by KB Winters
My heart jumped, wondering if she realized the double meaning to her statement. God, she’s sexy as hell when she’s pissed.
“The Shock Watches are already done, so what’s left to do?” she prompted me.
I tucked my growing arousal away, knowing I’d need more time to think of a strategy to get her to admit her need for me. “I want to pursue some of your other ideas, like the women’s line of Shock Watches. I ran the idea by the investors and they loved it.”
She released a breath and visibly relaxed. Her fingers slipped from the doorknob and her eyes lit with the spark of her creative side taking over. I’d seen her that way before and it had led to genius things. I knew I needed to get back on track, to take advantage of her well of ideas, now that she was finally calming down, but for the life of me I couldn’t stop staring at her lips.
Before she could utter another syllable, I crossed the space between us and grabbed her, pulling her body flush against mine in one desperate grab, letting the curves and lines meld together inch by inch, our bodies snapping together as though a slow motion replay of a sultry dance move. “We make a good team,” I growled into her ear.
Megan gasped as I rocked my pelvis against her, and I took advantage of her parted lips to capture her sweetness with my mouth, easily slipping past her protest to flick and tease the tip of her velvet tongue with my own. Her gasp melted into a low moan as the kiss deepened and her tongue danced with mine like long time partners, each knowing just what to do to get the other one step higher.
Megan relaxed under my hands, and our hands explored each other like teenagers making out under the bleachers. My hands couldn’t seem to get enough of her skin. I pushed under the hem of her dress and caressed my fingertips around her silk thighs. Megan brought one leg up to wrap around my hips, offering me easy access to trail up the soft flesh of her inner thigh until I reached the lace edge of her panties. She was wet and released another long moan as I ran my thumb over the delicate fabric. I pushed past the fabric and skimmed the wet folds between her legs as she ground against me.
Suddenly, without warning, she shook free of me and took three steps backward until she hit the door of the office. Her hand reached behind her and latched on to the doorknob like it was an anchor, the only thing keeping her from sweeping out to sea.
“Grant, I can’t—we can’t—do this again.” She panted, her words coming staccato as her chest heaved. “I can’t, please, don’t make me do this.”
Her words were like a slap to the face. I released her as though her skin were on fire and took a large stride backwards. Her fingers grasped for the door knob again. “Make you? Megan, I would never make you do something like that.”
She flushed pink. “I know, I didn’t mean it like that. I just, ugh, this sounds so stupid, but I can’t be around you and not think about…” her words trailed off, but I knew what she was thinking, because it was exactly how I felt. I could barely think about her without getting rock hard, and the reality of her standing in the same room with me was more than I could bear. “I just really need to focus on graduation and sorting out the rest of my insane life right now. Okay?”
I stared at the pained expression on her face, wondering why the light behind her eyes had suddenly gone dark. There was something she wasn’t telling me, but I knew better than to press her. Not now. I had time and I’d figure it out.
“Did the school provide you with the schedule I suggested?” I asked over my shoulder as I went back around my desk.
When I sat down and looked back at her, she nodded her head. “They did. I can make it work, all except for tomorrow. I know it’s supposed to be my first day, but I have a showing.”
“A showing?”
She smiled. “Yeah, three of my pieces are going to be on display at a local gallery. They’re having a party to celebrate a different artist, but my stuff will be there too.”
“That’s great.” I forced myself to smile.
“You’re not here on weekends, so, Monday?”
I nodded. “That works.”
We stared at each other as the air turned back to awkward in the absence of the sexual friction that had been crackling between us since she’d showed up at the office. I didn’t want her to go—but then again—I also didn’t want to force her to stay.
“Let me walk you down. I was just about to pack up,” I said.
She looked like she wanted to argue, but decided against it, and we walked down to the parking lot together. We parted ways at the elevator bank but I watched her cross over and didn’t turn away until she was safely tucked inside the car I’d bought her. I smiled slightly and waved as she passed me on her way out before getting into my own car and tearing out into the night, feeling more frustrated and confused than I could ever remember being in my twenty-eight years.
Chapter Six — Megan
I must have set myself on some kind of autopilot mode, because after flying out of Grant’s office, the next thing I remember was getting home and crashing into my bed. It wasn’t even dark outside, but my head was pounding and my body was exhausted. As soon as my head hit the pillow I was out cold.
When I woke up, it was early the next day, the sun just barely starting its ascension. My mind was thick with foggy memories of the night before, and it took me a few minutes of untangling to determine if any of it had been real or if the entire scenario had been a fantasy created in the depths of my overstressed mind.
As I replayed it all, considering every angle, I was overwhelmed by a fresh wave of anger towards Grant. I tamped down the reawakened desire for his body and forced myself to focus only on the seething rage at the sheer audacity he’d shown. How could he have ever thought to cross the line and interfere with something as serious as my graduation requirements? From the moment we met, I’d known he was a cocky, arrogant man, but after spending more time with him, and getting to know—what I’d thought was—the real Grant, I’d learned to see past his facade and seen the real man inside. But, that version of Grant wouldn’t have manipulated and gone behind my back to get what he wanted. Either that, or I’d never really seen the real Grant. In hindsight, it was hard not to wonder if all of that humanization had only been an act to get me to sleep with him.
Whatever it was—it was very apparent that I knew nothing about Grant and quite honestly, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to bother trying anymore. There were five weeks left until graduation and only four of those would be spent in the internship program. I mentally ran through my schedule that was provided, tallying the amount of times I would be forced to see Grant. Somehow, my thoughts morphed into thinking about the toe curling kiss in Grant’s office the night before and I cringed at the memory. How had I let things go that far? Especially after what he’d done?
I threw back the covers in disgust—but not before getting turned on again just thinking about it. How could one man make me feel such a wide span of emotions within such a short amount of time? It was truly remarkable.
I left my room and stood in the hallway for a moment, my ear perked for activity, but it sounded like the house was quiet. I breathed a sigh of relief, and then thought to myself how messed up it was that I even had to feel relieved to be left alone in my own house. But, after the disastrous family dinner, I hadn’t run into my dad or my brothers, and wanted to keep it that way for a little while longer. I didn’t have the head space to tackle any more problems. The last thing I’d heard was from Sam, he’d texted me on his way back home that night and told me that he hadn’t been able to make much progress with any of them. That was when I’d decided to go get a drink, which had led to staying in a hotel room downtown by myself, although I’d texted my dad that I was staying with a friend so that he wouldn’t blow up my phone all night long.
I showered and changed into clean clothes, finally feeling human again with a fresh blowout and a full face of makeup. Sometimes, when applying the thick liner around my eyes, and my maroon lipstick, it was almost like applying war paint. As th
ough, once I had my makeup right, I could fight my way through any problem the day might throw at me. I left my room again and crept down the stairs, my ears still tuned to hear if anyone else was around. I had just hit the bottom step when a clang echoed from the kitchen.
Shit. I pressed my eyes closed against the sound. I tiptoed down the hall, avoiding the patches in the hall that were known to squeak, and reached for the door handle. The door swung open silently and I grabbed back to get my shoulder bag from the hook on the wall. My hand scraped the wall and I jerked around, all at once, remembering that I’d tossed it down on the dining table instead of hanging it up.
Double shit. I kicked myself and pushed the door closed, steeling myself against whoever was lurking in the kitchen, and marched into the dining room. Robbie was at the fridge but cast a glance over his shoulder at the sound of my footsteps.
“Dad’s mega pissed at you,” he said, his face smiling like it was the funniest thing in the world.
“Then it’s a good thing I’ll be gone all day.” I slung the bag over my shoulder.
I turned to leave but Robbie wasn’t done with the conversation, he straightened and turned to look at me, leaving the fridge door hanging wide open. “Where ya going?”
I rolled my eyes. I spun on my heel to face him, not even bothering to try and conceal my irritation in my voice or in my expression. “Unlike some people in this house, I have a life. Today, for example, I have a gallery showing.”
Robbie laughed. “Code for, some grungy coffee shop finally agreed to put your shit on the walls so the neighborhood hipsters can critique you?”
My fists balled up as a surge of anger ripped through me. The intensity of the emotion disturbed me for a second and I made a point to relax. It probably had to do with stress and lack of sleep, but I wasn’t used to feeling so on edge all the time. “Robbie, why do you hate me so much? Is this really still about me telling dad he should have made you pay for the car repairs? Cause, that was weeks ago, it’s time to move on, and while you’re at it, tell Phillip to ease up too. I’m sick and tired of you both!”
Robbie flinched at my raised tone but his snarl quickly snapped back in place. “No, Megan, it’s not about some car repair. It’s about the way you walk around here like the fucking golden child of our family just because you’re going to school and have your own money. You think that Phillip and I are like dog shit on your fancy shoes, and that we’re beneath you. And you know what, that’s exactly how you made dad feel the other night. Like some goddamned charity case.”
Robbie hadn’t moved a muscle, but the way it felt, was like he’d backhanded the side of my head. Tears sprang to my eyes and my body felt torn in two—half wanted to run out the door and never look back, embarrassed and ashamed, and the other half wanted to stand and fight.
Before I could decide which half would win out, Robbie continued, “So, before you come in here throwing around your money and acting all high and mighty, maybe you should think about it first!” He emphasized his point by slamming the fridge door shut and kicking the base plate before leaving the kitchen, a half filled cereal bowl still sitting on the counter.
I tried to move, but my feet had somehow rooted to the floor and my legs felt like sandbags. I wanted to sink to the floor and cry until the room filled with water that could rush through the house and carry me far away. I’d had no idea that my brothers thought of me that way, that alone was horrifying enough, but coupled with the thought that my own father also felt that way…it was simply too much to bear.
As much as I wanted to disappear, back under the covers, I had to leave. The gallery showing was starting soon and I had to be there to make sure everything was perfect before the art critics arrived. I gave a final look down the path Robbie had stalked moments before, and then finally tore myself away, grabbed my bag, and flew out of the house.
* * * *
The gallery opening was going better than I’d even expected, the room bustled with admirers and the sheer volume of people and the noise in the room was enough to keep my mind busy and off the conversation with Robbie. The best part of the day came half an hour into the event, when a piece of gossip had ripped through the room that Joshua Lawrence, the curator for one of the most exclusive galleries in LA, would be making an appearance at some point during the show. If someone like him appreciated your work, you could officially consider your career started. I hadn’t planned on staying all day, but the idea of even getting two minutes to talk with him, was worth hanging around.
It was heading into the third hour of the event and my feet were starting to regret my choice of shoes for the day. I’d abandoned my usual flats in an effort to look more chic, and ended up with a kitten heel that slowly started murdering my heel and toes over the course of the event. I was about to cross over to get a glass of water and rest my feet in one of the plush silver velvet chairs, when a man caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. He was tall and broad and stood a head above most of the people around him. But there was something else about him that stuck out, something intangible, that I couldn’t quite narrow down. As I stared at him, trying to figure it out, he turned and his eyes locked with mine. My gaze flew to some spot on the wall past him, pretending as though I hadn’t been watching him, but I felt my cheeks warm and gave away the truth.
To my horror, when I dared to glance in his direction again, he was walking straight toward me. I sucked in a deep breath as he approached and willed the butterflies in my stomach to stop flapping. He dripped of an easy confidence, and I couldn’t tear my eyes off of him. Once he reached my section of the wall, he slid his eyes from mine and inspected my work. I turned so we were standing shoulder to shoulder—well, head to shoulder, as he was easily a foot taller than me. My eyes roamed over my own pieces, and I tried to imagine seeing them for the first time. The first piece was a painting of a one hundred year old bridge that I’d seen on a postcard. There was something so haunting about the way the metal had stood through so much change and human progress, a silent record of history. Long after I’d seen the picture, it had stuck with me and morphed into something from a dark dream, which was how I’d painted it, deep blues and grey tones, flecked with metallic paint that gave a dull shimmer in good lighting.
“It’s stunning,” the man finally said, his eyes locked on that painting.
“Thank you,” I replied, feeling my cheeks flush even as a swelling of pride filled my chest.
He turned and smiled at me. “I’m Logan. Am I to assume that you’re Megan Louise?”
I nodded, ignoring the fluttering inside my stomach at the way he said my name. For my art, I simply went by my first and middle name. Louise was my mother’s name, and using it for my art was a sort of tribute to the woman I’d known for only a handful of hours after my birth.
“Nice to meet you,” he said as we shook hands. His hand was rough but smooth. Strong but gentle.
“Do you have work on display?” I asked. For whatever reason, he looked like an artist.
“I wish!” He laughed. “No, I could never do anything like this.” He released my hand and waved around the gallery and my eye followed his hand, something about the way his fingers moved caught my eye.
“Sure you could,” I encouraged. “I think everyone has an artist inside of them, it’s just a matter of how deep it’s buried.”
He laughed again and I let the sound wash over me, relaxing me and soothing the nerves that had been frayed for the past two days. “Well, if that’s the case, I probably need to hire an archaeologist or something.”
I laughed at his joke and it felt good, easy. “I doubt that.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, it’d be prehistoric. What about your family, are you all artists?” Logan asked, his honey colored eyes warm and comforting as his question hit the still sensitive place inside of me whenever my family was brought up, a place even more tender after the encounter with Robbie that morning.
“Sorry, I guess that’s kinda personal,” Logan c
ontinued after a beat of awkward silence.
I waved his comment away. “No, no. It’s not. Um, my older brother, Sam is a musician. He sings and plays guitar for a band. It’s mostly a weekend gig because he has kids and a wife. You know.”
Logan smiled and appeared instantly more relaxed. “That’s really cool. Do they have an album online? I’d like to hear it.”
I marveled at him for a moment, wondering who on earth this man was. I had to admit he was very handsome. My mind cut to an image of Grant at the self admission, as though providing a side by side comparison that I hadn’t asked for. Logan was different than Grant, in fact, as I considered him—I realized they were almost polar opposites of each other. Grant was hard and edgy with a chiseled face and a sculpted body that easily displayed his dedication and self control from the inside, out. Logan was in shape, he had broad shoulders and a slender waist, long legs. His body type reminded me of the swimmers in the Olympics, and for a moment, I almost asked whether he’d swam in school. Logan had sandy colored hair and honey brown eyes. He was warm and relaxed, which was also reflected in his clothes, a pair of comfortable looking jeans and a heather grey t-shirt that was tight to form, but still looked easy and well worn.
“Yeah, they’re on iTunes. I can send you the link,” I offered.
He immediately whipped his phone out of his pocket. “Excellent, I was hoping for an excuse to get your number.”
My heart jolted in my chest and when I looked up into his warm, gleaming eyes, it thumped harder. What was happening here? I hesitated for a moment, but then Logan handed me his phone and I entered my info in as a new contact. When that was done, I texted him the link to Sam’s band’s website, and we both put away our phones.
“So, if you’re not an artist, then what do you do?”
Logan brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead, smoothing it back to join the other strands that pushed away from his hairline. The tendrils looked damp, as though he’d recently showered. “I’m a physical therapist. I have my own practice and primarily work with injured athletes to rehab and improve performance.”