As clearly as she saw him now. He wasn’t only talking about the kids at Open Arms. He was talking about himself. His younger self.
In a blink, the lightness vanished as fast as it’d appeared. His eyes went back to his beer. He took another sip and said nothing.
“Anyway, thanks for letting them do the campout.”
“It’s only one night.” His comment brought with it a truckload of innuendo.
“Two. Technically,” she said softly, wondering if his mind was on the same subject.
His gaze was like a caress, like a hand physically touching her skin. It’d always been like this between them. Always. Even when she tried to resist him.
Even when she tried to forget him.
Glasses empty, Donovan motioned for the bartender, who nodded and pushed a couple of buttons on the touch-screen computer. A receipt spit out of the printer.
Sofie reached for her purse.
“Don’t even think about it,” Donovan warned.
“I’m a modern woman, I can go dutch.”
He slid her a look. “You really have been dating assholes, haven’t you?”
She rolled her eyes.
Shit. He hated being right about that.
On the way out of the bar, he put his hand on her back and steered her toward the door. Her shoes were tall, and the floors appeared recently waxed. At least that’s why he told himself he’d reached for her. Not because he couldn’t be close to her and not touch her.
Not because she drew him in like he was tethered to her.
Outside, she climbed into Trixie without his assistance.
“The same Jeep,” she mumbled. “Thought it was black.”
“It’s going to be red.” His eyes skimmed the pants hugging her thighs before he shut her door. As he walked around to the driver’s side, he thought of Scott’s wandering hands and lamented not getting to break any of the bastard’s fingers.
The drive to Sofie’s apartment was quiet, consisting of him fiddling with the radio and her inspecting her fingernails.
“Here.” She pointed at the apartment building to their left. Fairly small, the six-unit building stood next to two other identical freestanding buildings. White with black shutters, the staircase open. No security door standing in the way of anyone who wanted to come in. Not that the Cove was unsafe, but wherever there were vacationers, there were strangers.
“Thanks.” She undid her seat belt.
“Don’t see him again.”
Her head whipped around. “Excuse me?”
Elbow leaning on the steering wheel, Donovan twisted in his seat so he could keep his eyes on hers. “I mean it, Scampi. That guy’s testing your boundaries too soon.”
“I never asked for you to watch out for me. I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself.”
“I know exactly how much of a woman you are.”
Her dark emerald eyes went wide before narrowing at him. “You should. You made me one.”
Damn. Had him there.
“I’ll see whoever I want to see,” she replied with fiery determination.
But her words sounded like a dare. The air snapped with the memory of the one night they’d spent together. Her soft scent wrapped around him in the cramped confines of Trixie.
That was a dare he’d take.
“Who do you see now?”
Her pink lips parted. The anger was replaced with an emotion just as hot, but not nearly as resistant.
She breathed one word. “You.”
“Damn straight.”
Reaching across the seat, he threaded his fingers into her soft brown hair and cupped her nape. He gave her a beat to react, but she didn’t pull back. Instead, she licked her bottom lip, her gaze glancing off his mouth.
He tilted her head, lowered his. She didn’t resist, allowing him to tug her closer until their mouths met. Soft lips fused with his. The electricity zapping between them could’ve powered the city for a week.
God help him, he hadn’t tasted anything this sweet since the last time he tasted her.
Her hand came up but not to push him away, which he considered he might deserve. She wound her fingers into a fist, gripped his T-shirt, and yanked him closer. Her teeth scraped his lips, her tongue slipped into his mouth. He savored her flavor—the same flavor he’d tried to convince himself for years existed only in his imagination.
Nope. Real.
As real as the sound she just made in the back of her throat. A soft mewl he hadn’t heard in far too long.
The heady rush of Sofie in his arms, devouring his mouth, her control ebbing, took over. For a moment he forgot where he was. Until she pulled her lips away and lowered her chin. Stuttered breaths echoed in the quiet of the car.
Her forehead rested on his and she whispered, “Shit.”
His hand was wound in her hair. He stroked the silken strands with the rough pads of his fingers and backed away from her some, his heart thundering, his balls aching.
Nothing. Nothing compared to kissing Sofie Martin before or since. Shit, as it turned out, summed it up.
Green eyes landed on his. “Okay. Okay.” She nodded to herself. “This isn’t the end of the world.”
He felt his brow lift. “Scampi—”
“We can… we’ll just pretend this never happened.” She let go of him and gathered her purse, as shaken as he was.
He still had hold of the back of her neck. Gently, he slid his hand out of her hair, along her jaw, and thumbed her bottom lip.
Her eyes turned up to his.
“Like we forgot the night in the library,” he said.
“I’ve forgotten the details.”
He studied her beautiful face, her damp lips shining in the streetlight—wet from his kisses. “Lie.”
“That was forever ago,” she breathed.
He lowered his head, moved his thumb to tip her chin. Her eyes darkened to deep emerald. “I haven’t forgotten anything.”
When her eyes sank shut, he lost himself again in the heat of her mouth.
CHAPTER TEN
Sofie had never needed a cup of coffee more than the one Faith handed her now. Cup of Jo’s fixed life’s problems. Especially six-foot-four, tattooed problems with devastating lips and the ability to make Sofie forget her vow never to give herself to a bad boy again.
What had she been thinking? She’d had nothing to drink at dinner with Scott, then, what, one glass of wine at the bar? One glass and she was making out with Donovan in his Jeep in front of her apartment. She couldn’t blame her tolerance—wine was her other BFF. She had a sky-high tolerance. Up until The Kiss, she assumed she had a high tolerance for Donny, too.
Apparently not.
When they finally managed to unsuction their faces, he offered to walk her up to her apartment to which she replied “NO!” almost comically loud. He grinned—big, and that’s when she scuttled up the stairs and inside to gather what was left of her good sense.
He didn’t pull from the curb right away, waiting until she was safely ensconced inside. She had turned off the kitchen light and stood in the dark, listening to the clock tick on the wall while chewing a fingernail and worrying maybe she had lost her mind.
She recanted the entire tale to Faith today when she’d shown up for work. Faith left the building and returned with two very large mocha lattes. Thank goodness. Sofie hadn’t slept well last night.
Borderline erotic dreams of Donovan made sleep nearly impossible.
She sipped her perfectly frothed mocha. “So? I’m insane? Is that it?”
Faith laughed. “You are not insane.” She opened a file drawer and dropped her purse inside. Then sat on the guest chair opposite the desk and lifted her own Cup of Jo’s. “Donovan Pate is a tall, hot, black-haired, blue-eyed man. Who, I might add”—she held up a finger to make her point—“rode in and saved your bacon from an evil, ass-grabbing lawyer. Who could blame you for playing tonsil hockey with him?”
“Do not do that.” Sofie pointed with
the hand still wrapped around her coffee cup. “Do not make him sound like some kind of white knight.” He was more like a dark knight, with a big, scrawny dog. And a primered Jeep.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t had a lot of men ride in and save the day for me lately.” Faith sipped her coffee. “Mmm. I love Jo’s mochas.”
They were kind of out of this world.
“Delicious.” Like Donovan’s mouth, her mind filled in for her.
Great. These were the types of thoughts she was going to have to endure while planning the charity dinner.
Just fabulous.
Damn her for letting him dive into her mouth last night. She’d reacted exactly the opposite way than she should have—like flypaper instead of Teflon.
Sticking to him. Clinging to him.
“That must’ve been some kiss.” Faith lifted a fair blond brow. This is the third time you’ve spaced out this morning.” She smiled a knowing little smile.
Sofie stood and tucked a binder into the multi-pocketed tote bag on her desk.
“Do you think I’m desperate?” She was heading over to see Mr. Wonderful this morning, and if she reeked of desperate, she needed to wash off the scent before she arrived at Pate Mansion.
“No,” Faith responded firmly.
“How are you newly single and this… this…” Sofie stuffed a water bottle in a side pocket and a handful of pens in another. “Good at it?”
Her friend’s lips pinched slightly.
Not the most sensitive question considering what Faith had been through. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be harsh.”
“You are not wrong. Shouldn’t I be more upset than this?” Faith gestured to her perfectly springy floral-print dress. “You kissed Donovan and you’re torn apart. Michael slept with some girl with a cheap dye job and a tramp stamp, and other than a brief crying jag, I’m”—she shrugged—“I’m okay. Like, really okay.”
“Maybe you’re grieving. Stages happen out of order sometimes.”
“Or maybe I’m relieved because I’m more like my mother than I care to admit.” Faith pursed her lips.
Sofie rounded the desk and sat in the other guest chair. For this intervention, she needed to be eye-to-eye with her best friend.
“You don’t believe in that curse. You’ve said it yourself a hundred times.”
Faith’s mother, Linda Shelby, maintained that “Shelby women couldn’t marry.” Supposedly, there was a long line of family members on Faith’s mother’s side who had planned their weddings but never made it down the aisle.
“It was easy to disbelieve when I was engaged,” Faith said. “I thought I’d be the first to break the curse, if it was real at all. Now I’m wondering if I said yes to Michael as a test—to see if we’d make it.” She shook her head. “We didn’t.”
A marriage based on a test. That would have been something.
“But… you loved him,” Sofie said, trying not to make it sound like a question.
“Did I?”
They watched one another for a long moment before Faith’s eyes dropped to her lap. Just as Sofie reached to comfort her, Faith’s head snapped up. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you! Cup of Jo’s has offered to set up a coffee bar at the charity dinner.”
She smiled, no sign on her pretty face she’d been questioning her love for Michael, lamenting her lost wedding, or wondering if the family curse was real.
“All proceeds go to Open Arms, of course,” Faith added.
“That’s… great.” Sofie wished she had a similar switch. She’d use it to turn off her feelings about Donovan. Just flip it and go about planning the dinner. Then, she wouldn’t think about the feel of his firm lips, or the way his palm on the back of her head held her willingly captive, or the way his thumb stroked her lip…
“I figured we could set the coffee up in the far corner,” Faith continued. “Next to the cupcakes.”
Swallowing thickly, Sofie rerouted her thoughts, stood, and smoothed her skirt. “Sounds perfect.”
Faith grabbed a pen and pad of paper from the corner of the desk. “I wonder how much space we have…”
Sofie went around her desk and pulled another binder from the shelf behind it. “I’ll find out for you,” she said. “I’m going to the mansion today.”
“Today?”
She nodded. “Now, in fact.”
Faith wrinkled her nose. “You don’t look very excited.”
What she was, was nervous. About seeing Donovan. About maneuvering around him today after what had happened last night. About him being in her space, in her face…
But Faith was wrong… Sofie was excited.
Bad boy kisses did that to a girl.
Five hours.
She’d been here five hours. Sofie consulted her watch. And twelve minutes.
Other than running into Donovan once—outside while he loaded yet another thrift store truck with old furniture—she hadn’t seen much of him. Just his legs walking beneath a hideous floral sofa Connor helped him carry to the truck.
She’d measured the ballroom. Twice. And she’d pulled out her laptop and researched paint colors and pricing for the dining room. Since the desk in the library was the most sensible place to work, she stowed her emotions about the space and set up in there. Despite her attempt to be a grown-up, the room—and a particular piece of furniture—niggled at her the entire time she surfed the Internet.
That’d been fun—having a momentary standoff with The Red Sofa where she’d cashed in her V-card with the man of the house. The exchange rate on that sucker was not good, by the way.
After making a few more calls to sponsors and other locals who’d expressed interest in the charity dinner, her work was far from done, but she was ready to call it a day. She’d prepared herself, mentally and physically, for seeing Donovan. In an effort not to look too nice, she’d changed—forgoing the heels and skirt in favor of jeans and a cotton shirt. Whatever he said to her—whether he tried to come on to her again, or suggested they stay away from each other, she was ready. Only one problem. He hadn’t confronted her. He’d avoided her as much as she avoided him.
The sound of the front door opening perked her ears. She heard the dog’s toenails on the tile, then Connor’s and Donovan’s voices echoing in the foyer. Dog sought her out, showing up in the library a moment later, tail wagging.
Dog. Poor thing. She needed a name.
“Hi, uh…” She thought of her mother’s neighbor’s basset mix and took a stab at it. “Bailey! Come here, Bailey.”
Dog’s ears stayed down, her mouth panting. No reaction to the name at all. Padding into the room, the dog came to Sofie, tongue out.
“How about… Spot?”
But she didn’t have “spots,” more like patches.
“Fluffy?” But that didn’t work, either. She may be fluffy someday, but at the moment her fur was thin and lank.
Sofie scratched the dog’s ears. Silver-blue eyes met hers, reminding her again of Donovan’s.
“Maybe we’ll name you after the woman who lived here last. That’s appropriate for a girl who lives in a mansion, wouldn’t you say?”
Dog licked her hand.
“Gertrude is too stately. How about Gertie?”
“Gertie” licked Sofie’s face. They had a winner.
“You have got to be kidding.”
She pulled her hand away from Gertie to see Donovan standing in the doorway of the library, taking up space in his own special way. He was good at choking a room—or a bar—with his presence.
“She likes it,” Sofie argued, scrubbing the dog’s head again. “Don’t you, Gert?”
“No.” His eyes went to the desk where she’d made herself at home. “This your new office?” She wondered if he knew his eyes flicked to the couch next.
She forcibly didn’t look, talking gibberish to Gertie instead who, in Sofie’s opinion, really did look like a Gertie.
When she continued ignoring him, he prompted, “Scampi.”
“I’m done in here.”
He took a brief look around and mumbled, “Stay as long as you like.”
Stunned, she said nothing, only continued to pet the dog. When she looked back to the doorway, he was gone.
“You live with a grouch bag, you know that?” she asked the dog.
Gertie licked Sofie’s chin.
“That’s okay,” she told the mutt. “We girls stick together.”
But that wasn’t true. Where Donovan was concerned, Sofie was on her own.
The thrift store truck had gone, but it wasn’t the last. He was nowhere near the bottom of Gertrude’s stuff piled in the basement. They’d be back, and Donovan would have another full load for them. Without a doubt.
Earlier, he left Sofie in the library and returned to the great room to chip away at the wounded fireplace. He’d avoided her today on purpose. Mainly because he didn’t trust himself to be within three feet of her and not grab her up and kiss her.
She’d stayed away from him today, too, he noticed, preferring to stay out of that perimeter. She must have meant it when she said she was trying to forget the kiss.
Good luck. Her taste had been all he thought about today.
He returned his attention to the jagged pieces of slate crumbling from the mortar, contented to distract himself. Didn’t work.
Seeing her in that library—seeing the couch. The only thing he could think about was the kiss last night and how he’d bet if he kissed her again she’d melt into him the same damn way. Maybe gift him a repeat of seven years ago.
He pounded at the fireplace, forcing his body’s attention to the physical act of tearing something apart. Cheap rocks. Cheap mortar. Cheap craftsmanship. Nothing he hated worse than a half-assed job. When he first spotted the rock crumbling to the floor, he told himself he’d slap it back into place and be done. Then he noticed a few other loose pieces.
So he pried those off. He noticed a few more and pried those off as well. With half the fireplace’s stones strewn across the plastic, he figured he may as well replace each and every one by hand. May extend his timeline, but getting back to what he did best would get his thoughts off the adorable event planner with the tempting mouth.
Rescuing the Bad Boy Page 11