“Am I?” A cuttingly sexy grin rises on his cheeks. “I think you’re a sweet girl. I don’t think you need to be in a rush to try to find someone to replace the asshole that broke your heart. Take it as it comes. You’re stunning. Beautiful. When the time is right, you’ll have your pick of the litter.”
“What about you? You have your pick of the litter, and you haven’t picked. Isn’t there anyone out there you’d like to fill that hole in your heart?”
“What makes you think I have a hole?” He’s frowning again, and I wish I could say that it bothered me, but it makes him that much more comely. My thighs quiver because of it.
“Because”—I tread lightly—“you shut down each time we bring up a certain ex, and you don’t seem able to talk about it. Therefore, someone left a hole, and someone should fill it. You’ll feel better.”
His gaze drops for a moment as if he’s surrendering to the idea.
The waitress comes back, and we put in our orders. Lincoln never raises his eyes to meet with hers. Well done, Mr. Lionheart.
“So, what’s going on with Luke? Do you need me to tap out? He can take over from here if you’re interested in him.” He holds up his hands like he’s okay with the idea, and my heart wrenches.
“Yes.” I needle my gaze into his. “We’ve been meeting up in that supply closet of an office they finally gave me, and he’s already plowed my field.” I lift his water off the table and salute him. “You’re getting sloppy seconds, my friend.”
His features grind down to stone. “I’m not laughing.”
“You will once I tell you about this thing he does with his tongue—”
“I get it.” Lincoln closes his eyes with disgust. “So, it’s just me?” He dips his chin as if still seeking the ridiculous affirmation.
“Relax. Nothing is going on with Luke. Your sisters took me to breakfast, and somehow the state of my hymen was brought up, and instead of telling them I’m letting you tear into it tomorrow night like a kid on Christmas, I skirted the subject of your name. Stevie suggested it was Luke, and they ran with it.”
“And so did you.” He pushes out a quick grin that I’m unable to read at the moment.
“You know what you’re beginning to sound like?” I lean in, amused. “A jealous boyfriend.”
That shit-eating grin broadens on his face. A moment of silence ticks by as our eyes remain locked, and a part of me hopes he’s considering the title. He should. It’s his if he wants it.
Dinner comes in stages, and we eat and drink and poke fun at the general population of Jinx. He tells me a bit about Merlin and the mystery surrounding Luke and his father, which will hopefully be revealed tomorrow night.
“I bet he’s a spy,” I suggest with my Sake-inspired glee.
“I’m the spy,” he contests with that serious infraction he likes to invoke that I’m starting to fall in love with. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my father. What can’t he get from me that he’s getting from that idiot?” He says it mostly to himself, but I feel honored to listen in.
After dinner, we still have hours before the concert, so we head down to the beach. Shipwrecks is hosting a crab festival, which has attracted the entire Western Hemisphere, so we drive further up to the Riviera, a ritzier zip code strewn with celebrities, but the beach access is still available to the public.
We get out and take off our shoes. I clasp onto his hand, intertwining our fingers without asking permission, and Lincoln doesn’t shake me off like a snake, so that counts as progress.
“Boy, I really am feeling romanced,” I say as we walk toward a sunset large and spectacularly purple in nature as it sets over the horizon like a bruise struggling to heal, yet still so powerful that it demands your attention. That’s what I imagine Lincoln’s life is like, the private part of him he doesn’t let anyone see—a spectacular bruise struggling to heal.
“I’m glad you’re feeling romanced.” He pulls my hand up and kisses the back. “You deserve it.”
I coil my arm around his as if he were a safety line, still holding tightly to his fingers with the other. I’m claiming Lincoln, planting a stake into his heart. Back off, club whores. He’s mine. I want to laugh at how ridiculous I’ve become, but a part of me doesn’t mind losing my shit over Lincoln. A part of me wishes he’d do the same over me.
I lean in. “What about the other girls you bed? Do they deserve a little romance?”
“They like the non-romance of it all. They’re in it for the game like I am. It’s an honest deal. No one expects roses the next morning. No one goes home with an aching heart. I don’t let them spend the night, nor do I, in the event any of the aforementioned bullshit was on their mind.”
“Oh. I’m going to break the spending the night rule. I’ve already tested out your mattress, and no offense, but the one in the office has wires that are digging into my back. I figure I have until sunrise, so I might as well get a good night’s sleep out of it.”
“Who says you’ll be sleeping?” The words rumble from him, deep and guttural, and my insides light up like a flare.
“Okay, nap. You have curtains as opposed to the office, which by the way has a sunroof. I’m looking forward to a solid night nestled in darkness.”
“Oh, honey.” He huffs a dull laugh. “If you’re sleeping, I’m doing something very fucking wrong. And it’s going to be a lights-on kind of night. This is one show you’re going to want to watch, live and in color.” He gives my hand a squeeze.
Gah! I’m horrified by the idea. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes. I’m the teacher, remember? Besides, half the fun is watching, sweetheart.”
“What?” I shriek so loud a few heads turn to look at us. “There’s no way you’re going to see my body.”
“Then how am I going to know it’s you?” His lips twitch up one side. Lewd Lincoln is about to take the reins, and I’m not too sure I’m able to stop him, not sure I want to.
“You’ll know it’s me by the way I rate you on a scale of one to Luke.”
“Shit.” He knocks his knee into mine, landing us both onto the sand.
“Would it turn you on, sweetheart, if I shouted his name every now and again? Oh, Luke! Right there! Yes! Faster, faster!”
Lincoln pulls me down over him until I’m nestled against his chest. His beating heart thumps over my back as if begging to be let into my body. I’m hoping it is. The door is already wide open for him.
“What do you know about right there, faster?” He gives my ribs a quick tickle.
“Okay, Uncle Lincoln”—I tease, holding up my hands—“I give up. You can have your way with me. I promise not to let Auntie Stevie in on our dirty little secret.”
A few teenagers walking down the shoreline look our way with their eyes agog. I like the idea of making Lincoln squirm a little.
“New rule. Never call me that in bed—or in general.”
“Confession. I may have told your sisters that’s sort of how I think of you.”
He winces. “Never mind that. The lights stay on.”
“You’ll see what a redhead I really am and despise me.”
“I won’t despise you.” An effortless smile graces his lips. “I could never hate anything about you. You’re my favorite sin.” He sinks me further over his lap. “You’re perfect. Your hair—every last cell in your body is perfection. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.” He pulls my hand to his lips. His soft mouth molds to my skin, making my insides burn with heat twice as hot as the sun. It’s powerful, seductive, and every last cell in my body craves this beautiful man inside me.
I twist into him. “Glad to see you’ve changed your stance on redheaded virgins.” Blushing again. I’m almost too much of a schoolgirl for a man like Lincoln.
“I may have. But just for one.” He grazes the rough stubble of his cheek over my bare shoulder. “You ever been kissed on the beach at sunset?”
“Never.” Not a lie. Bradley was about as romantic
as a road bump.
Lincoln looks into my eyes the way a man in love looks into the eyes of his soul mate. Either Lincoln has committed to propagating this mockery of a romance or he’s genuinely starting to have feelings for me. The maudlin thirteen-year-old in me chooses to believe the latter.
Lincoln comes in slowly, our gaze holds steady a moment longer than needed as if we ached to look away. The very act of his head bowing to mine makes me weak, disintegrating the Old and New Me, dissolving everything I thought I understood about myself to nothing. He rolls his mouth over mine, soft then hard, never breaking the seal before I open for him, and he falls in with his hot tongue and devours me in a heated rush. Lincoln pauses, mingling his tongue over mine with a feather soft tickle, and we both sigh in unison. It’s that moment right there that is the sweet nexus of who we can be—who we are. A burst of adrenaline rockets through me at the idea that I have the power to reduce this god to a sigh. That initial debilitating weakness morphs into a shower of sparks that makes me quicken deep in the innermost part of me as his hands ride over my back, pulling me in, making me his in the most, yes, romantic way. Lincoln Lionheart is an expert at romance, even if he would never admit it. These aren’t club whore kisses he’s doling out. This isn’t some get-out-of-my-bed-before-morning make-out session. This is desperate and urgent as a series of soft moans expel from him that match my own. Each heavy breath, each inward groan tells the story of his feelings, how they’re growing, how I hope to God he can’t control them. Our urgency builds, and I lay in the sand, his body landing soft over my chest as darkness covers us like a blanket. He interlaces his fingers with mine once again. It’s his gesture this time, and my body goes weak. He raises my hands over my head and continues his assault over my mouth, taking me, making me surrender to him if only in this simple way. His kisses are tender and volatile all at once.
Time collapses in on itself like a dying star, and it’s just Lincoln and I enjoying the bliss of what we have if only for a moment—enjoying the bliss of what could be for a very long time to come. Lincoln is a master with his mouth. His aggressive lust-fueled kisses fill me far more than any other kiss I’ve ever shared. His mouth brings forth the finery, the excellence, and the ideal of what kissing someone with passion should feel like. This—right here, is real.
You can’t falsify this level of intensity.
At least I hope not.
I know I can’t.
* * *
The next blissful afternoon, I have a meeting with Luke as we go over a few more concept ideas. Our deadline to present the Jinx grand jury with something viable is creeping up fast, and I’m afraid if we don’t produce, they’ll regret the nepotism involved in hiring me.
“I had the boys in development tweak a mock-up of the ReInvent app for you.” Luke flips open his laptop and turns it my way. A new lease on an old favorite is written right under the logo. “It’s easily customizable. Go ahead and move things around. I think we should start a trial run next week, see if we can generate a customer base. I ran the idea by a friend of mine, and she’s in love.” He shakes his head as if he can’t understand why. “I guess the market is huge. You’re onto something.”
“Wow, thanks for moving this along. How’s Apple a Day coming?”
He exits the ReInvent app and beneath is a white screen with a bright green apple. The app is already set up with the proper tabs at the top.
“I’ll run you through it. I got the database up and running. It’s more of a point of purchase app when it comes to fruits and vegetables. You’ll have to scan the barcode or the label of the product you want the information on to get the info you need. And within three seconds, the consumer is informed whether or not the fruit has been genetically modified. It takes the question out of the equation, and you can make a decision to buy based on the price and not the quality. As for organic foods, you can scan those, too, and know the origin of your food, the nutritious value, calories, fat content, and whether or not there’s something similar out there that might be better for you. Same goes for anything processed, canned, or fast food. You name it. This database is going to tell you all about what you’re eating—more than you ever wanted to know, in fact. I’ve already got a 2.0 in the works as well, with a restaurant guide that tells you where the food is sourced from.”
“This is fantastic. But maybe instead of calling it Apple a Day, you should call it something more target specific? Apple a Day has sort of a medical appeal. How about Food Story?”
“Food Story—I like that.” He holds up a hand, and I slap him five. A few of the perfect, svelte blondes glance my way with disapproving snarls.
“Thank you for all your hard work,” I say to him.
“And thank you for being such a nice person.” His finger lifts to my cheek as he traces it out in a line. “Oh, hey”—he winces, retracting his hand—“I may have heard a little something this morning about the two of us getting it on.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “I just want you to know I did nothing to propagate those rumors. Although, they came from a strangely reputable source.”
“Um”—my face heats, blending in with my hair I’m sure—“someone with Cannon as a last name?”
“You know?”
“I may have started those rumors.” My shoulders bump with a guilty shrug. “It was a total accident. I was trying to cover for someone else. It’s a long, stupid story. Can you please forgive me?”
Luke inches back, examining me to see if I’m joking.
“There’s nothing to forgive.” His brows furrow in that familiar Lincoln way. “Any time you want to have a fling, have dinner, I’m in.” The words bleed from him with such sincerity it rakes my heart.
“Done deal.” I go to shake his hand, and he pulls me into a brief hug.
“You’re my partner in crime, Mace.” He pats me over the back, and I catch a tall shadow eyeing us from the end of the hall. I don’t need to inspect further to know it’s Lincoln. But I do, and it is. They say the way into some men’s hearts is through their stomachs, and the way into other men’s hearts is through the arms of another guy. Lincoln looks more than mildly pissed, so I guess he falls into category number two. “Next, we should consider dethroning the royals around here and taking over the kingdom.” He gives a playful wink, and we share a quiet laugh.
“Don’t talk like that,” I whisper. “The walls have ears, and the royals have eyes.” I gently remove his hand from my back. I’m not interested in making Lincoln jealous. Head games aren’t my thing.
“Is Macy O’Conner’s suitor nearby?” He gives a quick sweep of the vicinity and stops once he sees Lincoln speaking with his secretary. “Lincoln Lionheart.” He pushes out a dry smile. “You think he’s a keeper?”
“I know he’s a keeper. But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”
“You can always tell them I’m the keeper,” he teases. “Why am I his cover?” He openly glares at Lincoln from across the long, narrow hall. A bevy of girls cross his path, but his hatred for Linc doesn’t waver.
“Because who else would it be? You’re my partner in crime, remember? I respect you. I respect your opinions. Besides, our knees touch for about six hours every day. It’s only natural people think it’s us.” I rub my knee over his to prove my point.
He high-fives me again, and this time clasps onto my hand instead of letting go.
“Be careful around him.” He nods toward Lincoln before souring at him. “In fact, find someone else to share your toys with. He’s no good for you.”
“Bold opinions about a man you hardly know.”
“You just said you respected my opinions. I’m right about this one.”
“You don’t know him. He has a good heart.”
“Honey, he eats good hearts for dinner.”
I brush off his comment. He doesn’t know Linc. Although, it seems like anyone hardly knows Lincoln Lionheart, and, if they do, they fiercely guard his secrets.
His sisters know what they are. The
re is a girl out there somewhere named Jackie who knows exactly what happened. I’m just an outsider looking in on the frozen landscape of Lincoln’s very good heart, wanting nothing more than to huddle around his affection for heat. I want Lincoln to forget about his pain. I want to be the one who heals him.
Our eyes lock from across the hall, and I hold him there, make him settle in and stay for a while, speak to me in some telepathic way to assure me he wants to heal, too.
My heart still needs to heal.
Maybe we can heal together?
Lincoln
There was a time when I was less cynical, less apt to believe the worst in people, especially if those people were my parents, but the layers of this idyllic existence were quickly stripped away in high school when my father came clean about other siblings that Kinsley and I had. First, there was a set of twins—adorable, beautiful, one of them tragically ill, Stevie and Claire. Then, there was Aspen, a dark-haired bubbly brunette that matched the other two like lopsided bookends. They were the dark wings of this predatory bird known as my family. My mother wasn’t tolerant of them, so naturally the invites were never doled out. We saw them in secret. At first, I thought I would hate them. Who were these girls trying to edge their way into the Lionheart family? I knew my parents weren’t perfect, but to learn of my father’s repeated indiscretions was hard to fathom at such a young age. It jaded me, took the patina off my parents’ marriage and made me swear I would never be an insolent ass like Hans Lionheart. I would learn to love with my whole heart. I would protect and make sure my family stayed connected, knew they were wanted, needed, the only thing in my universe that mattered—because that’s how I wished he made us feel. And I started right then with my sisters.
It was Jackie who suggested we develop a ritual to stay in touch weekly, and so the restaurant get-togethers were born. At first, it was the Hamburger Hut off Venice, and then it morphed to a sprinkling of other venues, but it never felt like the ritual she promised until we found the Trattoria. I hate Italian food, but my sisters do not, so I’ve never complained once. I share a meal most of the time because I want a bite or two if any. It’s not the food I go for; it’s the company. But tonight, my sisters and I will come together under the peaked dome roof of my father’s gaudy Bel Air palace. My father doesn’t come from money. He clawed his way to the top by raping the stock market for all it was worth and amassing a world of wealth by the time he was in his mid-twenties. He became quite the ladies’ man, despite marrying my mother. And, by some no-prenuptial miracle, he’s managed to avoid the subject of divorce all these years—technically, that’s not true. They were married, divorced for three months, and remarried. I’m glad about the remarrying part. Like any red-blooded kid, I’m smugly content to have my mother and father still sewn together at the matrimonial seams, or resewn as it were. They’ve worked through their shit, and they still end the day in the same bed. At least they managed to get something right.
Fire in an Amber Sky Page 10