“I wasn’t trying to be chivalrous. I need the loo.”
“Oh. Okay.”
The elevator doors slid open on the fourth floor, and she led him along the hallway, her limbs heavy. Her eyes stung and her throat thickened when she realized that the heaviness wasn’t exhaustion, but sadness. Tomorrow, she was headed back to Langley. Home and out of Brandon’s life.
He shut the door to the bathroom and, although she wanted nothing more than to flop on the bed, she paced to the window. She looked out onto the lights of Grosvenor Square, leaning her head against the cool glass as rain pattered softly against it.
Tired though she was, her brain spun at a hundred miles an hour as she wrestled with whether or not to say anything to Brandon. Whether or not to tell him how she felt about him, to tell him how sorry she was for leaving all those years ago. Would he even want to hear it, or was she simply looking to ease her own guilty conscience?
She turned as he stormed out of the bathroom, his chiseled features taut with a thrilling combination of anger and lust. “Why do you still have this?” His voice was a low growl.
With long strides, he ate up the distance between them, a slim gold ring clutched in his strong fingers.
“Did you go through my stuff?” Her voice rose, sharp with incredulity.
“Of course I did.”
She laced her fingers together and twisted them, anxiety shooting through her and mingling with hope.
“Natasha.” His voice was low, the three syllables of her name a warning that his restraint was fraying like worn rope. Excuses tumbled against each other in her brain, but she knew she owed him honesty. Owed them honesty.
“Because I couldn’t bear to get rid of it.”
“Why?” Something wild and desperate shone in his blue eyes, and she broke, unable to stop herself from being selfish and telling him the last thing he wanted to hear.
“Because I never stopped loving you. Because I regret leaving you with every fiber of my being.”
“I see.”
“I hurt you, Brandon.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “Yes.”
She licked her lips, and then spoke the words she owed him. “I’m so sorry. It was so …” She blew out a long breath. “It was so wrong for me to leave like that. I know that now. God, I’m so sorry for hurting you, C. D.” Her heart pounded in her chest as she spoke.
He inhaled sharply and then extended the ring to her. “Put it on.” It wasn’t a request, but a command, and a hot thrill chased up her spine. With a trembling hand, she took the slim gold wedding band and slipped it onto her left ring finger. He took one final step toward her, backing her into the window. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he looked at her, that wolfish smile she loved curving his lips.
With excruciating slowness, he raised his hand and traced his thumb over her cheekbone, her jaw, and then down to the hollow of her throat and over her collarbone. He dipped his head and buried his face in her neck, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Tell me why you left.” He nipped at her earlobe, and she could feel herself melting. Only Brandon had ever had this effect on her.
“Because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought we were making each other miserable, and I—” She sighed out a moan when he bit gently at the juncture where neck met shoulder.
“You what?” His hands skimmed over her waist, tracing up her back. He found the pull of her zipper and began easing it down.
“I didn’t know how to fix it, and I thought you’d be better off without me. If you weren’t peeling my dress off right now, I’d think you must hate me.”
He let out a chuckle, the sound rumbling deliciously over her skin. “You drive me mental, but I could never hate you, Tash. I know things were hard between us. God, we were young. We didn’t know what we were doing. You messed up, leaving like that, but I didn’t know what I was doing either. I could’ve been better to you. We could’ve been better to each other.” He pushed the straps of her dress off her shoulders and she wiggled out of it, letting the material pool at her feet.
She reached behind her and unhooked her bra, freeing her breasts.
“Sweet Christ.”
She gasped when his strong hands cupped her ass and lifted her just as his mouth crashed into hers. There was nothing gentle, tender, or sweet in Brandon’s kiss. It was the kiss of a man staking his claim: hard and hot and ravenous. His tongue stroked into her mouth, and she sighed against him, wanting to dissolve into him. She twined her legs around his hips and he tumbled them onto the bed, his weight solid and reassuring above her. He deepened his kiss as they worked as a team to undress him, his fingers pulling at his tie, undoing the buttons of his shirt, while she wrestled with the buckle of his belt.
“Bloody fucking bollocks,” he swore, his mouth still against hers. He pulled back just as she freed his thick, hard cock from his pants.
“What?” She stroked him and he hissed out a breath, closing his eyes.
“I haven’t a condom.”
“So? I’m on the pill. Brandon, Jesus. I don’t want to use a condom with you.”
The wolfish smile reappeared and he pushed off the bed, shucked the rest of his clothing and then pulled her panties off, tossing them on the floor before crawling back on top of her. He notched the head of his cock at her entrance and rocked his hips, giving her only a taste of what she needed. He sucked a nipple into his mouth before raising his head to look at her.
“If we do this, if we try again, we have a lot of shit to work out. I need to know you’re on board with that.”
She nodded, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “I want to make it work with you. I promise to try harder, to be better. For better or for worse.” Her voice shook and cracked on the last word.
“For better or for worse, Tash.” His voice was hoarse, his eyes bright as he looked at her.
Happiness, relief, and hope filled her at the same time as Brandon eased himself all the way in, not stopping until he’d buried himself deep inside her. He slid his hands up and pushed her arms above her head, intertwining his fingers with hers. Over and over again, he filled her with slow, sensuous strokes that gradually gave way to harder, faster, deeper thrusts that all too soon had both of them crying out in bliss, sweating and shaking and panting.
As the sun rose over London and they lay sweaty and sated in each other’s arms, she felt whole in a way she hadn’t in years.
“I love you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss over his heart, his chest hair crisp against her lips.
“I love you more,” he whispered back, nuzzling into her hair.
“Are we going to turn this into a competition, too?” She propped up on one elbow, and he looked at her, one hand behind his head, the other sliding up her waist and to her breast. He looked so devastatingly sexy it took her breath away.
He shook his head. “No point. We’ve both already won.”
She laughed and kissed him. Just this one time, she wasn’t going to argue.
Tara Wyatt is a contemporary romance and romantic suspense author. Known for her humor and steamy love scenes, Tara’s writing has won several awards, including the Librarian’s Readers’ Choice Award, the New England Readers’ Choice Award, the Golden Quill, and the National Excellence in Romantic Fiction Award. A librarian by day and an author by night, Tara lives in Hamilton, Ontario, with the world’s cutest dog and a husband who makes all of her heroes look like chumps.
Visit her online at http://www.tara-wyatt.com.
I COULD TELL THEY weren’t married by their voices. As the couple browsed through volumes on the second floor of Between the Pages, my favorite Chicago indie bookstore, a woman I decided to call “Cherry,” after her bright-red fingernail polish, purred in response to her man—a tall, hunky guy wearing a black leather jacket.
I overheard the h
unk in leather say, “I’m not going home without the book I need.”
Her reply was kitten-like—playful but sharp. “Well, we’ll find it for you. I’m not a woman who leaves without accomplishing her mission.”
Ah, defining herself. She spoke a decibel too loud for the quiet section of the bookstore and used that irritating, overly solicitous, enthused tone reserved for people still trying to make a good impression. I guessed they’d been dating for three weeks. Okay, maybe four. But for anyone within a fifty-foot diameter, hearing more of their conversation was unavoidable.
“How about this one?” Cherry asked. “It’s an hors d’oeuvres handbook.”
“A Martha Stewart cookbook?” Hunk said slowly. “Well, um, that’s a thought.”
“Right!” she said, emboldened by his response, somehow missing the fact that he didn’t even reach for the book.
After an awkward pause, he pointed to another title. “Hey, they have Entertaining for Dummies.”
“That’s funny,” she said too quickly, her laugh sounding forced to my ears and tinged with relief at having managed to keep the conversation with him going. She reached over, fondled his leather jacket’s collar and fluffed his hair, letting her fingertips play cat and mouse with his neck before sliding her shockingly red nails down his spine and bringing them to rest on the back pocket of his jeans. She announced her ownership of the man (and, apparently, all of his clothing) with a pointed stare in my direction.
I smothered a snicker and glanced down at my book.
Before their arrival that April night, I’d been lounging in a chair to their left. I was flipping through a huge volume of preschool “fun foods” and party ideas while surreptitiously taking notes for a short article I’d been commissioned to write for a parenting magazine. This was a solid text and, if I ever had a toddler in my life, I’d buy it for sure. With my single/no kids status, however, I tended to restrict my purchases to fiction.
The atmosphere upstairs in the Cooking & Crafts section was always casual and relaxing, though. I was in no rush to leave.
A moment later, the woman sauntered off to inspect books on a nearby table while the guy moved closer to my chair. There were other catchy party-planning titles displayed on a rotating shelf not more than three feet from me. Perhaps the book he was in search of was a present for someone unforgivably social, difficult to shop for, and/or really into complicated canapés?
I studied him carefully and scribbled a slew of mental notes while he was busy perusing the volumes.
A young professional—newly out in the world.
Preppy. Like he’d just walked off the set of one of those legal dramas on TV.
He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five—about my age—and, beneath the black leather jacket, he was dressed in a layered cream shirt and pullover, fitted blue jeans, and dark loafers.
Attractive. No rings on his fingers, I couldn’t help but notice.
I stole a longer look at his girlfriend, too. No rings either. Blond, fine-featured, and slim, she was clad in carelessly tight black pants, a red knit top, black boots, and was in possession of perfectly manicured, chip-free nails.
Add to that, she wore impeccable makeup and what had to be a pricey name-brand handbag (I’d be damned if I knew which designer) slung over her shoulder. She gave off an arrogant, entitled air, and my dislike was instantly cemented. I returned my gaze to the handsome dude in the black leather jacket, but when he glanced over at me, I buried my nose into my book.
I sensed him moving a few paces forward, though.
Searching.
Leaning in.
Taking another step or two nearer to me.
My left elbow, draped in part over the armrest, was closest to him and to the revolving shelf he was spinning in that slow, deliberate way. I was determined not to look up, but he was so close. His loafers were in my direct line of vision.
He inched even closer, his thigh brushing against my elbow. I just knew it was an intentional act. In that instant of epiphany, though, I lost my equilibrium. The big book I was holding wobbled. I grabbed at it, steadied it, but then dropped my pen, followed by several note cards and a couple of loose-leaf pages, which fluttered to the floor. I closed the book and bent to snatch my fallen items.
He immediately kneeled to help, but I was faster. Once I righted myself, I found his face at eye level with mine.
“Sorry,” he mouthed, looking intense, uncomfortable, and so incredibly hot. Wow. I held my breath.
Our gazes locked for a second longer, and I noted with a writer’s observation the way his light brown lashes appeared to disappear as they moved away from his eyelids. I struggled to think of an appropriate metaphor, but he angled his torso toward the bookshelf again and rose to full height before I could complete the thought.
The blonde, with the ever-present radar of somebody on perma-alert to potential threats, suddenly focused her attention on us. Ignoring me and addressing him, Cherry asked, “What are you doing?”
“Just looking at titles over here.” He grasped a random volume, running his thumb along its spine.
With a shrill laugh that sounded like the scratch of a fingernail she said, “Oh, no, you’re not. You just want to see what she’s writing.” Her eyes washed over me coldly, then she flipped her hair back and emitted another pseudo giggle.
I gazed directly at the guy, expecting some kind of reaction from him.
Expressionless at first, he caught my eye once more before turning away—his face reddening. Then, trailing behind her, I heard him protest, “No, I wasn’t …” And with that, they avoided me for the rest of my visit.
When I’d finished flipping through the book for inspiration and had jotted down the author’s name and the title for reference, I returned the large volume to its shelf. I snagged one last glimpse of the couple, huddled in an aisle between two long stacks, before I walked out the door and into the spring night.
I thought that would be the end of it. After all, I lived in the heart of the city—an enormous, frenetic place. Any chance of running into Hunk and Cherry again in downtown Chicago would be unlikely at best.
The problem, though, was that I couldn’t seem to forget them.
They haunted me like an unsolved mystery. Like a mental puzzle my brain had to unravel. I found myself wondering what was going to happen to them next. Were they falling deeper in love and on to a greater commitment? Or, was that day the pinnacle in their short relationship and had things already begun to break apart?
Over the next several weeks, whenever I would pass by Between the Pages, I would stop in, head to the second floor, and meander down the aisles in partial search for one or both of them. Not intending to speak to either of them, of course, even if our paths should meet. No. I just wanted to observe and try to determine what had transpired in their romantic saga. Like Days of Our Lives, only in 3-D. But I never encountered them on those visits.
Clearly, the days of my life were lacking in excitement.
I’d been working diligently as a part-time magazine freelancer, a part-time closet novelist, and a full-time neurotic for over four years. I was long convinced my chance of breaking into big-market fiction was minuscule, but I devoured how-to books on writing a bestseller and drank gallons of coffee while composing my first full-length novel, with cursory notes for a sequel.
I primarily paid the bills, however, by writing regularly for about seven different publications of varying status, exclusively nonfiction. It was a dry existence—research, write, edit, send—with very little whimsical fiction to entertain me on those nights when I lamented my lack of both fame and any kind of love life. I did have a few short stories published in obscure literary journals, but it had been months since I’d had the time or the energy to attempt writing another.
Suddenly, though, I was inspired to draft something totally different. Something
light and … romantic. Pen, paper, and my own life intersected. Reality and fantasy converged on the page and within my mind.
The bookstore couple began to join me as I researched articles online or took the commuter train to conduct interviews in the suburbs.
They worked out alongside of me at the tiny gym in my apartment complex’s basement.
They laughed and cried with me while watching the latest soap-opera intrigues.
They even ate next to me on my solitary park bench and returned with me throughout that May to my ant-infested studio apartment.
Before long, I knew everything about them.
Well, I imagined I knew, which—to a writer—was essentially the same thing.
Turned out, Hunk and Cherry had first met about six months before at a company basketball game. They were each cheering on players from the public defender’s office where the guy (I named him “Neil”) worked. He’d graduated from law school determined to be one of those good-guy underdogs. A man who toiled for humanity in a largely pro bono way, seeking justice for all. He’d been laboring as an underling at the office for nearly a year after finishing law school out East. He was from there—Ipswich, Massachusetts, specifically—and his family had made their money in banking and stock trade. He felt he was finally able to share his own good fortune by helping others.
Cherry (aka “Jessica”), well, she came from money, too, but it was of the alimony/trust-fund variety. Her mom had a habit of marrying wealthy older men and divorcing them before they could say “prenuptial agreement.” It was a fifty-fifty asset split out in California, Jessica’s home state, and her mom was on her fourth property acquisition there. No wonder the poor girl was so insecure. So weirdly possessive.
Jessica worked in sales at a cosmetic company, which was why her makeup always had to be perfect. Her best friend and colleague, Anita, was married to a guy named Bryan, another lawyer at Neil’s office and a six-foot two guard on their firm’s pickup basketball team. After several months of casually meeting up at various sporting and social functions, Neil heard through Bryan—who got the word via Anita—that Jessica had a crush on him. Neil, to be nice (and since she wasn’t actually horrible looking), asked Jessica out. She, of course, nearly pole-vaulted at the invitation.
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