“I’m so sorry,” Lyla said, contrite and obviously convinced that the sleeping issue had been her fault.
“Don’t worry,” Tate told her. “It’ll pass in a minute, and then I’ll be totally fine.”
At least his voice sounded normal, even if the rest of him felt like it was on the world’s worst carnival ride.
Lyla stood and watched him, and Tate choked back the overwhelming desire to retch at the dizziness swamping him. He couldn’t give in—she’d never look at him the same way again if he did.
After a few more minutes, Lyla inquired again, “Tate? Are you okay?”
“Yup.”
She waited patiently. Someday, she was going to make an absolutely perfect fucking mother with that kind of fortitude—and life would probably gift her with five rowdy sons just to screw with her in return.
In the face of her composure, Tate folded like a lawn chair. “Damn it. No, I’m not fine. I need a few more minutes. Maybe…more than a few. I’m sorry.”
“We lost a lot of time back in Baltimore,” Lyla pointed out.
“Believe me, I know.”
“Then why don’t you get into the passenger seat and let me drive for a while? You can rest. Take a nap.”
“Do you even have a license?” It was a valid question—plenty of people in the city didn’t.
“Yes, Tate. I am a grown-up with a driver’s license.”
“I should choke down some food first,” Tate said, though the idea repulsed him almost as much as the thought of turning over control of the vehicle to a civilian.
What if there was something in the road they had to avoid, or what if they had an accident? What if—?
“Stay here,” Lyla commanded.
Like Tate had any choice.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Lyla was installed behind the wheel and Tate was riding shotgun about as comfortably as a sullen teenager on his way to the dentist.
He forced himself to down the vanilla shake she’d gotten him in a few long gulps, then spent several interminable minutes trying to make the thick liquid stay in his stomach.
When he could trust his voice again, Tate told Lyla, “I’ll be your spotter.”
“I’m hoping we don’t need one, but if you insist.”
She gripped the wheel tightly and never moved her eyes from the road. For all her bravado before, Tate wondered when Lyla had last operated a motor vehicle. She was probably used to taking taxis and the subway back in the city, and as far as he knew, didn’t even own a car.
She was trying so hard though, and it melted Tate’s heart.
“Lyla, for what it’s worth I think you’re being very brave about this whole stalker thing,” he said, trying to throw her a bone.
“Brave?” she laughed sardonically, “Oh, you must mean the time I buried my face in your sleeve because I couldn’t cope with whether there was a new note on my door. Or, I don’t know, maybe you’re talking about last night, when I broke down crying because of a two-minute phone call in which no one said anything.”
Tate probably shouldn’t have enjoyed taking care of Lyla on both those occasions as much as he had. But that was the male ego for you—always happy to be of service.
“Sweetheart, it takes courage to go out there every day and talk to your readers, especially when you don’t know what might be coming at you next. Even if you can’t see that, I do.”
She peeked at him. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Grudgingly, Lyla added, “I take back what I said about you being mean yesterday.”
Tate grinned, woozy as he was. “I’d rather you retract the part about me being lost.”
“Let’s not get crazy.”
Tate chuckled. Truly, Lyla might be one of the best women he’d ever met. On impulse, he pried one of her hands from its death grip on the wheel, kissed the back of it, and laced his fingers through hers.
Her lips tilted up softly, and she didn’t scream at him or let go.
A stupid smile was still plastered on his face a while later, when the warmth of the sun, the white noise of the tires rolling on the tarmac, and the sheer contentment Tate felt holding Lyla’s hand lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
BY THE TIME they hit the outskirts of Pittsburgh, Tate’s catnap had recalibrated his synapses and restored him to fighting trim, so he reclaimed the wheel and ferried Lyla to her first two engagements—small meet-and-greets in private homes, with a couple of book clubs.
There was a signing at a library after lunch, but it was slow to get off the ground and had a small turnout. Tate could tell Lyla was worrying about it, until the head librarian informed them that a water main break that morning was keeping many people stranded in that part of town.
After an hour, it was clear the event was a bust, so they reluctantly packed up their stuff and shut the whole thing down. Tate and Lyla went out to sit in the SUV and ponder their next move.
She looked a little forlorn. “What do you think about pushing ahead to Cleveland tonight?” she asked him. “It’s a nice town, and we have the time.”
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
“You don’t mind the extra driving?”
Tate didn’t mind anytime they got to be together, just the two of them. “Not at all,” he said. “I promise, Lyla—I’m completely fine now.”
She called the hotel to make sure they had room that night, and soon they were on their way. And, while Tate drove along yet another stretch of road, he thought about holding Lyla in his arms that morning, and about the conversation they’d had afterward.
He hadn’t promised to keep his hands off her, and Lyla hadn’t objected. Which basically told him it was game on.
TATE WAS HAPPY they’d decided to plow ahead. He knew Cleveland pretty well, since he’d grown up nearby, and the weather—for the moment, at least—was better than it’d been in Pittsburgh.
The lake effect could change that quickly, but hopefully by then, they’d be snug in their room, getting to know each other better.
Their hotel downtown turned out to be a historic building, updated beautifully for a conference the year before. The staff, too, were as nice and helpful as people tended to be in this part of the country. They gave Tate and Lyla a number of tempting options for dinner and after a short debate, the two of them ended up at a cozy Spanish place a few blocks away.
Tate hadn’t eaten much more than a few muffins at one of those little book club things that morning, and he was famished.
The hostess sat them at a private table nestled in a dim corner, with a flickering candle on the table and some soft Spanish guitar music piped in overhead.
It was ridiculously romantic, and the fact clearly wasn’t lost on Lyla. After they ordered an array of tapas, she led off with a conversational topic that must have been inspired by the date-like atmosphere.
“So…you said you don’t have a girlfriend,” she began, like a hotter real-life Lois Lane. “How is that even possible?”
Tate retorted, “Oh, it’s possible. The last relationship I had fizzled out more than a year ago.”
Lyla didn’t even try to disguise her curiosity. “What happened?”
“Well, as it turns out,” he told her, “I was terrible at communicating and keeping emotionally connected while deployed.” Hannah’s words, not his. “And she was terrible at not complaining about things I had no control over. She was also bad at not having an affair with the dentist who lived in her building.”
Lyla’s mouth dropped open. “She picked a dentist over you? Really?”
Tate nodded. “Really. She went to him to get her teeth whitened or some shit, and I guess sparks flew.”
“Who knew having pearly whites could be so seductive?”
“Not me, that’s for damn sure. At least she got out before I got hurt, though. She would’ve sucked at caretaking.”
Lyla grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
“It happens,” Tate shrugged.<
br />
True, he might have been better at keeping the thrill alive if he’d been more than passably into Hannah. But what else was new? It was the story of his life these days—or rather, it had been until he’d laid eyes on Ms. Lawson over there.
Lyla paused, as she tended to do before she blurted out something that she thought was overstepping. She never could resist the awkward questions, though—bless her heart.
She said, “It’s kind of hard to imagine you being bad at communication.”
Tate had to chuckle at that. “Why? Because I talk so much?”
“I mean, there’s that.”
“Well, it’s funny,” he told her, “You can actually talk all the freaking time, I’ve found, and not say anything important at all.” Tate had made something of a pet project of that lately.
He’d meant his comment to be funny, but instead of laughing, Lyla frowned. “I’m not sure that sounds like you, either.”
Tate threw in another casual shrug, just to keep things light. “I’m evolving,” he said. Every second he spent in Lyla’s presence, it seemed. “It’s a slow, painful process.”
Hell, it had taken all the other cavemen eons to get to where they were on the male developmental scale. Tate could hardly be expected to pull it off in a matter of weeks—but he’d have to if he expected to ever have a chance with Lyla.
And after this morning, he really wanted that chance.
“So, if you’re not saying anything important, what do you say?” she inquired.
She was toying with a piece of her hair thoughtfully, examining Tate like a perplexing specimen from behind a sweep of soft brown hair and those sexy glasses.
Suddenly, he wanted Lyla to recognize him as a goddamn man again, instead of just a character study—particularly after the way he’d choked on their drive that morning.
“Well, if you must know, I am a champion dirty talker. When I’m really into a woman, I never shut up about her.” And, yup—that got the impenetrable Ms. Lawson’s attention, all right.
She pointed at him, not backing down. “Examples, please.”
It was almost too easy. But Tate didn’t intend to kill this little kitty’s curiosity—far from it. He was going to stoke it.
After discovering the feel of her body in his arms last night—no matter how accidentally—he wanted to make Lyla burn all over.
Tate leaned in like he was confiding a secret. “Let’s see,” he murmured. “I lead with how beautiful she is, how fucking hot. I talk about what she’s doing to me and what I want to do to her.” Tate sat back then, the perfect instructor. “I like to go into specific detail. Just to make sure things are crystal clear.”
Behind her glasses, Lyla’s eyes were wide and interested. The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her parted lips, and damn if Tate didn’t want to lunge for her right there.
However, he wanted to enjoy playing this out even more.
She murmured, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
Not yet, anyway. “Okay, so…then comes the running commentary on how I’m feeling and how she’s doing and everything that’s happening, but at some point, it becomes a little challenging to get the words out, you know? When I’m coming like a racehorse and she’s begging for salvation, there’re only so many things left to say.”
Tate measured Lyla’s reaction to that salvo. As far as he could tell, she was still all in, and then some.
She said, “Except for Oh, God, probably.”
“Yeah, that works.” Man, she was cute. “I still like to provide the play-by-play, even then,” he told her. “Just in case. I can’t help it.”
Lyla swallowed, spastically picked up the wine list and held it near her face for a second, then threw it aside. Tate would’ve bet his left nut at that moment that she hadn’t read a word.
She fanned her face, sat on her hand, then wrenched it up to grip the edge of the table. “It’s too hot in here. Someone should say something.”
“I feel fine,” he lied—cheerfully, too. This was way more fun than worrying about some weirdo sending her notes they’d probably copped from a scary TV movie.
“You always feel fine.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Argh! Stop it!” Lyla cried, throwing her napkin in his direction. It floated harmlessly down halfway across the table, making her even crazier.
“Stop what?” he grinned.
“Tate,” Lyla growled.
“Okay, fine. But you asked.”
Sweet cheeks had no answer to that one.
Tate was feeling positively merry as he dug into the tapas that had finally arrived, so he let Lyla stew in her own juices over there across the table for a while.
If she wanted to ask him probing questions, then she was going to have to be prepared to deal with the answers.
Frankly, he was half hoping she’d come up with some more.
But also, if Tate didn’t focus on eating now, he was bound to stand up, take Lyla by the hand, and lead her into an even-darker corner—so he could kiss that shell-shocked look right off her face.
There was leveling up…and leveling up, though. Tate figured he had done quite enough for the time being. Before long, they’d have to return to their hotel, and then he could worry about what came next.
Across the table from him, Lyla stole glances at him while she picked at her food. She fussed with her glass of sangria and kept checking her watch.
He prayed to the gods of flirtation that she was eager to get him alone, and not only because she thought he needed a good night’s sleep after his little incident earlier.
Eventually, Lyla brushed her hands together and dropped them to the sides of her plate.
“Do you want dessert?” she demanded. “Because I don’t. I’m stuffed. We should go.”
Tate laughed out loud. “You’re right. We totally should.”
FOURTEEN
WHEN LYLA AND Tate came to a halt outside their hotel suite, they were all alone in the quiet hall. Neither of them made a move to go inside—maybe they both knew that once they did it was going to alter everything.
Tate leaned his shoulder against the wall, looking down at her with a small smile tugging at his lips. And just like at dinner, Lyla was completely unable to stop looking at his mouth.
It was a very normal mouth—not too big or too small, nothing strange about it in the least. It shouldn’t be drawing her attention so much, but every little expression, every sardonic twitch and teasing smile and grumpy scowl, had her hot under the collar tonight.
And Lyla’s shirt didn’t even have a collar.
At some point, Tate’s dancing eyes must have drifted down without her noticing, because when she checked, he was staring pretty openly at her mouth, too.
This dance they were doing had shifted into the ridiculous about an hour ago, and Lyla couldn’t take it anymore. She was tired of being toyed with.
“Please just do it,” she begged. She was so far beyond turned-on, that common sense was not only not in the building—it had moved on to a completely different stratosphere.
Tate obliged her without comment, bending forward to drop only a single, feather-light kiss on Lyla’s lips before he pulled back to see her reaction.
It wasn’t enough. Nothing short of total nuclear fission was going to be enough at this stage.
Lyla slid her hands up his broad, hard chest, then looped them around his neck to pull him closer. She kept her eyes open so she wouldn’t miss a single flicker of those perfect eyelashes of his.
Thankfully, Tate didn’t need any more hints than that. His smile disappeared and he ducked his head, diving in to launch a full-scale assault on her mouth and her senses that had them both groaning within minutes.
He broke off with a gasp, only to drag his lips down the hyper-sensitive skin of Lyla’s throat to lick the hollow at the base. He flexed his hands on her hips, then slowly shifted them up her ribcage—on what she hoped was a direct course for her breasts.
/> Impatient and longing for his touch, Lyla finished the job for him, placing herself squarely in his palms with a breathless, “Oh. God.”
Tate exhaled in another rush. “Look what I found, sweetheart,” he commented. “Jesus, they’re even more perfect than they look.”
His big hands lifted and squeezed her gently, and his pretty blue eyes turned dark. Transfixed by the sight of himself touching her, he said, “Your breasts are beautiful, Lyla. You feel how well they fit in my hands? I’d do anything to see them bare right now.”
They did feel seductively heavy in Tate’s grasp. Lyla arched into his touch, wanting to get closer. In response, Tate ran his thumbs lightly over the tips, teasing her nipples into hard points beneath her shirt.
“You are killing me,” she told him.
“Well, we wouldn’t want that.”
Lyla dropped her head back against the door with an ungainly thunk. “Don’t stop, Mr. Monroe.”
Tate did stop, though. “Slick, I’ll act out any roleplay you want, except that one,” he chuckled. “Mr. Monroe is my dad. He taught science to me and all of my friends in seventh grade—so, that is one place I will not go with you.”
Lyla laughed, too, and moved his scintillating hands back to where she wanted them. “Okay, then who should we be? Doctor and nurse?”
“No good,” he grouched. “Reminds me too much of Luca.”
“All right, then how about…” Lyla cast around for something entertaining. “Soldier and spy?” she grinned.
“Great. As you know, I’m a captain,” Tate announced, then dipped forward to nip at the shell of her ear.
He’d mentioned before that he liked her perfume, and Lyla trusted that it would do its job now. It would be tantalizingly easy for him to scent it this close, and she hoped that Tate would take the opportunity to fill his lungs with its supposedly elusive, heady fragrance. She’d spent a fortune on it—so it might as well live up to its ad copy for once.
Lyla dug up what she hoped was a passable Russian accent, and retorted, “Then tell me, Captain, why I leave you alone for five minutes and all my papers go missing?” She pronounced missing like it ended in a k, and tried for throaty and sexy on everything else.
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 12