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

by Q. T. Ruby

  Dan fidgets as his knuckles whiten around the cue.

  “Only four more to go,” I say while aiming, but I miss the shot. Ugh!

  With laser-like determination, he hops off the barstool. As I pass him, I graze his forearm with my fingertips. With my best throaty bedroom voice, I say, “Good luck.”

  He freezes for a fraction of a second, blinking several times.

  Dan stares at the remaining balls for some time, seemingly lost in thought. Finally, he aims, shoots, and gets the ball in. He doesn’t glance my way before sinking his next shot, as well.

  No!

  I’m desperate. It’s time for the big guns—or should I say gams. I perch myself on the stool across from where he stands, crossing my legs so the side of my thigh is on display. For extra effect, I hike up my dress several inches, too, exposing a whole lot of skin—just in case he looks over. Luckily for me, he glances up just as he bends to take his next shot. His sharp intake of breath and minor coughing fit are rather satisfying.

  Go Claire!

  Recovering, he shakes his head a little and breathes hard through his nose, clenching his jaw. He aims, shoots, and misses.

  Dan marches over to me as I hop off the stool to take my turn. I’m startled when he snatches me by the waist and yanks me against his body. His lips brush against my ear as he whispers, “Two can play at that game.” He releases me quickly, flashes a wicked grin, and leaves me with a nose full of that soap and shaving cream scent.

  Oh. God.

  Breathe . . . no! Don’t breathe. That smell! Gah!

  Refocus. I must refocus. I can’t give up. “What are you talking about?” I’m smooth and casual.

  He laughs, his green eyes blazing.

  I don’t know how I’m able to focus with the salacious thoughts flashing through my mind, but I manage to make my next shot. Although I miss the one after that, I simply grin politely and step back from the table, still a little woozy from his whispering.

  With only one more ball to go before the eight ball, Dan teases me in the most obnoxious singsong voice. “You’re going to lose.”

  He knocks the last one in and heads for the eight ball.

  Crap! I’m out of ideas and obviously out of luck.

  He takes his shot at the black ball, and as my luck would have it, it slips right in. With a triumphant swagger, he makes his way over to me and stops with his face mere inches from mine. “Looks like I’m the winner,” he says with a crooked grin I want to both slap and kiss.

  “This just means we’re tied.” I shrug nonchalantly, stepping back.

  “What?” He steps toward me, laughing. “Then let’s play again.”

  I consider it for a moment. I don’t want the night to end, but I’m walking a very fine, barely-there line. This is a dangerous game—a game I shouldn’t be playing.

  “I should head home.” I round the corner of the table to move away from the beautiful temptation.

  “Are you serious?” I can tell he’s surprised, but I can’t stay. I can’t.

  “Yeah, I really should.”

  He examines me a moment and then rounds the corner toward me. “No, you’re staying out.” He grins wickedly.

  “Excuse me?” I ask with a smile but move backwards.

  “You’re not going home yet, Miss Daisy. It’s early.” He continues toward me, still grinning, still tempting me.

  I laugh and back up further, but he quickly closes the remaining distance and clasps my waist. He leans in close to my ear. “If you really want to go home, I’ll take you, but I’d really like to stay out with you a little while longer.”

  His soap-and-shaving-cream scent reels me in. I’m so screwed. “Okay,” I relent. And somewhere inside of me, bells and whistles shriek in alarm.

  We’re ready to order the beer we haven’t had yet when Dan looks off, his face falling. I follow his gaze to see shadows of figures and flashes going off outside the large, grimy front window.

  Oh no.

  He sighs. “I think if we go outside right now, we won’t be alone.”

  “What does that mean?” Panic flares inside me as the spasm of flashes continues outside.

  “It means this isn’t as private as I’d hoped.”

  “So what do we do? Can we go out a back door?” My eyes dart around for another exit.

  Dan touches my arm to capture my wide-eyed attention. “That’s the only entrance. It’s probably not that bad, Claire. Looks like only a few paparazzi, although if we stay, there’ll be more soon enough.”

  “So, we should go, then?” We should go. We need to go!

  “Yeah, I think that might be best.” He reassures me with a gentle smile. “They’ll take photos, but we’ll walk quickly to the car.”

  “But . . . I’ll be in the pictures, too,” I say, more or less thinking out loud. Although they’re after Dan, my face will be there, too, which means I’ll have to explain to someone, somewhere, something. I love this being private. It’s my secret, and I don’t want to share it, but suddenly I have no choice.

  He rubs my forearm. “I suppose if we’re leaving together then, yes, you’ll be in the shot. But that window looks filthy, so I’m not sure how those photos will come out. Are you all right? You look pale. I’m sorry; this must be strange for you. It’s still strange for me.”

  My stomach churns. “I just wasn’t expecting this, that’s all.”

  “It still takes me by surprise, but it’ll be all right.” He continues to stroke my arm gently.

  I nod and blink, too stunned to say more.

  “Once we’re outside, go directly to the car. In fact, if you go out a few minutes before me, they won’t pay as much attention to you. They might not even take your photo.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t stop or say anything, even if someone gets too close—just keep moving. All right?”

  Keep moving? Not a problem; I’m ready to run. “Yes.”

  We put on our coats. I’m shaky all over. I make my way to the entrance while Dan hangs back. Several bar patrons watch me leave. I silently curse ever leaving my bed.

  Once outside, the paparazzi thankfully deem me “no one” and don’t bother snapping my picture. I scurry to the car, but I hear the moment Dan leaves as a clicking frenzy ensues and questions are shouted.

  The doors unlock as I approach the car, and I scramble into the passenger seat and lock my door. Moments later, Dan slips into the car as the paparazzi swarm, flashing their cameras through the windows. I duck my head to my knees and cover my face. Finally, we pull away from the curb—and away from the paparazzi.

  “Are you all right?” Dan asks, his focus shifting from me to the road.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” My voice is shaky, and I breathe deeply. “Does that really happen on a regular basis?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s ridiculous sometimes. Believe it or not, that wasn’t all that bad.”

  I blink, trying to erase the spots. “Are those going to be bad for business?”

  “What?” He glances at me.

  “You know—Daniel Chase is out with a female!” I wave my hands a little.

  He snickers and shrugs playfully. “I’ll just say I was out with my granny.”

  I swat his shoulder with my purse. “Very nice. I’ll report that the babysitting went well.”

  Dan laughs. He glances in the rearview mirror then the side mirrors. “Looks like we’re clear. Where do you want to go?”

  I shake my head. “Well, I’m not up for that again.”

  He nods. We drive aimlessly without speaking for a few minutes.

  Then . . .

  “Hear me out, all right?” He glances at me nervously.

  “All right.”

  “There aren�
�t many private places to go. The same thing might happen at any other pub we go to, so that leaves us with two places—my hotel or your flat.”

  Chapter Six

  Too many thoughts crash through my head at once. The most prominent one is of tackling him to discover just how nonathletic he really is, but I know better. One hot night with a famous actor would be, well, fantastic, but also the end of me. It’s bad enough I’m beginning to like him more than I should.

  “It sounds worse than it should. I’m not looking to sleep with you—unless, of course, that’s what you’d like.” Dan laughs nervously and clears his throat. “Really, I’m not trying to pressure you, and if you just want to go home on your own, that’s fine, but I’d like to carry on our conversation. I’m happy to just talk with you.”

  I consider it for a moment. Can I do this? I raise an eyebrow at him. “Talk, huh?”

  “Yeah. Honestly.”

  He glances from the road to me, anxious for a reply.

  So long as I keep myself in check, I’ll be okay. Yes, I can do it. “Okay, so here’s the deal, Dan. Drive to my apartment. If my roommates aren’t home yet, you can come in. But if they’re home, then we’ll say good-bye downstairs.”

  “Fair enough,” he says with a satisfied smile.

  After making sure we’ve ditched the paparazzi, we pull up outside my building. I glance up at my windows and . . . the lights are off. Oh boy.

  “Well?”

  “They’re still out. Let’s go.” With a deep breath, I silently pray, Dear Lord, please keep me from getting naked.

  After circling the block a few times, we find a spot, and then walk to my building. We head up the stairs into the small, third-floor apartment that I love. Art prints and photos complement the warm colors on the walls. Our mix of cozy yet modern furniture is arranged to maximize the small space. Gauzy, white drapes hang over the long wooden shades in the living room. It’s always felt like a home rather than an apartment to me. Luckily it’s relatively neat.

  I lead the way in, flipping on a light in the teeny galley kitchen on the right. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Dan walks right past me to examine the photos displayed in every nook and cranny of the living room.

  I switch on a lamp in the living room and simply stare at Mr. Beautiful wandering about. Wow, he’s in my apartment. Nervous yet excited, I clear my throat. “Well, this is going to sound just as bad as what you suggested earlier, but . . . since I’d rather not have my roommates know you’re here, we’ll have to hang out in my bedroom—just in case they come home. Is that okay?” I immediately realize what a silly question it is.

  He nods quickly, taking a few swipes across the back of his neck. “Yeah, no worries.”

  I am so inviting disaster.

  I lead the way to my room, which connects to the living room by only a few footsteps. Dan closes the door behind us while I turn on a stained-glass bedside lamp that casts a muted pink hue. I slip off my coat as he examines a photo on my dresser.

  “Those are my brothers,” I say, hanging my coat in my closet.

  “You don’t look much alike.”

  I walk over and peer over his shoulder at the photo. Soap, shaving cream . . . gah! “What do you mean?” I already know exactly what he means.

  “Well, you have creamy, pale skin, and they’ve got an olive skin tone. They’ve got dark brown eyes, and yours are . . .” He leans in to verify, his sweet, warm breath heating my face. I start to sway, but catch myself before I accidentally knock into his nose.

  “ . . . Like a steely blue; even the shape is different. They’re beautiful,” he says, his eyes lingering on mine.

  “Thank you,” I say, breaking our gaze to look back at the photo. A blush flares up yet again. What was I thinking? This is a terrible idea.

  He studies the photo again, too. “They’re rather large, aren’t they?”

  I giggle at the hint of fear in his voice. “Yes, and they are a bit protective.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll remember that,” he says, gently placing my brothers back on the dresser.

  “You can take your jacket off, you know.” You can take everything off while you’re at it . . . Actually, no. No getting naked.

  “Right.” He shrugs it off. Walking over to the lounge chair that sits in the corner stacked with academic journals and textbooks, he lays it across the back. I kick off my shoes.

  He picks up a book and flips through it. “I enjoy reading, but do you actually read these for pleasure?”

  I smile wide. “No, those are for reference.”

  “Thank God.” He grins, placing it back down, and begins studying a large photo collage that hangs on the wall by the chair. “Who are these people?”

  I stand next to him, shorter now without my shoes on. I give him a quick tour with my fingers. “Those are my brothers there. These are my parents.” My dad, tall and strong with his wavy black hair, and my slender mom with her short, fiery red hair are a striking pair.

  Dan leans into the photo, then looks at me, and then back at the photo.

  “I can see how your brothers look like your parents, but you . . . you don’t really. Are you adopted?”

  “No. I feel that way sometimes, but no. I’m just the recessive one. Odd girl out, remember?” I smile. I’m not usually up for talking about my family, but he’s so distracting.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right.” He grins down at me and then focuses in on another photo in the collage. “Who are they?”

  “Those are my roommates, Bridget and Camille—the ones you gave your number to, remember?” I smile.

  He pauses, thinking for a minute. “I have to be honest, I was pretty distracted that night, so I don’t quite remember their faces.” Then his eyes shift to my mouth.

  I swallow and nod, unsure of what he means, but I don’t ask. Instead, I look back at the photo and keep naming names.

  I tap the collage. He looks on, too. “That’s more of my family there.” He leans in to examine it. I shift to allow him space.

  “And this group shot—who’s this?” He points to a photo that contains everyone I’ve already mentioned except for one—Mark.

  What the hell is that doing there? “That’s Mark,” I stammer. How could I have forgotten that picture? Shit. Shit. Shit!

  He gazes at me a moment. “An old boyfriend?”

  I nod, internally smacking myself.

  He examines the photo of a dark-haired, handsome man with killer dimples who looks more like a Parelli than I do. “You two date a long time?”

  “Yeah. Too long.” Please don’t ask me more.

  Dan turns to me. “Go on,” he says, and it surprises me that he seems to genuinely want to know.

  Nonetheless, I cringe both inside and out. This is my least favorite topic in the world . . . and the last thing I want to do is discuss it, but Dan is waiting. I guess I should just rip it off like a Band-aid. I swallow. “I met him in college. We dated for about five years.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “Five years? Wow, that is a long time.”

  “Yeah.” Please let it stop here.

  “So, why didn’t you two marry? I mean, five years . . .”

  Shit. I take a steadying breath. “I was engaged to him.”

  His eyes widen. “You were? What happened?” His tone is gentle, but he waits for a response.

  The horrible pit in my belly opens wide, ready to swallow me. I rarely speak of this. For so long, it’s all I ever thought about, and the pain so deep that I eventually buried myself in work so I didn’t have time to consider it.

  “Um . . .”

  It’s all too easy to remember . . .

  The clear blue sky, the warm breeze, the birds chirping—it was a perfect June da
y, much like the night before.

  After the rehearsal dinner, as Mark and I stood on the stoop of my parents’ house saying goodnight, he’d cupped my face in his hands and planted a tender kiss on my lips. With his brilliant, dimpled smile, he’d said how thrilled he was that I would become his wife in less than twenty-four hours. I’d nearly skipped into the house, counting the hours. At that moment, my life was perfect.

  My parents had always told me that if I played by the rules, I’d win the game, and so with the beautiful sky shining down, I knew for certain I was about to win.

  Pulling up outside the church, my dad leapt out to open the limo door for me. He looked so spiffy in his tuxedo. Taking my hand and beaming at me, he helped me from the seat as gentle as a father with his newborn baby.

  I was about to marry my Prince Charming. He more than fit the bill—Italian, Catholic, smart, had a promising career, and of course, he was good-looking. My mother constantly squealed in anticipation of the beautiful grandchildren I’d give her.

  With my mother and Mark’s parents already seated, my father, Bridget, Camille, and I gathered in the vestibule of the church. We straightened bouquets, touched up makeup, and fluffed my dress while waiting for our cue to walk down the aisle. The three of us girls quietly sang “Going to the Chapel,” giggling the entire time.

  The sweet, light scent of the roses and tulips energized the air, and the string quartet’s musical notes blended gracefully as one, further sweeping me into the most romantic of moods.

  It was like a dream.

  I played with my bouquet, wondering if I should I hold it low near my hips or at my waist. I tried varying levels while we waited for what seemed like too long. I laughed at the predictability of it—Mark was late to everything. My mother used to make that tired joke about him being late to his own funeral.

  Suddenly, the doors behind us crashed opened. Will, Mark’s best man, barged in, sweating and out of breath.