by Angel Payne
I was tempted to offer to drive so the guy could take a break in the passenger seat while I got myself back to my hotel in one piece. Besides, he’d surely been out delivering pizza in this thing earlier, judging by the pesto and Parmesan scent still clinging to the car’s interior. This would be the last trip I didn’t reserve a rental ahead of time, only to be told at the counter that they were all sold out.
“How’s it going?” Incredibly, his smile cracked wider.
“Fine. Do you mind if I ride up front? I feel out of control in the back.” And more likely to give free rein to the mental ping-pong balls, which would create every possible scenario from the gophers in this thing’s engine blowing up to a random hurricane taking us out. Hurricanes were possible in California. Rare, but possible. When was the last time the state was really hit by one? I was sure I knew, but—
“Not at all,” the kid chimed, cheerier than an episode of Barney. “Wherever makes you comfortable.”
“Awesome.” I pivoted at once, striding purposefully toward his side. “In that case, I’ll drive.”
“Uh…” His face contorted, at once looking like one of the gophers under the hood. “I—uhhh—I’m sorry. That’s, like, totally against corporate’s rules. Sorry, man.”
I shrugged. “It was worth a try.”
His expression mellowed, and the grin returned. “Well, have no fear. I grew up in San Diego and know my way around with my eyes closed.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Just…keep your eyes open.” I added, as a prudent afterthought, “Please.”
He flashed a confused stare until the gears clicked into place. “It was a figure of speech.”
“Yes,” I snapped. “I know. And I was joking.”
“Oh. Ummm…gotcha.” As he overcompensated with a hearty laugh, I examined the dashboard. Unimpressive and plastic, but it gave me something to do besides mourn the waste of my dry humor or make an attempt at conversation. Human interaction meant the ping-pong balls would start to bounce again, and I was too damn tired to think of any balls except the ones still aching to be slammed against Taylor Mathews’ sweet body.
But when the dude just sat there, expectantly looking over at me, I was backed into the proverbial corner. “So what school do you go to?”
Apparently, those were the magic words. As he woke up the gophers and put the putt-putt into gear, he answered, “State. I’m in gender studies.”
“Isn’t that a bit confusing?” I kept my tone noncommittal.
“Oh no, I’m totally clear which gender I most identify with. I mean, usually.”
“I meant which college you go to. Isn’t there both San Diego State University and Cal State San Diego?”
“Ooooooohhh, I’m at SDSU. You’re kinda confusing, you know?”
Yeah. I did know.
At that point, I dug out my phone and dove into checking emails. This conversation was headed for potential debate territory, and no way would I come out ahead against a twenty-something kid obsessed with his gender, so it was best to get caught up on what the world had been doing while I’d played like Don Quixote and my impossible Dulcinea.
Except that my phone was about to die.
And did…
Just as I caught sight of an incoming email from my mother.
Shit. Mom.
The hotel wasn’t far, and I could respond once I plugged in again, but the mental jolt took me back to the conversation I’d just eavesdropped on—and the way my nerves were still clenched about it.
And how thoroughly none of my unease made sense.
Killian had, in essence, spoken nothing but the truth to Claire. I’d put an engagement ring on a woman’s finger once—and when it had all fallen apart, I’d sworn I’d never do so again. Winnifred Nelson. I’d loved her to the roots of my soul, and she’d returned the passion with every smart, funny, beautiful ounce of herself. We’d fallen hard and fast and maybe a little foolishly considering the demands of med school alone, but I didn’t care. She was the one for me, and I was ready to forge any necessary key to lock it all down. I wanted her. Everything about her. She was it…
Until she met my mother.
It took me years to realize that was the point it all started falling apart—but slowly, the pieces snapped together, revealing Mom’s careful, calculated plan.
“She’s not right for you, Mac. You cannot just give the Stone name away to anyone. We’re prominent. We’re leaders. You need someone who was raised for our world. God only knows if Killian will select anything but trailer trash…”
She came up with different versions of the message for Winni, of course—but slowly chipped away at her too. Planted enough tiny seeds of doubt that our young, insecure minds caved like sandcastles beneath the strain. By the time I called off the engagement, I all but hated the woman I’d once cherished—and poor Winni had no idea what she had ever done so wrong.
I’d devastated her.
Worse, I hadn’t justified any of it with any explanation except that I had fallen out of love.
And I called Killian an asshole.
Even more lame? The fact that I couldn’t blame anyone but the master puppeteer I called Mother. She was a master manipulator, the queen of emotional poker—and a year later, when I realized it, I cut every string she’d used to control me, vowing I’d never be her instrument of hurt again.
Swearing she’d never hurt me again.
I’d considered reaching out to Winni. Maybe attempting an apology, an explanation of what had really happened. But what good would that do? By that time, I’d become such a cold-hearted dickhead and such a legendary lothario, she probably wouldn’t have answered even an email from me—and for good reason.
“Here we are.” Ginger boy parked the car in front of the hotel’s stucco entranceway. “Enjoy the rest of your time in San Diego.”
“Thanks. Good luck in school. And pick a new major if you ever want to actually get a job.” I slammed the door just to let that truth sink in to the kid, my lips twisting in the beginning of a snarky smirk. As I strode past the ornate Spanish gates and down the breezeway, I muttered beneath my breath, “Yep. You’re an ass.”
With that uplifting statement, I crossed the hotel’s lobby. The La Valencia was a historical boutiquey place with an underlying scent of age and sea salt, but that was pretty much every place in La Jolla—a “unique and distinctive experience” for which every property in this town charged top dollar too. But it was easy to forgive the price tag once the marine layer burned off, exposing the vast ocean views. The Pacific was literally a stone’s throw away. The waves made a fantastic lullaby.
At once, their magic began to take effect on me. I relaxed enough to admit at least one immediate truth. It had felt fucking good to be a dick to that kid on the drive home. That was my comfort mode now, the man I knew how to be. The man I’d been trained to be, courtesy of my mother’s systematic destruction of my world.
Now, the other guy? The kind, caressing sap who emerged around Taylor Mathews? He worried me. He was heartbreak bait. He was going to get hurt. The Mac Stone I’d learned to be had rebuilt himself from the ground up. He was a fucking warrior, who could take anyone and anything on and win. He could stand toe-to-toe with any man who dared and fuck any woman he wanted.
Except Taylor Mathews.
Yeah, she was a hot piece of ass—that much was undeniable—but even thoughts of getting her naked, pretty legs and pert tits and all, weren’t worth going back to the Mac of this afternoon. He existed in a cold, dark, terrifying place…a no-man’s-land of insecurity. And God fucking forbid if my mother ever discovered I’d gone back there for a second. If she even caught a whiff that I felt that deeply for a woman again, she’d stop at nothing to ensure that woman’s destruction.
Taylor didn’t deserve that. Especially if she had, as Killian claimed, “seen shit” horrible enough to give her “cracks.”
No way in hell would
I subject her to even a minute of Constance Stone’s insidious wrath.
Which meant that, as far as Miss Mathews was concerned, I’d forever be nothing except Dr. Clown.
Chapter Four
Taylor
“Nooooo,” I whispered. “Behave!”
Like my jalopy was going to listen this time. True to form, her sputtering and popping made several heads turn in the Scripps Green Hospital parking lot, even after I turned the key and shut her off.
“Attention whore,” I muttered while checking my makeup in the rearview. I swore the noise got worse in certain zip codes, especially the closer I got to the Pacific. Being in La Jolla inflated the snobs’ annoyance factor, but I loved my car. She’d seen me through some rough times, like the nights I’d had to sleep inside her when I couldn’t make rent for a few days. Nobody knew that part, not even the three besties of my mini tribe.
Nobody knew all the parts.
And that was the way things would stay.
Janet and her lifestyle had taught me that lesson too.
My car was the only one who probably knew everything, and I trusted her to keep the confidence now that I could at least wrangle funds for regular oil changes and car washes. Besides, my old Nissan even earned me hip factor with the teenaged gearheads for keeping the classic scene alive. I always found it funny when some of them slipped me their numbers, reverently murmuring shit like the car was a true “drift missile,” whatever the hell that meant, and how if I ever wanted to sell her, please call them first.
One of those numbers flitted from the passenger seat to the floor as I turned and grabbed my purse. I watched it land with a rueful smile. As if buying a new car was an option I could possibly entertain. I made great money at Stone Global Corp, but after the bills were paid each month, I had little left to splurge on extras. When I managed to get ahead and save even a little, Murphy’s Law kicked in without fail, and I’d have to bail Janet out of her own rent crisis. Or medical bill drama. Or post bail…again.
Stop.
Enough morose thinking. It was too perfect a day for that, especially this close to the water. Early September in Southern California meant hot days and cool nights. This one was falling right into the norm, though it wasn’t sweltering quite yet. Another twenty minutes, and the bake fest would begin. I’d damn well enjoy every second until then.
With that in mind, I stretched my sunshade across the cracked dash and then slid out of the car and headed toward the enormous RV at the other side of the hospital’s parking lot.
Scripps Green was well-known in San Diego, occupying some of the most prime real estate in the southwest, where its campus overlooked the ocean. On top of that, its care was renowned. Patients came from all over the world to be treated there, though that wasn’t my purpose on campus today. I believed in donating blood as often as possible. They were always in critical need, especially for donors with type O positive blood. It was just a small thing I could do to help other people, and it made me feel good in the process. I didn’t mind the needle stick or the momentary dizziness afterward, and the cookies at the end were the best kind—guilt-free because I’d just done humankind a solid. So, yeah…sold.
The sign-in sheet sat on a table outside the camper, but the pen was missing in action. I dug through my purse and found an extra I could leave behind for the next person and then grabbed the forms to fill out and have ready when they took me inside. Since I had a frequent donor number, most of the spaces could be left blank.
“Hey, Taylor. How’s it going?” A friendly face peeked out to see if anyone was waiting.
“Hey, John. Good. How are you?” I smiled up from the paperwork.
“Can’t complain. Do you have an appointment? I don’t remember seeing your name.”
“I do. Eleven twenty. I’m a little early.” Because being early was my superpower.
“Oh, yep. There you are.” John checked the list tacked to the back of the RV’s door. “Let me get set up, and we’ll get you started.”
“No worries. Not in a hurry. I’m off today.”
“Cool.” He smiled again, a little wider, before scooting back into the Blood Mobile, leaving me to pass the time by scrolling my phone for emails—and ditching some residual guilt about the reason behind his increased charm. John had worked with the San Diego Blood Bank for years and had asked me out sometime last year. I’d said yes because he was funny and buff as fuck, and maybe things might’ve worked out, but they hadn’t. Nothing had ever clicked for me, not like I think he wanted it to. John was beyond nice and would make some lucky girl really happy one day, but it wouldn’t be me. There just hadn’t been a spark.
Not like there’d been with…
No. Just…no, girl. Forget it. You’re not going there.
But I couldn’t not go there. Two nights had passed since Talia, Drake, and Fletcher’s reception—two nights in which I’d woken sweaty, throbbing, and needy from the hottest sex dreams of my life. Two dreams—with only one starring man.
Maclain Stone was getting damn hard to keep slamming into the “not going there” file.
Why had that smug bastard gotten under my skin—and into my dreams? Oh, God, those dreams…and how he’d taken me, used me, wrung me out in them. No way could the real thing ever measure up to those fantasies, not that I’d have the chance to find out now. He’d probably already returned to Chicago and was back to being doctor-God-clown of his own bustling little universe. He probably didn’t remember my name, much less his illicit invitation from the middle of the dance floor while his hands had been wrapped around my damn leg. He sure as hell didn’t care about the cold sweat he’d caused me to wake up in this morning, just as I was damn sure one of my “Mac visions” had made me come in my sleep.
I’d never, ever, ever orgasmed from a damn dream.
But I’d never, ever, ever met a man who affected me like Maclain Stone.
“Okay, hon. Come on in.”
Shit. Why was John calling me “hon”? Oh, please, please, please, mister, just tell me you’ve found another nice girl and moved on. The last time we’d met for drinks, I’d made it pretty clear I just wanted to be friends.
Fortunately, there were two other donors in the RV, already reclined in the chairs, red tubes coming from their arms. Laura, the pretty brunette who often helped out at this location, was also working today. No real possibility of things getting too awkward with John right now, thank God.
“Hop up here, and Laura will get you started. I did all your paperwork. Just need to test your iron real quick and get your signature here and here.” He made marks in two places with Xs for me to sign, waiting while Laura stuck my finger with a lancet.
“Looks good,” Laura said after placing the small red drop into the receptacle at the end of a handheld device. I signed the forms John placed in front of me and handed the pen back to him, and as he accepted it, he sneaked in a quick wink. I managed to grit out half a smile, hoping he was up on his subtext skills this morning. Not happening, buddy. I woke up with wet panties after dream-screwing someone else, and I’m not sure the asshole won’t be scrambling my subconscious again tonight.
The actual process itself took about twenty minutes. Afterward, Laura gave me a color-coordinated bandage for my puncture, told me to choose my snack and juice, and have a seat outside for at least fifteen minutes. I wouldn’t be able to leave without getting cleared by her or another staff member, though I really hoped it’d be her and not John.
I smiled, nodded, and grabbed some juice along with a package of Nutter Butters, my favorites, before heading outside to read a little on my phone. I’d downloaded the newest book from one of my favorite romance authors and was deep into the story of a billionaire in disguise flirting with his secretary on a tropical vacation when a deep voice startled me. A deep, all-too-recognizable voice.
A voice making my nerves jolt more than the picnic table did as he straddled the seat right next to me and leaned in close.
Unnervingly
close…
“Shit!” I managed to blurt.
Maclain Stone, on the other hand, looked as unperturbed as the seagulls riding the wind over our heads. “That must be pretty good.” He looked over at the text on my phone screen. “I called your name twice.”
Shit. Only my mind said it this time. Correction. Screamed it.
It was him.
He was here.
Why the hell was he here?
“Well. Maybe I was ignoring you, clown.” I scrolled to the next page, though the words were now blurs. Focusing on the arrogant hunk in the book was pointless, now that I had a real-life version beside me.
Quickening my breaths…
Sharpening my awareness…
Torching my freaking bloodstream, even if it was down by a full pint.
Damn. Damn.
“You don’t mean that.” He pushed over by another inch.
“The fuck I don’t.” I backed away from him by two.
He grunted, and damn it, even that was enough to light up my nerves again. “Well, praise Jesus, you do eat, at least.”
I forced my gaze to stay locked on my phone. “Hmm. I wouldn’t have guessed you for the Jesus type.”
“No?” His deeper inflection sent vibrations to my toes.
“No,” I confirmed, finally jerking my gaze up to confront his. “You’re more of a Satan guy.”
He threw his head back and laughed—and again, I avoided admitting how good he looked in the sunshine, with the wind teasing at his hair. “I suppose so. Especially when inspired properly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My retort was more to cover up the meaning my body derived already, but the words were barely out before Mac stood and marched for the Blood Mobile. He threw open the door and stepped in like he owned the place before emerging a few seconds later with both arms full of assorted snacks. The load was mostly cookies, but he’d jammed in a few packages of crackers and chips too.