she says, giving me a saucy wink as she walks inside.
As soon as the door opens a crack the noise of the party spills out. Glasses clinking. Polite laughter mixed with the louder chuckles of people who are already three drinks in.
I bolt for my truck, taking off before anyone can ask Claire who dropped her off.
As I drive to my house, I try to have a serious word with myself. I am not right for Claire. I am not the best choice for her. She should be with someone her parents will approve of.
Should I give a damn about that?
This is one of the few times I wish I had some friends to bounce ideas off. My gut and my heart are at war, and my mind’s eye is too busy swirling like a tornado to check in with either of them properly.
I’ve always tried to be a good man. If I’m not the guy she needs, does that make me bad for dating her?
Unless she’s only after a fling. Unless she wants me as a practice first boyfriend.
Unless she’s using me to tick off her parents.
No. There’s no way that could be true. She is too adorably innocent to have conniving, calculating thoughts like that.
Mind you, she is also rather young. Maybe she isn’t thinking ahead.
I’ve already asked her to dinner. I could do the right thing and let her know more about me, and then she can make up her own mind.
By letting her decide if I am right for her, I’m not shifting the blame. I’m being a good feminist.
Yeah, I know, that doesn’t quite sound right either.
CHAPTER TEN
~ Claire ~
Friday morning I wake up an hour early and can’t get back to sleep. My mind is churning and twisting like a bowl full of snakes determined to end up in knots.
I look around my pristine white and purple bedroom and it hits me: this place doesn’t fit me anymore.
My parents want to continue treating me like a little girl, or simply ignoring me as much as possible. That’s fine. But maybe it’s time for me to take control of my own space.
If clothes make the man, what makes the woman?
Realizing that I was probably still delirious from not sleeping enough, I get ready for work, then tiptoe downstairs to make tea.
The giant kitchen with its cream marble countertops, blonde oak cabinets, and black slate floor seems strangely stuffy to me all of a sudden.
Maybe that’s why I’ve taken such a shine to Henry’s Coffee. The mismatched furniture, brightly colored mugs, and giant artsy photos of coffee shops around the world are all designed to make people feel at home. This house is designed to look important. To show off.
As I fill the kettle from the brand new but artfully distressed bronze faucet, my mind begins to click into gear.
Bronze. The lamps.
While the water boils, I dart down to the basement to find the broken lamp, and a huge cardboard box.
I take the shade off, tuck the lamp base into a cloud of bubble wrap, then retrieve the second lamp from the living room and do the same thing with it. The two lamp bases fit in the box perfectly, and I stash it by the front door before taking the second shade down to the basement and then coming back to the kitchen.
My brother Glen is standing at the espresso machine, fiddling with the knobs. “You’re up early,” he says.
“Remember the part where you don’t live here anymore?”
He scoffs. “Whatever. This thing makes the best coffee ever, and I have a big day ahead.”
“Why don’t you just buy your own machine?” I take my tea to the breakfast bar, then reach out to the fruit bowl for a handful of grapes.
Glen shrugs. “Not quite enough counter space in my condo.”
“Get a side table. Make space. You coming over here all the time is kind of weird, especially now that you’re engaged. Or pre-engaged, whatever that means. You know that, right?”
He takes a sip of his coffee that is so strong I can smell it from six feet away. “Oh yeah, that’s the stuff.”
He slides onto a stool beside me. “Speaking of weird, who’s that giant who dropped you off in a pickup truck last night?”
Too many thoughts squish into my mind at once, like a mob of clowns trying to go through a doorway at the same time, jamming everything.
“Well?” he asks. His fingers drum on the marble countertop for a moment, showing off his perfect manicure. Gosh, my brother is fussy.
Suddenly I realize that I don’t particularly care about my brother’s opinion. I’m not like him. I don’t want to be. I genuinely don’t care if he judges me. In fact, a shred of independence from this family could only be a good thing.
“That was my boyfriend, Shane,” I say, hearing the odd touch of pride in my voice.
“Boyfriend?” he sputters, almost spilling a drop of coffee on his immaculate white shirt.
“Yes.”
“How can you do that?” he asks, strangely irritated. “Mom was going to fix you up with Evan Stoneberg at my party this Saturday night.”
Crap. With eighty percent of my attention on Shane, and twenty percent on work, I have no brain cells left to remember things like Glen’s party.
“If it helps you out, I could just skip it entirely,” I say as calmly as possible, sipping my tea.
“Not on your life,” he says, shaking his head. “How would that look?”
I bark out a laugh. “Like anybody will even notice.”
“There will be family photos. Our family, with Patrice.”
“You know that a pre-engagement party isn’t a real thing, right?”
“It is to us,” he pouts. “I expected that my little sister would be on board.”
I only just barely refrain from rolling my eyes. “Of course I’ll be there. But I’m not going to be fixed up with Evan.”
“Thank goodness,” my dad says as he walks into the room. He must have meetings on the golf course this morning, as he’s wearing khakis and light shirt. “I’ve always thought that he was a creep.”
“Then why would you let Mom try to set me up with him?”
He held up his hands. “Are you nuts? I am not starting yet another disagreement with that woman.”
“Thanks a lot. So you’d let your favorite daughter be stuck with a creep for the night?” I have a dark, almost feral urge to spit grapes at both of them.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Glen smirks. “Claire has a boyfriend anyway.”
“Oh, really?” Dad says, coming over to clap me on the back of the shoulder as if I were one of his football buddies. “That’s great. Bring him to the party.”
“What?” Glen’s eyes are so huge it reminds me of when I used to call him a praying mantis during the horribly awkward growth spurt when he was eleven years old.
“Sure,” Dad says, honing in on the espresso machine. “Dammit, Glen – you never clean this thing properly.”
“I wasn’t done with it.”
Again with the bickering. But at least it’s the two of them snipping at each other instead of anyone dwelling on my boyfriend news. I would have assumed that it would
be a much bigger deal to my father, and send up a silent thanks to whatever is the reason for the oversight.
“Glen, you’re giving me a ride today, so I can get Mom’s lamps fixed.”
He shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”
“The one I dented?” Dad asks.
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