Rogue Angel (The Rourkes, Book 10)

by Kylie Gilmore

“Could we talk then?”

  She freezes in place and slowly turns to me. “About what?”

  “Stuff.” I can’t say this shit in front of everyone here. “How’re you doing?”

  She sighs and returns to work. “Don’t worry about me. I have a life plan.”

  I think fast, not willing to let go of this opportunity. “And I’m in need of a life plan. I’d like to hear what’s involved from the expert.”

  She turns to me, a smile tugging at her lips. “Okay, fine. I’ll give you life plan pointers if you’re willing to answer some questions that have come about by way of Google.”

  “Does it have to do with Villroy?”

  She smiles big time, her eyes lighting up. “Yes.”

  I never play the prince card.

  I’m totally going to play the prince card.

  “Deal.”

  7

  Connor

  A half hour later, Becca joins me at a small table near the front of the shop. “I only get fifteen minutes.” She opens a bottled water and takes a long drink. “You want to explain why I keep running into you?”

  I shrug one shoulder. “I was surprised to see you here. I usually don’t stop by in the afternoon, but I got out of work early. I’ve only been here a couple of times on the weekend.”

  She jabs a finger at me. “Swear you’re not a stalker?”

  I hook my pinky finger with hers. “Swear on my sister’s life.”

  “You don’t have a sister.”

  I laugh because I caught her. She researched me, which is what she says she does before she goes out with someone. “I’d say of the two of us, you’re more of a creeper, reading up on my family online.”

  She blushes and then whispers, “What’s it like being royal?”

  I lean across the table, whispering back, “I’m a secret royal, so it’s like no one knows.”

  “And?”

  “And since no one knows, they treat me exactly like I’m a guy from Brooklyn.” I lean back and lift a palm. “Whatta ya know, I am a guy from Brooklyn.”

  She sits back, frowning. “You said you would share details.”

  I’m doing a terrible job of playing the prince card. “Truth is, when you grow up hearing your dad was kicked out of his kingdom for marrying your mom and all of us were called riffraff, well, it doesn’t give you warm and fuzzy feelings about royalty.”

  She props her head on her hand, a dreamy smile on her beautiful face. “What’s the palace like?”

  This is a woman with a prince fantasy. I have to indulge that for both our sakes.

  I try to put some enthusiasm in my voice. “Okay, imagine what you think a royal palace would look like from a storybook or one of those animated princess movies. It’s like that. A big stone monstrosity with turrets and spires.”

  She nods vigorously. “I saw a picture taken from afar online. It’s so beautiful. Is there a moat?”

  “No, just a large courtyard in front.”

  “What’s the inside like?”

  “Like a museum.”

  She waves me on. “Come on, details!”

  I think back to when I visited last spring for Dylan’s wedding. I was there for my cousin Adrian’s wedding too. “Two-story white marble entrance hall with silk wallpaper and a crystal chandelier. An enormous ballroom with inlaid wooden floors, gold wallpaper, ceiling frescoes, even more chandeliers. Way too many rooms. It’s like a maze trying to find your way around. East wing and west wing form a courtyard in back with formal gardens made of sculpted hedgerows and geometric plantings.”

  She sighs. “Wow. You’re so lucky. I saw pictures of you and your brothers at Dylan’s wedding there.”

  “Yup. That’s me. Prince Connor Rourke at your service.” Look at me getting the hang of the prince fantasy.

  She smiles, looking up at me under her lashes. “I can’t believe I know a real prince.”

  “So you’re really into the royal thing, huh?”

  She leans back, her cheeks and neck flushed pink. “It’s interesting.” She guzzles her water. She definitely is. It almost makes me want to get in touch with my cousin Adrian about a visit just so Becca can see the palace, but one thing at a time. My cousin is real accommodating like that, and it’s even easier to travel there because of the royal jet. First, I need to get Becca comfortable enough to agree to see me again.

  “Your turn,” I say. “Tell me more about this life plan stuff.”

  She purses her pink lips. My mind immediately goes to a dirty place. Must. Stop. Dirty. Thoughts. “Do you really want to know, or are you going to make fun of me?”

  “I really want to know.”

  She sets her water down. “Basically, you do an inventory of your life and where you’d like to see yourself in various categories—work, health, personal—and then you work backwards, breaking down the steps to get there. I took a one-year, three-year, and five-year view, but you can vary that according to your needs.”

  “So it’s like a business plan for your life.”

  “Exactly!”

  “See, I already learned something from your class.”

  She deflates, looking away. “Uh-huh, good.”

  Idiot. Why did I have to bring up class? It’s the whole reason she’s worried about getting involved with me.

  “I’d like a life plan,” I say. “Tell me about yours so I can reverse engineer one of my own.”

  She eyes me suspiciously.

  I lean forward. “I’m serious. I want to know.” Mostly so I can get to know you better. Seeing Becca today makes all the restless nights worth it. Just hearing her talk and seeing her smile makes my shoulders relax.

  “Okay. On the work side, I decided I wanted to go into teaching. It’s something my parents do and love, and I like the idea of helping people grow in their careers. So I got lucky and found something right away. Only adjunct for now, but it’s a start. And teaching gives me a better work-life balance. Before I was working hundred-hour weeks traveling all over the globe for work. I burned out. If I tried to keep going at that pace, I’m sure I would’ve started having serious health issues. I barely slept.”

  “And now you can sleep.”

  “Yes. I’m feeling more like my old self again.”

  “How many jobs do you have?”

  “Just two. I work here part time for the health insurance benefits. My boss wants to make me manager, but I’m trying to give myself some breathing room.”

  She must’ve been bringing in bank at her old job if she can only work part time and keep her nice apartment. That means she’s a saver, like me. I file that one away.

  She goes on. “For my health goals, I eat healthy, make sleep a priority, and I do some kind of exercise every day.”

  “So that’s work and health.” I lean in, my voice husky. “What’s the personal?”

  She ducks her head, rubbing the back of her neck. “What time is it?”

  I check my phone. “You’ve still got seven minutes. We’re fast talkers. You especially.” Most New Yorkers talk fast.

  She lets out a breath. “I’m working on taking it easy for one thing. Trying to be a little more laid-back.”

  Working at taking it easy sounds impossible, but I keep that to myself. “What else is in the personal goal section?” I’m pushing because I have a feeling it has to do with getting a guy. And guess who’s conveniently sitting across from you? The guy you had mind-blowing sex with last Friday night. I definitely blew her mind. She couldn’t stop praising me. Wonderful man. No one’s ever called me that before, especially with her enthusiasm. I hear it in my dreams.

  She takes a drink of water, eyeing me over the bottle as she stalls for time.

  I wait her out because I suspect, deep down, she wants to share.

  She sets her water down, her voice so soft I have to lean in. “I’m twenty-nine and I want to be settled into a meaningful relationship by thirty, so I accept one date per week every Friday for drinks. I have one this Friday actually,
right on schedule. That’s what it means to have a life plan, you work the plan and the plan works for you.”

  I straighten. She has a date this Friday? I drag a hand through my hair, trying to figure out how to stop it or put myself in his place as the better option. Of course I’m the better option. We had a great night together. And there’s no way he’s a prince. Come on! This can’t just be one sided.

  Sweat trickles down my chest. I play it cool. “How do you make sure your personal goal happens according to plan every Friday for drinks? Isn’t it kind of random who you meet?” Like we keep meeting?

  She smiles. “That’s the beauty of a plan, you see? I just follow the steps. First I do my research and—”

  “Research for a relationship?”

  She slowly shakes her head, giving me a sympathetic look. “You can’t expect to find someone for a serious relationship at a bar pickup scene. They need to be vetted first.”

  I can’t help but ask. “By Google?”

  She laughs. “That comes later. Anyway, I accept one date per week, and if we don’t click within the first hour, then I move on.”

  My chest puffs out. I made it well past the first hour. It occurs to me that she meets her dates at The Twisted Chord for drinks, which is why she was there alone last Friday, except last week’s guy stood her up. That’s probably also why she doesn’t want me to go there. She’s got a plan—Friday night date for drinks at the bar closest to her place. For a convenient sexual-compatibility check afterwards? No. She said she never does that when she first asked me over. Plus, she seemed nervous in the beginning and embarrassed after. I was the exception. Definitely something special here.

  And that means she’s on a search for a serious relationship guy. I wouldn’t say I’m looking to settle down, but I’m not anti-relationship either. My parents have a good marriage and my family is close. My older brothers—Dylan, Sean, Jack—all found women they’re crazy about. Maybe it’s my turn. Why else would I keep running into her? It would also explain why I can’t stop thinking about her, dreaming about her. I’ve never been so stuck on a woman before. I can’t let her go on this date on Friday. What if she clicks with that guy?

  Dammit, she clicked with me first and I don’t want her to move on. Keep cool, think it through.

  “Where do you find the dates?” I ask.

  She lowers her voice. “I did my research and found the best online dating service for people seeking serious relationships.”

  See, I was right? She’s on a quest. For me.

  “You mean New York Edge?” I totally made that up.

  “No, eLoveMatch.”

  Bingo!

  Her brows furrow. “I’ve never heard of New York Edge.”

  “I dunno. I thought I heard Beast mention it before. Supposed to give you an edge on dating, like you’re already matched so well it’s like date two instead of date one.”

  “Really?” She picks up her phone to look it up. “Maybe I’ll try it.”

  I put my hand over her phone. “It’s not for serious relationships.”

  “But you said they’re well matched.”

  “Yeah, so they can feel comfortable moving forward with the hookup faster. Hookup with potential, no heavy expectations.” Kinda like us last Friday night.

  “Oh.” Her lips part as she holds my gaze. She’s remembering our night. This is good.

  She gestures vaguely behind her. “I’d better go. Bathroom break and then back to work.” She stands and offers me her hand. “Good luck with your life plan.”

  I cross to her and give her hand a squeeze. “You too, Becca. See ya around.”

  She shakes her head, smiling. “Yeah. Just not too much, creeper.”

  I grin. “You’d better delete my picture from your screensaver.” I’m sure she saw me cleaned up nice in a tux for Dylan’s wedding during her online research on me.

  Pink dots her cheeks. “I don’t have your picture as my screensaver! Arrogant much?”

  “Keep it on your phone, though.” I wink. “Your secret prince.”

  She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Ridiculous. You’re not…I don’t even…” She meets my eyes, guilt written all over her face. She did save my picture from the internet. “I’m going now.”

  “Bye, Becca.”

  I turn and walk out the door. There’s definitely something here, and now I’ve got a plan that places us squarely on the same path. It’s a go.

  As long as we’re not caught.

  Becca

  It’s Thursday night and I’m sitting in a small office at the university for my class office hours. It’s quiet at this end of the hall, only a few night classes going on in the building. I left the door open, and every little noise makes my pulse pick up. I can’t help but wonder if Connor is going to show up. He did show up at my other job completely randomly. If he shows up here, it will mean something significant. Because now he knows exactly where I stand on wanting a relationship. If he still wants to pursue me, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Do I dare risk my career for a chance at the kind of relationship I’ve been longing for?

  There’s no question in my mind what would happen if anyone knew—fired with a black mark against me, never to work in academia again. That kind of violation of the rules follows you around. And those rules are in place for good reason. I’m just not sure my situation is the kind administrators thought of when they put it in place. After all, it’s completely consensual. If anything, Connor is the one pursuing me, not the other way around. And we met before I knew he was my student. Yes, I’m rationalizing.

  He could show up. I practically invited him, saying this was the appropriate place to talk to me. I fan myself with the syllabus, Connor’s husky voice sounding in my mind. What if I need extra help?

  And me: Then you can see me during my office hours on Thursday nights.

  Hot Builder Guy/Secret Prince/Best Lover I’ve Ever Had: Isn't that dangerous, you, me, an office alone at night?

  I set the syllabus down and smooth my hair. I hope he doesn’t show up because that would be inappropriate, and I can’t let myself get carried away. I mean, if he walked in here right now with his charming smile and deep sexy voice and kissed me—

  My mind flashes to that night. Connor pinning me against the wall, his mouth demanding on mine. His big calloused builder hands, his hard body, his intoxicating scent. All those wonderful orgasms he gave me. My skin flushes, a low ache in my belly reminding me of how greedy I was, still am, for more. One kiss would be all it took. Next thing you know, we’d be going at it on this sleek metal desk—hot skin against cool metal, stop! Someone would see us and I’d be fired. Losing my job, the shame of facing my parents, ending my newfound career so soon—I just can’t go there.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. If he shows up, I’ll tell him we’ll talk while we take a walk down the hallway. I congratulate myself on this clever plan. We’ll be out in public, so no chance of something intimate, and I’ll still be able to see if another student shows up at my office.

  I check the time on my phone. I’m fifteen minutes into my hour. They call it office hours, but it’s actually only an hour. Some professors offer them multiple times a week, but I was only required to have the one. Hmm, I wonder if anyone will show up. The dean encouraged us to have an open-door policy and assure our students that they can stop by just to talk. They don’t even need to have a question. It’s all about us professors getting to know our students and their aspirations so we can be a source of support in their career goals. They’re very student-centric here. Though, to be honest, it was similar at my business school, and I think I went to office hours maybe twice in the two years I was there.

  I jump at a knock on my door, my heart racing. “Hello, come in.” I smile at the man who is not Connor Rourke, trying to hide my disappointment. Why can’t I stop thinking about him? I know he’s off-limits.

  “Mike Ahern,” he says, striding in and offering me his hand. I reach out, and he gives
me a firm handshake before taking the seat across from me. He’s probably in his thirties with short blond hair in a side part. In class, it was obvious he was a go-getter, talking loud and fast, dominating the discussion.

  “Yes, I remember your name. How do you like class so far?”

  “Excellent. Great start and I’m really glad I signed up for it. The case study on coffee was fascinating. I never thought about the difference between fair trade and direct trade. You hear about fair trade coffee all the time, and there’s a premium for it, right, ha-ha, but which is better for the workers? What is the real end goal, and how do we ensure quality standards in the coffee?”

  I barely get out a reply before he goes off on a long tirade over marketing practices and how some companies have co-opted the jargon without actually following through. He’s quite passionate and it makes me think he’s the kind of original thinker who’ll one day do something important in the world.

  When he finally winds down, I say, “Remind me what you do for work, Mike.”

  “I’m an IT project manager. Very important. People want their tech fully operational at all times and fast. Back to coffee. The supply chain fascinates me. I never really thought about that either.” He launches into a lecture very similar to what I gave in class.

  I open my mouth to talk a few times, but it seems there’s no need. Mike is here to share with me everything I already shared, with a few repeat loops and his personal opinion. I almost feel like I’m the student and he’s the professor, except he’s literally parroting back what I’ve already taught. Maybe he’s not such an original thinker after all. Geez, I really don’t want to be stuck in another office hour with him. I’ll be sure to remind my students on Saturday that I would very much like to see them during office hours to discuss each of their future goals and connect them with resources in any way I can. I only pray at least one more person shows up. What if I get a Mike lecture every Thursday night parroting back my lecture? Kill me now.

  Finally, mercifully, the hour is up and I stand, gathering my light jacket and purse. “Well, Mike, it’s time for me to go.” I stuff the syllabus into my messenger bag. “I’ll see you in class on Saturday.”