Unworthy Of You (The Spring Rose Bay Series Book 2)

by K. L. Jessop

  “So, what's the deal with your house?” he asks, dishing up the omelette.

  “The deal is I have no bathroom or hall ceiling, no water and everything’s a fucking mess.”

  “Jesus.” He places my supper in front of me and pulls out a stool to sit down. I thank God that he’s left a space between us: being too close would cause the ache between my thighs to surge.

  “Lucas went crazy when I told him. I’m surprised he isn’t up on a murder charge the way he kicked off about Uncle Richard.”

  Andrew laughs, already aware of the way my brother can behave. “It’s good that he’s protective.”

  “I know, but he forgets I can stand up for myself.”

  “True.”

  I watch him as he eats, that scruffy solid jaw moves with such control. “So how long will it take them to fix it?”

  I can’t make out if he’s generally interested or if he’s counting down the days until I’m gone. That’s if I’ll be here then, he’s not actually stated how long I can stay.

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem. The guy working on it said because of the water damage to the structure of the roof space, it could be weeks.”

  He holds my apprehensive gaze, and once the realisation of my words settle, his brows lift. “I see.”

  “Andrew, as soon as Amelia is back, I’ll go. I promise.” Now I’m the one that’s nervous. “Or there’s always Jack; he’ll be back after this weekend.”

  “Megan.”

  “Or my office should be ready soon. I can stay there until my house—”

  He takes my elbow causing heat to blaze throughout my body. “You can stay here. I have the room.”

  I still can’t work out why he’s doing this. Rewind twelve hours and we’re doing nothing but bickering. Now I feel like I’m in some twisted dream, and when I wake I’ll be on the beach, homeless with sand in my mouth.

  “Thank you.” I smile. His eyes hold mine before they fall to where he holds me and he soon recoils as though I’m toxic.

  Standing from my seat, I take my plate to the sink, trying to brush off the sexual tension that lingers. “That was amazing, thank you,” I say as I turn on the tap.

  “If you’re even thinking of washing up, don’t.” His voice is firm, but when I turn his face is relaxed as he makes his way towards me.

  “But you cooked.”

  “And you’re my guest. Go sit. I’ll take care of it.”

  This gentleman side is strange. I’ve witnessed it when we’re with others, but not with me. Tonight is the most pleasant he’s been towards me in months. The mean, strong-headed business man has been left at the hotel, and the one that works his way around the kitchen is now relaxed, welcoming and warm. It’s abnormal how he has this arrogant front he insists on using. Most men with that temperament would be long gone by now because I’d have tired of them, but the fiery banter we bark at each another keeps the sparks flickering as they wait to catch fire.

  I pour us both another glass of wine and watch, amused at what he’s doing. “You know your way of taking care of it is cheating, Mr Harris.”

  He looks over at me confused, and I nod towards the two plates and frying pan he’s currently stacking in the dishwasher. His low laugh spreads warmth in my chest as he continues to load the shelves. “When the house was built, the kitchen was designed for a dishwasher, it looks a little strange one not being there.”

  “Is this the part where you admit to only using it once a week when you’ve finally used all the dishes in your cupboards?”

  “I hope this conversation is confidential,” he jokes.

  “Ha! I knew it,” I grin. “Your secrets safe with me.”

  “I appreciate that. Wouldn’t want the others knowing all my bad habits.”

  “You mean there’s more?” He laughs in reply as he continues clearing up.

  I walk to the window of the living room, letting my feet sink into the soft carpet. The lights from across the bay light up the skyline in a line of fire, and I know even without observing, the early morning view will be spectacular.

  “So, is this one of Marcus’ properties?”

  “No. I bought it out-right years back but had him help me in the redesigning.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “A little over ten years.”

  “It’s an amazing house.”

  “I fucking hate it,” he says under his breath as he joins me by the sofa. I’m unsure if it was meant for me to hear but I question him anyway.

  “How come? It’s out the way, which is what you seem to like isn’t it?”

  A look appears on his face as though I’ve said the wrong thing. He doesn’t answer at first. He just looks down at his glass with an expression that seems to trouble him.

  “I like my space, yes, but I’d rather be at work than here.”

  I curl my legs up and get comfortable. “Why?”

  He sighs. “Because it doesn’t do anything for me anymore. It doesn’t feel like home. It’s just a shell.”

  “So why stay? Sell up; start anew.” A man with his wealth shouldn’t even have to question it. He could go anywhere yet form some reason has chosen not to.

  His smile is apprehensive; his head falls low. “It’s not that simple. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “What is there to understand? You don’t like the place so change it. You can do anything, sell up and restart.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Will you just stop?” He glares at me with dark eyes, and just like that I’ve pushed the detonator that wiped-out Mr Nice Guy and revealed his attitude once again. “I offered you a place to stay, Megan, that doesn’t give you the right to come in here and change my home and crawl your fucking way further into my personal life.”

  “What?” I’m shocked. “Andrew, I didn’t mean—”

  “Save it. I’m not interested.” He gets up and makes his way to the kitchen, throwing back his drink before rinsing out the glass.

  I sit confused. I don’t understand what I’ve done, coming here and changing things was never my intension.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Andrew, wait.” Wanting to sort this, I quickly leave the sofa to block him in the doorway. His body immediately brings up a barrier between us, hard and defensive as though he’s protecting himself from me.

  “I never meant to upset you,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes are solely on the floor but I need them on me.

  “Look at me, Andrew.” My voice has no strength as my body now pounds for his desire. “Please, look at me.”

  When we finally connect my breathing stills. His eyes are clouded with something untold. There’s a vulnerability in them that makes my heart ache. I was wrong before, he’s not been broken; he’s been completely shattered.

  Our bodies rapidly become two beating hearts battling against each other as my nerves scream for his touch. His jaw is locked tight and I can’t take my eyes from his. They’ve quickly become my security and I want nothing more than mine to be his.

  My hands reach out and lightly press his chest, sending electric charges through my body which I know he too experiences when his eyes slam shut.

  “Megan…” he whispers, turning his head from me as though he’s afraid of my touch. But the trepidation in his tone is enough for me to step closer. I don’t want him to feel this way—this anxiety of having someone close; having me this close. I want to protect him. He needs me to step away, but the closer I am, the more he draws me to him.

  I place a finger on his jaw and turn him to face me, his eyes still shut. Reaching up on my tiptoes, my hands slide up his chest to the back of his neck as I lightly place my lips to his. His breath hitches. He resists at first but doesn’t pull away, he just lets me caress his mouth with slow meaningful moves. When our tongues finally meet, I feel a tremble cascade throughout his body.

  A whimper escapes my throat as the warmth of his hands t
ravel around my waist, resting one on my lower back, the other glides up at the nape of my neck. I vastly become lost in him.

  A first kiss with a man has never been like this for me before—a kiss so tender it’s as though our touch will heal the wounds that lie within him. This kiss is not the Andrew I thought I knew. This is the kiss of a man with a desire to adore another, but for some reason fears it. But this is not my first kiss with him, and even though it’s different, it’s just as captivating as the last.

  He breaks the connection, resting his cheek against mine as his hot breath hits my ears. His hands on my body remain in place, his fingers stroking my skin in little circles as my heart pounds against my ribcage. I need more, I ache for him. Only it’s clear he doesn’t feel the same when he whispers. “Get some sleep.” Taking my wrists in his hands from around his neck, my stomach drops and my heart feels heavy, but what hurts the most is the feeling of rejection when he leaves me standing alone and breathless. A new wave of emotion cascades over me and I fall back against the wall. He may not want me now, but I know he’s fighting. And I know now more than I ever have that I need to find a way of breaking through that steel wall and unearth the man I know hides underneath.

  Chapter Ten

  Andrew

  My body is on fire, and my dick is as hard as steel in my hand as I vigorously stroke out the memory of her tongue dancing with mine.

  That shouldn’t have happened

  But I never wanted it to stop.

  Making her mine is a line that cannot be crossed, because I know once I touch her I won’t be able to hold back, and I don’t want her a part of my world—my world where I will eventually break her, regardless of whether I intended to or not.

  I can’t have that for her.

  Once my release hits, I groan in relief. My shoulders fall and my body has that feeling of ecstasy for a few minutes before the familiar one I carry comes hurtling back like a train wreck.

  After I clean myself up, I sit in my chair at the foot of the bed and slowly watch the night pass through the large glass windows of my bedroom. The ticking of my bedside clock is the only sound that fills the silence while the only light that creeps in is from the crack underneath the door. My chest is once again tight with that familiar anger, which always seems to lay dormant until nightfall. It’s as though it burns to the surface because I’ve somehow managed to survive another day. That’s when I come in here: my place of solace, my place of indignity in a dark room where my life’s demons get another chance to rip me apart, reminding me of what a fuck up I truly am.

  No matter how I act around others each day, I can’t escape the feeling that conceals me on the inside.

  I'm angry.

  I'm angry at life… the people of my past… myself… her… and it exhausts me.

  There was never any companionship in the silence at first. I found it hard to receive after a short time in my life of having nothing but sweet music and sunshine, with a future to look forward to. But all that soon washed out with the tide, like everything else in my shitty life, and over time I’ve learned to live with it. That phrase ‘a person can be different behind closed doors’ is one that speaks true in my world. I only show people the man that walks the hotel floors:

  Confident. Possessive. Arrogant. Harsh.

  People think I’m an arsehole—and they’re right—but they don’t know shit about me. They don’t know what I’ve witnessed, or what I grew up with. They just judge and assume. They don’t know me at all.

  A worthless excuse of a human being with a stone heart and no respect.

  That’s what I was always told.

  It was my earliest memory of my mother’s words when I was just a five-year-old boy longing to be loved. The real man behind all the business suits and attitude is completely different. He was once a true romantic who loved to show women the importance of who they were. Only that man became even more damaged and non-existent many years ago, and I struggle to recognise who the real Andrew is nowadays. Broken and damaged almost sounds pathetic when I’m now the one that inflicts hurt on others, a ritual I seem to carry out daily without caring how I go about it—a ritual I can’t seem to change even if I try.

  But then one night, when the woman on the opposite side of my bedroom door pressed her lips to mine, she changed everything, and that flicker of hope that had been buried for so long began to stir. Just like it has done ever since.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I’ve treated her like crap to try to get her out of my head, but now I’ve gone and given her an open ticket to stay in my Goddamn house, and a hint of who I truly am. I’m such an idiot. What’s worse is that I like her being here. The minute she stepped foot through the door she changed things. She’s made the darkness of my home brighter in just a few hours. I never realised how good it felt just to talk to someone again whilst in the comfort of my own home. I stopped such connection years ago when I was left, burned by a woman and her selfish behaviour. That’s when I closed myself off, shut myself away, never to be available again…

  until now… until her.

  Clasping my chest, I try and breathe past the tightness that’s currently squeezing every muscle inside me. My body feels foreign with the new feelings, thoughts and desires that are running through, burning their way to the surface. They’ve become so deep I’m struggling to know how to deal with them.

  I need a drink. I stand from the dark space of my chair and I leave the bedroom, the brightness of the hall light causes me to squint as I head towards the living room. The need of a whiskey is calling as another night of insomnia invades my body.

  I throw back the first shot and pour another, desperate for it to ease the tension in my chest and the desire that’s infesting. A faded orange hue shines through the living room windows to form shadows on the furniture and wall from the illuminations of the town. Shadows used to scare me when I was a kid: the large oak tree that was outside my childhood bedroom used to create monsters on the ceiling and anxiety in my stomach as the wind howled around the outside of the house. Annie used to tell me that I was stronger than any monster and just by closing my eyes I’d win the battle before anything even started. Now, I sit amongst many shadows at night with my eyes wide open.

  A soft moan catches my attention. As I turn, I can’t help but smile when I notice Megan. Just like I found her in the early hours of my office this morning, she’s asleep on the sofa, curled up in a ball and looking a little cold.

  Does this woman ever sleep in a bed?

  Taking a seat on the coffee table in front of her, I once again absorb her features. She’s too beautiful to not look at. Her hair has sagged in a messy bun causing fine strands to fall over her eyes. Her pink lips are slightly parted, while her phone is slack in her hand. When she kissed me, I went right back to that night, six months ago, when she made me remember how good I felt with her on me. She made me forget about everything that suffocates me and earlier was no different. But it wouldn’t last. Good things like that never do. I reach out to gently tuck the lose strands of her soft hair behind her ear. The light shining through the window highlights the fine band of freckles on her nose as I stroke my knuckles over her cheek.

  “So, beautiful,” I whisper.

  I was hard on her earlier. Her awareness to my private life, no matter how small, creates ice to form in the pit of my stomach. I don’t feel I can leave this place because by creating that change would cause the mind to forget of what brought me here to begin with, and I don’t feel as though I deserve to forget. I shouldn’t have the right to move on. However, I can visualise different things when Megan is close, and I can’t understand why after all these years that’s happening.

  I’m in two minds whether or not to leave her here, or carry her to her room. I’d do anything to just lay beside her now and make her feel safe and protected. Or maybe I’m the one that craves those feelings—to have her beside me so it’s me that feels safe and protected in her arms, because that
’s how I felt when she kissed me.

  Taking the blanket from the back of the sofa I cover her, removing her phone from her hand and placing it on the table beside me.

  “Andrew….” she whispers in a moan.

  Fuck, my name sounds good on her lips.

  I’m unsure if she’s dreaming or if she’s in fact aware of my presence, but I automatically reach out to stroke her hair again. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t help but touch. I'm usually in control, always focused, but when she’s around, I'm stripped bare and weak.

  Taking her hand in mine, I brush my thumb over her knuckles as her breathing drifts back into a peaceful slumber. She looks like an angel. “You’re making me falter on a battle I’ve fought hard against for years, Megan,” I whisper. “And I don’t know how I feel about that.”

  I feel so exposed, yet she knows nothing. She’s an issue I should be moving away from, but I know it’s not going to be that easy because the more I fight to push her away, the more I’m desperate to keep her close.

  Chapter Eleven

  Megan

  I’m brought out from the depths of sleep by the sunrays on my skin and the smell of fresh coffee and body wash. I had the most beautiful dream, although I feel I could still be in it as I listen to the movements of the man that invades my thoughts faster than I can keep up with them. I can still feel the tingle of him on my lips, his sweet flavours on my tongue, and even though he’s not too far, I miss him.

  I stretch my body and turn to sit. He has his back to me in the kitchen as he prepares coffee.

  “Good morning. I’m sorry. I must have crashed before I got to bed,” I say, coming to a stand. At first, he doesn’t respond, and that familiar feeling of rejection starts to kick in, but it subsides when he turns. He’s made us coffee.