Husband Rollover (Husband Series Book 4)

by Cusack,Louise

  “…and of course…” he breathed, so intimately I felt my face flushing again and I glanced around to make sure no one else could hear us. “…completely not what I would expect from a woman who only just teased me about the flavors a man might like.”

  He ended on a triumphant eyebrow raise, as if he’d just scored a point in a debate. And whether it was by accident or design, his little finger brushed mine as he withdrew his hands and sat back in the seat, watching me very closely.

  I felt completely flustered, so I said nothing for the longest time, but I had to work through this to secure the feature for Jill. So I ended up asking the obvious question. “Are you flirting with me?”

  He tilted his head. “Depends. Do you like it?”

  I wanted to say No, I hate flirting. It’s so superficial. Only…I did like it. The way he gazed at me, as if I was a dessert he was thinking of devouring, really turned me on. Not to mention the low rumble of his voice. That did something to my insides that was new and exciting, creating a fluttery sensation low in my belly.

  I licked my lips—a nervous gesture this time—and said, “I’m unexpectedly…” Aroused? No, I couldn’t say that. “…flustered.”

  He nodded, as if he expected no less. Then we stared at each other and I felt my heartbeat inside my chest, a deep, steady thudding that seemed far more noticeable than it had been before. I should have been checking on the food or talking up the teahouse so he’d reconsider it, but I drank my wine and stared at Max Banks as he leant back in his seat, staring at me.

  In the drama that had followed his arrival, I hadn’t really seen him as a person, and certainly not as a potential lover. He’d been the bogeyman—a scary celebrity who was larger than life. But now…I let my gaze rove over his face, taking in the smooth skin with its dark shadow of stubble. He was the sort of man who would have a thick beard if he chose to grow it, and that meant he’d have hair on his chest, which I was quite partial to.

  “Fritha?” he said softly, and I dragged my attention off his chest, where between the buttons of his shirt I imagined I could see tiny patches of skin.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, once, as if he’d just received the answer to a question, or I’d agreed to something. Then he said, “I have two hours after lunch.”

  Holy fucking hell.

  I blinked at him, stunned by the idea that I might do this. I could hear Jill’s voice in my head saying No fucking way, but I seriously wanted to see what was under that suit, and my desire to be the best friend a girl could have, warred with the part of me that liked to lose myself in sweaty, mindless sex.

  Naturally, the sex part was winning—as it always did over common sense—and I was about to say, I thought you didn’t do casual.

  But he interrupted my train of thought with, “Can you show me around Belandera?”

  Oh.

  Sightseeing.

  Not sex.

  Disappointment swirled through me—not to mention the burn of foolishness—but it was probably the best thing that could have happened, because it reminded me to focus on the prize instead of being so easily distracted. “Are you thinking about featuring us after all?” I lifted my chin as if I was challenging him, but the more time I spent with him, the more I suspected he was twisting me around his little finger.

  He leant forward across the table again, and this time he did touch my hand, although he made it look like an accident. Then he said, “I’m not going to be a notch on your belt, Fritha Wynde, no matter how much you bat those big toffee eyes at me.”

  Bastard. Definitely leading me on.

  “You flirted!”

  Add to which, I might be impulsive, but that didn’t make me some belt-notching slut. I met plenty of men I didn’t want to pounce on. It was just unfortunate for me that Max Banks wasn’t one of them.

  He picked up his wine and took a sip, gazing at me over the rim of the perfectly polished glass. “Very nice prosecco.” He put the glass back down. “You ordered the trout?”

  “Yes,” I said cautiously, grateful that he wasn’t going to rub my nose in this latest misunderstanding. “It should be here any minute.” Unless Sammie went weird about cooking for the most aggravating food critic on television. In which case, anything could happen. But at this point, it was impossible to imagine Sammie screwing up as thoroughly as I had, so I was quite prepared to cut him slack no matter what he served up.

  “Good. I’m starving.” Max gazed at me patiently then, as if he expected me to carry the conversation, but I absolutely was not going to talk about hunger when he was seated across from me looking so scrumptious.

  So I babbled. “We’re in a busy patch this weekend.” I gestured to the three groups waiting to be seated. “There’s a permaculture festival in town and the hotels are all full. So it’s a busy lunch session and I told our chef not to prioritize your meal.”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “I see. So you’re going to treat me just like a regular Joe.”

  I looked him up and down, inspecting everything from the top if his glossy black hair, down past those cheekbones that looked good enough to lick, then there were those pursed lips…broad shoulders inside that elegantly tailored suit—

  “You’re staring,” he said, and I snapped my mouth shut.

  Fuck.

  Could I make the situation any worse than it was?

  “You don’t fit in,” I blurted, as if that’s why I was ogling him.

  “I know,” he said softly. “I don’t try to.”

  I wanted to say Kindred, except this morning I’d had a ‘dress like a professional’ spasm. I normally dressed to pleased myself, although my regular clothes did fit in at Bohemian Brew because the whole teahouse suited me. It was an extension of my personality, and that’s why his casual criticism of the décor had hurt.

  Out in the wider world I wore whatever I felt like. Dressing up meant rainbow tulle or something that sparkled. Casual was cheesecloth or light cotton in earthy colors. Any designer clothes I owned were all courtesy of Louella, and I was always happy to play along with her whims because that felt like a game. But left to my own devices, I couldn’t care less what other people thought about my wardrobe.

  I suddenly wondered if he did, so I asked, “Do you like suits?” To me, they looked uncomfortable.

  “I come from a cold climate.” He shrugged, moving those broad shoulders about, making me wonder whether they were smoothly fleshed or had bunched muscles. Did he work out at the gym, like so many professional men seemed to? Or was he naturally that lean-muscled shape? “Your air conditioning is pleasant,” he added. “If I was outdoors, I’d lose the jacket.”

  “You didn’t answer the question. Do you like them?”

  He gazed back at me, his lips pursing in that sexy way that made me feel fluttering inside—not to mention throbbing.

  “I wear them,” he said.

  So either he was being deliberately evasive, or he really didn’t know if he liked them or not. Which was weird, but surprisingly common. Lots of people were too busy rushing through their lives to know whether they liked their clothes, their food, their entertainment or their music. They’d never stopped to feel that. They were too busy surviving.

  It seemed like a waste to me. There were so many options in the world. Why not take the time to find out what you really liked and do that?

  Still, it wasn’t my life, so I just shrugged. “That was my turn at conversation. Now it’s yours.”

  And please God can the food turn up quickly.

  Between my rampant hormones and the awkwardness of our conversation, I was thoroughly confused, so I couldn’t wait for the day to be over.

  He looked at me for a moment as if he hadn’t expected me to stop babbling, then he said, “People usually try to charm me.”

  I shrugged again.

  “…yet despite the awkwardness of our conversation, there is something charming about you. Albeit that you’re frighteningly unpredictable.”

  “
Frightening?” No one had ever called me that before.

  He smiled softly, and I had a glimpse of those beautiful white teeth again. “Like a mischievous forest nymph.” He shook his head. “You might do anything.”

  Forest nymph.

  Was that a compliment?

  “You’re the one who’s unpredictable,” I said, leaning closer to be heard over the rising sound of conversation in the teahouse. “Why are you flirting with me if you don’t want to have sex with me?”

  His expression grew solemn. “I never said that,” he replied softly.

  “You don’t do casual. You said—”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to you…” He leant closer. “…or that I’m not wondering what we’d be like together.”

  “Trout,” Marika said loudly.

  I jerked in surprise, then glanced up at her as a breathless flush raced up over my chest and neck to spread across my face, making every inch of my skin tingle, even my scalp and the places between my toes. I could feel that distinctly, and I could also feel a disconcerting clutching sensation between my legs.

  He hadn’t touched me. His hand was resting on the table beside mine, but somehow his words in that low, sexy grumble had awoken my body so thoroughly I’d bet my panties were damp.

  Max withdrew his hands from the table and Marika placed his lunch in front of him, but it took me several seconds of gazing up at her dumbly before I realized she was waiting for me to move my hands so she could put my plate down.

  When I slid them off, I knocked my knife onto the floor.

  “I’ll get another one.” Marika wasn’t looking at either of us.

  I wondered how much of our conversation she’d heard. The booth was in a corner, especially designed for guests who wanted privacy, so I hadn’t been worried about other diners overhearing our quiet conversation. But if Marika had heard Max, she might spread that around out of spite.

  The last thing I wanted was any social media gaffs. I’d warned the staff not to take photos of him or post anything about him on their Facebook pages. But they might think that posting things about me, about us, was different. I had to do something to avert that.

  “I’ll get the knife.” I scrambled out of the booth and almost tripped over my high heels. I was so used to wearing sandals. “Start without me,” I said to Max.

  He merely raised an eyebrow, as if that was a ridiculous request. And maybe it was in his world of refined manners. So I scurried to catch up with Marika who was blushing when I finally grabbed her arm and turned her to face me.

  “I’m getting the Riesling,” she snapped, but there was a tremor in her voice that I hadn’t heard before.

  “I’m not fucking him,” I hissed, and grabbed both her shoulders, waiting until she’d meet my gaze. “He’s not fucking me. What are you upset about?”

  “I want him,” she blurted, then glanced around to see if anyone had overheard.

  “I can see that. But—”

  “You always get in first. With Sammie. With Mitch—”

  “I haven’t fucked Mitch.”

  He’d only been delivering vegetables to us for a week. I’d been busy. But she was right. I’d been planning to go there. He was cute.

  “You will,” she snapped. “Because he wants you. He’s not interested in me. They all want you, and then you toss them aside.” As if I was some femme fatale, when in reality, I was waiting to hear back from them, and then assuming I wasn’t memorable when they didn’t come back for seconds. Although I had to admit, I was starting to wonder if my lack of enjoyment in the act was showing. It had been a long time since I’d had memorable sex.

  Still, that wasn’t what Marika was whining about. She clearly felt threatened by me and that was ridiculous. “Mitch probably heard I was easy.” It was the only reason I could imagine anyone wanting me over her. She was a pocket Venus with serious curves. If I was a man, I’d want her. “I have to go back to the table,” I said. “But I need you to tell me you won’t stuff this up, Mar.” I gave her as good of a glare as I could manage. “Jill’s counting on me to get this feature. And who Max Bank fucks is secondary to that. Do you understand?”

  I heard a throat clearing sound behind me and Marika flicked a glance there, then she cringed. Which could only mean one thing.

  Banks.

  Fuck.

  I sucked in a steadying breath and turned to face him.

  His expression was completely bland as he said, “Max Banks isn’t fucking anyone today. I’m here to eat, and I’d prefer to have my meal while it’s still hot.”

  “Sorry.” Could I be any more of an idiot? “Minor staff issue.” I led him back to the booth. We sat and he said nothing, but his expression was now stony. Marika came with my missing knife and the wine, which she poured silently, then she left and Max began to eat.

  The trout had been presented beautifully, and the crispy potato rösti with dill aioli couldn’t have been more perfectly plated. Capers, avocado and rocket complemented the dish. I knew without tasting it that it would be delicious, which was lucky because my appetite was completely gone.

  But I had to pretend, so I fiddled with my trout, cutting it up and pushing it around the plate, feeling worse all the time and telling myself I was off my game because of my father’s unscheduled arrival, but that wasn’t true. I’d ruined this all by myself. And that made me wonder if my dad had been right all along. Maybe I was just a stupid slut in a pretty dress.

  Finally, Max said, “Very good,” and I glanced across to find him laying cutlery onto his cleaned plate. “Superb, in fact.” He pressed the napkin to his lips, then dropped it onto the table. “You didn’t eat yours.”

  I shook my head, my lips pressed tightly together because I was embarrassed and humiliated, and now that I’d had ten minutes of feeling sorry for myself, I was also stupidly on the edge of tears. And I couldn’t do that in front of Max Banks. Not because I cared what he thought of me. He was clearly going to walk out of Bohemian Brew and never look back.

  But because I couldn’t bear it if he laughed at me. Not when my father had shredded my armour. Scorn I could suffer. Even a tirade about my lack of discretion. But ridicule…no. I couldn’t bear that. Even though I deserved it. Sammie had done an incredible job of the food. Marika’s service had been faultless. I was the moron who’d stuffed it all up.

  But if there was any way to redeem things, it would be through humility, so I sucked up whatever courage I had left and said, “The only thing wrong with this teahouse is me.” It took an age to meet his steady gaze, but when I did, he nodded.

  “You appear to be doing everything you can to sabotage my experience. Why is that?”

  “Nerves,” I blurted, suddenly wondering if that was true. I’d started the day wanting to be angry with him for being a mean bastard on television, but maybe I was scared of him. Celebrity didn’t concern me. I was super relaxed around Noah Steele and he was a top Hollywood draw. But he was also a local, so that felt comfortable. And he had a way about him that made people feel good to be in his company—genuine charm.

  With Max Banks you were always waiting for the barb. I had to admit, “You were right. I’m not good with criticism.” I had to own up to being defensive from the moment he walked in the door.

  He tilted his head to inspect me again. “Understandable,” he said and left it at that, gracious enough to not bring my father into the conversation again. Some of my upset calmed, and the urge to cry faded. I had to acknowledge that despite his television persona, Max Banks was actually very nice to be with.

  That was a surprise.

  He didn’t seem critical of anything other than the décor and my manners, so I had to ask, “Despite my sabotage, have you enjoyed the teahouse?”

  “I have,” he replied, as though that surprised him. “It’s been quite an experience.”

  Okay, I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, and his expression was difficult to read, so I said, “Will you reconsider the feature?�
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  “There’s potential,” he said and nodded. “I’ll certainly give it some thought.”

  Thank God.

  It wasn’t an outright no, so I eased myself out of the booth before he could change his mind and said, “Thank you so much for your time.” I thrust out my hand and he stood and dutifully shook it.

  “Ms. Wynde.” The smirk was back, and God help me it was sexy as sin, especially when he added a sweeping inspection of my body while he held my hand a few seconds too long. Then he released it. “It would certainly help your case if you’d show me around Belandera.”

  For some stupid reason my cheeks got hot again. He’s not asking for sex. He just wants a tour, you idiot! I needed to say yes, but the idea of spending more time in his company felt dangerous now. He was about to reconsider. I should quit while I was ahead.

  He raised an eyebrow at the delay, so I pretended surprise. “You want to spend more time in my company, despite my fuckwittery?”

  He took a slow, deep breath that expanded that beautiful chest inside his jacket, then he let it out on what sounded like a sigh. “You have no concept of yourself, do you? Of how utterly charming you can be when you’re not insulting me.”

  I shook my head. As far as I was concerned I was a well-meaning flake who somehow managed to hire amazing people who ran everything around me. Charm? Jill would snort with laughter, much as she loved me. “But I will do anything to get Bohemian into the series.” I meant that.

  He raised a dark eyebrow and yet again I felt my cheeks growing hot.

  “I’ll be your tour guide, I mean.”

  “Very good.” He turned, presumably to look for his assistant, and in that moment I realized I’d have to tell Desiree at the register that I was leaving the shop. In my hurry to step backwards I almost collided with Marika who was on her way to another table.

  We glared at each other momentarily, then she continued on with her plates and I turned back to find Max standing close enough to touch. I got another whiff of that wood fire and hot skin aftershave and I had to close my eyes for a second to regroup.

  When I reopened them, he said, “Are you really as transparent as you appear?”