Her eyes twinkled, but she said nothing.
He put both arms on the table and leaned forward, looking right into her eyes. “But that’s not the real you,” he said, his voice softer than before. “You could do that, and be very good at it, but you’d hate it. It’s not who you are.”
Her eyes widened a little, her lips parted in surprise. Her attention was absolute, focused only on him, and he liked the feeling.
“No, there’s too much passion in your eyes. Too much mischief to do anything so tedious. Given the clues you’ve already provided, it would have to be something more creative than that. Something -” he paused for effect, leaning forward even more, dropping his voice even lower, “... not so respectable.”
He saw her swallow. The smile still played about her lips, but she was less sure than she had been. A bit of anxiety showed in the tenseness of her shoulders. He had her now. His voice was barely audible. “You’re a Dominatrix, aren’t you?”
For a moment, her eyes got really huge. Then she laughed. Not a polite chuckle, either, but a real, hearty genuine laugh that had her shoulders shaking and filled his chest with sunlight, made him feel like he really had just won a great prize.
“Come on,” he winked, “you can tell me. What do you have under that sweater? Leather bustier? Lace corset? Whips? Chains?”
It made her laugh even harder until she had tears coming out of her eyes and she was gasping for breath. Jesus, he loved a woman who could laugh like that. And the fact that he was the reason behind it? Even better.
“Oh, God, Adam,” she said when she could speak again, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed so hard. Thank you for that.”
He grinned back. “So I’m right, right?”
“Not even close,” she chuckled. “I’m a writer.” Next to Dominatrix, it sounded pretty damn tame.
He snapped his fingers. “Damn. So close.”
In that moment, his mind snapped a mental picture of her. Eyes sparkling, smiling at him, radiant. She was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. His heart even skipped a few beats to emphasize that thought.
It shook him a little. “So what’s so bad about being a writer?” he asked, sipping his coffee, trying to regain his equilibrium.
“Nothing,” she said, as the laughter faded away and some of the uncertainty coming back into her voice. Adam didn’t like it at all. “Unless you write fiction.”
“Worked pretty well for J.K. Rowling, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said slowly, looking down at her mug, tracing the handle with her index finger. He noticed she did that when she was feeling a little nervous. “But I don’t write about boy wizards.”
“What do you write about?” he prodded.
She didn’t want to tell him. He could sense it, practically see the battle raging behind those pretty green eyes. Finally her features went carefully neutral, a self-defense mechanism if he ever saw it.
“Vampires. Shifters. Angels and dragons. Medieval Scottish Highlanders. Navy SEALs.” She exhaled, afraid to meet his eyes. “I write romance novels, Adam.”
Chapter 8
There. She said it out loud and braced herself for his reaction. A laugh. Perhaps an awkward cough. Followed by either a polite suggestion to call it a night or a poorly veiled offer to help her with some “research”. But as the seconds ticked by in silence, he didn’t say or do anything.
Was he shocked, then? Stunned into silence because he’d thought she seemed like such a nice, intelligent, sensible woman? Or maybe he was taken aback by the fact that he could have been so wrong. Holly felt the color creeping up her neck, hating that she still cared so much what other people thought.
No, not other people, she corrected. Him. Because, she realized, she really liked this guy, and for whatever reason, his opinion mattered.
Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore and raised her eyes. Adam was watching her intently, his face relatively neutral but his eyes sparkling with ... something. What was that? Interest? Amusement? Panic?
***
Holy shit, he thought. That look. Those eyes. Like someone already found guilty and awaiting a sentence, knowing it was going to be bad but determined to take it with some dignity. She was waiting for his reaction, actually worried about it. Since she didn’t seem like the type of person to care too much what other people thought, perhaps (dare he hope) that he was different in her eyes? That she might be feeling the same unexplainable spark he was and care about his opinion?
“Do you like it?” he asked.
She blinked, nonplussed. “Like it?”
“Yeah. Do you like writing romance novels?”
“Yes,” she admitted warily.
“Does it pay your bills?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are among the fortunate minority who enjoy what they do for a living. It’s not really work if you enjoy what you do, right?”
“Right,” she agreed, but her voice still held a trace of doubt. That hint of vulnerability tweaked something primal inside of him, something that appealed to his inner caveman. Without conscious effort, this woman was drawing him in farther and farther, and she didn’t even know it. “What about you?” she asked, tossing the ball back into his court.
“I, too, am pretty fortunate. I love what I do.”
“And what is that?” she asked, her eyes less doubtful now and sparkling with ... mischief? “You’re not a Dom, are you? A real-life Christian Grey?”
“More like Ty Pennington,” he chuckled, but the idea of dominating this particular woman had taken hold in the back of his mind. It was an effort to remember that he was in a public coffee shop with a woman he barely knew. “I renovate old houses. The older the better. They-don’t-make-them-like-they-used-to types. Real stone from local quarries. Huge, hand-hewn beams. Hardwood floors instead of sheets of plywood, plaster walls instead of drywall –“
He paused, giving her a sheepish look, when he realized he was running on. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “I love old houses. So much so that I even bought one.”
Another tweak deep inside. Was that genuine and – dare he think it – shared interest? “Yeah?”
“Yeah. A small stone cottage. Built in the late 1700s, or so they say, replacing the original building destroyed in a fire in the late 1600s. I’m still doing the research on that. Used to be part of a much bigger estate.”
His eyes grew huge. “Not the gamekeeper’s cottage on the old Penn estate?”
She nodded. “Yep, that’s the one. You know of it?”
He laughed. “I do. I was actually hoping no one would buy it for the asking price and I’d pick it up for a song.” He shook his head in disbelief. Any moment now he was going to wake up. “Tell me. What’s it like? The inside, I mean.”
***
Was he really interested, or just being polite, she wondered? She loved her place; Liz often told her that when she talked about it, she got this dreamy look on her face. That was usually when Liz admitted to zoning out. Holly didn’t want to bore the man to distraction, but he might as well know up front what he was dealing with. He’d handled the “I’m a romance writer” thing better than expected, and he had already admitted that he had a penchant for old houses as well.
Maybe he was asking out of professional rather than personal interest, then? Inwardly, she shook her head. It didn’t matter. He was interested, and she liked being the focus of his interest, motivation be damned.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s been upgraded over the years, of course, wired for electricity and fitted for indoor plumbing, but it’s retained its old world charm. Needs a lot of work, though. I’ve been there nearly six months and I’ve barely made a dent.”
An idea formed in her head. So far, this man had managed to ace every question on her mental male potential quiz, which was a first. Plus she liked him enough to want to see him again. This might be the perfect way
to do just that without actually asking him out. Whatever genetic trait predisposed her to sappy, alpha-male type romance novel writing also prevented her from taking the initiative in situations like this.
“Adam, would you be interested in seeing it? Maybe you could offer some professional advice? I want to keep as much of the original look and feel as possible, and I’m afraid I don’t really have a clue.”
He didn’t answer right away. A few seconds ticked by in silence, feeling more like minutes, and with each one, Holly’s disappointment grew. Things had been going so well; she should have just kept her big mouth shut. Obviously, she’d misread the situation. The only thing she could do at this point was backtrack and try to regain some of that easy back-and-forth thing they had going on before she ruined it by pushing too hard.
***
Several things were going through Adam’s mind at that point. The first was that he loved the way she said his name. Her voice was pitched just a bit lower than average, and she tended to speak softly, so every time she did, it sounded like a lover’s address. The second was that she’d bought the old gamekeeper’s cottage, which meant that she had excellent taste and they shared a common interest. And the third, the one that stole the breath from his lungs, was that she was actually inviting him over to her place. It might be purely professional, or it might not. Either way, she had managed to ask so that his inner caveman wasn’t in the least offended.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sure you’re very busy and -”
“I’d love to.”
She blinked, her eyes snapping back up to his. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, they were intensely blue, darker than they were just a little while ago. Those eyes were borderline hypnotic and blatantly powerful, and if she wasn’t careful, she could easily lose herself in them. “You would?”
“Absolutely.” Those blue eyes continued to bore into her, holding her captive. He said yes, which meant she hadn’t messed this up (yet) and he wanted to see her again too.
“That would be great!” she said, trying desperately to sound like the mature adult woman she was and not some crushing teen. She mentally ran through her calendar for the week, which was kind of silly, really. The only thing that was ever on her schedule was her weekly GNO dinner with Liz on Tuesdays.
He didn’t need to know that, though. Let him think she had a very busy, rewarding social calendar. “Um, what works for you?”
“Pretty much any night is good for me,” he said, apparently having fewer self-confidence issues than she did. “Except for Wednesdays. I’m in a pick-up league at the YMCA with a couple of the guys I sub-contract with.”
It was Sunday evening. Monday was too soon; she’d seem too eager, plus she wanted a chance to clean the place up a little (living alone didn’t provide a lot of incentive to keep things spic and span). Tuesday and Wednesday were out, and if she suggested Friday, it might come off like too much of a date (and he probably had plans anyway). He seemed interested, but she didn’t want to push her luck.
“Thursday night?” she asked.
She felt the effects of his slow smile all the way down to her toes. “Thursday night it is.”
Chapter 9
As each day passed, Adam convinced himself more and more that he must have missed something. No woman could be that perfect for him. Holly was close to his age, well past the silly girl stage but not too old to have fun. On the quiet side, but intelligent and funny. Beautiful and sexy as hell. Self-sufficient, but not unapproachable, and willing to ask for (and appreciate) help. Plus she liked kids, dogs, and historic homes?
And that wasn’t all. They’d sat and talked for hours, and it had been so easy. He loved the way she said his name. Her voice was pitched just a bit lower than average, and she tended to speak softly, so every time she did, it sounded like a lover’s address.
She’d bought the old gamekeeper’s cottage, which meant that she had excellent taste and they shared a common interest. And - the one thing that stole the breath from his lungs - was that she had actually invited him over to her place on the premise of getting his professional opinion. It might have been purely professional, or it might not. Either way, she had managed to ask so that his inner caveman wasn’t in the least offended.
Of course, there was the fact that she wrote romance novels and was apparently well-versed on vibrators, but he tried not to think about either of those things too much. She certainly seemed down to earth, and as far as he could tell, she didn’t seem to be holding him to any unrealistic expectations. If anything, she seemed even more cautious than he was.
He rubbed absently at his chest as he poured himself another bowl of cereal. Yeah, he must have missed something, because no woman that good would still be available.
“Why not? You are,” Brandon said, breezing into the kitchen.
Adam shot his nephew a look, then nearly groaned when he realized he must have been muttering his thoughts out loud. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. Normally, he tried to keep his private thoughts just that, but perhaps he could use the kid as a sounding board. Thanks to his own big mouth, Brandon had the gist of what was going on anyway.
“What do you know about her?”
Brandon shrugged, snatching the milk and pouring himself a glass. “Not much. Her full name is Holly Noelle McTierney. Her birthday is December 25th, hence the name. Grew up about fifty miles southeast of here. Writes romance and paranormals. Currently has five books published, available online at B&N and Amazon. Never married, no kids. One dog, Max, which she rescued about a year ago.”
At Adam’s gaping stare, he grinned wickedly and added, “Oh yeah – and she has dinner with her friend every Tuesday at Applebees, is an excellent tipper, and doesn’t believe in the possibility of five minute orgasms.”
“How do you know all this?”
A smirk. “Ever hear of Google?”
“You Google’d her?”
“Well, yeah. I knew you wouldn’t do it, and someone’s got to have your back, Uncle Adam. Oh, and she has a Facebook page, too, for fans of her work. Based on some of the comments posted out there, it’s pretty steamy stuff.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he slung his backpack over his shoulder and snatched an apple from the bowl on the table. “You might want to check it out.”
***
“Holly?” At the sound of the deep male voice, Holly gripped the cell phone a little tighter.
“Yes? Adam?”
“Yeah. Listen, about tomorrow...”
Holly braced herself for what would come next. She’d been expecting it, but as each day had gone by, she allowed herself to hope a little more. She’d made it all the way to Wednesday, but now he was calling to cancel.
Oh well, she lamented, searching for the positives. At least the cottage got a good (and much needed) cleaning. And the anticipation of seeing him again had done wonders for her creativity. She’d finished off that historical she’d been stuck on for two months and made significant progress on two or three others.
“Yes?”
“I was thinking maybe I could pick up something to eat on the way. I won’t have time to grab something after work. Unless you have other dinner plans, that is,” he added hastily.
He wasn’t canceling? He was offering to bring dinner? She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it.
“Holly, are you there?”
“Um, yeah, I’m here,” she said, leaning against the counter and bringing the phone back to her ear. Max looked up at her and blinked. “Sorry. That would be great, actually.”
“Do you like Chinese?”
“I love Chinese,” she admitted.
“Great. Anything I should avoid?”
“I’m not big on seafood.”
She thought she heard a sigh of relief. “Me neither. So I’ll see you about six?”
“Six is good.”
Holly hung up the phone and did a little happy dance right there in the kitchen. “He’s still comin
g, Max! And he’s bringing dinner! Chinese food!”
Max’s ears perked up in interest. He knew the words “Chinese food”; the dog loved it almost as much as she did.
Chapter 10
Well, the cottage looked about as good as it was going to. The floors had been swept and Swiffered, the area rugs beaten and aired out. The wood was polished, shelves dusted. She didn’t have an abundance of furniture, but what she did have was vacuumed and treated to a clean-smelling fabric refresher. Max’s toys had been picked up and deposited in the baskets she had in each room, though he was quietly emptying them every time she wasn’t looking. A vase of fresh flowers – picked from the garden out back – sat on the table, and a subtly scented vanilla candle burned in the kitchen, mixing with the aroma of the lemon cream cake she’d baked that afternoon. It wouldn’t win any featured pages in House Beautiful, but it looked neat and cozy, and smelled clean and inviting.
Holly changed her outfit no less than six times before deciding on a pair of comfortable but stylish leggings and an oversized tunic T that was both slimming and managed to give the illusion of being a little taller than her actual diminutive height. It was casual, but a bit nicer than the pajama pants or ancient but oh-so-comfy faded jeans she normally hung around the house in.
With a final spritz of light white musk – her favorite fragrance, she checked her hair one last time. She opted to leave it down, but slightly tamed it with a thin, flexible hair band that she hoped said “I like you, but I’m not trying to impress you”.
Which was total bullshit, of course.
The sound of a truck making its way up her gravel driveway sent a flutter of butterflies through her stomach. Max’s ears perked up and he moved to the big picture window, pushing aside the lacey curtains with his nose to get a better look. He glanced back at Holly questioningly.
“It’s okay,” she confirmed, peeking out from the side. “That’s Adam.”
Accepting this, Max went back to looking out the window. The doorbell rang a few seconds later. Holly closed her eyes and counted to three (she didn’t want to seem too anxious), then wiped her sweaty palms on her leggings and opened the door.
Five Minute Man: A Contemporary Love Story Page 4