by R. R. Banks
“Incorrigible,” I mutter.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
She heads for the door and the bell jingles as it opens. Liam steps inside as Skyler is heading out – and I can't help but notice her checking out his ass. Standing behind him, she gives me a thumbs-up – which is quickly followed by a more obscene, sexual gesture.
Laughing, she flounces out the door, leaving me alone with him. We stand there, both of us frozen, staring at each other for a few seconds. Neither of us seems to know what to say. Finally, I shake my head and break the paralysis.
“So how does the other guy look?” I ask, gesturing to his face.
Liam laughs and steps toward the counter. “Hi, Paige,” he says. “Nice to see you again.”
Chapter Fourteen
Liam
“Jesus, Liam,” she gasps. “What happened to you?”
“Would you believe me if I said I walked into a door?”
“No.”
“How about I fell down some stairs?”
“Let me think about that,” she says. “Yeah, no.”
Her laugh rings in the air like crystal chimes in the air and even though I can tell she's trying hard not to smile. I can tell she doesn't want to laugh. I can almost see the concern in her eyes.
I, of course, would rather not make a big deal about it. It happened. It's over. It's time to move on. Like my father always said, when life knocks you down, you get back up. But, Paige is looking at the cuts and bruises on my face – I know I probably look like I went a few rounds with Floyd Mayweather – but I somehow don't want her to worry.
And humor seems to be the best way to deflect her worry. It's how I usually try to deal with tense situations.
“Bar fight,” I say, shrugging. “A debate about who the better president was – Taft or Cleveland – got a little heated.”
“That must have been some debate,” she laughs. “You look like shit.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I reply. “Who knew that Taft has such enthusiastic and devoted fans.”
“I never would have pegged you for a Cleveland guy.”
“No? Who would you have pegged me for then?” I ask.
“You seem more like a Teddy Roosevelt guy to me.”
“Thank you for not saying Reagan,” I reply. “I would have walked out the door and never come back.”
She laughs and leans against the counter, still scrutinizing my face. And while she's amused by my attempt light-hearted banter, I can tell she's also concerned. Genuinely concerned.
“But seriously,” she said. “What really happened?”
I peruse the bookshelves a bit, running my fingertips over the bindings of a few of the titles as if I'm looking for something. I came all this way to see her, but now that I'm here, I don't really know what to say.
I honestly don't even know why I'm standing in Paige's store. There's no logical reason for me to be here. For some reason though, I just feel compelled to be here. To see Paige.
Once I got home from Seattle, Janice took one look at me and freaked out. After I refused to go to the hospital, she cleaned my wounds and bandaged them – all the while, grumpily insisting that she was no field surgeon and that I need to see an actual doctor. I don't think my wounds were serious enough for that though. Her patch job works just fine for me.
After a shower and a change of clothes, though, I felt restless. Agitated. My mind was all over the place. Despite being up all night, I couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus. Couldn't get my head straight. Hemingway grew irritated with me skulking through the house and took over one of the guest room, sprawling out on the bed, just to get away from me.
As I stood on the deck, drinking a cup of coffee, I'd became overcome with the urge to see Paige. I don't really know why – it makes no sense to me – but something in me needed to see her. So, I hopped in the car and drove down the hill.
And now, here I am.
Although she wants to know what happened and probably has a million questions, now that I'm standing in the shop with her, all I know is that I don’t want to talk what happened in the alley. And I don't want her to question me about Seattle. Personally, I don't want to think about any of that.
What I do want, however, is to know more about her.
But, as I glance back over at her, I can tell Paige is determined to get the story out of me. She's worried and I know the only real way to quell her concern is to give her what she wants. I'm not the kind of person who normally feels compelled to have touchy-feely emotional rap sessions. I prefer to keep things closer to the vest.
On the other hand, I feel like I can talk to her. It's crazy, given how little I actually know about her, but there's just something about Paige Samuels that tells me I can open up without fear. That I can confide in her. So, I explain what happened. I'm reluctant, but I tell her who Brittany is, what she did, and why I'm actually in Port Safira. At least, I give her the CliffsNotes version, anyway.
Having explained that, I tell her about seeing Brittany and that whole scene, to the attack in the alley. It's strange, but as I talk, the longer I go on, it gets easier. There's just something about Paige that inspires me to be open with her. I don't feel like I have to choose my words carefully or guard my secrets as closely. I don't get it, but that's how she makes me feel.
And I have to say, the more I speak, the more cathartic it feels. It feels good to actually open up and share some of what is going on in my head. Aside from my brothers, I don't have anybody in my life that I can truly open up to. I don't have anyone that I want to open up to. I was never this open with Brittany. But, with Paige, I feel like I can be.
She listens to every word, never interrupting, and never appearing to be bored by my story. If anything, she seems riveted by what I'm saying, hanging on my every word. And when I'm finished, she steps from behind the counter and walks toward me, her eyes soft and wide.
“Jesus,” she says softly. “Do you know who did it?”
“No,” I say. “Didn't really get a good look at the guy. Everything just happened too fast and he was wearing that damn hoodie.”
Paige nods. “I don't want to kick a hornet's nest here,” she says. “Or speak out of turn...”
She lets her voice trail off as if she's afraid to finish her thought and is looking to me for permission to continue.
“It's okay,” I say. “You don't ever need to censor yourself around me. Speak your mind.”
“Well, the timing of it all seems really coincidental,” she says softly. “Do you think it's possible that your ex had something to do with it?”
Taken aback, I look at Paige as if she's suddenly sprouted a second head. “I really doubt that,” I say. “No, it was just a stupid mugging.”
“But the guy didn't actually take anything from you?”
“Well, no,” I say, shrugging. “Because I fought back.”
“Uh huh,” she says, her voice growing a little stronger, a little more confident. “And it's just a coincidence that Brittany was there at the bar, then?”
I don't answer her. Instead, I'm thinking about what she said. I'm trying to wrap my mind around what Paige is suggesting. There is a part of my head – or maybe my heart – that doesn't believe Brittany would be capable of something like that. Get pissed and make a scene? Sure. She always had a flair for the dramatic. Maybe try to sue me for screwing her out of what she feels she's owed in our divorce? Yeah, probably.
But hire somebody to try and kill me?
The thought startles me for a moment as I try to process it. To analyze it. I'm trying to reconcile the two versions of Brittany I know. There's the role she played – the dutiful, loving wife. I now know that to be a lie. I know the perfect wife she portrayed herself to be was only a mask for who she really was – a conniving, back-stabbing thief.
The logical and rational part of my mind starts to whisper to me in earnest though. Our divorce isn't finalized yet. That's going to take a little time, as
these things do, of course. And as of now, I haven't removed her as my beneficiary. From anything. If I were to die – say, in a random mugging gone bad – she would stand to inherit my fortune, as well as my slice of ADE.
Would that be enough to drive Brittany to do something like that? Would she actually try to have me killed? I look over at Paige, who is staring at me, waiting for some kind of response. From that perspective of knowing what I know about Brittany, I suppose I can't put anything past her. I suppose, in theory, she is capable of anything.
Even knowing what I do though, I still can't quite buy the idea that she'd have somebody try to kill me. That seems – extreme.
“Maybe?” I say. “Who knows?”
“It's something you might want to think about,” she says. “It just seems like really strange and coincidental timing to me.”
“Yeah, it's something to give some thought to,” I say, turning from the bookshelf toward Paige. “I didn't come here to solve the mystery of who jumped in that alley and pulverized my face, though.”
“No? Because I watch a lot of Dateline and I'm good with mysteries,” she says. “Or maybe, you were just hoping I wouldn't notice that somebody smashed in your face?”
“Something like that,” I say.
She arches an eyebrow at me as the corners of her mouth turn upward into a grin. “FYI, the whole smashed in face thing is kind of hard not to notice, you know.”
“I figured,” I say. “I was just hoping we could talk about something more interesting, though.”
“Like?”
“Like you,” I say.
This time, she's the one who looks taken aback. I see her cheeks flush as she quickly turns away, pretending to study the cover of a nearby book – some Young Adult novel with an angel and a demon on the cover. Not something I'd guess would be on her to-read list, and hardly something worth staring at.
“Well, honestly, I hate to disappoint you, but I'm pretty boring,” she says. “Not really much to talk about. I didn't get into a fight with some mystery man in an alley recently.”
“Good thing too,” I say. “Because your face is far too pretty to get messed up in a fight.”
Paige looks away from me, her cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red. I can't help but stare at her though. The way her rich, dark hair contrasts with the smooth paleness of her skin is breathtaking to me. With the soft curve of her upturned nose and her full, naturally red lips, her face might look a little too soft. A little too delicate. To some, she might look like a meek, or perhaps mousy, woman.
If that's what people see when they look at Paige Samuels, they'd be underestimating her – by a long stretch. She has that soft, girl-next-door appeal, but I know that if pushed, she packs one hell of a punch – verbally speaking, of course. It's an unexpected quality she has that only makes her that much more charming. That fire in her spirit and personality, that cutting wit and passion that burns in her eyes makes her so damn compelling. She's like catnip to me.
Of course, being a warm-blooded man, I also can't help but notice her skirt, which rises up above her knee and shows off just the right amount of thigh. Her skin looks just as smooth on her lower body as it does on her face. And as I look at her, I realize that I'm dying to touch her, to see if her skin really is as soft as it looks.
She catches me staring and pulls down her skirt a little, hiding that delicious bit of flesh from my sight. At the same time, I can see the trace of a smile form on her face. There's so much about this woman that remains a mystery to me. So much I don't know. So much I want to know.
What's confounding to me though, is how drawn I feel to her. How intoxicating it is to be around her. This isn't some quick rebound hook-up. My attraction to her is not because I'm still stung over Brittany's betrayal. Yeah, that sting is still there, but what I feel when I look at – hell, when I think about – Paige, is something entirely different. Completely divorced from the foul residue Brittany left stuck to my heart.
What I feel for Paige is complicated. And it's scary. I'm not sure I'm even ready for something as strong as what I feel for her. But, then, there's nothing wrong with taking things slow. Dipping my toes in the water first, before diving into the deep end of things, so to speak.
Hell, I don't even know what she's thinking or feeling. This could be something that exists only in my own mind. But, I think it's worth it to find out.
“You really are a beautiful woman, Paige Samuels,” I say.
“I really ought to get back to work,” she replies, her voice sounding almost breathless.
“Yeah, because it's so busy in here,” I say, glancing around at the empty bookstore. “I'd hate to keep your customers waiting.”
Paige flinches at the words and a shadowed look crosses her face. I fear that in my attempt to be funny, I'd hit her well below the belt and struck a nerve. She turns and looks around the store as well, a sadness filling her eyes. I don't need to be a mind reader to know what she's thinking, and I suddenly regret the cheap shot I'd taken.
Without thinking, I reach out and stroke her cheek – the yearning to feel what her alabaster skin feels like too much to bear. As I run my fingertips across her skin, I smile. It's every bit as soft and smooth as it looks. Our eyes meet, and she doesn't pull away like I'd expected her to. Instead, she actually leans into my touch.
Feeling more than a little emboldened, I lean forward and press my mouth to hers. A soft, muffled whimper escapes her lips and at first, I think she's going to push me away. But, as our tongues meet, swirling and dancing with one another, her hands find their way to my chest. She clenches and unclenches her hands on me, almost as if she can't decide whether to slap me or continue kissing me. She soon settles on the latter, and our kiss deepens, a fire of passion inside of me bursting to life.
Her mouth is warm, and she tastes like chai tea – which, with all the cinnamon and nutmeg flavoring, happens to be one of my favorite drinks. She has good tastes in beverages, and I devour her mouth, savoring the deliciousness of the chai, as well as her kiss.
It only lasts a second longer, though. Paige pulls away, suddenly, and stares up at me with wide eyes and a strange look on her face. Having had just the smallest taste of her, I want more. A lot more. I lean forward again, but she puts her hands on my chest and holds me back.
“If somebody hadn't already beaten you up, I'd smack the shit out of you for that,” she says.
There's a smile on her lips that spreads to her eyes, and I know she doesn't mean it. I know she enjoyed it every bit as much as I did.
“If you hated it so much,” I start, “why'd you kiss me back?”
Her cheeks turn an unnatural shade of red. “I didn't – you just caught me off guard.”
“You know, there's nothing wrong with a kiss,” I say. “Lots of people enjoy them.”
The taste of her lips still on mine, as well the electricity and adrenaline coursing through my body fills me with a powerful, erotic energy. An energy that fuels a sudden desire to taste other parts of her. For the last ten years or so, I'd only been with one woman – a woman who, as it turns out, didn't deserve my loyalty. Brittany had been having fun and fucking every Tom, Dick, and Harry out there. And all the while, I'd remained a good, loyal husband to her, forsaking her for nobody else.
But now I am free. I'm free to explore wants and desires that had long been forgotten – but are now surfacing once again. Free to be sexual with anyone that I want. But, I'm finding that the only woman to catch my eye in that regard is Paige. She's the only one who really seems to light the fire inside of me.
“There's a lot wrong with it,” Paige counters. “Because I'm not interested in you like that.”
Her words feel like a kick in the nuts, but I'm not convinced by them alone. More than once, I've caught her looking at me in the same way I look at her. Maybe it's just a case of projection and she means what she says. But, I'm not a man who gives up that easily. I'm not a man who simply gives up when somebody says no.
I know I don't want to rush into anything serious. I know that dating someone else, so soon, is probably a mistake. For a lot of reasons. Mostly because I know I'm not ready to fling open the gates and let myself trust somebody implicitly again.
But, there's nothing wrong with exploring my interest in somebody. To see if it's valid and real. And if it is, there's nothing wrong with taking things slowly and seeing how it all unfolds and develops.
“I said – you caught me off-guard,” she continues to argue.
She's not angry as she speaks, and she's not condemning me – even though she's trying to act that way. I can tell that she's amused. Hell, judging by the way she's licking her lips and looking at me with that slow smolder in those beautiful dark eyes of hers, I swear she wants me to kiss her again.
So, I do.
I step forward and kiss her again. And just like before, her tongue and mine meet and I hear the soft whimper coming from her throat. Our tongues writhe sensually with one another in her mouth and her hands are on my chest, balled up into fists as she again tries to decide between pulling me closer or pushing me away. I can sense the struggle in her – can sense that she's fighting with some of the same things I am.
My heart is pounding as our kiss grows in intensity. This is the first woman I've kissed in more than ten years other than Brittany. And I want to savor it. Make it last. I don't want it to end.
As the fire inside of me burns brighter, I feel my cock stiffen and I want more. I take Paige's face into my hands, holding her in place, as I start to move lower. Her mouth tastes like cinnamon and nutmeg and she smells like it too. It's a delightful aroma as I plant a line of soft kisses down the side of her jaw and neck.
“Liam, please –” she groans. “I can't –”
“Yes, Paige,” I say, my voice thick with desire. “You can.”
I run the tip of my tongue along her collarbone, and her hands find their way to my hair. Her fingers grip my hair, encouraging me, kneading the back of my head as I continue moving lower. I stop, for a moment, just to look up at her. She's biting her lip and watching me, a conflicted look on her beautiful face. I can see the war raging within her – her passion and desire versus her reserved nature.