Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1)

by Nicole French

  He looked so innocent sleeping there. Once again, I started to wonder if I had been too hasty in leaving him there on the tarmac.

  Another massive snore erupted from the back of his throat, causing me to break my own silence with giggle. Immediately, he woke up, tossing his head around as if looking for someone.

  “What, who now?” he blurted out, causing me to giggle again. When his sleepy gaze landed on me, it softened visibly, and I immediately felt a familiar throb between my legs.

  “Hey, Red,” he said groggily as he sat up from the crushed sofa cushions and rubbed a hand blearily over his face.

  I stifled a smile at the nickname. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know I liked it.

  “Hey yourself,” I replied warily. “You looked pretty comfortable. I’m sorry you had to wake up.”

  He gave a warm smile fraught with sheepish charm that caused my insides to melt a little bit. I wondered if he knew the effect his smiles had on me. He had to. There was no way he didn’t know.

  “I forgot you wear glasses,” he said.

  I raised a hand self-consciously to the edge of my thick frames and smarted slightly. “Yeah. Sometimes I don’t feel like putting in contacts.”

  “You look cute in them,” he said with another small smile, this one cautiously flirtatious. “I remember thinking that last time I saw them.”

  He was nervous. It was utterly disarming. I tried to ignore the flutter that rose in my belly at his words. I fixed a blank look on my face, praying I wouldn’t blush and betray the treacherous thoughts flying through my mind. “How did you get in?”

  He shrugged, but I could see his shoulders tense up. “It wasn’t that hard to follow someone in and pretend I was a student. I wish you had better security in this building, Red. Especially since you’re hanging out in soundproofed basements by yourself at night.”

  I raised an eyebrow. I didn’t need him to hassle me every damn minute about my safety. Controlling much?

  “I, um, brought you this,” he said, interrupting my negative train of thought.

  He pulled a telltale, robin’s egg-blue box tied with a white ribbon from the pocket of his jacket and held it out to me. The was slightly too big to contain what usually made girls in movies go crazy, but it obviously held some expensive trinket. A bracelet, maybe. Or a small pendant. It was exactly the box Patrick would have given me after he fucked up.

  Just like that, the flutter was gone.

  I glared the box for a moment with a frown, but refused to take it, forcing him to set it on the coffee table in front of him. When I looked back up at him, his eyes were wide, guileless, waiting hesitantly for my reaction.

  I sighed. Maybe I wasn’t opposed to knowing him, but these kinds of things made it impossible to date him. “What are you doing here, Brandon?”

  He pressed his lips into a crooked line and frowned, confused. “Well, I was listening to some gorgeous piano playing. I knew you only play for fun, but damn, Red. I think you might have chosen the wrong profession.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the closed top of the piano behind me, determined not to be distracted. “Don’t change the subject.”

  He sighed and leaned forward onto his knees, using one hand to brush away the hair curling over his forehead.

  “I take back what I said about your potential as a litigator,” he said dryly. “I suspect you’d make any witness on the stand sweat bullets with that glare.”

  I didn’t blink. “Just answer the question.”

  “Can’t be distracted either.” He sighed again and looked up with an expression that had morphed to a curious mix of desire and sorrow. I found myself gripping the edge of the piano to prevent myself from crossing the room to sit next to him. Or straddle him. Or, as I noticed the blue box again, smack him. Visions of what he had done to me in my apartment flew through my mind, and I crossed my legs tightly. His eyes zeroed in on the slight movement, and that his impish half-smile spread slowly across his face. Yeah, he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on women.

  “Something on your mind, Red?” he purred.

  “Brandon,” I said sharply, ignoring the heat building at my core. “Answer the fucking question. Or I’m leaving.”

  He huffed petulantly and leaned back again into the couch. “Fine. I’m here to see you. Obviously.”

  “Okay. I’ll be more specific. Why are you stalking me in my dormitory at midnight on a Sunday night? I haven’t seen or heard from you in over a week. I told you explicitly not to contact me again. And now you sneak in here bearing gifts? It’s creepy.”

  He nodded, as if in agreement. “Yeah. Well. I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t even going to call you again after that shit you pulled at the airport. I’ve never been treated like that by anyone, especially not by people I take to Paris.”

  “So you have done that before!” I triumphed with a finger pointed at him. “I fucking knew that was game!”

  “Ah, shit! No, that’s not what I meant!” He exploded forward, slamming his hands onto his knees. “A, I told you I’m shit at dating. I’m sorry I got it wrong. I seem to keep doing that with you, don’t I? But B, you deserve the best I can offer. A charter to Paris for the evening or a weekend away in Barbados. Why shouldn’t you take it? It’s not like you get these kinds of things tossed your way all the time.”

  “And how would you know that?” I snarled.

  Was he really pissed just because I wouldn’t take his stupid, moneyed bait? Because I wasn’t willing to drop my panties at the sight of an outrageously expensive jet or a Tiffany’s box? I conveniently ignored the fact that I had already done so without the gifts.

  “Is it the same way you found out I lived in Paris for a year? Or the same way you figured out my address? You’ve managed to learn all these things about me before I even told you about them, but since you don’t actually talk directly to me, you don’t know a fucking thing about what I actually care about! I suppose I should be oh-so grateful to receive such generosity from you, right?”

  I punctuated the last comment with a sarcastically mimed kowtow, but his only response was a withering looked that only infuriated me more.

  “1809 K Street, Brooklyn,” he recited. “Last date of purchase was in 1949 for just under seven grand. No known remodels since then, although I hope for your family’s sake you at least bought a better refrigerator.”

  Before I could bite back a reply, he continued. “I’ve seen where you grew up, Skylar, because you let me walk you there. Yes, I looked up the information, because I make it a habit to look up new people in my life. It’s sort of become a habit in my life since people regularly try to scam me.” He sighed. “I met your dad, and it wasn’t even our first date. You haven’t even let me have a fucking first date with you! But as for the gifts, I think I know at least a little something about where you come from. Maybe I’m off, but last I checked, city garbage collectors who moonlight as broke jazz musicians don’t exactly make bank, not for New York, and I doubt your Grandpa, a disabled cop and gambling addict, made a whole lot more.”

  I glared, seething from where I stood. “You don’t know the first thing about me or my family. You spent a couple of hours tagging along with me in my old neighborhood, had some PI look into my history, and you think you know everything about me? Let’s just be honest here, Brandon. To you I’m just some piece of ass you want to slum it with for a while, and you want to know what you’re risking. What’s next after the trip, huh? You gonna set me up with a nice condo on Beacon Hill, like you promised, baby? Give me a black Amex to go shopping on Newberry? It’s a no-win situation for me. If I say no, I’m a frigid bitch, and if I say yes, I’m just a gold-digging whore. You’ve never once thought that I just want to go out on a date with you like a normal fucking person!”

  He winced visibly at my last words and shook his head. “I promise you, I do not think of you that way, Skylar.” He grimaced, suddenly mad all over again. “Besides, I have some money, and I like to sha
re it. So what does it matter if I would do any of those things for you? It’s no different from one of your law school buddies buying you a beer. It doesn’t fucking matter to me! Plus, it’s not like you’d take them for the gifts they’d be anyway!”

  “That’s because they’re fuckin’ insulting!” I was glad that we were in the basement of the building and not where my classmates could easily hear me exploding, Brooklyn accent and all, through the thin walls of the complex. “I’m not your Pretty Woman, Brandon! I’m not some townie who’s looking for a sugar daddy! This might come as a surprise to you, but your money doesn’t fuckin’ impress me!”

  Brandon shot out of his seat then, and stalked toward me like a big cat he resembled so strongly at times. With his thick halo of golden hair, blond stubble, and ferocious expression, he was the spitting image of a lion in his prime. I fought the urge to cower as he approached close enough to brace his hands on the top of the piano behind me, forcing me to crane my neck to look up at him, emphasizing just how much taller than me he really was.

  “Then what does impress you, Skylar?” he asked, his voice low, and so quiet that I had to strain to hear him. “Most people are falling over themselves the minute they enter my house. You practically sprinted out of there. Most women would jump at the chance to be swept off to Paris for the night, but you slapped me in the face. Most girls would have torn into a Tiffany’s box like a fat kid at in a candy store. But you won’t even touch it. So what’s gonna do it? How do I get in there?”

  He pushed one large finger into my chest, forcing me to lean back more into the edge of the piano. His Boston accent had started to emerge more and more as his frustration mounted, echoing my own more prominent Brooklyn cadence that had emerged in my anger. For a brief moment, I could see him as a young kid, living in one of the shitty row houses in Dorchester. Tired. Hungry. Bruised. Alone.

  “Why do you want to know so badly?” My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be, and I struggled to maintain eye contact. He smelled so good this close, and I wanted more than anything to yank his face down to mine and kiss him with everything I had. All of this melted away when we touched each other; it would be so easy… If I weren’t trying to stand my ground, maybe I would have done it.

  He sighed again, then leaned in slowly and carefully. He pressed his forehead softly into mine.

  “I can’t stop,” he whispered hoarsely with his eyes closed. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t explain it but…I know you feel it too, don’t you? This connection? I walked into my house three weeks ago with a couple of colleagues, expecting to talk business over brandy and bore myself to sleep. Instead I felt like I had been thrown under water when I saw you sitting at my window. I couldn’t fuckin’ breathe, you were so beautiful.” His hands floated to clasp my face gently as he pulled away just enough to meet my eyes. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”

  We stood there for at least five full seconds in complete silence, staring each other down, sizing each other up, blue eyes to green, blond head leaning down to blazing red. He looked so vulnerable, this savvy businessman, the most cutthroat attorney in Boston, big time venture capitalist, freaking out like a child. His eyes were desperate, searching my face for some sign of recognition that he wasn’t going crazy. I gulped.

  “Yeah,” I finally answered. The admission was like a dam had been released, and my hands slipped up to rest on his shoulders as if by their own accord. “Yes. I feel it too.”

  He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead again into mine as he exhaled a long, audible sigh of relief through his nose.

  “Thank God,” he breathed just before pulling my face to meet his own in a long, sweet lingering kiss. My hands instinctively rose to tangle themselves in his hair, already a mess from his hands running through it while we fought.

  After several minutes, he finally pulled away and leaned back against wall next to me, leaving me barely perched on the edge of the piano. I slid off it, breathing heavily beside him. One of his hands lingered on my waist, as if he couldn’t bear to break our contact.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pushing one hand back through his hair. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  “Yeah, you’ve said that. It’s…getting old. You make it sound like you’ve never been with a woman before, but I know that’s not true.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Red, no. I’ve been with plenty.”

  I fought my inward cringe at the idea of him screwing half of Boston, and made myself nod. “Yeah, I know. It’s kind of obvious.”

  “Don’t be like that,” he said with a brief frown. “I just haven’t tried to be close to anyone. Not for a really long time. I told you, my life has been my work pretty much since I finished law school and started the firm and my company. That was…well, it was a while ago. I haven’t had time for a relationship. I haven’t wanted one. Not until I met you.”

  He ran a hand again through his hair again, and I fought the urge to grab his hands just to calm him down.

  “How do I explain it without sounding like a pushy psycho?” he asked with a rueful half-grin.

  “Oh, I think you crossed that line a while ago.”

  He expression grew suddenly serious. “I’m not crazy, Skylar. I’m just at a loss here. My life…it hasn’t always been that great. I just wanted things to be like…the movies, you know? Like a dream. Because by the time I invited you to stay the night at my house, I already felt like I was dreaming. I wanted you to feel that way. I suppose I thought things like that,” he gestured helplessly back at the box on the table, “would help.”

  I cocked my head, surveying him. He seemed so earnest; it was getting harder and harder to doubt him. I realized I didn’t want to doubt him anymore. I just wanted to let him in.

  “Well,” I said finally. “It won’t.”

  “Because it’s a game?”

  “Because it’s manipulative,” I agreed. “And because it’s not what I want. The only place I like to play games is in the bedroom.”

  “Oh, really?” His grinned at me lasciviously, but I swatted him back.

  “I’m being serious,” I said. “Are you?”

  He was quiet for a moment, then looked up at me, all joking firmly set aside.

  “Will you tell me what you want?” he asked, his eyes tired and pleading. “So I don’t fuck this up again? I’m running out of chances here.”

  I smiled, and reached out to touch his cheek. He immediately turned into my hand, pressing his face into my palm with a sweet caress.

  “I just want you,” I said plainly, feeling my heart dance a bit just at the simple acknowledgment. A weight I’d been carrying for the last several weeks lifted. I shouldn’t have fought the truth of it for as long as I had. “I want to know who you are. What’s important to you. What bothers you. What entertains you. What you hate. What you love. And I want you to learn those things about me by earning my trust, not by having some weirdo compile a file on me and my family.”

  “It wasn’t a weirdo,” he interrupted lamely. “I just made a couple of calls, and the sale of house is on public record. Even I have limits, you know.”

  I just folded my arms and stared at him. “You follow me or not, Sterling?”

  He stared back at me for a minute, and I searched his features, trying to read them. Just when I was about to turn away, he nodded.

  “Okay,” he said. “I can try to do that.”

  He pushed off the wall and took my hand, leading me down the hall and up the stairs to the lobby, where he turned to face me again.

  “Will you give me a chance to make it up to you?”

  I pursed my lips. “I think that could be possible.”

  “Will Friday work? I have to go out of town on Saturday, and I’ll be gone for a week. I don’t want to wait until I get back”

  Friday. Shit. I’d already agreed to a date with Jared. Whose lips felt a little like rubber and whose hands felt like wooden tongs.

  “Sure,” I said. “I can
do that.”

  Brandon breathed an audible sigh of relief, and leaned down and kissed me lightly, this time only on the cheek.

  “Eight o’clock, then. I’ll pick you up here,” he said, and turned to leave.

  I watched him walk out to the street, and it wasn’t until he was about to duck into the Mercedes that I remembered something.

  “Wait! Brandon!” I called as I pushed open the thick glass door.

  He turned, alarmed.

  “Your, ah, present! You left it on the table downstairs. I’ll run and grab it for you.”

  He shrugged, and waved my offer away.

  “Keep it,” he said. “Sell it if you want and pay your rent. Or leave it for someone else to find. You were right about it anyway.”

  Was he serious? He wanted me to forget about a gift that likely cost him thousands of dollars?

  “Red,” he called softly. I looked back at him.

  “The next time I give you a gift, you can bet it’ll be for you,” he said. “I’d prefer it if that’s the first one you get.”

  And with that, he slid into the back seat of the car and rumbled away, leaving me wondering what kind of gift that special might be in my future.

  ~

  Chapter 18

  I arrived to the FLS offices a bit early on Wednesday with an extra bounce in my step, though I tried to tell myself it was because I had a check for twenty-eight thousand dollars in my purse to donate and not because my second first real date with Brandon was in two days.

  “Wow.” Kieran peered at the check with both of her finely tweezed eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline. “Are you sure about this? I know you’re not like most of these Harvard brats, Skylar. No doubt you could use the money, if just to put toward your student loans.”