A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2)

by Q. T. Ruby

  “They know you’re here?” he asks, tightening up a little.

  I nod, realizing that he’s probably worried about cameras. “They know I’m here, just not with you. They’re too nosy.” I smile.

  He nods and even seems surprised. “What were they doing tonight?”

  “They went to a bar.”

  “How’d you get out of going with them?”

  I begin to stammer when he says, “Don’t you usually go with them?”

  I shake my head and shrug. “No, I’m not really into bars.”

  He stiffens. “I’m sorry. Would you like to go somewhere else?”

  Stupid me. He probably thinks I don’t want to be here. “No, not at all. It’s just that they like to, um . . . hunt for men, and that’s just not my thing.” Oh God, what am I saying?

  I can tell that my idiotic rambling amuses him. “So you don’t like to hunt for men then? They come to you I suppose?”

  “Oh yeah, they flock.” I laugh, emphasizing the last word.

  Dan smiles and shifts in his seat. He studies me. “You don’t have a boyfriend?” He downs the last of his beer.

  “No, I have a husband,” I deadpan because the idea is simply ridiculous.

  “What?” He coughs.

  I smirk. “I’m kidding. I don’t have a husband or a boyfriend. I’ve sort of taken a break from dating.”

  He raises his eyebrows and exhales. “Well, aren’t you the comedian.”

  I try not to notice or turn purple, but he watches me while the waitress drops off our drinks and leaves. “What do you mean, ‘a break’?”

  Shit. “I just wanted to focus on my career for a while.” Lies. Lies. Lies. I take a long sip of my beer.

  “Oh.” He nods. “So how long have you been a teacher?” He takes a sip, keeping his eyes on mine.

  This time, I examine his face. “Are you trying to figure out how old I am?”

  Dan blushes! “Well . . . sort of.”

  “I’m twenty-nine. You?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Simultaneously, we nod and swig our beers. Crap, he’s young. Probably too young.

  After a too-long pause, I have to end the awkwardness. “Shall I go back to the nursing home now?”

  He slays me with that smile again. “Not yet, Miss Daisy.”

  I laugh. “You know about Driving Miss Daisy?”

  He cocks his head to the side. “What kind of actor would I be if I didn’t know classic movies?”

  “This is true.”

  We laugh together and drink. I exhale. This flirting feels good, like stretching out after a long flight.

  “So, now that we have that out of the way, is there anything else you’d like to know?” I ask smugly, challenging him with a smirk.

  He counters with a raised eyebrow. “All right, if you don’t really do the bar thing, what do you do?”

  Damn it. “Well,” I say before dragging things out with another long sip. “It’s not that I don’t like bars, but . . . lately I’ve been kind of a homebody.”

  “You don’t go out much?”

  “Not that often.”

  “Really? I’d imagine teenaged girls would drive you to drink. It’s happened to me.” He drinks hard as if proving his point.

  I smile, and even though I’d like to come across as more than a complete hermit, I go with the truth anyway. “Sometimes they do. It’s just that . . . staying at home has been more my speed lately. You know, Miss Daisy and all.” I drink and then ask, “So what do you do at night?” which I immediately regret. Surely it’s party after party, girl after girl.

  He shrugs, probably scrambling for what else he could say. “I go out with friends when they’re around, but when I’m working I’m not left with much time to socialize.”

  “Oh.” Duh, like he’s going to admit to sleeping with the masses. “Do any of your friends from home live in the U.S., too?”

  Dan sits up straighter and leans forward, clutching his beer. “One of my friends, Colin, moved here a couple of years ago, but the others still live back home.”

  “Is Colin an actor, too?”

  “No, he’s a musician. He plays all over L.A. with his band. They’re quite good.”

  “That’s cool. What kind of music do they play?”

  “You know, I have no idea.” He laughs and leans back, thinking. “Alternative rock? Bluesy rock with an edge? I’m not sure what it’s called, but whatever it is, it’s bloody good. What sort of music do you like?”

  “Everything, really. I go more for the song than anything else. You?”

  “I’m the same way. I’d listen to anything.”

  I snicker and sip. “I guess we’re both musical whores then, throwing ourselves from genre to genre.” This beer has gone straight to my head! I’m such a lightweight.

  “Yes, Whores-R-Us.” His head drops down as he laughs.

  “How do you like New York?” I ask.

  “I really enjoy it. It’s a fascinating place to visit. Suppose you like living here?”

  “Yeah, it’s amazing. There’s always something going on—”

  “Even if you’re a homebody?” He leans in again, a little closer this time.

  I shake my head, grinning like an idiot, and feel spurred on by his challenge. I lean in too, and in a husky whisper, say, “Even homebodies come out of the house now and again.”

  Dan sits back with that hot smirky-smile and picks up his drink. His eyes don’t move from mine.

  Gah! I can’t handle. I giggle into my glass and glance over to see an open pool table. “Would you like to play pool?”

  “Sure.”

  As we walk over to the table, I tease, “Do you even know how to play, Brit?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Yeah, Yank, I know how to play. We invented it, I’ll have you know.”

  “Oh, okay. It’s just . . . you’re so young. I wasn’t sure you knew what to do.” I shrug with an innocent smile.

  He stops dead and looks me straight in the eye. “I know exactly what to do.” We both know he’s not solely referring to pool. Then again, neither am I.

  I can’t help but tease him some more. “Sure you do.”

  His playful glare sends shivers up my spine.

  We grab cues and chalk them, and he sets up the table.

  “Do you play often?” I need to know just how badly I’m going to get beaten.

  “Often enough. I hope you aren’t offended when I win.”

  I cock an eyebrow at him as he slides the triangle of balls onto the mark and glances up to gauge my expression.

  “Win? We’ll see about that, Brit.” Now I have to make a concerted effort not to lose.

  “Old ladies—I mean, Yankees first.” He gestures to the table.

  I give him the ol’ evil eye.

  He stands at the opposite end of the table, leaning on his cue and grinning, looking every inch the Hollywood star. If I’m going to attempt to win, I can’t look his way. His tousled, dirty blond hair and mesmerizing smile are far too distracting.

  I take a deep, calming breath. Bending over the table, I aim, trying to recall any strategies on how to play pool because my mind is a scrambled mess from all the flirting. I pull back on the cue, and with as much force as I can muster, I hit the cue ball. Of course, it’s a shameful break. The white ball’s wimpy tap causes only a few to separate from the pack. Certainly none go into any pockets.

  “Impressive,” he teases, coming in for his turn.

  I narrow my eyes at him and step back to await the slaughter.

  Dan examines the table. He takes aim on a yellow striped ball, which slips right into the pocket. He looks up at me and shoots me an “I’ve-got-this-in-the-bag” face.
<
br />   He finds his next move, aims, and knocks that one in, as well. His smug smile widens.

  He needs to go down.

  On his third shot, the balls make contact, but the purple striped one skates by the pocket. Trying to hide his annoyance, he glances up at me and says, “All yours.” He drags over a barstool to wait.

  As I seek out my move, he asks, “Would you like another pint?”

  “Sure. Thank you.”

  A waitress appears in moments.

  I aim at the solid orange ball, and by the grace of God, when I hit it, it goes in. I silently pat myself on the back. I’m searching out my next move when I feel his eyes on me. I’m afraid to look, so instead I focus on finding the best pool option—and suck in my belly a little more.

  I make laps around the table needlessly because my mind is wrapped up in how my jeans make my ass look and if my hair looks okay and if somehow I have food stuck in my teeth that I’m unaware of. This is one of the reasons I’ve come to dislike dating—so much obsessing over crap that doesn’t matter in the end. And it annoys me that I’m letting that exact stuff mess with my mind.

  “You think you might go for another one this century?”

  “I’m sorry, Mister Movie Star, do you have other places to go tonight?” I ask with a smile, which I can tell throws him off completely.

  He shakes his head, grinning. “Nowhere else I want to be.” He casually sips his beer, but by the intensity of his stare, I can tell he’s gauging me.

  Whether he’s joking or not, I don’t know, but I quickly force my attention to the solid purple ball I’m aiming for and shoot. It plops in. I almost “Woot!” but restrain myself. Growing in confidence, I find my next shot, and it goes in, as well.

  “Are you a ringer or something?”

  “A ringer? Me? Yeah, you caught me.”

  He shifts uncomfortably.

  On my next turn, I miss the red ball. “See? Now it’s your turn, jinx,” I tease and take his place on the stool.

  He laughs but comes to the table with obvious determination.

  While he’s busy eyeing his next turn, I’m busy eyeing him. So far, I’ve only been able to look him in the eye a few times. I’ve gotten so used to being unaffected by men that when Dan’s eyes meet mine, not only is it startling, it’s overwhelming. I can only hold his gaze for a few moments without becoming terribly flushed and uncomfortable. Now that he’s distracted with trying to beat me, I have the freedom to check him out.

  Without his baseball hat on, his hair and face are deliciously exposed. His thick hair is no doubt expertly cut to compliment his strong jaw and cheekbones. The longer pieces in front fall just so along his forehead, highlighting his eyes. If he were not already a movie star, I would suggest he become one.

  I notice how carefully his hands work the cue, how the perfect shape and thickness of each finger grip it gently but firmly. As he bends over the table to aim, his shirt stretches across his back and shoulders, outlining his sculpted muscles underneath. I have to be careful not to sigh aloud.

  By the time I come back to Earth, he’s pocketed two more balls and he’s up five to three. He shoots for the next one but misses. “Damn!” he mutters, mostly under his breath, on the way back to the barstool.

  As we pass, I brush by him a little closer than necessary and tease, “Aren’t you a bit competitive?”

  He freezes for a fraction of a second then shakes his head, smiling wide.

  I don’t miss my next shot or the one after. I’m astounded by my lucky streak—a very rare thing indeed.

  With another round of beer, we continue our flirtatious dance around the pool table until we’re battling it out for the last ball—the eight ball. Dan takes a shot at it, aiming for a corner pocket, but it gently bounces off the green bumper. He rolls his eyes in disgust and steps back a smidge, impatiently waiting his next turn.

  I’m across the table from him, amused by his frustration. I aim and glance up briefly, catching his eyes whisking away from their perusal down my shirt and back to the pool table. Flustered and flushed, I refocus.

  I angle my cue, pull back, and tap the cue ball gently. The black ball drops in the pocket. Straightening up slowly, I nod at him, silently rubbing in my victory.

  Dan puts his cue down. “You are definitely a ringer.”

  I can’t help but giggle. “Wow, I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” He rolls his eyes.

  I put down my cue as well, and we step over to the nearby wall to finish our beers.

  “Have you recovered from earlier?” Dan asks.

  “I think so. Not sure if I’ll ever step into an elevator again, but yes. And thanks again for chatting with me in there. I really needed that diversion.”

  “Yeah, it was a rather difficult task.” He smiles, but his eyes are on my mouth. My heart jolts.

  “Wow, aren’t you a charmer?” I glance at my watch. “It’s late.”

  He takes my wrist in his hand to confirm the time, and I freeze, staring at his fingers on my skin. “Did they give you a curfew at the old folks’ home or something?” He lets go of my wrist.

  “Maybe. They just want to make sure I don’t get myself in trouble.” Ain’t that the truth!

  With his eyes still fixed on my mouth, he finishes his beer. “Well, I’m not leaving it like this. I want a rematch.”

  “Hmm.” I pretend to think about it. Truthfully, I don’t want the night to be over. I want to stay, but I’m tipsy and flirty and liking this whole thing far too much for my own good. I need to leave before I make a mistake. “Maybe some other time. I’d like to bask in my win for a while.” I smile, hoping I don’t sound as unsure as I feel.

  He seems to give that some thought before he nods. “Are you heading home then?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s time.”

  He shifts. He suddenly seems uneasy, uncomfortable. “Would you like me to walk you there?”

  Yes, I do, but you can’t. “Thank you, but . . . I took a cab here, so I’ll just take one back. It’s no big deal . . . thanks for tonight, Dan. I had a really good time. It was . . . fun,” I say, realizing that’s exactly what it was.

  He nods and takes a moment before he says, “I had fun, too, but I’m not joking, I want a rematch. You cannot be the last to win.”

  I laugh and smile wide. If he only knew how jittery he makes me. I have to go. “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.” I knock back the last bit of my beer.

  His smile is shy as he rubs the back of his neck. “May I call you sometime?”

  My heart stops and drops straight into my toes. Yes and no, but much more yes than no. “Okay.” Both the surprise and reluctance is clear in my voice. I’d love to see him again, but I know it probably won’t happen; he’s just being nice.

  He takes out his phone and readies it for my number.

  “212-555-2364,” I say slowly as he taps in the digits. Is this really happening?

  He looks up when he’s done and pauses. “Do you want mine?”

  I don’t want to care about this. Caring always ends up hurting, and if I have his number I’ll want to call him, and I won’t set myself up like that. I can’t. “Um . . . why don’t we leave things in your court? You have my number, and if you want to call me, you will.”

  He nods, his eyebrows furrowed.

  We slip on our coats and head out into the crisp night. The sidewalk is empty and oddly quiet for a New York City night.

  He turns to me, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “All right, so I’ll phone you?”

  And it dawns on me that he’s misinterpreting my reluctance. I reach out and touch his forearm. “If you want to call me, I’d love to talk to you. I had a really good time tonight.”

  He takes my hand from h
is arm and with a relieved, shy, and oh-so-very-attractive smile, he pulls me a little closer. “All right then, I will.” He presses his warm lips to my chilly cheek.

  It’s well below freezing, but the heat that radiates from my face could warm a small country. I hail a cab, and we say good-bye.

  Inside the cab, the emotions I’ve so effectively contained burst out—my heart hammers, a wide smile plasters itself across my face, and I giggle as if I’m drunk, but I’m not. Tipsy, yes, but not drunk. The thing is, I can’t recall the last time I felt so light and happy.

  But I’m not a complete fool. Of course I hope Dan will call, but I know the chances are slim. He’s a world-renowned actor, a very hot commodity, so why would he bother with me? The reality is he probably won’t, so I chalk up tonight to a fantastic little memory to shelve and bring out the next time I’m having a bad day.

  I arrive home before Camille and Bridget, which gives me a chance to get my head out of the clouds. I wash up, change into my pajamas, and crawl under my chilly covers. Shutting my eyes, it’s Dan’s face I see, and our banter replays loud and clear. But the laughter in the living room brings me back to the real world. I hop up to greet my drunken roommates.

  “Hello, lushes!” I peer out of my bedroom and then walk over to join them.

  “Hey, Claire! You have a good night?” Camille asks, slurring a little.

  Bridget doesn’t wait for a response before launching into a tipsy story. “You’ll never guess what happened!” she nearly yells, grabbing onto my shirt.

  “What?”

  “We just saw Daniel Chase!” Bridget giggles and whoops.

  Oh no.

  “Really?” I ask, swallowing my panic.

  “Yeah, well, we were on our way home and decided to stop by that bar you went to when we ran into him on the street! Oh my God, Claire, he’s gorgeous!” Bridget stops to grab a glass of water from the kitchen.

  “Yes, and we weren’t the only ones to see him,” Camille adds, shrugging off her coat and then flopping on the nearby couch.