The Playboy Bachelor

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “A leg isn’t irreplaceable,” Grandma said softly.

  “But—”

  “No!” Grandma sounded disappointed. “I went to his grandfather, and I stood up for you. I’ll always stand up for you, but Margot, do you think, perhaps, you were too harsh on him?”

  “He broke my heart! And he left again! Just like I knew he would.”

  “And there it is.” Grandma sighed. “It seems to me that you quit first, to protect yourself, and now both of you are nursing broken hearts. You need to learn how to trust again. How to love. Do you think your parents would want you to be unhappy? Untrusting?”

  “I—” Emotion clogged her throat. “I’m happy.”

  “You’re getting by,” Grandma corrected. “Believe me, there’s a huge difference between being happy and getting by.” She cleared her throat. “In all the time you spent with him, did he ever seem the type to purposefully lead a woman on, gain her trust, make her fall for him, only to laugh in her face when things were said and done?”

  Her pride begged her to say yes and hang up.

  But that stupid, nagging thing called a conscience kept screaming in her head that even though he could be cruel and he had a list and he made her want to strangle him, his eyes said something else entirely, even while that wicked mouth of his was moving.

  “It’s too late,” Margot finally said, slouching back into her seat and staring at the now-black computer screen.

  “It’s never too late,” Grandma said.

  “Grandma?” Margot blurted through thick blurry tears.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Is he…I mean, how is he?”

  “Maybe it’s about time you asked him that. Good night.”

  The phone went dead as a hot tear slid down her cheek and dropped onto her bare legs.

  The same legs she would have never been caught dead exposing to the world—that was, until Bentley Wellington bulldozed his way into her life.

  And allowed her an out—when all she ever wanted was to be in.

  Chapter Forty

  Bentley waited longer than he would have liked, mainly because Brock refused to leave his side until he deemed him sober enough to drive. So Brock sat at the table while Bentley chugged water and made a pot of coffee—the caffeine made him shaky, which just made Brock assume he was still drunk.

  “Look.” Bentley held up his hands. “I can touch my nose with both fingers and walk in a straight line. Don’t make me say the ABCs backward.”

  Brock glanced up at the ceiling. “You could do that even if you were half dead and inside a barrel of whiskey. Honestly, sometimes you’re even smarter when you’re drunk; how the hell am I supposed to know if you can drive?”

  “Straight lines.” Bentley ignored him and started walking in a straight line then hopped on one foot. “Z, Y, X—”

  “Fine.” Brock sighed and tossed him the keys. “It’s been at least four hours since your last drink.”

  Bentley caught the keys in midair and nodded. “It’s not like I had a lot to begin with. You ruined my plans, remember?”

  “You’re welcome that I didn’t let you get so drunk off your ass that you wouldn’t have been able to see your girl until tomorrow.”

  “Did I say thank you?”

  “You thought it,” Brock said with slight irritation. “So why the hesitation?”

  Honestly, Bentley had no idea. With keys in hand, and eyes on the door, he was ready to go. Ready to storm the castle—or really, in his case, break into the castle and force the woman to reason with him.

  “None of that.” Brock waved a hand in front of his face. “Just get the hell out already.”

  “What if she—?” Bentley clenched the keys harder. “What if she rejects me?”

  “You sound like an idiot.” Brock placed both of his hands on Bentley’s shoulders and shoved him toward the door. “And nobody likes a weak man. Knock on the door.” He shoved Bentley one last time. “And kiss her. Use the word sorry between kisses, and try not to make an ass out of yourself.”

  “Sorry between kisses?” Bentley repeated. “You make it sound like I’m kissing her better.”

  “Would you rather kiss her worse?”

  “Huh?”

  The door slammed in Bentley’s face.

  “You realize you’re in my apartment, right?” he called through the door.

  “Don’t care!” Brock’s muffled yell was followed by cursing before he opened the door a crack and shouted, “Go already!”

  The door slammed again.

  “Fine.” Suddenly sweaty, Bentley smiled at the closed door and then turned and ran.

  Images of Margot’s face caused a slow burn to build in his chest—he had to see her. What the hell had he been thinking? Throwing the list in her face? Why? Because his pride was hurt? Because he was pissed?

  No. Because he was scared.

  He was a serious jackass.

  He jerked open the door to his sports car and shoved the key in the ignition.

  He needed to see her. Now.

  And kiss her senseless.

  Bentley was in a hurry.

  So it only made sense that the universe would fuck with him.

  Every light was red.

  And when he was almost out of the city, a police officer pulled him over for having a taillight out.

  A drive that should have taken forty minutes turned into nearly an hour by the time he neared her house at breakneck speed.

  Angry rain pelted the hood of his car as he turned the corner. The roads were slick with oil, making them more treacherous than usual, so he slowed down to a speed that wouldn’t get him killed and jammed his hand against the steering wheel when his car rolled to a stop behind a garbage truck that clearly had all the time in the world.

  Thank God, it finally turned off onto another road. Bentley hit the accelerator and sped by.

  Everything happened at once.

  The car drifting into his lane.

  The overcorrection.

  The sound of metal crunching and twisting against guardrails.

  And then the impact.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Something was wrong.

  Margot shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around her body. The house seemed to come alive at night, and it didn’t help that for the first time in years she was aware of her own loneliness and how much she actually missed having another person with her in bed—in her house—in her life.

  Just call him.

  What would she say? Beg him to give her another chance?

  She could go to him.

  She had a car. She just never drove it.

  But for him?

  To go after him?

  Maybe she could.

  Damn it!

  She would!

  Her movements were jerky, shaky with nerves, as she threw on a sweatshirt and grabbed her Nike tennis shoes.

  Just do it, they seemed to whisper.

  She didn’t have his address, but she knew her grandmother would be more than happy to give it to her—after all, this was her fault to begin with! Besides, if worst came to worst, she could always contact Brant, right?

  Within minutes she was ready to go, but when she glanced one last time at herself in the mirror, she cringed.

  Pale skin from being indoors.

  And her sweatshirt was on backward.

  She really should put on some makeup, too.

  No! There was no time, but why did she suddenly feel the need for urgency? The hole in her stomach grew to epic proportions as she grabbed the keys to her Jeep Cherokee. Hopefully, the SUV would start. Then again, her grandmother had always told the groundskeeper to run the car throughout the year just in case Margot ever needed it.

  Fear trickled down her spine as she slowly walked out the back door and into the garage.

  Swallowing her nerves, she flicked on the lights. Her red Jeep looked recently washed. It was shiny and completely terrifying as it sat in the middle of the too-large
garage and mocked her.

  This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.

  But for some reason, she felt like she had to do it—had to take that initial step toward Bentley—even if he rejected her.

  Honestly, what did she even have to lose other than her own loneliness?

  “Keep me safe,” she muttered aloud as she clicked open the door to the Jeep and slid onto the leather seat.

  Margot gripped the steering wheel so tight her fingers turned a pinkish-white color. She released one hand and tapped the garage door opener, then very slowly slid the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine roared to life.

  “You’ve got this, you’ve got this.” Great. She was going to keep talking to herself, wasn’t she?

  With a sigh, she peeled out of the garage—accidently; it wasn’t like she’d had a lot of practice driving in the last ten years. She tapped the brake and found out the hard way that it was more sensitive than she would have liked as the Jeep jerked to a stop, thrusting her against the steering wheel. She drew a shaky breath. Lesson learned.

  Slowly, she inched the car down the driveway and then burst out laughing as memories of Bentley flooded into her consciousness.

  His driving like a maniac.

  His smile.

  Everything about him.

  “God, I’m such an idiot.”

  And now she was driving.

  For the first time in ten years.

  She was just about to pull out of the driveway when a large garbage truck sailed by.

  After looking both ways, she took a right toward the city.

  Just as a loud bark interrupted her concentration.

  “Scar?” she cried out in surprise and, with a jerk, the steering wheel went right, then left.

  And everything went black.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Wake up, asshole.” Brant’s voice sounded like it was muffled behind something. A pounding ache pressed between Bentley’s eyes like he’d stuck his head in a door and slammed it a few times just for shits and giggles. “Seriously, Margot’s in worse shape than you. And you look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”

  “Too soon.” Brock made a strangled sound.

  Bentley squeezed his eyes tight and then opened them to see both Brant and Brock leaning over him with concerned looks on their faces.

  “Told ya it would work.” Brant grinned and held out his hand.

  Brock slapped cash in it and grunted. “Or maybe it was just good timing?”

  “The hell?” Bentley tried to push himself into a sitting position but his body was so weak it refused to respond. “What’s going on?”’

  “This?” Brant pointed between him and Brock. “Just a simple wager between brothers.” He flashed an easy smile. “I said you’d live.”

  Bentley’s eyes narrowed, the motion increasing the throbbing ache in his head. “And what? Brock bet I’d die?”

  Brock shrugged. Bentley let out a moan and tried to touch his head, but his hand was heavy with something. He looked down. White bandages covered his arm from his elbow to his fingers.

  “Looks worse than it is,” Brant pointed out. “How do you feel?”

  “Like my brothers want me dead.”

  Brock winced. “Your car was sideswiped by a Jeep.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Why wouldn’t the pounding stop. “I was there.”

  The guys fell silent while Bentley flexed the fingers in his left hand—at least that wasn’t bandaged up. And his legs seemed to still be attached, since he could move his toes.

  “Hell, my head hurts,” he grumbled.

  “You hit it,” Brant said helpfully.

  Why were they there, again?

  “Oh, good!” Jane, Brock’s fiancée, opened the door to the room. “You’re alive!”

  “Hey, Jane.” He waved with his bandaged arm. “Care to make me all better?”

  “She would kill in a nurse outfit.” Brant eyed her appreciatively.

  “No.” Brock shook his head slowly then studied Bentley. “Clearly you’re feeling better.”

  “I got hit by a Jeep—” Bentley stopped talking and then looked around the room. Margot—hadn’t someone said her name? “Is she here?”

  Guilty looks appeared on everyone’s faces while Bentley searched for someone to offer up any piece of information that would help him.

  “Seriously?” Anger surged through him. “I’m in the hospital and she still won’t come? Is this payback? I didn’t visit her. I didn’t fight for her. Karma sucks.”

  Heart pounding, he stared at Brock with clenched teeth, ready to yell, ready to say things he’d regret later when he was more calm and rational, but when he opened his mouth Brant interrupted him.

  “She was in the red Jeep.”

  “What?” He snapped his attention to Brant. “That’s not funny.”

  “Am I laughing?” His twin’s face darkened. “Apparently she had the dog with her and she swerved, though nobody’s really sure if it was because of the dog or because of the rain. The dog’s okay, but Margot—”

  “—is fine,” Brock answered for Brant. “She’s in surgery.”

  “Surgery?” His gravelly voice sounded foreign to his own ears, like he’d been holding in the scream that kept threatening to come out every time he thought about Margot nearly dying—or being dead.

  “She’s out,” Jane interjected. “The doctor just put her in Recovery. I came in to tell the guys—”

  “I want to see her.” He was already struggling to get up. “Now.”

  Brant let out an agitated sigh. “Bentley—”

  “Now!” he roared.

  “Okay.” Brant pulled the blanket back and helped him to his feet. “But keep everything covered. The last thing we need is you flashing one of the nurses and getting arrested or something.”

  “It’s not illegal if it’s their job,” Brock pointed out.

  “Good to know.” Brant grinned. “Storing that morsel of information for later. Oh nurse, I have a pain, here let me just unzip my pants and—”

  “You’re going to burn in hell.” Brock walked around the bed to Bentley’s other side and held him up. “Remember, Margot doesn’t know yet, so…let her down gently.”

  “Or…” Brant shrugged as they slowly moved out of the room. “You can take my advice and get angry at her. She’s going to feel guilty enough, so if you attack her first and then forgive her, it might be easier for her to forgive herself.”

  Bentley stopped walking and looked at him. “Who are you?”

  “What?” Brant shrugged. “She’s a woman. That’s what they do.”

  Brock grunted.

  Leaving Bentley to wonder if his twin was actually right. Margot was going to blame herself—just like she did with her parents’ death. And look how long it took her to get over that?

  The thought haunted him the entire laborious journey to her room.

  And when he opened the door and his brothers abandoned him—

  He knew he had his answer.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Margot stared at the white ceiling, the square panels that covered the room. The smell of bleach and medicine made her want to gag, but worst of all, her right arm was in a cast, and her leg hurt.

  The one she was missing.

  Because being back in the hospital reminded her body that yes, at one point she had a leg and it had been removed on this very floor.

  The same floor they took her parents to when they’d died.

  God, she hated hospitals.

  “You’re so lucky you’re alive!” If she heard that one more time from another nurse or doctor, she was going to scream. Thankfully, the car had only rolled once before slamming into another car, which had just slowed down.

  Had the car not slowed down…

  And had she not overcorrected…

  So many things could have happened.

  She could be dead.

  Scar could be dead.

  Thankfully, the pup
py had made it through without a scratch. How had she not seen him hop into the car after her? She’d held the door open only for a few seconds; he must have snuck in then.

  Her head pounded with all the what-ifs.

  Her grandmother had been called.

  And was probably freaking out.

  But worse of all—Bentley.

  She was ashamed to call him. Fearful that he’d get mad at her for trying to drive when she wasn’t confident behind the wheel. And fearful he’d reject her when he discovered that her only game plan was to get his address and stalk him until he accepted her apology.

  Hot tears ran down her cheeks as the sound of people outside her room grew louder. She just wanted to be left alone. Was that so much to ask for?

  “Knock, knock,” came a familiar voice.

  Margot jolted to a sitting position as a banged-up Bentley slowly hobbled in. His entire right arm was covered in bandages, he had two black eyes, and a cut across his right cheek.

  “Oh God!” She covered her mouth. “What happened to you? Are you okay?” Tears spilled over her cheeks until she couldn’t wipe away the moisture fast enough.

  Bentley finally made it to her side and sat on the bed, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her. “I got in a fight with an angry husband, jumped out a three-story window and into a bear cage. You should see the bear, though. I fucked him up good.”

  “That’s not funny.” She sniffled against his chest. “What really happened?”

  He pushed her away and smirked. “The true story, huh? No pretenses, no lists?”

  “No lists,” she repeated with a shaky voice. “Only truths.”

  “I met a girl.” He shrugged. “A really pretty girl with a wicked mouth and beautiful legs.” Oh great, now she was crying again. “And she terrified me.”

  “What?”