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

by Q. T. Ruby

  I giggle.

  “Do you ever eat here?” I ask.

  “Not really. I’m not much of a cook.”

  “Unless it’s cereal with milk. Then you kick ass!”

  He laughs and stands.

  “But don’t you ever get tired of restaurant food?” The poor guy never eats home-cooked food unless he’s, well, home in London.

  “I don’t think about it, really. Come on.” He holds out a hand.

  Up and dressed, the five of us go to the cutest hole-in-the-wall to eat, successfully flying under the radar.

  While I have a giant bite of pancakes in my mouth, Camille turns to me. “So, Claire . . . looks like you were super tired last night. You couldn’t even wait to get to the bedroom before getting undressed.”

  Here we go. I try to chew quickly, knowing I’ll have to defend myself. Dan is already laughing along with Bridget and Colin.

  Camille slings her arm around Bridget and continues. “Our little Claire, ho-ing it up. This is why we love you. You are a secret slut.”

  I swallow and raise an eyebrow at her. “You know what’s really weird, Camille? How early Colin arrived at Dan’s house this morning—really early this morning. Too early. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he slept over last night.”

  Camille gulps, and I quickly glance at Colin, who’s drinking and drinking and drinking his coffee.

  “I love you, too, secret slut,” I say with a giggle and take a victorious bite of pancakes.

  Bridget chimes in with a snort. “Pfft. You two are both total sluts. I’m the only one who remained virginal last night.”

  Camille and I nearly choke.

  Camille clears her throat and says, “Virginal? You are the biggest slut of all! You’re Slut Almighty!”

  “You’re the girl who cried slut!” I say.

  “Mother Slut.” Camille fires back.

  “Sluterella.”

  “Slut White.”

  “Sleeping Slut.”

  Colin and Dan are laughing so hard they’re silent. The girls and I can’t stop laughing, either.

  After the jokes and the food, we head outside to drizzling skies—looks like we’ll have to scrap our beach plan. We decide to head back to Dan’s house and relax on the soft leather sofas, which is a far better option, in my opinion. If I have to share Dan on my last full day, I want to share him in a small group, without the grinding fangirls.

  After Colin beats all of us senseless at Wii Boxing, he further punishes the group by making us play him at Guitar Hero.

  Colin points at Dan. “You first.”

  Dan rolls his eyes but good-naturedly straps on the guitar.

  I nearly lose it. Between his rumpled hair, the way he holds a guitar like he means it, and the strap tugging open his button-down shirt a little, it’s all I can do not to attack him in front of everyone. A whole “Rock Star Dan” fantasy rolls through my head as he plays: his dirty blonde hair glinting in the stage lights, his perfect fingers curling around the neck of the guitar, and his chest beading with sweat . . . then he sings, his lips brushing against the microphone.

  Bridget nudges me. “You feeling okay there, Claire?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You’re all flushed.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” I clear my throat.

  Dan loses and gives the guitar over to an eager Camille. He takes a seat beside me and shoots me a suspicious grin when I accidentally sigh aloud.

  I quickly refocus my attention on Camille, who’s battling it out with Colin. Between Colin’s verbal taunts and Camille’s retaliating punches to Colin’s arms, it’s highly entertaining. A little while later, I lean into Dan’s ear and nudge my nose against his cheek. He smirks.

  “I don’t want to share you right now,” I say in his ear, hoping he remembers what I said earlier.

  “You read my mind,” he whispers back.

  We escape to his room, shutting the door and the world out, and share a chunk of the afternoon only with each other. Bitter doesn’t have a chance when we’re alone and naked.

  Eventually, we make our way back into the living room, where the others are watching TV.

  “So, Colin, you’re playing tonight, right?” I ask, sitting down on the sofa.

  “Yeah. There may be an agent there; you never know.” Colin grins, but it’s clear he’s tempering his excitement. I glance at a swoony Camille and waggle my eyebrows at her.

  She rolls her eyes at me, trying to hide her smile.

  “What time do you have to set up?” Dan asks as he stretches his arm along the back of the sofa behind me and begins to gently massage my neck.

  “I have to be there by seven at the latest.”

  “You won’t be joining us for supper, then?” Dan asks.

  “No.”

  The disappointment on both Colin’s and Camille’s faces makes my wheels turn.

  “What if I make an early dinner here instead of going out? That way Colin can eat with us and no one has to rush or anything.”

  “Yeah, that’d be great, Claire,” Colin says, a smile breaking across his face. Camille’s smiling, too.

  “You know how to cook?” Dan asks, turning to me.

  “She cooks all the time,” Bridget says from the recliner as she flips through a magazine.

  “Really? Like what?” Dan asks me.

  I shrug. “What are you in the mood for?”

  “What are you good at?” he asks in a quiet, husky voice, nuzzling in close.

  I quirk an eyebrow and whisper back, “What aren’t I good at?”

  His smirk turns into a laugh.

  A little later in the afternoon, Dan and I head to the grocery store to pick up the ingredients to make a basic Italian dinner—spaghetti, homemade meatballs, tomato sauce, salad, and garlic bread.

  He bolts into the store, flipping the hood of his sweat jacket over his head.

  “Nice disguise. You know, if the actor thing doesn’t work out, you can always work undercover for the CIA.”

  “I blend, Claire.”

  “Oh yeah, definitely.”

  He nudges me with his elbow and grabs a cart, but when he calls it a trolley, I giggle and continue to say the word in my own English accent as often as possible while we’re in the store.

  With bags of groceries in hand, Dan and I arrive back at the house to find Camille, Bridget, and Colin engrossed in the TV. We walk over to see what they’re watching.

  “Oh my God . . .” I snicker upon seeing a younger Dan on screen.

  “What did you put on?” Dan scolds Colin.

  “That movie—what’s it called?” Colin asks Camille, who doesn’t turn away from the screen to answer.

  “The Riot,” Camille answers quickly, curled up next to Colin on the loveseat.

  Guns fire, bombs blow up all around, and Dan’s in the middle of the action, dressed in ratty clothing with mud-mucked hair and a sooty face. He carefully plants explosives around an already battered building.

  “Come on, Claire,” Dan says, trying to pull me away.

  “One second.” I’m already sucked in.

  There’s no question it’s a slightly cheesy film—probably one of his firsts. He was younger, and the defined, stunning man-jaw of now was a work in progress then. Even though he was made up to look a mess, there is no tempering his looks. His bright green eyes pop out amongst the grunge and grime. I stare in disbelief that this is the same guy standing to my left, holding groceries.

  “Come on, Claire,” Dan urges.

  I look over to see his sweet face screwed up in obvious embarrassment. It’s incredibly charming.

  “Do you have to watch this?” Dan asks the group, annoyed and fidgety.


  “This is my favorite part,” Colin notes, ignoring Dan’s question, too interested in the film.

  The part shows Dan climbing a broken wall with explosives attached to his back. He turns his head to speak awkward lines to the guy behind him. I glance at Dan, who seems to shrink behind the brown paper bag, rolling his eyes.

  Back on the screen, Dan says his lines as a bomb explodes above his head and sends him flying.

  “Yeah!” Colin cheers fist-pump and all.

  “Claire, let’s please put the food away,” Dan begs.

  “You don’t want to watch? Looks like . . . a riot.”

  “Let’s go,” he says, shaking his head, as we head to the kitchen.

  He unpacks the groceries as I search out the necessary cooking equipment, all of which I surprisingly find.

  “If you don’t cook, why do you have a kitchen stocked with pots and pans?”

  Dan laughs. “It all came with the house.” He opens the refrigerator, pulls out a beer, and holds it up to me.

  I snort and nod. “Beer and pasta—every man’s dream.”

  Dan cracks open our chilled beers and leans against the counter, watching me while I chop and add the ingredients to a hot pot. In mere moments, the sweet garlic and onions sautéing in the olive oil infuse the air with a mouth-watering aroma.

  “God, that smells good. Have you been cooking a long time?”

  “Yeah, my whole life. I grew up with Sunday dinners when my relatives would come over and eat.” I smile at him and continue to chop and add the tomatoes to the garlic and onions, adding yet another layer of deliciousness to the air.

  As I continue to cook, his eyes remain on me. Now and then I look over and he smiles a big, awfully satisfied smile while he sips his beer.

  “You don’t need a recipe or anything?”

  I laugh. “Not for this.”

  Dan comes up from behind and leans his chin on my shoulder as I mix the meatballs. “Can I help?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know. So rarely are my hands full of a such a satisfying amount of meat.”

  “Is that a challenge?” he murmurs, nipping at my neck.

  I giggle. “No, no challenge. Just the facts.”

  He dives into my neck again, tickling me with his chin and locking my elbows at my sides. I almost drop the ball of meat.

  “Stop!” I laugh, wriggling away. “Fine! You can help! Go cut up the salad stuff.”

  He narrows his eyes. “You’d better watch it.” He laughs and opens the fridge, staring inside it for several minutes while I finish up the meatballs.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. So I need lettuce and . . . is this pepper for the salad?” He holds it up.

  “Yes, if you want that.”

  “How about this tomato?”

  “Yes, the tomato, too. And the cucumber and the red onion.”

  Dan carries the veggies to the counter, along with the wrong kind of knife. I silently watch him struggle to cut everything just so. It isn’t until he nearly cuts off his finger that I say, “Dan, let me help you there. Finger stubs aren’t very tasty. Now watch.” I grab a better knife for chopping veggies and stand behind Dan with my hands over his. “Like this,” I say, but unfortunately, because I’m shorter than he is, I can’t see around him. “Okay, this isn’t working.”

  We switch places—with me on the inside and his hands over mine this time. I begin slicing the onion as his hands follow my lead. Slowly, the heat of his breath grows warmer, stronger on my neck. His lips brush against the quickening pulse under my jaw. Tiny kisses are scattered along my neck while my hips are lightly pressed into the counter. My chopping slows to a virtual halt. I drop the knife onto the counter as my body gives in to him and all that he stirs in me.

  Dan removes his hands from mine and turns me around to face him. That’s when I sniff and dab my eyes. He steps back, holding his hands out in confusion. “You’re crying! Why are you crying? Oh God, I’m sorry! What did I do?”

  I laugh. “It’s not you; it’s the onion.”

  He exhales in relief. “Oh, thank God. I couldn’t understand how I could screw up cooking, too.”

  I laugh, grabbing his shirt and pulling him to me. “Where were we?”

  We stand there amongst the half-chopped salad and sauce bubbling away, holding each other and kissing like there’s no tomorrow because . . . there isn’t. I’m leaving. This is our last night.

  No! No bitter allowed!

  Our bodies press together; I slide my ankle up and down his calf as he pushes his hips into mine.

  “What are you two doing?” Camille says, walking into the kitchen and interrupting us. We jump apart. She calls out to Colin and Bridget, “You were right; they were in here getting it on.”

  “Don’t you have another round of Guitar Hero to lose?” I ask as Dan grabs his beer and gulps it down.

  Camille shakes her head at me. “Secret slut,” she says, smiling, on her way out.

  Dan and I finish cooking, and soon enough, wine is poured and dinner is on.

  The five of us sit around the rectangular table, passing the dishes and filling our plates. I have to admit that the sweet basil tomato sauce, toasty garlic bread, succulent meatballs, and spaghetti smell fantastic.

  A quick toast and we all dive in. After several moments of silence, I glance up to see both Dan and Colin regarding their plates with reverence. Hovering over their dishes, they twirl massive forkfuls of spaghetti, open wide and shove it in, and immediately dive back down to ready another bite.

  I stop eating to watch the hungry-man entertainment. Both guys are completely unaware that not only am I watching them, but so are Camille and Bridget. We finally erupt in a fit of giggles.

  “What?” Colin mumbles with one cheek bulging.

  “You must be really hungry.” Camille laughs, wiping sauce splatter from his cheek.

  I see Dan and Colin notice each other’s near-bursting chipmunk cheeks, but thankfully they’re able to hold in their laughter—meatball spray isn’t pretty.

  Colin swallows and says, “This is bloody good, Claire,” before plunging in for another bite.

  “Thanks.” I beam. How can I not? Everyone’s enjoying what I made, plus I’m finally able to contribute in some way to our stay. Between Dan’s generosity and the girls supporting me like the world’s most fantastic bra, this is the least I can do to thank them all.

  Between bites and second helpings, we talk about everything, trying to fit it all in on our last night.

  “So, Colin,” I say. “What can you tell me about Dan that I couldn’t find out from a Google search?”

  Dan drops his fork, but with his mouth stuffed, he can’t say a word.

  “I’ve got nothing,” Colin says, shrugging.

  Dan nods and smirks, apparently pleased with Colin’s answer until Colin continues. “Except that he had your music reformatted for his iPod and has played the fucking thing so often I can probably play it by ear by now.”

  “What?” I glance at Dan, who is beet red and throwing eyeball daggers at Colin.

  Colin just smiles. “And he’s never had a girl stay over here before because he always goes back to their place.”

  “Mate!” Dan scolds after swallowing his food, holding his hands out in what-the-hell fashion.

  “What? You do.”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  Colin rolls his eyes.

  “So I guess Dan’s a secret slut, too?” Bridget asks, raising an eyebrow.

  Colin purses his lips, thinking. “Hmm . . . not really. He usually leaves a couple of days a week free, you know, to recover.”

  What?! My heart is stuck in my throat.

  “Fucking prick! What the fuck?” Dan curses across the table
.

  Colin laughs. “I’m only joking, Claire. He’s been a fucking saint for too long. I thought maybe he lost his dick or something.”

  My thudding heart slows down, and I nod.

  “But he does have a calendar he used to cross off the days before you arrived.”

  Camille and Bridget’s eyes widen.

  “Yeah, um, I knew about that,” I say, blushing, feeling protective of that information.

  Colin turns to Dan. “You told her that? You’re a fucking pussy. You don’t tell girls that.”

  “What? You just fucking told her.”

  Colin rolls his eyes and turns back to me. “And the fact that he’s become a total pussy since he met you.”

  “Sod off. You’re a pussy yourself,” Dan says.

  “What? How am I a pussy?”

  “You cry every time Sandy leaves Danny at the drive-in.”

  “Yeah? And? It’s a rough part, mate.”

  Dan shakes his head. “Why do they drive up into the air at the end? Makes no sense.”

  “It represents them flying off—you know, growing wings and learning to fly on their own without the T-Birds and the Pink Ladies.”

  We all sit in stunned silence at Colin’s “deep” explanation until Dan breaks the quiet with, “It’s still fucking stupid.”

  Colin turns to me. “Just so you know, Claire, he cried like a baby—a fucking baby—at Titanic. I’m not even joking.”

  Dan throws a balled-up napkin at Colin as we laugh.

  Stuffed like Thanksgiving turkeys, we plunk down on the sofas in the living room.

  “Claire, that was fantastic,” Colin says, patting his satisfied belly.

  “Thanks, Colin. I’m glad you liked it.”

  Colin checks his watch. “But I’ve got to roll myself out of here now. We’ll see you all in just a bit?”

  “Of course,” Camille answers, smiling sweetly. With that, Colin leaves, winking at Camille before shutting the front door.

  “I should probably start to get ready.” Bridget stands and stretches.

  “Me, too,” Camille says, standing and leaving with Bridget.