Dumpster Fire (Life Sucks Book 3)
Page 9
After swallowing his tongue for several heartbeats, he managed to get it together enough to knock on the deck railing.
She tilted her hat up, those stormy gray-blue eyes locking onto him.
“Hi,” he murmured, holding up the tea, round two, he’d brought. “Thought you could use a drink.”
Silence. That gaze still locked on him.
“How are you?” he asked.
She sat up, tugging the silky robe thing she was wearing around her and belting it tightly around her waist. “Fine.” A beat. “Thanks.”
Then she tucked her computer under her arm, turned her back on him, and walked into the house, the door clicking closed behind her.
Rob stood on her deck for a heartbeat then went after her.
One, because fuck that she’d walk away from him and freeze him out. They’d shared a moment and a kiss that had blistered his soul and . . . well, several more moments. She couldn’t just walk away from him.
Well, of course, she could do that.
Especially considering she just had.
The lock clicked.
It was the click that did it.
The click that made his temper fray. He was trying to be nice. He’d brought her tea. He hadn’t meant to scare her and had tried to make it right. Now, he was trying to make sure she was okay, and she just walked away?
What the hell?
Look, he got that she didn’t owe him anything, and he wasn’t one of those guys who couldn’t take rejection—though having only dated one woman his entire life, a woman he’d then married, Rob couldn’t pretend that he had a lot of experience in the endeavor.
But he did have experience being a friend, and as attracted as he was to Sophie, he knew what someone looked like when they needed a friend.
Soph was alone.
Was used to being alone, but he knew she deserved to have people around her who loved her and could appreciate her. He was just starting to know her, and he’d already seen so many wonderful things—the gift she’d brought him, the kindness in her eyes, calling Finn to come help him, treating his sister so kindly both while shopping and during the class.
She was a good person.
He knew that in his bones.
And for some dumbass reason, she thought she deserved to be alone.
Luckily for him, he knew where the spare key was hidden. In traditional Stoneybrook fashion, it was hidden under a flowerpot—the second one to the left of the door and filled with bright red and purple blooms. He lifted it, snagged the key from the little crevice beneath the pot, then moved to the front door, unlocking it and pushing inside before closing the door quietly behind him.
Sophie was in the kitchen, muttering to herself, cabinets opening and closing with bangs, something metal colliding with the counter, her feet smacking loudly against the tile floor.
He walked down the hall and into the kitchen.
God, she was beautiful, but not just the outside package, which, of course, was gorgeous. Glorious curves a man could grab on to, shining brown hair, a face that was pretty enough to grace film screens—and clearly had. But it was the emotions shining through her face that made him freeze in his tracks—fury and anguish, hope and fear, and then when she looked up and saw him standing in the hall, vulnerability.
But that was gone in an instant, replaced with anger, her chin lifting, her eyes narrowing. “How the fuck did you get in here?”
A shrug. “The spare key.”
She cursed and turned her back on him for a second time. Then went back to her banging. “Great. You’ve shown you know all about this house, now go away.”
He grinned, having seen Carmella in a mood like this often enough to not be upset or dissuaded or to take it personally. “I brought you something.”
The metal teapot—the source of the banging—slammed down on the stovetop. “I don’t care.”
“But you’ll like it,” he cajoled.
She sighed and spun back to face him. “Wanna bet?”
He rounded the island, stepped between her and the stove. “Yes.” Then he held up the tea he’d brought, close enough so the scent of it could waft under her nose. “I think you’ll like it a whole lot.”
Her lids fluttered shut as she inhaled, her moan soft but arrowing straight toward his dick.
Then she grabbed at the cup and started sucking down the tea.
“Better?” he asked.
Her blue-gray eyes flashed up, narrowed in his direction. “Why are you here?”
“I told you, I’d be back.”
Confusion. “What are you talking about? You left me in the bedroom without a word.”
“Um, I left a note.” He pointed to the paper he’d left on the fridge, a pair of palm tree magnets holding it in place. “Told you, I had a job to get to but that I’d bring you a refill at lunchtime.” Now he pointed at the clock. “It’s lunchtime.”
She set the cup down, walked over and read the note. Then spun back to face him, her cheeks bright pink. “I—uh—I—” She sighed, her chin dropping to her chest. “Can we start over?”
“No need to start over,” he said, meaning it.
“I—” Another sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
She shoved her hair out of her face, came over to the counter, and picked up her tea, slugging back a long sip. “I’m sorry I’m in such a weird mood. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you for tending to me this morning, and I’m sorry, I was such a bear just now. It’s . . .” Her eyes slid closed. “Well, it’s complicated, but no matter what’s going on in my head, you don’t deserve—” She peeled back her lids. “I’m on edge and took it out on you.”
“What makes the edge better?”
“What?”
“What can we do to make you feel better?”
“I can—” She stopped, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it were because she wasn’t really sure how to answer that question, or she thought he was overstepping his boundaries.
Did she have the same need clawing at her?
Or did she want him to leave her alone? Perhaps she wanted what he did—to figure out why they were so drawn to one another. Why he’d dreamed of her. Why he’d been trying to figure out ways to see her when he had hardly given another woman a second look in years.
Why he was taking a fucking knitting class, complete with the pink sparkling bag.
Why he was here.
Why he was so fucking desperate to spend more time with her.
He brushed his fingers along her arm. “Will you come somewhere with me?”
She froze. “Where?”
Amusement curled through him, and he tugged at a lock of her hair. “Some place to clear your head.”
“Why?”
He lifted a brow at the sharp question. “Because it’s a good place to go and clear your head?”
“But you don’t know me,” she said. “Why would you care if my head is clear? Why would you care about me at all?”
Shifting a little closer, he tucked that lock of her hair behind her ear. It felt like silk, and he wanted nothing more than to keep rubbing it between his fingers, to continue stroking it, to feel it running over his naked skin. But that wasn’t prudent for his cause, nor his thoughts. Because part of him thought he should be too terrified of being hurt to pursue this draw, that he should be running in the other direction.
The rest of him knew he’d only felt this way once in his life before, knew this was too precious a gift to give up.
It should be cherished and protected and nourished.
But she was tetchy with him just asking her to ice cream, so it wasn’t like he could tell her that the moment he’d seen her stepping out of her car in those high, high heels and that tight skirt, the moment she’d told him off for being an idiot wandering into the street in the middle of the night, his heart had stuttered and frozen.
Then it had taken notice.
And when he’d sobered up, he recognized that notice for what
it was.
Forever.
He just had to convince Sophie of that.
And based on her darting eyes, the way she was clutching the sleeves of her cover-up, her arms tightly crossed over her body, mentioning the fact that he wanted to keep this woman forever wasn’t going to go over very well.
Yeah, no.
Instead, he turned the tables on her. “Why did you care enough to bring me a birthday present?”
“I—uh—” She faltered, her gaze meeting his then doing more of that darting to and fro. Then determination gathered at the edges of her eyes, and her chin came up. “I wanted to, okay?” Her shoulders straightened.
He bit back a grin. “Okay with me.” A beat. “So long as you know that it’s the same for me.”
She froze. “I—what?”
“Come with me,” he murmured. “Just trust me?”
Silence. Long and drawn out and tense.
“Soph,” he whispered, lacing their fingers together and bringing her hand up to his mouth to press a light kiss to the back of it. “I have a rare afternoon off. Will you come with me?” Her hand shook, but he just stroked it lightly. “I promise I’m not a serial killer.”
She gave him a shaky smile. “That’s what a serial killer would say.”
And he knew he had her.
“I need to get changed,” she whispered, backing up a step and nodding toward the bedroom.
Yup, he definitely had her.
He nodded, released her hand.
White teeth pressing into a plump bottom lip.
“Go ahead,” he murmured, nudging her toward the hall.
She took two more steps, faltered, and turned back. “I—” Her words stalled.
“Jeans, sneakers, and layers in case you get cold.”
“I—” A sharp shake of her head. “How did you know?”
“I was married,” he said and winked, the memory more bittersweet than painful. “And I was trained well. No heels today, sweetheart.”
Her lips parted then she smiled.
And it took his fucking breath away.
And . . . it told him he was on the right path.
Twelve
These Heels Were Made for Walking
Soph
She was wearing heels.
Heeled sneakers that had made Rob’s lips turn up at the corners, given her a glimpse of that dimple. But she couldn’t completely give up her heels, not when part of her felt that she needed her armor.
Not when she wanted to look tall and skinny and pretty.
And no, she wasn’t examining that feeling too closely.
Especially when Rob hadn’t commented on the pseudo-heels, instead taking her hand and leading out the front door, along the path, and to his truck. It was remarkably clean inside, not even the odd fast-food wrapper or soda can. The outside was also clean, even though there were a few scratches along the bed of the truck, presumably from him carrying tools or lumber in the back.
It was a working truck, none of the pretty boy, my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours nonsense she’d seen in L.A.
“Here.” He reached over and started to buckle her seat belt, making her inhale sharply and getting a nose full of his scent.
Intoxicating.
Sawdust and salt. Spice and man. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his neck, to inhale again and again until his smell was imprinted on her soul.
Click.
She blinked, pressed her head back against the seat back.
“Okay?” he whispered, straightening slightly, until his face was directly in front of hers, until that tiny scar was mere millimeters away from her tongue, until . . .
Fuck it.
She gave in, wrapped her arms around those broad shoulders, and let her mouth fall to his.
Heat.
It roared over her like a forest fire, burning through her, incinerating her reservations, making her forget that she didn’t feel—wasn’t supposed to feel. The touch of his tongue on her lips had sensation pouring through her, her nerves shooting sparks, her thighs widening to allow him closer.
And when that slightly roughened palm cupped her cheek, angling her head so he could more easily devour her, she forgot all about what she was supposed to and not supposed to do.
She just felt. And acted. And . . . fucking felt.
He groaned, a deep, rasping sound that had her pussy clenching, her hands gripping his shoulders tighter, drawing him even closer.
A warm hand sliding up her side, cupping her breast through the fabric of her T-shirt.
She cried out, pushed into the touch.
But then the kiss slowed, his tongue retreating into his own mouth, his palm sliding away, sliding off.
And then he was pulling away.
Her fingers gripped his T-shirt, held him close for one more moment.
The invitation tumbled off her tongue. “We can go inside—”
His palm returned to her cheek. “Not today, Tempest.” He smoothed her hair back, still unruly from the sea air, but his eyes were hot, and she should be the one calling him tempting . . . or tempest or whatever he’d said.
Her pulse was still pounding in her ears, her breathing unsteady.
She couldn’t be sure what he’d called her.
What she could be sure of was that she wanted to go back to kissing him.
A rumbled curse, his fingers contracting on her cheek, but then he straightened abruptly, and a second later, he was out of the car, closing her door softly and rounding the hood to get into the driver’s side.
He sat down, the cab bouncing lightly.
His gaze met hers.
Her lips parted.
He groaned, reached for her. “Fuck it, just one more.”
She couldn’t agree more.
She reached for him, too.
Her feet were killing her.
But she’d decided on the heels, so she’d suck up her discomfort. It was her own dumbass insecurity that had her needing to look long and lean and sexy, even though she knew she would never be one hundred percent secure with herself.
The industry she worked in was tough on a woman’s confidence.
But her insecurity had been seeded well before a movie exec had asked—no, wait, merely suggested—that she might feel healthier if she were only fifteen pounds lighter. Oh, no, her insecurity had a long history, tangled with the other painful memories, until she felt as though her life was like a patch of wild blackberry she’d once accidentally stumbled into.
Long green vines, some thick, some thin, and all with thorns that had cut through the cotton of her shirt, pricked her skin through the denim of her jeans.
Pain—sometimes big and sometimes small, but always, always there.
So much easier to slap a lid on it and pretend it didn’t exist.
But out here . . . with the cool air sliding against the bare skin of her arms just like in Stoneybrook, it was hard to pretend those long covered-up thorns didn’t actually exist. Also, yes, she was glad that Rob had suggested layers because it hadn’t been long before she’d stripped off her sweatshirt.
Maybe it was because here she wasn’t surrounded by people every day—on photoshoots with hair and makeup people, on set with the same, plus directors and producers, at home with her assistant or publicist or agent, planning the next steps.
Here the background noise was gone.
Her eyes strayed to Rob’s back, to the sweat beginning to soak through his T-shirt, outlining the muscles beneath, making her stomach flutter, her thighs tremble, her pussy . . . well, that had been on high alert for a while now, but after the kisses in his truck, it was at DEFCON 1. And she was beginning to think that maybe fate had provided her an opportunity, that the sliver of hope she’d had that morning actually was warranted.
That perhaps her past wasn’t so much of a burden as she’d always thought.
She knew what the real burden was.
And it was this hill.
Ha.
The cliff/hill aside, it was warmer here than at the beach, though not unpleasant. There were enough trees around to provide shade, and honestly, not much could compare to the humid, oppressive heat of the Midwest town she’d grown up in.
This was damp and fresh smelling.
Quiet except for their footsteps and the sounds of nature—the whistling of the wind, the rustling of the leaves, the occasional crack of a branch.
The semi-often curse coming out of her mouth.
Like right then. When she tripped.
Again.
Rob halted and turned back, just like he had each time she’d almost stumbled to the ground.
And just like each time before, his palms found her shoulders, steadied her.
Only this time, he shifted the small pack he was carrying to his front, turned to give her his back, shaped his arms like hooks, and said, “Hop on.”
“Um, what?”
A smile over his shoulder that made her suck in a rapid breath. “Um, hop on, Tempest, we’re almost to the top.”
“I can make it.”
Still smiling. “That, I know. But throw me a bone here. I can’t be responsible for the death of Hollywood’s newest It Girl”—puppy dog eyes—“think of what it’ll do to my sister. She loves you.”
Soph stepped closer. “I don’t think your sister has recognized me.”
“Oh, no,” Rob told her, waiting, his arms—and shoulders—at the ready. “She’s recognized you, and she looooves you in that film you did with Finn. We’re all just too cool here in Stoneybrook to bother you.”
“Or jaded.”
He straightened, turned to face her. “Not jaded.”
“Then what?”
“Intoxicated.” He ran a finger along her collarbone and dipped it into his mouth.
A strangled sound emerged from her lips.