Entice (Hearts of Stone #2)

by Veronica Larsen

  As our sights hover unbroken, I wonder if we're playing a game. Daring the other to give into the force weighing on the space between us, pulling us inward.

  A familiar voice pulls me out of my Owen-induced haze. "Oh. Sorry."

  Landon is standing by the back entrance, his body half turned from us, unsure whether he wants to come in further or leave.

  What the hell is the kid doing here?

  "Are you ready to go?" Owen asks him.

  I sidestep to stand beside Owen and I notice it for the first time. The resemblance between the two is undeniable: the straight eyebrows, the square chins, almond shaped hazel eyes, always slightly narrowed.

  I blurt out, "Wait, are you two related?"

  Owen looks surprised by my question. "I thought he would've mentioned it." A second slithers past, uncomfortable and leaving a trail of unspoken things in its wake. "Landon's my son."

  I don't exactly think of what I'm about to say when I round on the kid. "You told me your father was dead!"

  Landon doesn't miss a beat. "Well, he is. On the inside."

  I know he means it as a joke. It would be funny if it weren't for Owen's reaction. His jaw is tight but behind the tired look of frustration is something else, something less edgy and more vulnerable.

  "I'll just wait for Rob upstairs," Landon says.

  Owen brings a hand to rub over his eyebrow. "Rob? I thought the plan was for us to go bowling."

  Landon throws his head back. "I told you I'm going over Rob's tonight. You never listen to me."

  Without warning, they both turn to me and I realize that instead of walking backward toward the exit like I imagined myself to be, I've been hovering by the entrance to the back hall, watching their awkward exchange.

  Pivoting on my heel, I make a casual show out of examining the announcements pinned to the corkboard on the wall. Though I'm only pretending to be interested, one of the flyers catches my attention, for real. There's a loft for rent with an ocean view. The picture of it shows a cozy little place, an open floor plan, and a modern and fresh design despite the antique, attic quality of the slanted ceiling. Looking at this picture brings a flurry to my stomach. I don't care about square footage. I'd just love to get a little place like this, all on my own.

  Owen and Landon finish their discussion and apparently, Landon is being picked up in fifteen minutes. "Can I go hang out upstairs?" he asks his father, as though already bored to be around us.

  "Don't touch the trims, I just painted them." Owen says in a tired voice.

  Landon mumbles something and I catch movement from the corner of my eye. As the kid walks past me, I swear he winks. I stare after him, watching him disappear down the short hall and go through a back exit I'm assuming leads to the upstairs.

  Well, that was weird.

  "Are you looking for a place?" Owen asks, noticing the ad for the loft in my hand.

  "Yeah." When did I pull the ad off the bulletin board? "I mean—no. Just looks like a nice place."

  "I see." Disappointment whisks past his face, as he turns his attention fleetingly toward the hall where Landon just disappeared.

  I pin the page back to the board, quietly wondering if I could find a similar place in San Francisco on such short notice or if I'll end up having to settle for something much less appealing with a roommate who's a closet meth addict.

  "Maybe we—" I'm interrupted by the shrill ringing of my phone. It's Amelia. The thought of leaving Owen now causes guilt to drum on me even though I'm not the one who ditched him. His son did. The little asshole.

  Owen nods to my phone. "Is that your date?"

  "It's—no. It's not a date, it's my friend. We're—"

  Once again I'm interrupted by my phone, this time a chime of a text message.

  [Are you still coming over?]

  "We have plans tonight. But…." I pause in my answer to Owen in order to respond to the text.

  [Something came up. Rain check?]

  Amelia will be fine, she only asked me over because she's worried about me.

  I go on, shaking my head at my phone. "But she bailed on me."

  [Okay, you flake. Just don't go gazing off any bridges tonight. You'll figure everything out. You always do.]

  My stomach contracts when I realize she's talking about Bernstein blacklisting me. For a minute there, I'd almost forgotten about that.

  Owen watches me as I slip my phone back in my purse.

  "I guess we both got stood up," he says.

  "I guess we did." I glance over at the doorway of the kitchen. "What are the chances I can order some pancakes?"

  "Well, that depends. What are the chances you can get out of those heels and help me make them?"

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The florescent lights in the kitchen take a few seconds to buzz awake after Owen flips the switch. When light pours down over us, it reflects over the stainless steel table running down the center of the room. I walk around, seeing how incredibly spotless the place is, something serene about it despite its cold metal and white tiles.

  The place is dead quiet. I slide my phone out of my purse. "Do you mind if I turn on some music?"

  "Music?" he says it like it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

  "Yeah, music. I promise it won't kill you."

  He looks like he's about to tell me music isn't a good idea, but I pull my lips up into a grin and hit the play button. Upbeat music from my playlist pours from my speakers. Owen's narrowed eyes tell me he thinks it's unnecessary. I pretend not to notice him and do a small dance as I walk along, taking in the rest of the kitchen.

  When I glimpse at him over my shoulder, I notice him watching me dance. We share a reminiscing look and I know he's thinking of the other night at the bar. And just like it did that night, his smile nearly knocks me on my ass. I have no idea why he spends so much time frowning when he could have women falling at his feet with a flash of that smile.

  Owen's phone buzzes and after a quick glance at it, he says, "Landon left."

  I walk back to Owen and lean over the countertop beside him, drumming my fingers as he pours batter onto the griddle. There are questions gnawing away at me and I'm not sure how intrusive they are.

  "Landon said he's nine…so, he was born when you were…eighteen?"

  It's clear that this topic is difficult for him by the significant pause he takes before adding more sections of batter to the griddle. "Nineteen."

  "Must've been hard. Having a kid so young."

  "It would've been hard, yes. If I'd known."

  My eyes widen a notch, despite myself. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

  For a moment I think he's not going to answer me, but then he meets my eyes and says, "His mother and I, we had a thing the summer before college. We met during orientation. But first semester, she started missing a lot of classes, and then she dropped out and disappeared. Turns out, she moved back to Arizona with her parents because she was pregnant."

  "Why wouldn't she tell you?"

  "My guess is she was sure I wouldn't want it. I went through a pretty bad phase after high school. I was partying a lot, didn't really take anything seriously. I guess you could say I was reckless. Wasn't ready for a kid back then. But being ready doesn't matter." He sets the container down and runs a hand over the back of his neck as though the memory weighs on him there. "I would've gotten ready. I would've figured out how to be a dad if she'd told me. But she chose not to. Took away my chance to own up and be a man. Worst part is I can't exactly hate her for it now."

  "What happened to her?"

  "Car accident. I hadn't heard from her in almost ten years but when her mother reached out to me a few months ago, I thought it was to invite me to the funeral. I'd heard about the accident, from mutual friends. But the reason her mother called was to tell me I had a son. My name's on the birth certificate and everything. One look at the kid and it's obvious."

  "Yeah," I say, feeling stupid for not noticing it before. "Can I a
sk—I mean, I get the sense you two don't really get along."

  "It's been rough. We're strangers and nothing I do seems to change that," Owen says, wiping his hands on a towel, eyes cast to the circles of yellow batter slowly cooking. "He lets me know every day how much he hates it here. How he misses his life back in Arizona, but his grandmother can't look after him—and obviously, I want to."

  I draw circles on the metal surface of the counter, absentmindedly. "Sounds like he's making friends. Making plans to hang out."

  "Rob, you mean? No, that's his cousin. My sister's kid. I don't understand what they have in common. When you were thirteen, did you hang out with nine-year-olds?"

  "Not really, but Landon seems pretty mature for his age."

  "I wish he acted more his age." Owen crosses his arms and I get the sense he is going to change the subject.

  But this conversation is satiating my curiosity. "So you find out you have a kid, your dad has a heart attack…seems like an eventful few months."

  "You could say that. I'm guessing there's a good reason you're job hunting right around Christmas?"

  "Yeah. There's a good reason." I narrow my eyes and decide it is time to change the subject. "Do you keep in touch with anyone from school?"

  "Not really. I've seen two or three people over the years."

  He goes on to name a few people, none of whom I recognize. But he was a year ahead of me and ran in different circles, so that's not surprising.

  "You know—it's funny. I don't have a single picture from high school. Not one. I'm not sure how that's even possible."

  "You never took a photography class, then. I've got them by the dozens."

  "Get out," I say, slapping his arm. The tinge of heat on my palm is something I should expect by now, but it takes me by surprise. "I'd kill to get my hands on a cheerleading picture. I didn't even buy a yearbook."

  I don't tell him it's because I couldn't afford to.

  "I have a box full of pictures," he says. "Back at my apartment."

  "Trying to lure me back to your place, huh?"

  A grin curving the corners of his mouth, he sets a hand on either side of the counter, trapping me between his arms. "And what if I am?"

  Our proximity makes my heartbeat pick up, but I pretend it doesn't. Even while my phone's speakers cut off to a song with slower tempo, fitting the mood a little too well.

  "What exactly would we do? Back at your place?" I ask, squaring my shoulders.

  He looks down at my chest in an obvious way, wanting me to see the way he takes in my cleavage. Wanting me to imagine his hands peeling away my dress.

  "Anything and everything you'd like to do."

  What a goddamn tease, this man. I'm distracted by the heaviness between my legs, the weight of my need for him. My skin tingles in anticipation of his touch. I can imagine what he would feel like, pushing inside of me. Sliding in and out as my naked body heaves under his. It's all so clear it might as well be a memory, but it's only a fantasy. A vivid one that gets me all hot and bothered.

  "It's burning," I say.

  His voice grows deliciously low. "What is?"

  "The pancakes."

  He spins around to the griddle. The smell of burning batter wafts overhead as he flips the pancakes over to reveal their charred backsides.

  "You really, really suck at this whole running a diner thing," I tease.

  "Yeah. Good thing I didn't quit my day job." He flings the spatula aside. "Forget the pancakes. How about I just show you what I've got back at my place?"

  Hands down, the most appetizing thing I've heard all night.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Owen's apartment has the distinct feel of a bachelor's pad. The furniture is modern and of functional design. There's minimal decor. No curtains on the windows, a few mismatched pieces of art on the walls.

  "You should really close your blinds," I tell him, looking out the nearest window and seeing the street outside.

  "You planning to show me something you don't want anyone else to see?"

  "If you play your cards right," I say, after laughing louder than I normally would.

  Why am I nervous?

  Walking over to a large bookcase at the end of the living room, I take in the books brimming every shelf. At the very top sits a few boxes. Not moving boxes, but smaller ones, like for shoes.

  "You read a lot."

  "Yes. Yes, I do…" He sits down on the edge of the sofa, legs spread, forearms resting on his knees, and peering up at me with those insanely alluring eyes.

  The man's not doing anything remotely sexual, just sitting and fixing me with an unassuming look—yet the sight of him floods me with lust.

  I want to jump on him, right where he sits, tear away his clothes, and hurt him in all the best ways. I want to know what his kisses feel like down below. Fuck that. I want to smother him between my thighs…

  Cool it, Emily. You don't want to go all Animal Planet on him and scare him off.

  My urge for him is so overwhelmingly intense, I have to turn my back on him. Reeling myself in, I focus on running a finger along the spine of the books. Trying to sound unaffected, I say, "Crime novels. Why so many crime novels?"

  "They're interesting. Do you read?"

  I glance over my shoulder at his question. There's a genuine interest spiking in his eyes.

  "Sometimes."

  I rarely read. Every once in a while, I'll find my nose in a good book, consuming it quickly. I tell myself I should read more often, but I never get around to it.

  Owen reaches to the table beside the couch and grabs a paperback sitting on the base of the lamp. "Here." He hands the book to me.

  I hesitate.

  "I think you'll like this," he explains. "The main character's a detective. Reminds me a lot of you, actually."

  His last words pique my interest. I walk over to him and take the novel, spying the cover. There's a city backdrop, blending into an empty street at nighttime, crime tape spewed across it, police cars in the distance. In the foreground, a brunette kneels over a lump of white sheets, which I presume cover a dead body. The title is in blood red: The Dead of Night.

  "Will you read it?"

  "Yeah. I will." I put the book in my purse, which is on the coffee table, and sit down beside him. Our bodies are a foot or two apart. His arm is over the head of the sofa, body tilted to face mine.

  "I had an interesting talk with Landon last night," he says, "about the advice you gave him."

  I hang my head in pretend shame. "I was trying to get him the girl."

  "That's not how you get the girl."

  "Really, now? Doesn't sound like you were lucky with the ladies when you were his age."

  He laughs and looks down. When he casts his eyes upward, there's a glint of mischief there. I swear the sofa slides sideways a few feet, but it's not the furniture that slides. It's my stomach.

  I'm staring at him so hard I forget to take a breath. And, for the first time, we both seem to go still enough to hear the crackling in the air between us. The attraction whipping and lashing at us, demanding to be acknowledged.

  "I want you, Emily. Bad."

  I grin. "Nothing ever changes."

  "You're wrong." He leans in. My body responds before I decide to let it, pulling away from where I sit to meet him halfway. I somehow feel every millimeter separating our lips as though the air between them was taken up by something tangible; tiny strings, pulling me in. Yet he holds steady, precisely where he is, stopping short of the kiss he knows I crave and says, "I can think of one thing that's changed."

  I nod, somehow understanding exactly what he means. And I know what he's waiting for. Pulling up on my knees, I straddle him where he sits. Desire eclipses his expression, a fog of heat falls over us both. Holding his face with both hands, I say, "I want you, too."

  In the split second before our lips part for the kiss, I feel his twist into a smile. Then his mouth commands mine, owning every curve, deliberating each taste. My dr
ess is hiked up, almost all the way to my hips. His hands run up the sides of my exposed thighs, settling over my hips, tugging them inward, and pressing me as close to him as humanly possible.

  The heat our kiss generates clouds my mind; all I see is need. And all I need is Owen. He buries his face in the nook of my neck and bites me slightly, making my nerve endings go haywire.

  Hands holding me tightly in place, he gets to his feet with me still on top. My legs lock around him even though I feel weightless in his arms, unconcerned with falling.

  He leads us into the bedroom, and the effortless way he carries me is an unbelievable turn-on. Every inch of my skin sears from the blaze raging inside of me. I don't realize where he's guiding us until my back hits the wall between his nightstand and dresser. He lowers me until my feet touch the ground.

  "Put your hands up," he says, voice low.

  I do as he asks, biting my lip at the way his words echo between my thighs.

  He lifts up my dress, his fingertips dragging against my skin from my thighs all the way up my arms as he pulls the material over my head. The moment my face is in view again, his lips are on mine. Much greedier than ever, bordering on ravenous, and he takes my bottom lip into his mouth as though biting into a supple fruit.

  All the while, his hands explore my body, over my breasts, down my stomach, over my hips. And everywhere he touches, my skin revs up like an engine anticipating the ride. I unhook my bra and toss it aside as his fingers slip between the material of my panties and close over my ass, pressing me up against the bulge in his pants.

  Why the fuck is he still wearing pants?

  My underwear falls to my ankles and I kick it aside. A drunken sort of haze comes over me, naked and completely at his mercy. All I want is to feel him inside of me, but he moves without urgency, taunting me. Making me burn from the inside out.

  If it's possible to die from horniness, I'm about to go code blue.

  When he tosses his shirt aside and lets his pants hit the ground in a thud, I can't help but take in the outline of his hard cock through his underwear. Letting out an impatient breath, I reach around to pull his goddamn underwear off.