“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.
“I’ve just never seen you dressed like a lumberjack.” I bite my lip, my core pulsing. If his agents were outside doing a perimeter check and there weren’t all of these windows, I’d jump him right here, right now. “It’s getting me all …”
Fanning my face because it’s suddenly grown twenty degrees warmer in here, I can’t take my eyes off him. I knew Keir looked like an Adonis in a three-piece Tom Ford suit, but who knew he could rock the Bounty paper towel guy look just as well?
“This?” He points to his outfit. “This is what’s doing it for you?”
I nod. He strides toward me, placing his hand beneath my chin and tilting my face toward him, my lips mere inches from his.
I’m letting go.
I’m giving in.
My chest swells, my stomach swirls.
Keir presses his mouth against mine, hard and greedy, and his hands slip into my hair. Working his mouth lower, he peppers kisses along my collarbone before tugging at my shirt.
“Wait,” I say, breathless as I glance at the windows.
With that, he makes his way around the cabin, yanking on the plastic shades and locking the door before rushing to my side.
“We have to make this quick,” he says before his lips return to mine and his hands work my jeans zipper. I reach for his, grazing the outline of his hardness before freeing it from the constraints of his silk boxers.
Keir’s hands slide down my sides before he lifts me into his arms and carries me to the scratchy plaid sofa in the center of the living room.
I tug at his shirt. He tears at my panties. Within seconds we’re naked and he’s pulling me into his lap, his hands pressing into my hips as he grinds beneath me. Circling and rocking, I feel his bare shaft against my pussy, wishing I could feel all of him inside all of me.
Maybe someday soon.
Massaging my breasts, he takes a nipple between his teeth, gently grazing the pert bud before kissing it.
“You’re everything,” I whisper. “You know that?”
He stops caressing me long enough for our eyes to lock, and then he answers me with a kiss, his fingers wrapped around the nape of my neck, his tongue swirling with mine.
The outside world doesn’t exist when I’m with him, and he’s so good to me. So thoughtful and attentive.
For the first time in weeks, I’m truly happy, and it’s all because of him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Keir
Rowan stands over the stove Monday evening, sautéing vegetables, a glass of white wine in her hand. She’s been quiet today, which is unusual seeing how the weekend was almost fucking magical.
For two full days, Rowan and I lived in the moment. We fished in my great grandfather’s lake. We swam naked. And at night, we watched the stars from the dock. I’ve never taken a woman to the cabin before. Most of the ones I’ve spent time with have preferred five star restaurants and Manhattan penthouse suites to the great outdoors.
But not Rowan.
She’s down to earth, laid back, and probably the easiest person I’ve ever had to be around.
The entire weekend she went with the flow—when she wasn’t jumping my bones. Girl’s got a serious lumberjack fetish that came out of absolutely nowhere.
But there’s something different about her.
She hasn’t been overly clingy lately. She hasn’t been committing every relationship faux pas in the book like she’d been doing the last couple of weeks. It’s almost as if she’s detaching herself from me, and I’ve spent the better part of today replaying the weekend and asking myself if it was something I said or something I did to make her pull away.
I’ve got nothing.
“Smells amazing,” I say from my favorite chair.
She doesn’t hear me. It’s like she’s in her own little world.
Checking my phone while I wait for dinner, I find a new email from Connor.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: You’ve been quiet lately …
Hey. Haven’t heard from you in days. Just checking in to see how it’s going with her? We’ve had to move up the announcement thanks to Dick McDickwad. Is she on board with everything yet? Does she know you’re running against her ex?
Glancing up, I see Rowan’s still busy in the kitchen, and I tap out a quick reply.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: You’ve been quiet lately …
First of all, why don’t you text me like a normal person? Second of all, things are going well, but no, I haven’t had a chance to tell her yet. Waiting for the right time. Will keep you posted.
To be honest, I’ve been dreading having to tell her. She mentioned over the weekend that she couldn’t imagine living her life chained to a team of Secret Service agents, rambling on about how she needed her privacy to stay sane.
Guess that was the one thing Connor’s team didn’t do their research on when they found her.
She wants nothing to do with the spotlight.
“Dinner’s ready,” Rowan calls from the kitchen, carrying plates to the dining table.
I meet her there, topping off our wine chalice and taking a seat across from her, separated by flickering candles.
It’s funny how a couple of months ago, a quiet night at home would’ve been pure torture.
Now it’s kind of nice.
And I haven’t so much as thought about Goldsmith or my usual haunts.
“Looks amazing,” I say, digging in. It’s only when I’m halfway finished that I realize she hasn’t touched hers at all.
Placing my fork aside, I dab my mouth with a linen napkin and clear my throat. “Rowan, what is it? You’ve been—”
“I got the job.” Her eyes lift onto mine. “The consultant position with Calloway Corp.”
Fuck.
“Are you going to take it?” I ask.
“I want to,” she says. “Out of all the jobs I applied for, this is the one I wanted most. But …”
Her voices trails off and she glances down into her lap. This isn’t like her.
“But what?” I ask. I’d be lying if I said a small part of me hoped that “but” has everything to do with me.
“I’m still thinking about it. I asked him to give me a couple of weeks to decide.”
“And he’s going to do that?”
She nods, reaching for her wine. “He said he would, yes.”
“That’s great.” And it is. This buys me more time to convince her not to take it.
“I’d be leaving DC,” she says, as if I didn’t already know. She told me about this position weeks ago, one night when we were lying naked in bed, basking in our post-orgasmic highs. She rattled on about how she wanted to travel the country, spend a little time here, spend a little time there. Her face lit when she spoke about it.
Folding my napkin and placing it next to my plate, I’ve lost my appetite. If all of this has been for nothing …
Rising, I make my way around the table, going to her, pulling her into my arms.
“Try not to think about it too much,” I say. “Two weeks is plenty of time to decide what you want to do.”
For a moment I hold her, and I imagine how it would feel if she left and never came back. Just the thought of all of this going away leaves a cannon-sized void in my chest, rendering me almost breathless.
Lowering my mouth to hers, I breathe her in and hold her in my arms. The fact that this decision is already weighing so heavy on her is a good sign in my favor. All this time today, her silence and moping had to do with this … having to choose her career or me.
And here I thought she was losing interest when it was quite the opposite.
Rowan likes me.
Just like I knew she would.
And I have two weeks to show to her the feeling is mutual, which shouldn’t be hard because, goddamn i
t, it is.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rowan
My apartment smells … unlived in.
And I suppose it should. I’ve been spending nearly every waking moment the last couple of weeks with Keir. But today he had some meetings and errands and I was craving a bit of space to clear my head, so I decided to come home.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in years.” Hannah dunks a chip into a plastic cup of queso as her eyes are fixated on the Iron Chef marathon we’ve been binge watching all day.
She stopped by around noon today because she was up the street getting her hair done and it’s fall break and she’s bored, but mostly because she missed me.
“Can we talk about this job situation?” I ask. I filled her in the second she walked in the door, but she seemed more concerned with scarfing down her lunch than dissecting my dilemma with me.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” She grabs the remote and pauses the show.
“What do you think? About everything?”
“I think the fact that you’re hesitant about taking the job means you like Keir,” she says. “So now you just have to figure out how much you like him. Do you like him enough to divert your freaking career? That’s a big decision. I don’t envy you.”
She munches on another tortilla chip.
“Guess your romance wasn’t so un-real after all, was it?” she asks. “Can we just take a second and have a moment of silence out of respect for the fact that I totally called this?”
I try not to laugh. This is a serious conversation.
Taking a seat on the edge of the sofa, I shove a pillow under my arm and stare at the wall, thinking about Keir and all the things I’ve come to like about him. For instance, when we’re together, I’ve yet to catch him looking at a single other woman. He dotes on me, does little things to make me happy like ordering my favorite yogurt and letting me choose which side of the bed I want to sleep on. Hunter never did those things. Hunter was always all about himself, even in bed. Correction—especially in bed.
But my job is my ticket out of here. My chance to do what I love, the way I want to do it.
“If I choose Keir and this entire thing blows up in my face, I’ll regret it the rest of my life,” I say. “But if I choose the job, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering how things would’ve turned out for us.”
“Either way, you win a little and you lose a little,” Hannah says. “Let me put it this way. There are millions of jobs out there … but only one Keir Montgomery.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Keir
The brisk fall wind whips Rowan’s blonde waves across her face, but she tucks them into her plaid scarf all the while balancing her white mocha latte. She’s dressed in shades of aubergine and goldenrod, and she looks like autumn come to life.
Security flanks us, front and back, and the sidewalks are crowded for this time of morning, but still, it feels like it’s just the two of us.
Taking her hand in mine, I say, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
Rowan peers up at me. “Okay? Then ask.”
“There’s this charity gala next weekend,” I say. “I wasn’t going to go, but I think I should. It’s kind of a who’s who type of thing, one of the biggest events of the year. My parents will be there, ambassadors, a bunch of politicians who think they’re way more important than they really are … I’d love it if you’d come with me.”
She’s quiet.
“We should make this official, don’t you think?” I ask, knowing full well she hasn’t made her decision on whether or not she plans to take that job. “I’ve gone the last five years. Food’s amazing, bar is open, and there’s a live jazz band in the ballroom.”
Rowan stares ahead, eyes narrowing on a nearby park bench. “Can we sit for a second?”
I don’t like the sound of this, but I follow her and take her side.
“I have to tell you something,” she begins. My stomach sinks. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
My jaw tightens. This … this is unexpected. “In what way?”
“I meant what I said when we first met … about not wanting to be in a relationship,” she says. “And then I sort of made this wager with my sister. I told her I could scare you away by being too clingy because I didn’t believe that you’d changed, that you were the relationship type. So I did all these crazy things and they didn’t even faze you, and that’s when I realized that you really did like me.”
I bite my tongue, feeling like shit for a myriad of reasons.
All my life, I’ve always done what I’ve had to do and I’ve never felt a speck of guilt or remorse.
Until now.
“Anyway, at some point over the last several weeks, I started to realize I liked you too,” she says. “And then I got the job offer. It should’ve been a happy moment for me, but instead it made me upset. And that’s when I knew. That’s when I knew I was falling for you harder than I expected, harder than I ever wanted to, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.”
Taking her hands between mine, I contemplate my response. Now’s not exactly the time for me to come clean, not with the campaign about to launch. And hell, at this point, I don’t know that there’ll ever be a time for me to come clean.
Coming clean would mean losing her.
Brushing her hair out of her eyes, I pause. “Look. Go to the gala with me. Spend one last weekend with me before you make your decision. In the meantime, we’ll enjoy our time together and you can figure out if I’m worth staying for.”
If I push too hard, I might end up pushing her away.
“Do you want me to stay?” she asks, peering up at me through dark lashes.
“What kind of question is that?” I shake my head, eyes narrowing. “More than anything, Rowan. I’d give anything for you to stay, for us to be together.”
I kiss her sweet lips, and I’m bathed in a strange warmth, an electric sensation unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. And for the first time, my words aren’t bullshit and lies.
I want her to stay.
I want her to choose me.
Chapter Thirty
Keir
Rowan’s dress glimmers when she walks, and I watch from her kitchen as she leans close to a hall mirror and slicks her full pout in red lipstick.
She’s stunning.
Exquisite.
And so fucking sexy my cock is straining against the fabric of my suit pants, aching for me to rip that slinky little number off of her and take her right here, on the island countertop.
Instead, I contain myself, checking my watch. “You look absolutely gorgeous, but we’re running late.”
Rowan strides across her apartment, gathering a shimmering black clutch and stepping into a pair of pointy, red-bottomed stilettos.
As beautiful as this evening will be and as gorgeous as my date is, it’s laced in bittersweet overtones neither of us can deny.
Tomorrow’s the day she makes her decision … tomorrow we find out if she’s staying or leaving.
The last week and a half, we’ve spent nearly every waking minute together, avoiding heavy topics of conversation in favor of meaningless ones. We’ve joked and laughed and teased. Anything to keep our mind off of what was looming just over the horizon.
“There’s going to be a red carpet,” I tell her as I lead her to the elevator. “Lots of press. Cameras. Questions. If people don’t know who you are now, they’re going to after tonight.”
She offers a forced smile, and I know she’s not pleased about giving up her anonymity, but I know she’s doing it for me, and she hasn’t complained once.
Within a half hour, we arrive at the Kensington Ballroom, an elaborate and ornate two-hundred-year-old mansion-turned-event center in the heart of DC. Photographers are lined up outside velvet ropes that separate the red-carpet arrivals from members of the Associated Press.
Once outside the car, we wait in a line of foreign dignitaries and ambassadors and
old-moneyed benefactors with deep pockets and strong political affiliations.
The only reason I came tonight was to network, to see and be seen.
Slipping my hand along her lower back, I lead her down the red carpet, stopping to pose every few feet. Rowan doesn’t break a sweat. Her smile is sweet, her posture as classy and poised as the diamond necklace adorning her décolletage.
“You doing okay?” I ask, leaning in.
“Of course.” She smiles and we make our way inside.
Passing a classic pianist playing on an antique grand piano in the oversized foyer, we make a beeline for the main ballroom where social hour is only just beginning.
At the front of the room on a wooden stage stands my parents, looking like some king and queen reigning over the festivities.
“We should say ‘hi’ before we make our rounds,” I tell her, nodding toward the front of the room.
Her eyes land on my parents. “Right.”
If I were to walk around this party tonight and avoid my parents, someone would notice. Word would spread that I shunned them, that our relationship was strained, and it would turn into tabloid fodder which would most definitely cost me the votes of my parents’ most loyal Maryland constituents.
Making our way toward the stage, I help Rowan up the stairs and watch as she approaches my parents with ease and grace, air kissing my mother’s cheeks and beaming at my father as if they’re a couple of friends who go way back.
“I’m going to grab us some champagne,” I whisper in her ear, my hand on her hip.
“That would be lovely.” She gives me a wink before returning to the conversation my mother has just initiated with her.
Heading to the bar in the next room over, my gaze narrows when I spot none other than Hunter Harrington seated at the end. Beside him is a buxom blonde, a true Southern belle with big hair, a big laugh, and an even bigger rock on her left finger.
P.S. I Hate You Page 57