Lost In Between: Finding Me Duet #1

by K. L. Kreig

“Does your hot coffee have a small dick?”

  “Jesus, Sierra. How would I know?”

  Lies.

  I have a pretty damn good idea that the bulge I felt pressing hard into my lower belly when I stared into the world’s most enthralling ocean-blue pools I have ever seen is more than enough to keep me—I mean, a woman—satisfied.

  “Girl, you’re holding back on us now. He’s hot, he’s rich, and he’s got a big dick.” Relaxing against the cushions, she throws her feet up on the coffee table and pops the sucker back in her mouth, mumbling around the candy, “Sounds like the perfect trifecta to me.”

  I give Sierra a look, but I can’t deny he is. Seemingly perfect.

  “He’s…” I trail off, not knowing exactly how to explain Shaw Mercer.

  He’s what?

  Gorgeous? Check.

  Commanding? Check.

  Larger than life? Double check.

  Possesses mind-altering sex appeal? God, if I could fit a dozen checks in this box, I would.

  But none of these things are what I’m truly worried about.

  I’ve never met a man who seems to see into the real me. All the way into the blackest of the black. It’s impossible. I’m too shrouded. Impenetrable. A steel fortress. Not even the man I was engaged to could pierce that dark place, and he tried for three years. But I also can’t deny that’s what I felt when I gazed up his six-two frame into eyes that dove right into my very center. I’ve been home for hours, yet I still feel him lodged there, like an irritating splinter.

  “He’s what? Dreamy?” She singsongs as her face turns wistful. Clasping her hands together, she sets her chin on them and rocks back and forth.

  “Shut it.”

  She pushes me when I smack her arm, and we giggle when our hands turn into a flurry of slaps until my skin smarts.

  After I catch my breath, I ease back and softly confess, “He’s…” Dangerous. “Drive By.”

  That sucker comes out again with a pop. “The bastard who rammed into you last week?” she asks with a high-pitched voice.

  I chuckle, still not believing it myself. How can this be a coincidence? “One and the same.”

  She turns her head my way at the same time I turn mine toward her. “So, letting hot coffee scald your insides once or twice is off the table then, huh?”

  “Yes.” I’m firm. I mean it. I do.

  “Oh come on, Low, we both know your cobwebs could use a good cleaning.”

  “Oh my God,” I screech. I give her a good shove on the shoulder. “I don’t sleep with my clients. You know that.”

  She laughs, falling against the arm of the couch. “You know what they say about rules.”

  I don’t have sex with clients. It’s my one hard-and-fast rule. Not only is mixing business with pleasure a bad idea, but men who need to pay for the company of a woman in any fashion are not the type of guys I want to end the night in bed with.

  Except Shaw. For the first time ever, I am truly tempted to break my own self-imposed policy.

  I dare a glance at Jo, who is unusually quiet. She seems indifferent to our conversation. I know otherwise. She sees it. The lies I’m trying to tell myself already. And like a true friend, she calls me out on them.

  “Men like him use this service for a reason.” Jo’s raised, painted-on eyebrows punctuate what I already know to be true.

  “I know that.”

  “And it’s not to find their next wife.”

  I know that, too. And that’s not what I want from Shaw Mercer, anyway. Why, then, does that reminder feel like a blow that will sting for a while?

  “Got it,” I croak.

  One Jimmy Choo-covered foot swings back and forth as her French-tipped nails start tapping in a rhythmic pattern against the leather of her chair. “Do you, Low?”

  I blink a couple of times so I can stall. I need to steady my voice so I sound believable. “Of course I do. This is a job. Another act. Nothing more.”

  She regards me for so long, I know I’m busted. “There aren’t many women who can do what I do day in and day out without getting attached. You’re not one of them.”

  Jo is not a party favor. She’s the real deal. Commanding over a grand an hour, she is the most highly sought-after escort at La Dolce Vita. She’s worldly, cultured, and no nonsense. She also has a deeper, thicker, blacker hole than even I do. And while sometimes I wish I could crack myself open, displaying my scarred insides to the right person, Jo has managed to shut that side of herself off completely.

  “I know that, Jo.”

  “Then you keep it business like you always do. Get in, get out, get a nice fat bank account, and quit this fucking job,” Sierra offers. Peeking at Jo she adds, “No offense.”

  “None taken.” She means it. She doesn’t give a rip what people think about how she’s chosen to make a living.

  Sierra clasps my hand in hers and squeezes. “Just business, right?”

  Yeah. Just business.

  Except when Shaw’s lips brushed against mine as he held my face between his smooth hands, it didn’t feel like just business. My entire body jolted. He’s sex incarnate. Irresistible. Cockily, he knows it. Had he stripped me and taken me right in Randi’s office, I would have let him. I almost fucking asked him to but managed to swallow the words.

  I want the enigmatic Shaw Mercer in a way I’ve not wanted another man, and that scares the ever-living shit out of me. This uncomfortable chemistry between us will take me down. I see my demise, my heartbreak before it even starts. The end before the beginning.

  I don’t let people close for a very good reason, and he has managed to bore his way under my skin faster in thirty minutes than anyone has before.

  God, I should never have agreed to this. If I’d given myself twenty-four hours to think about it, instead of signing on the spot when he agreed to pay an additional hundred thousand dollar bonus if he left with an executed contract, I would have come to that conclusion.

  If I were smart, I would call Randi now. Tell her I changed my mind. She may not like it but she’d go to bat for me. She’d recommend someone else, and I’d never have to speak to him again.

  One phone call and this is all over.

  I eye the cell on the end table next to me but don’t reach for it because let’s face it—money talks and I need the money. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars is a ridiculous sum for pretending to be someone else. For doing what I do best. I haven’t netted a quarter of that in the entire two years I’ve been doing this, and I would be a fool to turn it down when that’s the entire reason I took this job in the first place.

  Four months of my life is a small price to pay to get out from under this financial stress plaguing me. If Shaw wants to pay me a stupid amount of money to play his girlfriend, I will take it and walk away with a clean conscience when our contract ends.

  But Jo is right. I can’t lie to myself either because that will get me in over my head faster than the rising tide. I may be attracted to him, but no doubt Shaw Mercer is the kind of man who puts his wants and needs above everyone else’s, and I have lived my whole life being an afterthought, starring in a supporting role.

  I may do that for my job, but that’s intentional. I won’t be willingly put in that position ever again.

  I can do this. On my terms. My way. Without handing over anything of me in the process. I know I can. It’s just another job.

  I lock eyes with Jo and say out loud, for me more than her, “I can do this,” at the same I try ignoring how that splinter he left behind is already burning like a mother.

  10

  After being buzzed through the security gate, I drive slowly until Shaw’s house comes into view. I park, shut off my car, and stare at the monstrosity of a home in front of me: a quiet, secluded, three-story beauty overlooking Yarrow Bay. It’s majestic, commanding, larger than life.

  Just like the man inside.

  Before I left Randi’s, I agreed to meet Shaw at his home so we could talk through the detail
s of our arrangement. He thought it best to spend some time together privately before our first public outing so we can get our stories straight as to where we met and how long we’ve known each other. All things that normal couples would know off the top of their heads when quizzed. While I was nervous about spending any time alone with him, I had to agree it makes sense.

  Last night I lay awake for hours thinking this whole situation through, acknowledging these feelings he’s stirred inside me. I need to face them and deal with them instead of pretending they don’t exist.

  Spending ten hours or more a week for months on end without ending up in his bed will be no easy feat. But Shaw is paying me to be his girlfriend, which says a lot about him, actually. He can’t—or won’t—commit, and apparently he has no one in his past willing to help him out.

  This arrangement is only temporary, and I’d do well to remember that. If I fall into bed with Shaw, I can easily see myself falling for more than just his sexy body. I can’t allow that to happen.

  Think of the endgame, Willow. Think of the endgame.

  “You can do this. Think of your mother,” I mumble to myself.

  Taking a fortifying breath, I exit my car and make my way up the walk to Shaw’s front door. I ring the doorbell and wait. The butterflies in my belly stir when I hear feet padding across the floor. Then they all lodge in my throat when he opens the door and I’m left staring into his captivating blue eyes.

  Holy mother of all saints, he is so beautiful.

  I am in trouble.

  Big-ass trouble.

  “I thought maybe you were going to change your mind.” His low voice rumbles through my blood, shaking every cell awake. Traitors. All of them.

  Cocking my head, I try to act like I’m not a mass of trembling nerves. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because you’ve been sitting in your car for the last ten minutes.” He cocks a brow. His smugness digs under my skin.

  “Well, I had something to take care of first.”

  A smile curls a corner of his mouth. He knows I’m lying.

  You’d better pull on your big girl panties and stop acting like a bumbling idiot.

  “You going to let me come in, Drive By, or are we going to have this conversation on the front step? I can do either.”

  Much better.

  He grins and steps aside, gallantly waving me inside. “By all means, come in.”

  “Thank you,” I mutter as I pass him, trying to ignore the way my body flares to life being in such close proximity to his, or the way the air tingles with the electric currents arcing between us. I also try not to notice how damn sensual his bare feet are. They’re feet. Just feet. Sexy feet.

  Shit.

  I slip off my shoes, and he quietly leads us through the entryway, each step quiet against the stunning red oak flooring. It must be a bitch to keep clean, but it looks spotless, as does everything else.

  Most times a house this big and excessive is cold and hollow. Lonely. An outer façade unhappy people use to ineffectively fill a hole deep in their soul. Typical houses like this scream wealth and gluttony and pretension, generally making me want to roll my eyes. But Shaw’s house is different.

  Dressed in deep reds and various hues of browns, it feels warm and homey and safe. It’s perfection, really. Like him. Like an idiot, I gaze around in complete awe.

  The floor plan is open but surprisingly inviting. The main living area runs effortlessly into the dining room, which flows into a clearly gourmet kitchen. Ebony cabinets appear to be custom made. Appliances are top of the line. A twelve-foot island takes up the center space, covered in rich mocha- and sand swirled granite. The south side of the house is made of solid glass with a stunning view of the bay.

  When my attention falls to the biggest, thickest, creamiest area rug I have ever seen in a living room, I deduce he must not have any pets. The thought of sinking my toes into its softness excites me. I force thoughts of rolling around naked on it with Shaw far, far away, but damn, that takes tremendous effort.

  In the ninety seconds I’ve been here, I know so much more about him. He’s clean. Meticulous. Simple and understated. He takes pride in his house but doesn’t feel the need to shove his wealth in your face. That makes me like him even more, dammit.

  I realize too late he’s watching me closely to gauge my reaction. He seems to do that a lot. He’s quiet and thoughtful, thinking through exactly what he wants to say before he says it. As if he wants to formulate his words so he uses the least amount of them possible while still getting his point across.

  “What’s the verdict?” he asks quietly.

  When I sense he really wants to know what I think of his home, I answer honestly. “It’s beautiful. You’re quite the decorator.”

  Looking a little embarrassed, he replies, “My sister’s doing, I’m afraid. She’s an interior designer.”

  “Ah.” I smile, feeling more at ease with every passing second. “Well, you can tell her she did a very good job.”

  His head bobs slightly. “You can tell her yourself when you meet her.”

  And just like that, the butterflies are back.

  Fooling the general public that we’re together won’t be that hard. His family, however…that’s a deception I knew was part of the deal but one I’m not very comfortable with. It makes me wonder how much they know.

  “Oh. Uh, sure.”

  We stand in awkward silence for a few heartbeats before Shaw clears his throat. “Would you care for a drink?”

  I told myself on the way over here I was not having alcohol. Not so much as a drop. It would lower my inhibitions, making me more vulnerable to Shaw’s not-so-subtle seduction tactics, yet as I stand here taking in his sexier-than-shit powerhouse thighs and his lean torso, draped in a fitted light green polo, there’s only one right answer.

  “Sure.”

  His smile is breathtaking. “What’s your poison, Goldilocks?”

  You, apparently.

  “Uh, I’m not picky. Whatever you have is fine.”

  “Beer okay?”

  I nod.

  “Great. Have a seat in the living room. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  I wander into the large, softly lit space, the carpet feeling as soft as I thought it would, and weigh my options. Chair, couch, or loveseat? Another clear choice.

  A moment later I’m seated in the overstuffed coffee-colored leather armchair. It seems worn, a piece that gets used frequently. I imagine Shaw here in the evenings while he’s working on his laptop or watching the news. The thought that I’m sitting in the same spot he does every night gives me tingles.

  “Would you like a frosted glass?” he calls from the kitchen.

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  A couple minutes later, my thoughts are confirmed when he enters the room and his steps falter. I start to rise. “I’m sorry, am I sitting in your chair?”

  “No, no. I mean, yes, but…it’s okay. Stay.”

  Nodding for me to resume my seat, I do. He sets my mug on the glass stand beside me. I immediately grab it, taking a drink for something to do. When my gaze flits to his, he’s studying me again. This time his expression is strange.

  “What?” I chuckle nervously. “Do I have foam on my lip?” I reach up and trail my fingers across my mouth, feeling nothing.

  His smile is soft and sincere and sweet. I feel melty. “You look good there.”

  “Where?” I ask stupidly. He certainly can’t mean...

  “In my chair. I like it.” He adds the last part as an afterthought, almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud and swear to God, my toes curl as hot desire unfurls inside me at an alarmingly fast pace.

  How can six little bland words make me want to stand, strip, and straddle him? With no effort at all, he’s effectively made me forget every reason I have for not getting his impressively large cock inside me as soon as humanly possible.

  “So, ah…,” I start, irritated at th
e tiny quiver in my voice, “when does this little charade officially start?”

  “Three days ago.” I cringe at the slight snap I hear.

  It’s been three days since our meeting. Three days since I signed the next four months of my life over to him. Tonight was the first time Shaw had a free evening to get together.

  I’ve spent three days wondering what we’re doing, when we’re doing it, and why. I also realized I have no idea who else is in on this little scam. I’m fine with pretending we’ve fallen hopelessly in love if that’s what he wants, but I don’t want to act like an idiot in front of someone who knows we are nothing more than an expensive show.

  “Who knows about this arrangement besides Randi?” I ask, resting my glass on my thigh. The cold quickly seeps through my dress.

  Shaw sat on the loveseat, which is the closest piece of furniture to me. He now shifts and crosses one leg over the other, which puts his foot within inches of me. Whether by accident or purpose, both of our gazes drop when it brushes against my bare leg. I let my eyes close but suppress a shudder at the bolt of need that zaps straight up between my thighs.

  His need is much more evident, unmistakable. I force my eyes to slide back up his body only to catch him staring at my mouth. I feel myself weakening everywhere.

  Oh God, stop. Get this under control or you’ll end up in his bed tonight.

  “Shaw.” My squeaky voice seems to jolt him out of his trance, but his lids are heavy, his eyes still molten.

  “What?” he asks absently, still staring at my lips. I can’t help but lick them and I think I may hear him moan.

  I’ve changed my mind. It isn’t going to be hard to stay out of his bed.

  It will be impossible.

  “I said, does anyone else know about this…arrangement?”

  Heated blue eyes flooded with raw desire lift to mine, boring into me. Digging into the depths of me. I want to look away, but the flames I see dancing there hypnotize me. They feast on the oxygen in the room, making it thin as I wait for him to say something. Anything that will break this vortex we’re swirling in.

  “Yes,” he eventually replies in a low, husky voice. I’m not even sure he knows what he’s answering at this point.