A Fairfield Romance Box Set 1

by Lydia Reeves

  “C’mon, man, go ask her out,” Sam advised. “You know if Jeremy gets his hooks in her, she’s gone forever.” His voice was tinged with bitterness and I remembered that he had cause to know. It was his ex-girlfriend’s face gracing the cover of Jeremy’s best-seller out there.

  Ellen disappeared from the office and reappeared only seconds later, another glass of wine in her hand. She pressed it into mine. “Drink this. Then go ask her out. Seriously.”

  I did as instructed.

  * * *

  By the time I found her again, with the wine running through my system like a warm river, Bria was standing with another woman by Jeremy’s book-signing table. Jeremy had recaptured her hand—or had possibly never let go in the first place—and was talking to her, gesticulating with the other hand and smiling his trademark charming smile. The other woman, a tall, elegant-looking blond, was too busy glaring daggers at Bria to notice my approach.

  Bria did, however, and I couldn’t quite read the look she gave me. Relief? Annoyance? The wine was clouding my head, but I decided to use it to my advantage. The night had clearly been a success. Sam had sold a bajillion books—not even all of them by Jeremy—Ellen had another mural lined up at the elementary school, and I had to admit, my baking had gone over even better than I’d hoped. Now all I had to do was get this amazing woman away from Sam’s brother, and this might just qualify as the greatest night of my life. And if she said no, if she looked at me in horror and told me to get lost, well, at least I’d have until morning before my head cleared and the regret and embarrassment set in. It was win-win.

  Waiting for a lull in the conversation, I stepped close, gathered my resolve, and wrapped my hand around Bria’s elbow. Her skin felt blazing hot against my palm, and I tried not to lose myself in the sensation. She managed to pull her hand out of Jeremy’s grasp, and turned to look at me. I still couldn’t read her expression, so I barreled on.

  “I’m getting ready to leave,” I told her. “And I was wondering if you might like to come.” All three pairs of eyes looked at me. Oh no, that didn’t come out right. “Er, with me,” I amended. “Come with me.” Shut up Geoff, that’s even worse. I cleared my throat, and tried again. “Would you like to leave?”

  Huh. So the wine wasn’t saving me from embarrassment after all.

  Bria was clearly trying not to laugh, which I took as a good sign. Her blonde friend was no longer glaring, and Jeremy had actually turned away, and was now busy signing a copy of someone’s book.

  “I’d love to,” she said, and my embarrassment melted into elation. “Claire,” she said, turning to her friend. “I don’t need a ride; I can find my own way home. Are you good here?”

  The blonde—Claire—nodded and gave Bria a kiss on the cheek, and then she turned and we were heading back toward the office. I belatedly realized I was still holding her elbow, and I forced myself to let go, instantly mourning the soft feel of her warm skin.

  The office was empty when we got there—thank god—and before I could reach for our coats, she turned to face me.

  “Thank you for that,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you could hear the ‘help me!’ signal I was broadcasting into the room.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I thought Jeremy was every woman’s dream man. You passed up a much-sought-after opportunity there,” I joked. Well, half-joked.

  She laughed. “I think I might have alienated my only friend if I’d said yes to him.” My spirits fell for a second, but she continued. “Besides, he’s not my type at all. Very charming though; I can see the appeal. But it’s not exactly flattering to only be wanted for the way you look.”

  Oh god, I hope she didn’t think that of me. I opened my mouth to clarify, but before I could get a word out, she said, “Thanks again for the rescue though. I think I can duck out now. I’ll call a cab to get home.”

  My heart plummeted into my shiny, uncomfortable shoes. She thought it was a ruse, that I was just helping her escape from Jeremy’s advances. Well, there was no way to salvage this now; I would have to let her go.

  I stepped back to give her access to the coat rack, but she didn’t move, her eyes still on my face.

  “What?” she asked.

  “What what?”

  She laughed. “You look like someone just ran over your cat. Did I miss—oh. Oh. You were serious, weren’t you?”

  Nope, definitely no way to save face now. It seemed all I did around this woman was embarrass myself. I cleared my throat. “Erm, about what?”

  She winced, and I mentally scolded myself. Fucking man up, idiot.

  I took a deep breath. “I…worded it in the worst possible way, and no, you don’t have to leave with me, but yes. I was wondering if you wanted to…um. Go out. With me. Sometime.” Not smooth, but better. Serviceable. I might not have to shoot myself when I sober up.

  She was smirking at me, her eyes dancing with suppressed amusement, and I forged ahead, barely pausing for breath. “You said it’s not flattering to only be wanted for the way you look, and I hope you don’t think that’s what I want. Er, think. I mean, I like the way you look, don’t get me wrong, but it’s certainly not—” I stopped when she stepped forward into my space and laid her hand across my mouth.

  “Yes,” she said, and I was too stunned by the feel of her fingers against my lips to react. “I would love to go out with you. Are you free right now?”

  She removed her hand, but she was still so close.

  “Really?” I asked. “You want to go—”

  I broke off again when her forehead creased, and she leaned closer for just a second, breathing in. Then she stepped back. “Are you drunk?”

  Oh shit. “I’m not drunk,” I said loftily. “I prefer the term, ‘soberly impaired.’” Well, I’d known this evening was too good to be true.

  But after a second she just held out her hand. “I guess I’d better drive then. Give me your keys.”

  Chapter 5

  BRIA

  It was late enough that almost everything was already closed, and it seemed presumptuous to invite Geoff back to my apartment, or invite myself over to his, so we ended up walking down Main Street together. It was cold outside, but the moon was bright and beautiful, and my nerves were keeping me warm, at least for the time being.

  After a long moment, he reached out and took my hand in his. We were both wearing gloves, but the weight of his fingers interlaced with mine was comforting, even through the fabric.

  The noise of the party was long behind us now, and the night had an eerie, silent quality about it.

  “So, why are you drunk?” I asked. Maybe too blunt, but I wanted to know. It hadn’t seemed like that kind of party, and while I had nothing against alcohol in moderation, I had plenty of experience—both at work and back in Chicago—in seeing what too much of it did to people.

  He gave a slight chuckle. “I’m not really drunk. Just a little…uninhibited, maybe. But to answer your question, I was very nervous about tonight.”

  I raised an eyebrow and smirked. “How come? You didn’t even know I was coming.” His cheeks were ruddy with cold, his hair mussed from the wind, and the effect was surprising in how it affected me.

  He laughed outright at that. “Thank god for that. I might not have come at all if I’d known you’d be there.”

  “What?” I feigned outrage. “I’m not that scary.”

  “You’re a little intimidating,” he informed me, a little shyly. You have a very…no-nonsense air about you. Also, you make me act like an idiot, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  I laughed to myself. “It’s my job, I imagine. I have to put up with a lot at work.”

  “Do people give you a lot of trouble?” he asked, and I suddenly didn’t think he was talking about the job itself.

  I shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s a small town. Some people are more accepting than others. Especially in healthcare. It wasn’t long ago at all they wouldn’t have hired me, looking like this.”

  He slanted a glan
ce at me. “It would have been their loss.” He swung our arms between us and let the silence stretch for a moment. It hadn’t escaped my notice that he hadn’t actually answered my question, and I wasn’t sure whether or not to push it, but finally he spoke again, his voice quiet in the chill air.

  “I was…nervous about the food.”

  I glanced sideways at him, confused.

  “I…I made it. I catered the event.”

  My eyebrows shot up and I turned to stare at him. “You what?!”

  He nodded, looking down at the ground as we walked. “You know I work at the kitchen co-op? Well, I bring in pastries for Sam’s cafe each morning. It’s not really part of my job exactly, but I like to bake, and try out new recipes and stuff.”

  I stepped around a fire hydrant without letting go of his hand. My toes were starting to go numb in my shoes, but I didn’t want to interrupt our conversation. “The food tonight was incredible, Geoff. Surely you know that.”

  He went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “Sam’s been after me for a while now to do something bigger. Cater an event, even open my own place. Tonight was my…trial run, let’s say.” He shrugged, then shot me a crooked smile. “I was pretty nervous. Wine helped.”

  Ah, that explained the alcohol. I raised an eyebrow. “You realize it was a huge success, right? Everyone I walked past was either talking about Jeremy Whitaker or your food.”

  He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah, it went well. But I’m glad it’s over and I can get back to normal. I’ve been stressing about this for days.”

  “Well, I’m really impressed,” I told him. “You could do whatever you want with baking skills like that. You must be really proud. Sam, too. And your family.”

  He glanced over at me again, and his smile was gone. “Yeah, not so much. You know my dad. I imagine he’s as excited about my baking as he is about your tattoos.”

  * * *

  We ended up at a tiny coffee shop at the end of the street, with a “Going out of Business” sign in the window. Fortunately, they hadn’t gone out of business just yet, and had late weekend hours, even though the place was largely deserted. I tumbled gratefully through the door and my feet screamed in relief as they began to slowly thaw in the warmth. A fireplace was burning in the corner, sending sparks flickering up the chimney, and after ordering at the counter, we chose a small booth nearby. I slipped my heels off under the table, waiting while Geoff went up to the counter to retrieve our drinks.

  I winced as I thought about what he’d said. I knew exactly what Dr. Asshole thought about my tattoos, and my hair as well. He wasn’t exactly stingy with his opinions. I didn’t know what kind of relationship Geoff had with his dad, but it didn’t sound like an easy one. He’d avoided my questions when I’d pressed for more details, so I’d let him change the subject.

  With drinks in hand, he slid back into our booth and passed my chai latte across the table. I wrapped my fingers around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my hands as I waited for the foamy drink to cool.

  Geoff, however, pushed his own drink out of the way and reached out, looking at me for permission before capturing one of my hands in his. He turned it over so the back was facing up, and examined the intricate patterns there.

  “How do you decide?” he asked, tracing his fingers along the lines of ink. It felt like a line of fire followed his touch, and I shivered with the sensation. “I mean, do you have something in mind when you go in to get one? Do they all have meaning to you?”

  “Some yes, some no,” I said, a fluttery feeling taking up residence low in my stomach. “Some of them have a lot of meaning—they represent people in my life, or events, or places I want to remember. Others…I just like the artwork. Sometimes I just have an idea and I let the artist run with it. A lot of it is just finding an artist you trust.”

  “Do you have any you regret?”

  I thought about it for a minute. “I don’t think so. I have ones that I like more than others, but all of them have meaning to me, one way or another.”

  He looked so fascinated, I had to laugh. “You obviously don’t have any, huh?”

  He released my hand and glanced down, seemingly embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m full of questions.”

  I was used to fielding questions about my tattoos, and while Geoff’s weren’t judgmental at all, I still had to fight the defensiveness that seemed to be ingrained in me. “No, it’s okay,” I assured him. Usually I didn’t like it when people called too much attention to my appearance. It wasn’t anything I did for recognition; it was for me, a way to make myself feel comfortable in my skin. But from Geoff, it was different somehow. He made me feel special, rather than weird or different.

  “A lot of people have them, you know,” I told him. “I see tons in the ER, people you would never imagine have a tattoo.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’ve just never seen anyone wear them the way you do. Like they’re a part of you.”

  A shiver ran down my spine at his words. Abruptly he looked up and met my gaze, and the intensity in his dark eyes stole my breath.

  “I really want to know the answer to the question I asked you earlier,” he said, his husky breath nearly a whisper.

  “What was that?” My voice came out strangled. I couldn’t look away, but if I didn’t, I might fall into his eyes and never resurface.

  “Do they cover your whole body?”

  There was a long pause, and the air between us was charged, alive with crackling electricity.

  Finally, I found my voice. “Would you ask me that if you were completely sober?”

  His expression didn’t change. “Probably not,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t still be wondering.”

  A rush of warmth spread through me at his words.

  He hadn’t even touched his drink, and my chai latte was only half gone, but he didn’t spare them a glance when I reached out my hand and pulled him to his feet. He wrapped my coat around my shoulders and seconds later we were out the door and back into the cold.

  But this time I barely felt it.

  * * *

  I drove his car to my apartment, second guessing myself the entire way. I wasn’t a put-out-on-the-first-date kind of girl. And I definitely wasn’t a one-night-stand kind of girl. And yet, it was pretty obvious where this was headed. If I brought Geoff back to my apartment, he was going to end up in my bed; it was inevitable.

  But instead of worrying if this was going too fast (it was), or if I would regret it in the morning (I might), or if he would regret it in the morning (God, I hoped not), my thoughts were focused elsewhere. Instead, all I could think was, what did the body under that suit really look like? Would I spontaneously combust when he touched me? Good lord, I hadn’t even kissed him yet. What was I doing? Would he—

  My train of thought derailed as he put a hand on my knee. I jerked the wheel a bit too hard as I turned into my apartment complex and pulled into my space, turning off the engine with shaking hands. The sudden silence was deafening.

  “I had a great time with you this evening,” he said. “And you don’t have to invite me up.” His voice dropped low even as his face flushed slightly. “But I’ll be honest—I’d like to kiss you. I’d really like to kiss you.”

  The contrast between his obvious shyness and the bold words made a molten river of lava run through me.

  “But,” he went on in a quiet voice before I had a chance to respond, “I won’t, if you don’t want me to. And we certainly don’t need to do anything more than that. I’m happy to drop you off and head home, if that’s what you want.”

  “You can’t drive; you’re drunk,” I informed him in a husky voice.

  He sat back a little. “The alcohol bothers you, doesn’t it,” he said, and I mentally cursed how observant he was.

  I took a breath. “I used to date a guy with a drinking problem,” I said bluntly. “I also see a lot of alcoholics in the ER. It’s your life, and your choices to make. But I’m not going down
that road again.”

  He nodded slowly. “I don’t drink often,” he said, “usually just when I’m stressed. Or around my dad.”

  I wondered what that meant. With my job, if I drank when I was stressed, I’d be drunk all the time. Besides, if I’d learned anything from my time with Alec, it was that you couldn’t trust what people said when they’d been drinking.

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the corner of his mouth twisted up in a lopsided smile. “Besides,” he said, pinning me again with the intensity of his gaze, “I’m not drunk anymore.”

  I turned to face him fully, shifting sideways in the driver’s seat, and decided to let it go for now. “And you still want to kiss me?”

  His eyes darkened as they dropped to my lips. “More than anything.”

  I leaned in. I couldn’t have stopped myself if I’d tried. Our lips paused, almost touching, less than the space of a breath between us.

  His hand came up, and just as they had earlier that evening, his fingertips hovered, millimeters from my skin, without touching. They traced the shape of my jaw, the curve of my cheek, and I shivered, waiting expectantly for the warm pressure of his touch that never came. My senses heightened, waiting for the contact, tension and anticipation ratcheting tight within me. His fingers ghosted down the column of my neck, moving around the back and then finally, finally, he made contact, cupping the back of my neck before threading his fingers into my hair.

  I breathed out a shaky sound of relief.

  His mouth was so close to mine I could feel the fan of his breath across my lips as he whispered, “I was right.”

  Unable to form words, I made an inquisitive sound, and he chuckled against my lips. “Your hair is as soft as it looks.”

  Then he moved forward a fraction of an inch, and our lips met. It started so slowly; just a leisurely slide of skin, gentle friction, the barest pressure, touch building on touch. The barest sweep of tongue, the nip of teeth on lip, a shudder and a gasp.