Snagging a Styrofoam cup from next to the microwave, he placed it by her elbow. “Might be a little cool. I bought it maybe forty minutes or so ago, but coffee is coffee, right?”
I’ll love you forever.
This time, Lizzie kept the words to herself even as she guzzled half the deliciousness. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
She lowered her arm, balancing the cup on her knee. “What do you mean, the least you can do?”
A playful grin hitched the right side of his mouth as he took the stool opposite hers. With his backward hat and naked chest, he looked like every Southern boy Lizzie had ever fantasized about while growing up. Put him next to his pickup truck and light a bonfire, and you’d have girls flocking left and right for a slice of his attention.
Her exes couldn’t even compare.
“Gage.”
More of that sexy smirking. “I wanted to make you feel better.”
Lizzie pressed the coffee cup to her chest. “And it’s much appreciated.”
“You didn’t throw up on two people.”
Relief sank her shoulders, her chin dropping to her chest. “Oh, thank God.”
“You threw up on three people.”
Her head jerked up to gape at him. “Three?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He plucked a crisp piece of bacon from their communal plate and popped it into his mouth. “You were a hot mess last night.”
He could say that again.
She’d always been a lightweight, but this was . . . this was awful. She could never show her face again at that club, no way, no how. It didn’t matter that she’d never been there before anyway. Someone could offer her a hundred-k, and she’d turn her back without a second thought.
“I think I’ve lost my appetite,” she said weakly, fiddling with her knife as she set the coffee on the granite counter. “I’m so sorry. All that and then you took care of me? You deserve a medal of honor, a plaque, some sort of reward.”
“Oh, trust me,” he said, that wicked smile curving his mouth again, “I got my reward.”
“You did?”
With his fork, he pointed at her face. “This right here? That’s my reward. You didn’t throw up on a single person, Lizzie. Not at the club, anyway. I became a casualty on the ride home, though. Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.”
She wasn’t sure which was worse: believing that strangers had been the victims of her alcohol-induced night or that Gage had been. For that matter, she couldn’t believe that he’d pranked her.
When he reached for his next strip of bacon, Lizzie batted his hand away and stole it for herself. “You’re a jerk.”
“A sexy jerk.”
Her heart thudded. “I didn’t say that.”
“Your eyes did it for you.”
He was driving her insane and her head still pounded like the devil and she needed coffee. After depleting the cup, she countered, “My eyes aren’t on speaking terms with you right now.”
Dropping one forearm to the counter, Gage oh-so-casually drank his orange juice and then murmured, “Your nipples are.”
Her nipples . . .?
She glanced down, and sure enough, the girls were on point. Literally. Crossing one arm over her chest, she stabbed her fork in his direction. “I probably shouldn’t be surprised that you’re a boob guy.”
“No, ma’am,” he drawled in that almost Texas-twang of his, “full disclosure, I’m all about the butt. But, see, I’ve already had my hands all over yours. The same can’t be said for your breasts, so I can’t help but . . . notice them more frequently.”
She couldn’t help but narrow her eyes and suspiciously ask, “You didn’t cop a feel when you undressed me last night, did you?”
“Nah, undressing was all your own handiwork.” Standing, he retreated to the fridge again and poured more OJ into his glass. This time, he brought the jug back to the table to fill her empty glass, as well. She didn’t want to be charmed by the way he moved about, taking care of her, but it was impossible. Retaking his seat, he added, “If you don’t believe me, check out the tags on the clothes. T-shirt, backwards. Shorts, backwards. I tried to convince you to let me lend a hand, but you were stubborn to the end. Showered on your own, changed on your own, passed out on my bed on your own.”
“And you slept . . . where?”
He indicated the living room behind her with a tilt of his chin. “Couch. Trust me when I say shoving my six-two frame onto my sofa was not my finest moment.”
Guilt gripped her. He’d done so much for her: meeting her at the nightclub, despite the fact that he hadn’t looked at all like he’d wanted to be there; bringing her home after the alcohol (and her sloshed body) had decided to ruin everything.
“I don’t even know how to make it up to you.” Her hands came up, palms to the ceiling. “Do you do this all the time? Permanently indebt people to you?”
“It’s a special talent of mine.” He gave her a two-finger salute, and then doused his pancakes with syrup. “But there is something I do want to know.”
“You can have the last bacon strip.”
Heart squeezing at the sound of his husky chuckle, she watched as Gage pushed the bacon plate to her side of the island. “Have it, princess, there’s more where that came from. But no, what I want to know is why you let yourself fall off the deep end yesterday. Not that we’ve known each other for that long, but you don’t strike me as the type of person who willingly gets tanked.”
Fact.
Lizzie had never been the girl who danced on table tops or dealt out lap dances like cotton candy. That wasn’t her. Sure, there’d been a few instances over the years when she’d drunk an extra glass of wine she could have done without. But getting sloppy? No. She was the girl who went out of her way to make other people feel comfortable, whether that was by hanging out with them near the food table so they weren’t alone or even by dancing exclusively with her girlfriends after a friend’s bad breakup.
Seeking comfort, she grabbed the last bacon piece and snapped it in two, handing the larger half to Gage. “It was a long day,” she muttered in a low voice. “Actually, it’s been a long month.”
“Because of your ex?” He didn’t sound jealous, merely curious.
And that curiosity encouraged her to want to open up to him; her friends might be biased but Gage Harvey was not.
Maybe she needed a purely objective look at her mangled life.
“In part.” Taking a sip of her juice, she set it back on the counter and swept a fingertip around the rim, thinking. “You were right in the coffee shop, about my job being everything to me. It is, one-hundred percent. My love for makeup, as silly as it might seem, gave me a lot of opportunities. I’ve traveled around the world, and I’ve collaborated with a lot of brands because they want ThatMakeupGirl’s face on the packaging. It seems ridiculous and utterly ungrateful to feel like—”
“You’re tired of being ThatMakeupGirl?”
“Yes. No.” Lizzie shook her head, and then scrubbed her palms over her eyes. “Jeez, I sound so all over the place, which is sort of the problem.”
Her heart leapt when Gage’s fingers encircled her wrist and pulled her hand away from her face. “Walk me through it, then.”
“Why do you even care?”
His expression twisted, mouth flat-lining. “Pretend that I do, princess.”
She pulled her hand from his grasp. “So, you don’t?”
“Lizzie.”
Fine. He wanted to keep with the status quo. Casual. Make-believe. She got it, loud and clear. “I don’t feel as though my life belongs to me anymore. I’m whoever social media wants me to be that day. The angry ex-girlfriend. The dumb bimbo playing with makeup. I don’t think I noticed it as much when I started out—the glitz and glam lifestyle awed me, you know?”
“I’m sure it was a bit like a drug,” he said in a low voice, “the more you experienced it the more you craved it.”
“Yes!�
� Lizzie sat on her hand to keep from offering up a high-five. “Yes, that’s exactly it. My friends were in college or working jobs they hated, and I was traveling all over the world. It was amazing . . . it’s still amazing, but at some point, it grew old. My friends married and had kids, and had something meaningful.”
“Marriage isn’t everything.”
The way he said it . . . Lizzie cocked her head, watching as he averted his dark gaze and gathered their empty plates.
Tentatively, because she didn’t want to run him off, she rose from the stool and came around the island, purposely putting herself in front of him. His eyes went wide and his jaw clenched, but she suspected his reaction had less to do with her and more to do with whatever memories were replaying in his head.
She took the plates from him and set them in the sink. “You’d mentioned before about spending your weekdays in Hackberry and your weekends here in N’Orleans. Were your parents divorced?”
In the time that it took for her to rinse their two plates, there was only silence. Then he stepped forward, the heat of his body pressing up against her side as he grabbed a towel off the counter and rubbed the dishes dry.
“They separated,” he finally said, catching her by surprise, “when Owen and I were nine. We’d grown up in N’Orleans until then, but Mom was from Hackberry and after they decided to go their own ways, she figured small-town living was the best way to go.”
Lizzie knew all about separated parents. The arguments. The fights. She swallowed hard, remembering the way her father had drank to excess and worked out his rage on her mom and brother.
She distracted herself from the memories by retrieving their glasses and rinsing them out. “But you saw your dad on weekends?” she asked. “That must have been nice, at least.”
Better than what she and Danny had survived. Even though she’d been young at the time, it was impossible to forget the matching bruises on her brother and mother’s faces. Lizzie’s father had never touched her, not once.
Not that she’d ever fooled herself into thinking that the Danvers patriarch had just loved her more. No, she had Danny to thank for every instance that she’d been sent to her room, forced to hear the sickening sounds of flesh pounding flesh with her ear pressed to her bedroom door.
Danny had saved her time and time again, although he’d been only two years older.
Beth, their mother . . . Well, the best day of Lizzie’s life had been the moment Beth and Josh Cartwell had met. A Lieutenant for the NOPD, Josh was the perfect companion for her mom—and, yes, the best stepdad Lizzie could have ever hoped for.
Until they’d wed, Lizzie had fully believed marriage was a first-class ticket to hell.
Maybe it still was, but nowadays she was keen on finding a companion to sit next to her on that trip.
At the sound of the cabinets closing, Lizzie sighed. It was too bad Gage wasn’t a forever kind of guy. He ticked all her boxes and then some—and somehow managed to look like your mama’s worst nightmare while still being a complete gentleman.
A sexy juxtaposition to the very end.
“Yeah, we saw my dad.” Gage tossed the towel back on the counter again and then pressed his hip up against it. Arms folded over his chest, he watched her intently. “You open for a little advice?”
“Go ahead,” she said, matching his pose. His T-shirt draped shapelessly around her like a sack, and his basketball shorts were so long on her that it looked like she wore a skirt. Black eyes dropped, lingered a moment longer than was socially appropriate, and then lifted again.
“Go with your gut. If you’re feelin’ the need to cut down your time in front of the public, then why are you still worrying about it?”
“Because I’ve . . .” The words caught in her throat. Because why? She thought of every excuse she’d given in the last few months, and all of them sounded rehearsed. Condensed. Shadowed and silenced to everyone but herself because she worried about being labeled as ungrateful.
“No answer?” he prompted, his brows lifting as though he’d expected her exact response.
Lizzie let out a self-conscious laugh. “You weren’t lying when you said you’re a straight shooter.”
“Own your shit.”
She blinked. “What?”
Gage nodded, then drew off his LSU hat and tossed it on the counter behind him. Both hands raked through the dark strands, tugging on the ends in that increasingly familiar way of his. “That’s what my dad said to me and Owen growing up. Own your shit. We heard it at least once a week, usually after we got into a lot of crap whenever we came into the city.”
Own your shit. Lizzie liked it, a lot. “Your dad sounds like a smart guy.”
“He was.”
Was? Her heart dropped at the implication, and she stepped forward. “Gage, I’m so sorry—”
He shook his head curtly and moved back, away from her touch. “All I’m saying is if you want to make a change, Lizzie, no one’s gonna do it but you. Life’s too short to be worn down by regrets.”
With her hands at her side, Lizzie attempted a small smile. “For a bad boy, you’re pretty damn good, Gage Harvey.”
His muscled chest moved, turned away, but not before she caught a telltale flush warming his cheeks. “Keep that to yourself, princess.”
“Please don’t pull the cliché card and say you’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
“Well, if it’s true . . .”
“I’ll fake-dump you.”
He rested his hands on the kitchen island and assessed her. “You already fake-dumped me, remember? When you said that you didn’t need me or my dick?”
Now it was her turn to blush furiously. “Well, I don’t think that—”
“Maybe one day we can have makeup sex, but for right now”—he leaned forward, tempting her to do the same—“I’ve got to go protect the citizens of our beloved city. And you’ve got a job to do, too.”
Quitting YouTube? Lizzie shuddered with dread. “I can do this.”
He gave a short nod. “You can do it.”
“You should really stop being nice to me.” Or else I’ll fall for you for real.
She expected him to laugh her off, to crack a joke.
She didn’t expect for him to invade her space—again—or to lift his palm to her face. Hard callouses abraded her cheek, and she felt the distinct press of his thumb to the corner of her mouth.
“No can do, Lizzie,” he rasped, staring down at where he touched her. “Being nice to you works for me.”
“Because you want in my pants?”
“Because I like the way you look at me, even though I sure as hell know I should stay far, far away from you.”
And then he pulled away, leaving her bereft of his touch, his warmth, and Lizzie knew only one thing: she may have approached him because of his tattoos and his rugged looks, but it was the innate goodness in him that made her want more.
That goodness and the startling heat in his gaze whenever he glanced her way.
15
Sunday dinners were a tradition in the Danvers-Cartwell family.
Lizzie couldn’t remember when they’d started—maybe when Danny had returned from overseas during his marine years. That had been over a decade ago, and the dinners were still going strong.
Nowadays, they had two new additions: Jade and Rocky, the serial leg-humper.
In all honesty, Lizzie wasn’t sure whom Beth Cartwell loved more—her daughter-in-law or her first “grandchild,” no matter that the latter was a four-legged police dog.
Case in point: the way her mom crooked a finger at Rocky, patted her curvy thighs, and whispered, “Who wants a treat? Does Rocky want a treat? C’mon, baby boy, let’s get you something good.”
Lizzie traded a glance with Jade, who sat at the kitchen table.
“Beth,” Jade said, “he really shouldn’t be having any treats, especially not when you’re going to sneak him table food later.”
Like any bad liar, Beth gave an affronted hu
ff. But Lizzie’s mother was too kind, too sweet, and so she only cracked open the pantry door and said, “But look how adorable he is! Let him live up to his only-child existence, Jade. A few more months and he’ll be taking second seat to Amelia.”
“Elizabeth,” Lizzie threw in, eyeing the K-9 when he, in turn, cast a glance at her leg. She shifted and tucked her legs under the table, just so he wouldn’t get any ideas. “We all know the baby’s name is going to be Elizabeth, after her favorite aunt.”
Jade laughed, touching a palm to the side of her belly. “Don’t let Nathan hear either one of you. He’s convinced that we’re going to name her Sophia.”
“Of course we are,” said Lizzie’s brother as he strolled into the kitchen, their stepfather, Josh, hot on his heels. “Sophia is a beautiful name.”
Angling her body so that Rocky couldn’t be seen by the men, Beth tossed up a dog treat and gave a silent clap of her hands when he caught it. Then, loudly, “Oh, Rocky, you know your father doesn’t like it when we overload you on treats. One per visit, Rockster, one per visit.”
Her mother was nesting, hard.
“Ma, don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.” Danny dropped a hand over her shoulder, stealing the treat bag out of her hand and holding it up high. Rocky’s dark eyes rose with his father’s arm, latching onto the goodies without even a blink. “How many times have I told you? Rock’s K-9; he isn’t like other dogs. He’s—”
“You were saying, honey?” Jade pointed at the police dog, who’d rolled over onto his back, four paws stuck in the air, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He squirmed back and forth, a clear sign as any that he was playing up the cute factor, even if he had the ability to make grown-ups pee themselves in fear whenever he was out in the field. “The boy knows what he wants.”
“Dammit.” With an exaggerated sigh, Danny opened the treat bag and stuck his hand inside. “All right, Rockster, let’s show ’em all what you’re made of.”
With a command from his master, Rocky rose onto his back legs and gave a little hop-hop, front paws landing on Danny’s thighs. He yipped once, parked his butt on the floor, and then lifted one paw.
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