Finding Him

by Van Dyken, Rachel

  “Whiskey over expensive wine any day.”

  She reached out and pressed her right heavily gauzed hand to my chin and swiped. “I figured you weren’t saving that.”

  “What?”

  “Two wasteful drops of whiskey, on your chin.” She pointed with her paw while I scowled and looked away.

  Maybe it was the two shots, maybe it was something else, maybe it was even the magic of Mom still existing within the walls of that cabin, but I found myself hating the way Keaton saw me and my life.

  What was worse, I hated that she was half right.

  I was that guy.

  I had always been that guy.

  And that guy got completely screwed, so who was I now? That was the question, wasn’t it? I no longer had this need for my father’s approval, I owned part of the company, and now I had no fiancée, no pet—not that I’d even had one to begin with—had just moved into a new apartment, and everything felt . . .

  Empty.

  “I have a thought,” I said before I could stop myself.

  “Is that what you call it when a light bulb appears over your head?” she teased.

  I ignored her and pressed on. “We owe it to each other to stop making snap judgments and just . . . get to know one another.”

  “Sounds like a date to me.”

  “If dating means we’re napping this afternoon, playing a wild game of chess, and then eating dinner together, sure, but typically I like to be more adventurous on my dates.”

  “Adventurous like getting chased by an elk?”

  “Still stuck on that?”

  She held up her hands.

  “Right.” I smiled at her. “Too soon?”

  “You think?”

  My smile just widened. “We’re stuck here and we may as well find a way to get along. No blood was shed during chapter one, do you think we can manage to sheathe the claws when we’re not writing too?”

  “That depends . . .” She leaned in.

  I sucked in a sharp breath and waited like an idiot.

  “What are you cooking for dinner?”

  “What makes you think I’m cooking?”

  She showed me her hands again.

  “You can use your mouth still,” I pointed out.

  “And you can shut yours,” she fired back. “I like pasta.”

  “Me too.”

  Neither of us moved.

  I sighed. “Fine, I’ll play you for it.”

  “What are we playing?”

  I shot her an evil grin. “Strip poker. Whoever keeps the majority of their clothes on wins.”

  “I know how it works.” She rolled her eyes. “I also know that the game could go on forever.”

  “Five hands.”

  “Just five?”

  “Just five.” I eyed her up and down. “And right now it looks like at the very worst you’ll be out an ugly sweater, furry socks, and leggings that have holes in them.”

  That earned me a glare straight from the pits of hell.

  “First off, I like my sweater, second, the socks keep me warm, and third, we all have our favorite sweats!”

  “Not all of us.” I grinned. “Tell me, are you the sort of girl who wears workout clothes but doesn’t even have a gym membership?”

  Her cheeks reddened.

  “Hmm . . .” I winked. “Do you always blush when you’re uncomfortable?”

  “Guhhhhhhh.” She threw her hands up. “Fine, we play five hands. Also it should be noted, I’m a savant with numbers.”

  “I’m a Mensa member, but cool story.”

  “You can’t see because of the gauze, but I’m holding up both middle fingers and praying you get syphilis.”

  “And you can’t see inside my head, but I’m already celebrating my victory, hope you know how to cook with paws.”

  She stuck out her tongue and stood. “Where are the cards?”

  I almost said, “Where they always are,” but I realized quickly this wasn’t a thing, me and her vacationing here, or even hanging out here. She wasn’t family, she wasn’t anything.

  Just a perfect stranger.

  A really pretty one.

  “In the top drawer of the coffee table. You’ll find a few stacks, choose wisely, you never know if I’ve marked the deck.”

  “If you were a Mensa member you wouldn’t have to,” she argued.

  I burst out laughing. “Get ready to strip.”

  “Bet that works on none of the girls.” She grabbed the cards and made her way back to the kitchen table.

  “It works on enough of them.” I gave her a smug grin.

  “Gross.”

  I leaned close and captured her gaze. “Keaton, I can guarantee you that gross is not a word ever exchanged between me and any female. More like Wow, oh God—”

  The paw was back, this time covering my mouth. “Stop talking and deal.”

  I grinned against the medicinal gauze and nodded my head. She pulled her hand back, and her eyes darted away.

  And I had to wonder if I made her uncomfortable, or if she was suddenly skittish because she’d touched me and—even with an injured hand—liked it a little too much.

  Chapter Fifteen

  KEATON

  The heart wants what it wants. I knew that better than anyone, but my heart wasn’t the issue. It was my eyes and my treacherous body and the way it felt a hit of adrenaline each time Julian touched me.

  Even the gentlest touch set me off.

  I hated my body for responding to anything he did; it felt like a direct betrayal of Noah even though I knew logically I would eventually have to move on. Eventually I’d live the life we’d planned but with another man.

  The thought brought me back to reality and away from Julian’s soft touches and teasing remarks.

  I was at that cabin for a reason, and that reason was not to crush on a playboy who probably had enough notches in his bedpost to break the frame.

  Besides, we were on round five.

  He won the first three.

  I won the fourth.

  “You’re staring awful hard at your cards . . .”

  “It’s not my fault I keep getting distracted by your polka-dotted bra. Didn’t notice the little bow on it before. I like it. Did your mom buy you a lollipop before or after she took you shopping at Target?”

  I scowled and looked down at my cards. “First off, you’re the one who said that socks are a pair and count as one. Second, if you don’t like it, don’t look.” The last thing I needed was another go around with Julian helping me get the bra back on—I barely survived the first time. “And third, this is Victoria’s Secret. Oh, and fourth, you’re an ass.”

  “Victoria’s Secret,” he repeated, his eyes skimming his cards and then the upper half of my mostly bare body before looking back down again. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

  I shivered and changed the subject. “So? What will it be?”

  “All in.” He shoved all his M&M’s, aka his chips, to the middle of the table, his grin so smug it was almost cute—almost.

  I looked down at my cards again. I had a pair of sevens. That was it. I narrowed my eyes at him. Did he have a tell? Businessmen were typically boardroom warriors with nerves of steel, so I highly doubted he’d reveal anything in a card game.

  He scratched the back of his head.

  Bingo.

  I shoved my candy forward. “Call.”

  “Show me your cards.”

  “You first.” I grinned.

  He shook his head and flipped his cards over. “Royal flush.”

  I slowly lowered my cards and watched in horror as he took all the candy to his side of the table and then very annoyingly jerked his head at me. “Your pants or your bra, your choice.”

  I shoved my chair back and stood, then gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but”—I held up my hands—“it’s really hard to get undressed with all the gauze.”

  “Yet you managed to get semi-dressed this morning and take your sweater off . .
.”

  I shrugged. “They’re throbbing like I have ten tiny heartbeats.”

  “Okay.” He stood and faced me. “Then I guess I’ll have to help you.”

  Not the direction I thought he’d take. If anything, I thought he’d toss some irritated words my way and stomp out of the room.

  “Umm . . .”

  He reached for me.

  And idiot that I was.

  I didn’t stop him.

  His hands grazed my hips as he held my swaying body steady.

  It had been too long, hadn’t it? Since I’d been touched, since I’d liked it.

  Way too long.

  And now my body was misfiring at the worst possible time with the worst possible person on the planet.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” My voice was too breathless, my eyes couldn’t decide if they should focus on his eyes or his mouth, with its perfect sensual lips, that was inches away from my face.

  He leaned in until our foreheads touched and whispered, “Winning.” Right before digging his fingers into my leggings and very slowly rolling them down until he reached my bare feet. He gently lifted each foot and pulled them completely off, leaving me standing there in my polka-dot bra and my hot-pink panties. Clearly I hadn’t been planning on being naked when I’d packed for this trip. Otherwise, I would have brought something that didn’t look like a preteen training bra.

  Then again, what was I thinking?

  I wasn’t ready for that.

  For any of it.

  It was too raw, too soon.

  And again, he was too wrong.

  “I’ll give these back on one condition.” He dangled the leggings in between our bodies.

  “Oh, and what’s that?” I croaked and cleared my throat. “Because this is as naked as I get.”

  “I wonder if that makes bedroom activities difficult.”

  “A truly talented man would work with it,” I countered as his eyebrows shot up his forehead.

  “I can’t decide if that’s a challenge or not . . .”

  “Not,” I said helpfully.

  He chuckled. “Fine, it’s going to sound stupid, but I’m going to ask anyway.”

  “Now you have me worried,” I teased.

  “Kiss me.” He said it so quietly I almost didn’t hear him. “Kiss me and I’ll make dinner and give you back your pants.”

  “What?”

  “A kiss, usually it’s two mouths, one soul—”

  “I know what a kiss is. I’m just confused, why would you want to kiss me?”

  “Let’s just call it an experiment. I haven’t really kissed anyone since I woke up feeling like a different man, and I want to see if everything on the outside feels the same as it does on the inside—changed.”

  I hesitated then asked, “Why a kiss?”

  His lips pressed into a smile. “Because it’s the only thing that exists in this universe that tells you everything without saying a word.”

  I swallowed the dryness in my throat. “Yeah, next time lead with that.”

  “Noted.” He tilted my chin with his thumb. “Is that a yes?”

  “It’s just a kiss,” I said, more to myself than him. “One kiss. It means nothing.”

  “Absolutely nothing,” he agreed.

  “Fine.” I licked my lips and waited.

  And of course he took his time.

  He didn’t lean in and press his lips against mine. That would be too easy, and I was beginning to understand that easy wasn’t in Julian Tennyson’s vocabulary. He smoothed my cheeks with his hands then ran them down my neck only to slowly pull me against his rock-hard chest while his mouth pressed against my neck like he was breathing me in.

  My knees shook while I tried to rein in the shiver that was slowly spreading down my legs to my toes. His lips brushed against mine. The feeling was so foreign, I hadn’t kissed anyone since Noah. My dreams didn’t count.

  This was a full-on assault of all of my senses, and he was barely touching me.

  His lower lip slid against mine, and then he was kissing me, kissing me so achingly slow that my chest hurt.

  He said a kiss spoke without using words.

  And his absolutely screamed ache.

  It wrecked me, ruined my resolve, and made me weak because I was that girl—the one that wanted to fix all the things. I’d wanted to fix Noah and make him better, and even though Julian’s hurt was obviously different, a part of him was still broken.

  And I wasn’t stupid enough to believe a kiss would fix it, but it would at least soothe the ache, that’s what affection did to a person’s soul, it took the sting away.

  I deepened the kiss without thinking.

  Wrapped my arms around his neck.

  And didn’t even realize I was airborne until my butt hit the countertop as his mouth pressed harder against mine, searching as his lips demanded more.

  I said one kiss.

  This was multiple.

  Then again, his lips never left mine.

  Did it count?

  Why was I overthinking this rather than enjoying the sensation of the best kiss of my life?

  I shoved him away as gently as I could. Guilt descended like a choking fog. Logically I knew I hadn’t just cheated.

  But it felt wrong.

  Because it felt so good.

  So right.

  “So . . .” I could barely keep the tremor out of my voice as I looked up at him. “What did my kiss say?”

  His eyes searched mine, and then he very gently leaned in and kissed my cheek, whispering in my ear, “Sad.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  JULIAN

  My first kiss had been in that cabin.

  My first real kiss.

  I’d brought a friend from school—one I wanted to be my girlfriend. We stayed up late, and one thing led to another, we broke into my parents’ liquor cabinet, drank way too much peppermint schnapps, and ended up making out on the couch like the horny teenagers we were.

  I chuckled and ate another bite of pasta.

  Keaton had been oddly quiet ever since I kissed her. I refused to apologize for something that felt so right.

  “What’s funny?” She yawned behind her hand. “Good pasta, by the way.”

  I smiled. “Took you three servings to figure that out?”

  She ignored me, I was getting used to it. Old Julian would have been livid if he’d been waved off the way she did it, but for some reason I enjoyed it because I knew it meant she was uncomfortable or irritated, which also meant she wasn’t kissing my ass. I’d had enough ass-kissing to last me a lifetime.

  Perfect, next I was probably going to ask to braid her hair, then pull said braid in order to prove to her that I liked her. My future was bright!

  I cleared my throat. “I was just thinking about the last time I had a girl here.”

  “Wow.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Extremely. Did you even know her last name?”

  “Higgins,” I said quickly. “And I was fourteen, so before you start imagining strippers and dollar bills . . .”

  “Fourteen?” she said, ignoring the stripper comment. “That was the last time you were here?”

  I nodded and poured her another glass of wine since her glass was empty. Plus it gave me something to do with my hands, and I found that anytime the subject floated back toward me and my past, I felt fidgety. “My parents divorced that same year, and it was too painful to come back. Some of my favorite memories were with my family, with my brother and my mom. Dad usually showed up for a day tops, then left with another emergency at the office. It was the only time I could ever—” I stopped myself.

  Too late.

  She leaned forward. “It was the only time you could ever what?”

  I sighed. “Be myself.”

  “That’s tragic.”

  “Yeah, well, so is high school,” I joked. “I put a lot of pressure on myself to prove I could handle the company. I swear I was born with a calculator in one hand and a
spreadsheet in the other.”

  “And did you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Prove yourself?” she asked, resting her forearms on the table. The sky was getting dark, and I could see new snow starting to fall. Even though we finally had cell service, it looked like we were in for another night together without rescue.

  “Well . . .” I swirled the wine in my glass. “That depends. According to him it will be a cold day in hell before I’m ever on his level—but if you look at what I’ve done with the company, the stocks, the portfolio, and projections for—”

  Keaton closed her eyes and started to snore.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I boring you?”

  She opened one eye and then the other. “I asked about you proving yourself, and now you’re talking about portfolios . . . It’s a simple question. Did you accomplish what you set out to do?”

  I licked my dry lips. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  God, where was more alcohol or a sedative when I needed it?

  I didn’t want to travel down memory lane.

  I sure as hell didn’t want to talk about myself, my shortcomings, or my fears.

  It was easy when she was the focus of conversation.

  Damn it.

  “Why is that unfortunate?” she asked, holding her wineglass with both hands.

  “Because . . .” I was seconds away from claiming a migraine when I eyed the computer. She’d told me her beginning; it wouldn’t be fair to lie about my end, would it? “That’s it, the case is closed. I had one singular goal in life. I accomplished it, and now I’m at the end of a road, and I can’t find it in myself to do anything but stand there.”

  “Is standing there so bad?”

  “Yeah, it is, especially when you’ve been running during your entire existence. What do you do when you realize that accomplishing everything you set out to do leaves you feeling just as empty as you were before, or even more so?” She was quiet, her eyes searching mine. “My brother says I need a hobby.”

  “A man without a destination isn’t lost . . .” She shrugged. “He’s just exploring.”

  “Well, exploring feels a hell of a lot like being lost.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Being lost?”

  “No.”

  She set her wine down. “Your job, do you like it?”