Not About Love (This Love Book 2)

by Hilaria Alexander

  “I don’t know. He’s out with friends, I think. I’m telling you, I’m not too happy about it. He said he might not even come back tonight! I told him he better,” she fired back in her southern accent. “I’m already mad at him. He hardly ever comes around any more. We don’t see much of him at Christmas or any other time of the year. That boy has lost his way, I tell you!” She sounded frustrated, but I couldn’t help laughing. I also couldn’t help but find the similarities between his behavior and mine. I didn’t enjoy coming home that much either. Everyone I knew had moved on, and besides my parents, there wasn’t much left of my old life calling me back to Tennessee.

  I had specifically come back home for the holidays the previous year out of guilt, and this year I had decided to make the trek so I could spend some time with Ella. I especially wanted to see her play in the US since I had only seen her perform in little bars around Amsterdam.

  “Where is Boyd when you need him?” Lou grumbled as he and his father tried to make their way through the door with an enormous Douglas Fir tree. It smelled amazing, and the living room was instantly filled with the aroma of the fresh cut tree.

  After the two men got it upright in the tree stand, we helped Leanne decorate it.

  I hadn’t decorated a Christmas tree since I was in high school. Every time I went home during Christmas vacation, my parents’ home was already decked out.

  We spent the afternoon drinking spiked apple cider and lost track of time. By the time we put the last of the decorations up, we barely had time to go get ready before the guests would arrive.

  I was glad I had packed something dressier to wear. I stared at my reflection in the mirror and smoothed the viscose dress with my fingers, feeling a ping of excitement in my stomach thinking about what Boyd’s face would look like when he saw me in it. My happy mood, however, crashed and burned when I remembered his mother’s words.

  He might not even show up.

  Stop thinking about him. Screw Boyd. Why did I even care?

  Either way, I felt beautiful and confident.

  My dress was a bit flirtier than what I usually wore. It was bright red, had a sweetheart neckline that made my boobs look amazing—though part of that was due to the plunge demi bra I was wearing—and the knee-length flared A-line skirt showed off my legs. I put some makeup on, fixed my hair, and accessorized with a pair of statement earrings. I headed downstairs, trying to contain the butterflies in my stomach, and reminded myself not to have high hopes for the evening.

  * * *

  Mr. and Mrs. Rivers introduced me to a lot of their friends, but just as I suspected, Ella, Lou, and I were the youngest people in attendance. I struck up a conversation with an attorney friend of Leanne who had studied at Georgetown twenty years before I did, but soon found myself wandering around in the house and staring at pictures I hadn’t had time to look at before.

  I was also getting buzzed. I’d basically been drinking all afternoon and had now switched to brandy. I walked around the house and came across a wall filled with photos. I had seen the wall earlier in the day, but I hadn’t had time to look or study the pictures up close.

  My eyes fell on a picture of a much younger Boyd with some other guys and a girl who looked about the same age. He had long hair almost to his shoulders and didn’t have a lick of facial hair.

  In the photo, he was holding a saxophone.

  Boyd was in a band?

  One of the guys had a guitar strapped around his neck, another one was holding a bass guitar, and another was sitting behind a drum kit. Then there was the singer, a girl, holding a microphone. She was the one who stood out the most out of the bunch, as lead singers often do. She was pretty, her heart-shaped face framed by short blonde hair. Her features were highlighted by her red lipstick, and she was wearing a faded Nirvana shirt with a mini skirt and combat boots. She looked like the singer of a punk band. I was confused, because I didn’t think I had ever seen or heard of a punk band with a sax player.

  My eyes went back to Boyd, and I studied his expression. He looked so young, so different, but one thing was familiar: his scowl. Oh, teenage angsty Boyd.

  It seemed really strange, though. I had never heard him talk about music, even though music was such an important part of his family. There was always music playing in this house. I had noticed that the year before, too. That time, Lou and his father were playing a duet on the piano. Now, Ella joined them by singing the old Ella Fitzgerald tune the father and son were playing.

  I turned around and looked at the photo again.

  I wondered why Boyd had never said a word about it. He wasn’t the type of person to be shy about his accomplishments. I was shocked he hadn’t boasted about playing the saxophone. That alone would have gained some sexy points in my book—not that he really needed them, but still.

  There was just something about a saxophone that was hard to resist.

  I wondered if it was because sax sounded like sex. I giggled to myself, nursing my glass of brandy.

  I found a spot on the couch and sat down, listening to my friends play and sing. At some point, I must have zoned out, because I didn’t even realize Boyd had arrived. He started working the room, saying hi to everyone. It was only when he was a few feet away from me that I heard his deep voice and looked up.

  He found me on the couch and when our gazes locked, his eyes were brightened by the huge smile that stretched across his face.

  My heart started hammering against my rib cage, and I couldn’t stop the happy feeling spreading throughout my chest. His smile turned into a lusty, dark look when his eyes slid over me. He headed in my direction, but was stopped and greeted by a couple older ladies just a few steps away from where I was sitting. He was all smiles as they paid him compliments.

  “My oh my, Jackson Rivers, aren’t you the strapping young man?” said one of the ladies.

  “You sure have become quite the big boy!” said the other. I bit my lip, trying to contain my laughter, but I couldn’t stop it. Boyd kept stealing glances my way and was fighting a smile. He pointed a finger at me when the ladies weren’t looking. The mischievous look in his eyes told me he’d make me pay for laughing.

  Bring it on.

  He excused himself from the two ladies but they pulled him in for hugs and kisses, and even pinched his cheeks. I covered my mouth with my hand to hold back the giggles, but my eyes gave me away. He sat next to me on the armrest of the couch and acted completely nonchalant as he leaned toward me and whispered in my ear.

  “I see how it is,” he said, his voice low and gruff.

  “How it is? What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

  “You were laughing at me, Red!”

  “No, I wasn’t! I was laughing with you, not at you!”

  “Sure, sure.” He glanced down at me and peeked down to my neckline. Our eyes met again, and I saw in his eyes the same thing I was feeling: slow-burning desire.

  Now that he was so close and my head was swimming in his musky smell, it was even harder to act like I didn’t want him. Why did we keep falling into the same patterns? We were like magnets; we couldn’t stay away from each other.

  “I do have to say, this is a nice surprise.” He was staring at something in the room, but his words were for me. When I turned toward him, he gave me a knowing look. I let out a deep breath. His lips curled up in a delicious grin.

  He loved the fact that just a simple compliment got me all out of sorts.

  “Is it now?” I smiled, deliberately ignoring the subtext his sexy grin implied.

  “Yeah, don’t act so coy, Red. It is most definitely a nice surprise. In fact, if I’d had any idea you’d be at my parents’ shindig tonight, I would have shown up waaayy earlier.” I didn’t tell him I had been there the whole day, wondering where he was. I pressed my lips together and looked into my glass of brandy. I took a sip, but the warm liquor didn’t help me relax. I pulled my shoulders back, sat up straighter, and crossed my legs. I wanted to look confident and impertur
bable.

  Instead, my body language betrayed me.

  “Yeah, you liked that, didn’t you?” he asked, leaning his head in my direction. I could feel his eyes on me. “You like knowing I want you.” Even when he wasn’t speaking directly onto my skin, his voice felt like a caress. The deep sound of his voice alone made me shiver. I took another sip of brandy.

  “Bertie, look at me or people are going to think I’m harassing you instead of having a conversation,” he joked.

  I leaned back on the couch and started laughing. It was too much, too much. I was all over the place with my emotions and my reactions, and I was sort of drunk, too, which made it even harder to not look like a complete idiot.

  I glanced his way, and he had the biggest, goofiest grin on his face. It stretched across his face and reached his eyes. I loved it when he smiled like that.

  He looked like a completely different person, beautiful, untroubled, easygoing.

  “You look beautiful, by the way. That dress…is sexy as hell.”

  “Thank you,” I replied with a slight nod of my head.

  He gave me a once-over. “I’m particularly curious as to what you’re wearing under it.” His words made my breath hitch and I imagined his hands on me, possessing me like only he did.

  A few words, just a few words from him—that’s all it took for me to get worked up.

  “Bertie, don’t get mad, but I have to ask…what the heck happened to your hair?” he asked, stifling a laugh.

  “What? Is there something wrong with my hair?” I touched it and then remembered. I narrowed my eyes at him. “You jerk! I straightened it. You don’t like it? Well, bite me. I know I look good!”

  “You do look good. You look gorgeous, but I like your curls. I love playing with them, especially in bed.” He leaned down to say the last few words, and he was so close to my ear, the hair of his beard tickled my cheek. I squeezed my legs together. This was torture. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep playing this game without giving in. We were used to giving in to our impulses. We weren’t used to this restraint. His verbal foreplay was deliberately testing my self-control.

  “Not here, Boyd…not now. This is not the time or the place,” I told him with a steely gaze.

  “Why not? Come on, Bertie. Don’t shut me down. The evening was finally taking a good turn.” We stared at each other for a few seconds, both of us quiet in a room full of music and chattering.

  “Ally, you look awfully bored sitting here with my son. Would you like to dance?” Mr. Rivers asked, hand stretched forward, bringing me back to reality.

  I was about to refuse, but Boyd said, “Come on, Dad. Leave her alone.”

  “Son, you could learn a thing or two from your father…if you weren’t so goddamn stubborn.” I pursed my lips together, trying not to laugh.

  “I would love to dance, Mr. Rivers. You’re right, by the way. Some men don’t know how to entertain a lady.” I stood up and took Mr. Rivers’ hand, following him to the other side of the living room where most of their friends were dancing. I smiled at him as we took our place among them. I put my hand in his and my other one on his shoulder while his other hand went to the small of my back. Frank Rivers reminded me of both Lou and Boyd. He was as tall and slender as Lou, but while his youngest had gotten his mother’s hair and eyes, I knew from looking at old family photos that Frank Rivers used to have brown hair (it was now mostly gray) and brown eyes that looked exactly like Boyd’s. They even crinkled the same way at the corners.

  We danced in silence for a while, and I focused on the music. Lou had been in charge of making a playlist for the evening. He had made a mix of classic jazz and a few Christmas songs. I recognized the Cole Porter tune that was playing, and was relieved it was a slow song and not an upbeat one. My dancing skills weren’t all that.

  The room smelled like cinnamon and pine, thanks to the big, beautiful tree in the corner of the room and the festive candles lit throughout the house. The living room of the Rivers household had a cathedral ceiling with exposed beams. The walls were an ivory color and the beams a dark mahogany, creating a nice contrast. The wood floors were the same shade of brown. It reminded me of my parents’ home, although the living room of the house I grew up in had lower ceilings. We had a similar fireplace, but we hardly ever used it. The masonry style fireplace in this house, however, looked like it was on all the time. It complemented the Christmas decorations we had helped Ms. Rivers put up earlier that day and created a picture-perfect environment.

  “So, what is it you do in Amsterdam, young lady? You told us before you’re an attorney, but I can’t remember if we ever talked about what you do exactly. You’ll have to forgive me, my memory is not as good as it used to be,” Mr. Rivers said with a wink.

  “Oh, I don’t think we ever talked about it last year when I came over. You know those drug attorneys that will get you out of jail if you get arrested on possession of marijuana? Well, that’s what I do. You’d be surprised how many people manage to get in trouble with the law overseas on the grounds of marijuana possession…or other things. Tourists have this misconstrued idea of Amsterdam as a wonderland where everything is legal, but they’re wrong. You don’t know how often I get hired by some rich kid’s parents because their son had the brilliant idea to leave the Netherlands with a few grams of weed in his pocket…or worse.”

  “Oh, boy. It sounds like you have your work cut out for you.”

  “I do. I worked for another attorney for years, but I have my own practice now.”

  “That’s impressive. Good for you. What made you decide to move all the way to the old continent? Surely, you could have done the same type of work here. What was it about Amsterdam that made it so appealing to you?”

  “Well, it’s a very pretty city…and I always loved Van Gogh…and tulips. I fell in love with the place when I visited during my college years,” I said, trying to come up with all the excuses I could think of.

  “Sure, but there had to be something else. Everyone falls in love with Paris, but it doesn’t mean they all decide to move there. So, what did Amsterdam have that made it so special?”

  It was far, far away from here.

  “Can I cut in, Dad?” Thank God for Boyd’s intrusiveness. Apparently, answering questions about my past still made me uncomfortable. Even after ten years, that still hadn’t changed at all.

  “Son, you surprise me. I thought you weren’t interested in dancing,” Mr. Rivers said in a mocking tone. Boyd might have been a smartass, but he had nothing on his father.

  “Well, now I am,” Boyd replied in a not-so-playful tone. Why was he being so territorial? What game was he playing? I thought he was all about keeping things between us a secret.

  I smiled uncomfortably as Mr. Rivers frowned and looked between Boyd and me.

  “Very well. Ally, let me know if this one gives you any trouble.” He gave me a wink before he let go of me and I nodded.

  Mr. Rivers placed my hand in Boyd’s, and I was soon wrapped up in his familiar scent. Now that I was in his arms, his scent brought me back to the last time we’d laid together in a tangle of sheets. Oh, those days in Amsterdam last summer were my happy place. So much hot sex. So much bliss.

  I sighed and when I noticed Boyd staring at me, I locked eyes with him.

  His brows were furrowed, and he was looking at me with a certain curiosity. His brown eyes looked darker, his pupils dilated. They looked just as they had when he had been…turned on. My eyes fell to his lips, and his hand circled my waist tighter. My heart started beating faster, and my throat went dry. I wanted to just bolt out of there and get him naked at the speed of light.

  The guy was nothing but trouble. He arrived at the party, found me in the crowd, and set his sights on me as if I were his prey. Now I couldn’t wait for him to make me his again. Gosh, I sounded desperate. I shook my head and laughed to myself.

  “What’s funny?” I met his eyes and noticed the ever-present, beautiful but annoying grin. />
  “You know that song, ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’? I was just thinking it must have been written about you.”

  “Wish I could take the credit, sweetheart, but I’ve never met Taylor Swift.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Pretty sure that song was written about Harry Styles.”

  “Who’s Harry Styles? A singer?” he asked with a frown. Wasn’t he a social media wizard? How did he not know about the troubadour of one of the most successful boy bands ever? Then again, he was a guy, so he didn’t care about male heartthrobs. If Harry Styles had been a chick, he would have recognized the name.

  “Never mind.” I shook my head.

  “You’re right though, Red. If we had met, she probably would have written the song about me. I’ve been told I’m trouble more than once in my life.” He shrugged. “If the shoes fits,” he said with a smile. He let out a soft laugh, and I couldn’t help but laugh with him. The music stopped, and when the next song started, he wrapped me closer to him.

  He lowered his mouth to my ear and said, “How long do you think we should keep doing this?”

  “This? This what?”

  “Pretending we care about this party.”

  “Hey!” I said out loud. The couples around us eyed me, and I smiled awkwardly. I lowered my voice. “You might not care, but I certainly do. Your parents invited me. It would be really rude to leave.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean we should leave,” he said. “Just…you know…we could go somewhere more…private. For a little bit, at least.” He winked, and the way he looked at me made the blood rush to my cheeks. I hated how he made me feel all flustered.

  Normally I would have been able to turn down this kind of proposition, especially if it was in a bar, I was alone, and I didn’t know the guy very well. But, biblically speaking, I knew this guy very well, and I knew I’d have to be a fool to say no. It would be the equivalent of saying no to pizza. Who says no to pizza? No one, that’s who. Pizza is almost impossible to turn down.