by Cara Dee
He smirked wryly and followed me, and I was regretting my decision to wear the damn things. I didn’t usually, unless I was going out with friends. Jack was just so tall, and I wanted to come off as more ladylike or something.
We walked around the building, or rather, the entire hill. He was right. The park behind the college was nice. Really pretty. Spring in full bloom. And it wasn’t merely a hill from this direction. When I looked up at the school now, it was on a cliff. A steep goddamn cliff. Two staircases created a V and stretched down from both sides, meeting in the middle at the bottom.
It was Saturday, so there weren't many people around, though I could imagine students coming out here a lot when the weather allowed it. The lawn was huge and surrounded by a pathway and park benches.
"Are you ready to describe the park for me?" Jack asked.
I nodded, only to falter when thunder rumbled not too far away.
Jack frowned up at the sky. "We don't get much thunder. I'm sure it'll pass quickly." He'd just finished his sentence when a raindrop landed on my nose.
I laughed, wiping it away.
Another splashed on my forehead.
Then it began pouring down.
"Oh, crap." My eyes scanned the tree line across the park; maybe we could—
"Come on, we can stay dry there." He jerked his chin at the stairs.
Okay, that was closer. We hurried over to the stone steps, and he ushered me under the left one. We stayed close to the cliff wall. The staircase that tilted upward above us wasn’t that wide, and here and there, a wind blew the downpour our way.
"This doesn’t happen in LA," I chuckled.
He snorted quietly.
I shuddered as a particularly cold gust whipped rain past our legs.
My heels were ruined, not that I cared. Gravel had crunched away at the slim heel. Add dirt and rain…and the cigarette butts that littered the ground right here. Christ.
"Is this the smoking area?" I scrunched my nose.
Jack laughed under his breath. "Looks like it."
Spring in Washington wasn’t as pretty as it had been this morning. I was freezing, the rain wouldn’t let up, and the sun was long gone.
"I can describe this situation as plain shit," I said.
He shook his head, amused, and shrugged out of his jacket. "It's a spring shower. Give it five or ten minutes. But tomorrow when we go out, perhaps you think more Canada and less Beverly Hills when choosing an outfit."
I was tempted to stick my tongue out at him.
"Here." He stepped close to hang his blazer on my shoulders, and he shushed me—actually said shush—when I told him it wasn’t necessary. After that, I couldn’t focus to save my life.
God…damn, he's sexy. My eyes searched his handsome face, noticing little details I hadn't seen before. Like the hint of blue in his eyes. Like the salt in his pepper scruff. He was inches away from me, and he smelled fucking amazing. Spicy, masculine, seductive…
He wasn’t really Dad's friend, was he? No, he could be a stranger I met in a bar and went home with. Okay, wishful thinking. Dammit. Why couldn’t he be someone I was allowed to flirt with?
I couldn’t. I wouldn’t go there.
Define allowed…
True enough. This wasn’t the fifties. I could do what I wanted without my father's permission.
The air felt thicker. Or maybe it was my imagination. It probably was, because Jack frowned. Oh, crap. I quickly averted my eyes and felt a tremor of mortification. I hadn't even considered his interest or lack thereof, and given his opinion on what I did—or wanted to do—for a living, I'd be an arrogant fool for thinking he could be attracted to anything I brought to the table.
God, what was I thinking? Stupid. Professionalism, I needed to remember that. There was something wrong with me if I wanted to flirt with the man who'd literally told me my book was one of the worst ones he'd ever read.
"Still cold?" His voice nearly shook me with its low, rich timbre.
I clenched—everywhere—and exhaled shakily. "No, it's a lot better. Thank you." My throat was dry, so I swallowed and licked my lips.
He caught the movement, then looked away and took a step back.
Damn.
6.
Jack Grady
I wasn’t able to stand being in the confined space underneath the stairs for very long, so I suggested we make a run for it. A few blocks later, we arrived home soaking wet from the rain, and Isla angrily threw her heels into the garbage.
"I was stupid to bring them," she huffed.
Had I not been strung tight with sexual motherfucking frustration, I would've laughed. She was the perfect image of a drowned cat. Alas, I kept to myself and headed up to the second floor for a shower.
I threw my wet clothes in the hamper and turned on the water.
Moments later, I heard the pipes above me. There was a telltale squeak whenever someone used the bathroom on the third floor. I'd only heard it the few times my brothers had stayed over. Not a gorgeous young woman who looked like sin in drenched clothes that clung to her exquisite body. I'd seen enough—or too much. Yet, it felt like the opposite.
I groaned and turned the water cold.
*
I needed to keep myself occupied. I deduced Isla was having a bath rather than shower because by the time I'd dried off, gotten dressed in another pair of jeans and an Oxford shirt, and paced the living room floor a solid ten minutes, there was no sign of her.
Writing her a note, I let her know I was only stepping out to pick up some essentials. Essential this weekend was turning out to be alcohol. At my local liquor store, I stocked up on everything I needed to make a few standard drinks.
It didn't rain any longer, though the sun remained shy.
On the way home again, I stopped in at the grocery store for snacks I liked having at home, as well as mixers and some easily prepared, lighter meals. I wasn’t sure I wanted to venture outside later for dinner, so either we could pull something together with what I'd bought, or we could order in. I didn't care which.
Isla was in the living room as I walked through the door with two bags. For fuck's sake! I opened my mouth to ask what the hell she was wearing. Then I changed my mind at the last minute. Thankfully. It was none of my business. But, in my unsolicited opinion, those shorts were short enough to be panties. I couldn’t say much about her top because I'd looked away the second I saw her breasts pushed together.
My home was not becoming a casual LA hangout.
Get ahold of yourself, man.
"Hi." Her eyes lit up as she spotted me. It made my gut twist in what I could only describe as want. She deserted my bookshelves. "Anything I can help you with?"
"I've got it, it's fine." I disappeared into my kitchen to stow away everything. The space was small and square, just enough room for me, the cooking area, and a table for two. Isla following me here made the walls close in.
It wouldn’t be wise for her to unlock the part of my mind that was as deprived as it was depraved. That was the part of me that itched to bend her over and—
"Oh, I love these." Isla was gushing over a bag of potato chips while my imagination was running rampant about punishments for her disobeying me and following me into the kitchen. Or perhaps I could punish her for her book.
There was a special place in hell for me.
In an attempt to refocus, I unpacked the rest of the groceries and stashed a bottle of vodka in the freezer for later. I'd do my best to wait until five o'clock for my first drink, though no guarantees.
"So I'm guessing you'll have my head if I wanted to pay for half of everything?"
"Spank you, maybe," I muttered under my breath as I closed a cupboard. My next line was loud enough so she could hear. "I'll pretend you didn't say it. Simple as that." Grabbing a bottle of water and an apple for myself, I told her to get whatever she wanted, and then I escaped the small space and had a seat in the living room.
There, I could breathe again.
I sank my teeth into the apple and opened Isla's book, needing to find something new to bring up. I'd been a fucking idiot to mention passion this morning. There were two love scenes in the story that resembled my less-than-stellar one-night stand half a year ago. Teaching Isla to connect better with love scenes seemed like the last thing I should do.
Hell, it wouldn’t have been appropriate, regardless. Unless I managed it extremely clinically and matter-of-fact. Though, being attracted to Isla pushed that out the window.
She joined me on the couch with a soda and a bowl of grapes.
"What's next, Professor?" she asked with a teasing grin.
I furrowed my brow. "Professor?"
She laughed softly. "Since I got here, I've felt like a schoolgirl who's one mark away from getting the ruler."
Good Christ, I didn’t need that image. My jaw tensed at the thought of her bare little ass turning red from my hands…or why not, a ruler.
"Funny." I forced a smirk and reached for my glasses between the seat cushions. They always ended up there. "I'm actually not sure what's next." Turning to the book again, I flipped the pages and scanned the notes I'd made in the margins. "We've covered most of it…" What it boiled down to was breathing life into her storytelling by evolving her writing style, and we'd done that today.
Tomorrow, I wanted her to write. I was planning on giving her prompts for quick drabbles. It would be a great way for her to put her new knowledge on paper. Literally.
"You said something about passion," she reminded me. As if I had use of that reminder. "Was that in reference to the smut, or…?"
Smut. I made a face at the word. To me, it cheapened the story. "The love scenes, yes. I wouldn't call it smut. I'm well aware there's a big readership for that, but as poorly written as this drivel is, it's still a novel where the plot comes way before the love interests do."
She smashed her lips together. "Please remind me once more how awful it was."
I cracked a smile, enjoying the fire in her. There was no doubt about it. She had the passion. She carried it. She was a passionate woman. She just needed help expressing it.
"How many times have you been called insulting names for being so harsh and brutally honest?" she wondered.
"Oh…" I pretended to think about it. "Approximately ten thousand times?"
Her beautiful eyes sparked with amusement. "Ten thousand and one."
Unable to help myself, I chuckled. "I must've missed that last one."
"Lucky for you—" she popped a grape into her mouth "—I'm nice enough to help you with that. You're a dick."
"I know." I smiled wider, finding her funny to banter with. Fuck, what was wrong with me? "But, no book I've edited for as long as I've been a freelancer has gotten a bad review due to lackluster writing—unless it was an author who went against my word." Which, sadly, was their prerogative.
"You mean you got crappy reviews when you were at publishing houses?"
I grimaced and took a bite of my apple. "I was limited and mainly did content editing. Now I only agree to take on a client if everything is up for discussion."
She tilted her head. "You're so passionate about words and obviously know your way around them. How come you haven't published anything yourself?"
That was an easy one. "I lack the desire to write, and like I said, I'm not a storyteller. Unlike my brother." I wasn’t sure why I mentioned Jameson, yet at Isla's expression of interest, I went on. "He writes satire very well. Mostly, he gets published in magazines, but he has a couple anthologies to his name by now."
"That’s cool." She glanced at the wall in front of us, filled with books aside from the fireplace. "Do you have them here?"
"Sure." I finished my apple and stood up. Then I walked her over to the wall across the room instead. G, G, G…Giles…Gold, Gower…Grady. "Here." I took the first one out and handed it to her.
She grinned when she flipped it open. "Edited by Jack Grady."
"It's what a nice brother does, no?"
"Not if you tear them apart, too," she gigglesnorted. Fucking cute. "Tell me more about your brothers?"
*
I'd wanted to get away from the topic of love scenes. In the end, perhaps that would've been better. Because spending the next several hours getting to know Isla on a more personal level was a new kind of hell.
We sat on the couch as we shared stories about our families. Isla admitted she'd always wanted a brother or sister, though after hearing about me and my three brothers, she was wide-eyed with relief at being alone with her father.
I liked hearing her laugh. It was light and musical, infectious, and her smiles weren't cloaked in formality or politeness anymore. They reached her eyes, and her paying attention to what I said was visible. How she wrinkled her nose, smirked, palmed her cheeks in secondhand embarrassment, and touched her lips to cover gasped giggles.
I was captivated and dug forth more memories of my childhood only to see her reactions.
When we got hungry, we moved to the kitchen to heat up leftover pizza and prepare some nachos and guacamole. I asked her what she liked about living in LA, and it took her a while to respond. I knew she lived with Aiden. They shared a hacienda in a nice neighborhood, both enjoying peace and quiet.
"I guess it's comfortable," she replied eventually. "I had plans to follow a couple friends to New York, but I couldn’t leave Dad."
I'd wondered about that. Since Sarah died, I'd never heard about Aiden dating, which was a shame. She would've wanted him to find love again. He was a great man, too. He certainly deserved it.
When the food was ready, we returned to the living room, and Isla wanted to know more about me. Truth be told, I wanted the same from her. Her mind was beautiful and intrigued me. More than that? She was a storyteller. I didn’t know what kind of block she had when it came to writing, but when she regaled me with stories about school, tagging along with Aiden on his book tours, and music festivals she'd attended with friends, I felt like I was there.
"More pizza?" I asked, finished with mine.
"No, I'm stuffed, thanks." She smiled lazily and leaned back in her seat. "How about a drink?"
7.
Isla Roe
While Jack went to make us drinks, I took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. I let my hair down and pinched my cheeks, then adjusted my top to show a bit more cleavage.
I was going for it.
I couldn’t help it. Everything told me it was wrong, yet it felt so right. He was so damn irresistible. Despite asshole tendencies when he talked about my book.
He was funny, too. Hearing his childhood tales of his brothers had me giggling at the mere memory. They'd been four rambunctious, competitive little pricks back in the day. Alex, the eldest, even as the proclaimed voice of reason, had been wild, according to Jack. Then Jack and Adam, his twin brother, had apparently loved to prank people. Jameson, the youngest, was the rebel. That was the guy I saw in passing yesterday.
Folding down the waistband of my cotton shorts, I nodded to myself, satisfied with the amount of skin I was showing. If he turned me down—which was likely, actually—at least I had tried.
Before I left the bathroom, I pinched my cheeks again until they had a subtle touch of pink.
There were two glasses on the coffee table, and Jack was standing by one of his bookshelves, almost done with another apple. He picked out whatever he'd been looking for and sat down with me.
"What's this?" I took a whiff of my drink and discreetly slid a few inches closer to him. The glass was ice-cold, already wet from condensation. "Mmm." Cranberry.
His own glass held something amber, presumably whiskey.
"You can skim this when you have a minute." He handed me the book. "Saves me from having to discuss sex scenes with Aiden's daughter." He winked at me.
Oy.
For as blunt as Jack was, this was the first time he'd addressed the issue as inappropriate. He'd broached the subject of smut earlier, so I couldn’t help but wonde
r if he'd had a reality check while he mixed our drinks.
I was undeterred, though.
"What is it?" I touched the cover featuring two army dog tags.
"That would be the only book I own that has an erotic part in it," he replied and reached for his drink. "I edited it, so it's good, albeit not my taste."
"No? You didn’t get hot and bothered?" I teased.
He snorted quietly and took a swig. "The characters are two very male soldiers, so, no. I can't say it got me…hot and bothered. I leave that to Jameson. And Alex, if my suspicions are correct."
"Well, sign me up," I mumbled and eyed the cover again.
Leaning back against the plush armrest, I got comfortable and opened the book. It took me aback, because I'd accidentally flipped right to a smutty piece, and the words "Fuck me like there's no tomorrow" jumped off the pages.
"Oh, wow." I touched my lips and read on.
Sam pushed Levi against the wall, fury rolling off them in waves. If this was the one moment they got, they'd make it last until the sun rose. They kissed brutally. The only sign of weakness they showed was for each other and how their fingers trembled as they tore at one another's clothes.
"You're reading it now?" Jack asked incredulously.
"I didn't mean to, but can you blame me?" I was riveted and forgot to think before I acted. I crawled over to Jack and planted my butt right next to him, ready to show him. "Look at this. There's more passion in one paragraph here than I have in my entire book." I picked a random part and read it out loud. "'Sam's departure in the morning hung heavy in the silence between them. It was a bittersweet fuck, with kisses that burned, callused fingers that left marks, and it was all they had. Levi grabbed Sam's face with every intention of cursing him out for leaving, yet when he looked into those eyes he'd found himself falling helplessly for, he couldn’t utter a word. Instead, he took Sam's pain and—'"
"I think I get it," Jack responded tightly. "I've read it before."
I snapped the book shut and went rigid, brought back to the present. Where I was all but pressed up against Jack's side and had just read smut to him. Oh, Christ. I was torn between guilty excitement and embarrassment.