Rogue Beast (The Rourkes, Book 12)

by Kylie Gilmore

  “No such thing.”

  “Garrett,” she says softly, “you’re a nice guy, but this is a friends date.”

  Nice guy. That’s female code for I’m not attracted to you. Which is a lie. The chemistry here is so obvious we attracted a photographer. I don’t buy that my connection to the throne is all that interesting to New York’s elite. We’re the wealthy royal family’s poor relations. Our business is doing well, but most of the profits are funneled into buying the next property. We’re still in the building-the-business stage. That guy wanted our picture because Harper and I have this palpable connection. Why is she trying to deny it?

  “And why are we on a friends date instead of an actual date?” I ask.

  She blinks a few times. “Why?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  She stares at my shoulder. “Because that photographer reminded me why I need to be careful. I just broke up with only the latest in a long line of terrible choices in men, and I know you didn’t have anything to do with that, but I have baggage, okay? I’m not ready to get involved with anyone right now.”

  That’s honest, and I appreciate that. More importantly, it’s nothing personal against me.

  “Fair enough,” I say.

  Her lips part in surprise. “Really?”

  I whisper in her ear, “Did you expect me to walk away because sex is off the table? I can go slow. I think you’re worth it.”

  I lean back to read her expression.

  Her eyes are shiny with unshed tears. “You’re not like the guys I usually meet.”

  I grin. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all night. Besides your incredibly motivating speech. It’s because of you they raised two mil.”

  “No,” she says, smiling.

  “Yes. Carol even skipped her boring old speech knowing she had to seize the Harper Ellis moment.”

  “Stop,” she says, ducking her head.

  I tip her chin up. “You really can’t take a compliment.”

  “I’m not used to them.”

  “Then I’ll give you more until you build up a tolerance.”

  “Sort of a desensitizing program?”

  “Exactly, sweetheart.”

  She beams up at me, leaning a little closer in our slow sway of a dance. “You really are a beast of a man.”

  Flashes go off. I turn, surprised to see several photographers snapping pictures of us. She pulls me off the dance floor, stopping in a quiet corner, angled away from the photographers.

  “What’s the deal with all the pictures?” I ask her. It’s a little strange that the reporters in here, who were supposed to be less about gossip and more about substance, keep taking our picture. How many society pages could there be?

  “I don’t know. My publicist said she arranged a lot of press for the cause. It’s just starting to feel more personal. Probably because of the Colton thing. We’re a story. She usually keeps out the gossip types though. I’m getting a little creeped out.”

  “You want to leave?”

  “No, I’ll stick it out. We’ll just be careful not to do anything that draws attention.”

  “Like ballroom dance?”

  She laughs. “Yes.”

  I grin. “So gazing adoringly into your eyes is out?”

  She gives my shoulder a little shove. “You’re ridiculous.”

  I waggle my brows at her. “Am I, or are you so turned on right now you’re ready to tackle me to the floor and rip my clothes off?”

  She laughs, and then she can’t stop laughing, tears coming out of her eyes. Joe shoots me a curious look, standing nearby as usual. I shrug. I had no idea I was such a comedian. People are starting to stare.

  I stare too, a little offended. “Are you done cracking up at the idea of me naked?”

  She gets serious. “Sorry. It’s just that I have a vivid imagination, and I saw it all like an animated cartoon. Like me with big hearts in my eyes, leaping in the air and then tackling you. But you’re so big it’s ridiculous.” She laughs some more. “Sorry. It tickled me.”

  I feign irritation, letting out a huff and staring at the ceiling. Then I tickle her, and she shrieks in surprise. I wrap her in my arms, hugging her and shielding her at the same time from curious eyes and cameras.

  “Are we making a scene?” she asks my chest.

  “It’s my bad influence. You can’t take me anywhere.”

  She smiles up at me, and my heart thunders. I want to kiss her so bad. But I said I’d give her time, get to know each other as friends, so she can see she can trust me. And it can only help if we build something deeper. Then I’ll know for sure I’m not just her rebound guy.

  “Let’s go back to our seats,” I say, dropping an arm over her shoulders. “We’re less interesting there than on the dance floor or giggling in the corner, and we’ll have a chance to talk more.”

  “I do not giggle,” she protests. “I’m very serious.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You tickled me. I’m not used to that.”

  “Don’t forget your hilarious giggles over the idea of me naked.”

  She giggles again. “Just the animated version in my mind.”

  “Stop picturing it,” I order.

  She fights back a laugh, her hazel eyes dancing with amusement. Sweet woman. I want her so damn bad.

  We’re intercepted several times by guests on our way to our table. Most people just want the chance to meet her. She’s animated and enthusiastic, encouraging them to get involved with Best Friends Care in any way they can. Every compliment they give her, she deflects and draws their attention to the cause, even while she’s signing programs and taking selfies. She gives them what they want, but it’s never about her. No big ego here when there easily could’ve been with the way people fawn over her. I like that. She’s not caught up in fame, which means she could be with a regular guy like me. It worked for Sean and Josie. Of course, they met when Josie was a struggling out-of-work actress. Still, I have hope.

  By the time the evening ends, I know without a shadow of a doubt. She was put in my path for a reason. It’s fate at work here.

  7

  Harper

  The next morning, I wake and stretch, my mind flashing back to last night—Garrett. He called me sweetheart. He said I’m worth taking it slow. What a revelation this man is!

  I grab my phone from the nightstand and sit up, propping the pillows behind my back, and power it on. A few moments later, a series of texts from my publicist appear.

  Dana: OMG, you did it. You made the New York Times society page! You two look amazing together. Everyone loves the royal angle. You have to take him to more events. They’re speculating you’ll be the next American princess!!!

  There’s a series of links. Pictures and stories from inside the fundraiser, as well as from the red carpet. Almost all of them focus on Garrett with the occasional story reminding people of me and Colton. Everyone wants to know more about the “secret prince of Brooklyn.” Some are asking what he’s been in; some speculate he’s a model.

  I press my lips together, my stomach turning sour. Where are the articles on Best Friends Care? That was the whole point of the gala. I do a search, hoping to find something. There’s only a few short articles that sound as vanilla as a press release about how much the evening raised. At least it’s something, but I’d hoped there would be a bigger reach to get the public involved. I shouldn’t have brought him. I wanted to go solo. Of course, then the focus probably would’ve been on Colton and what happened with us.

  Why can’t people focus on what’s important? My love life shouldn’t be anyone’s concern but my own. I know it’s part of the deal being a public figure, but come on.

  I need to know what Garrett thinks about all this, so I text him. You’re famous.

  No response.

  I blink away tears, irritated by them. It’s just baggage. Garrett was wonderful last night.

  After a shower, I curl up on my sofa to watch an old movie in my favorite
soft T-shirt and fleece pajama bottoms. I always need to recharge after a big event like the gala. My phone chimes with a text, and I grab it off the coffee table.

  Garrett: You’re the famous one, sweetheart. I just stood in your shadow.

  I can almost hear his deep smooth voice through his words and find myself smiling.

  Garrett: There’s a group of guys with cameras waiting by the front door of my apartment building. Are they there because of me? If so, what should I do? I have to go out today.

  He honestly doesn’t know why the paparazzi staked him out?

  Duh. He doesn’t have a publicist texting him links to articles. And I doubt he has a Google alert on his name. Why would he? No one ever reports on a guy working on a construction site.

  Me: Those guys are paparazzi. You’re all over the internet right now. Everyone wants to know more about the secret prince of Brooklyn.

  Garrett: Seriously?

  Me: Yes!

  I send him some of the links Dana sent me. A few minutes later, he texts again.

  Garrett: They’re saying I’m a model.

  He’s proud of his part in the family business—they do important work—so I imagine he’s not happy with people pegging him as a model. I reassure him.

  Me: They make up crap all the time. Don’t take it to heart. It means nothing.

  My phone rings, surprising me. It’s him. My heart races with excitement.

  “Are you mad at me?” he asks the moment I answer.

  I still, surprised. “Why would I be mad at you?”

  “Because there’s a ridiculous amount of stuff written about me, and you’re barely mentioned.” He sounds snappish.

  My hackles rise at his tone. “I’m mentioned too. I don’t think—it’s fine.”

  “You are mad at me. I’m fluent in woman speak. Fine is never just fine.”

  I can feel myself shutting down in self-defense. He’s fluent in woman speak because of all his many girlfriends, obviously. “Good for you on learning the female language so well.”

  “Uh-huh. Look, you asked me to this thing after your asshole ex left you hanging. I’m not sure how any of this is my fault. I’m only interesting to the public because of you.”

  “You’re a royal. That makes you inherently interesting.”

  “So are my five older brothers. So are my seven cousins. And every other Rourke relative I have.”

  “Yes, but they weren’t with me last night. You were.” Does he regret being in the spotlight with me because everyone is making assumptions about him? Is it the paps staking him out that’s the problem?

  Or maybe he’s just another user and he’s angry thinking I called him out on it somehow. Classic user behavior, turning the whole thing around on the other person. I so wanted him to be different.

  I’m confused.

  “Garrett—”

  He lets out a long whistle. “I sure was wrong about you. Here I was thinking you’re not about fame, no big ego here. Lady, there’s not enough room in the city to hold your ego.”

  I gasp. “Excuse me?”

  “You hate that they’re focused on me. And you’re mad because you think I wanted this. All I wanted was a date with someone I thought was a kind, compassionate, caring person. Now I see how it really was for you last night, just a big PR campaign to make you look good.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “I’m so disappointed in you.”

  My gut twists. “I do care about the cause. A lot. I told you why.”

  He lets out a long breath. “Now I’ve got these weirdos downstairs. Do I talk to them? Do I ignore them?”

  “You can ignore them, but they’ll follow you.”

  “Well, they’d better not follow me to my parents’ house for dinner tonight. That’s going too far.”

  “Then you need to give them a statement and tell them that’s all you’ll be saying.”

  “What kind of statement?”

  “Whatever you feel like giving them. It’s up to you. Just don’t mention me.”

  “Ridiculous,” he mutters. “All because I went to that gala.”

  Guilt stabs at me. He does regret it, and it’s my fault the paps staked him out. The least I can do is shield him from what I have to deal with. “You don’t have to go to the Rourke fundraiser with me next Saturday.”

  “Wow. Thanks for the uninvite to my own family’s fundraiser. This just gets better and better. So glad I agreed to this whole friends on a date bullshit. Bye, Harper.”

  I jolt at the harsh goodbye. He hung up on me!

  I let out a shaky breath. Somehow the conversation got away from me.

  This is exactly why I didn’t want to get involved with anyone so soon. I’m still hurting, and that makes me extra defensive and vulnerable to hurt. I rub my temple at the headache forming there. He was really defensive and harsh too.

  You know what? I don’t need the guilt trip, the I’m so disappointed in you garbage.

  Garrett Rourke can suck it.

  Garrett

  Harper Ellis can suck it.

  Where the hell does she get off? I did her a favor after she dragged my name into it, pretending we were a couple. This is the thanks I get? I jog downstairs, on my way out for my morning run. She’s pissed off because she thinks I stole her spotlight. I was amazed the press thought I was a model since it’s not something I ever considered before. And then she puts me down, saying it’s crap and means nothing. I bet she thinks I’m using her to get a leg up in the entertainment world when I’m the one who was used. She’s lumping me in with her ex. And I treated her well too. To think I really hoped this was the start of something good between us.

  Now that I think about it, modeling could be something to consider. My mom did modeling when she was younger. She made enough to pay for college. It could be a lucrative side gig for me. I’d never leave my family’s business. I eagerly followed in my brothers’ footsteps with a tool in my hand from the time I could walk (the kiddie version). This is what we do as a family. But wouldn’t it be great to have the money to buy the house I’ve always wanted instead of renting? Harper’s too wrapped up in her own stuff to see what it’s like for other people.

  I open the front door to the apartment building, step outside, and camera flashes go off in my eyes as reporters yell questions at me.

  “What does Colton think of the two of you?”

  “Will Harper Ellis be the next American princess?”

  “Any projects in the works starring you and Harper?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I have one thing to say, so listen up. That’s all you’re gonna get from me today. Harper and I parted as friends. End of story.”

  I jog down the sidewalk, heading toward the park. The fuckers trail behind me, still shouting questions.

  I pick up speed, and after a while, they stop. Pays to be in shape. You’re welcome, Harper. Now you’re free of the guy you thought was using you. From here on out, it’s my own efforts that will determine my future. I’ll talk to my mom about modeling tonight.

  I clench my jaw, pissed all over again about Harper putting me in the same category as her asshole ex. I should’ve known a celebrity would have a big ego, thinking everything’s about her, hating to share the spotlight. I don’t have time for that bullshit.

  My mind flashes to her trembling hands just before her speech.

  The way she offered me one of her last tiny squares of chocolate.

  Okay, so she’s not all ego. She’s a real person with insecurities just like everyone else. I’m still not going there. I’m insulted, and I deserve better after how well I treated her.

  I stick to that righteous feeling all day. Until I arrive at my parents’ house for dinner that night. My dad takes one look at me and says in his naturally authoritative voice, “We need to talk about this press, son.”

  And I know right there I won’t be feeling so righteous anymore.

  He gestures for me to take a seat on the dark blue l
iving room sofa. My mom waves to me from the kitchen, where she’s preparing her famous pot roast and potatoes. It’s an open floor plan—living room, kitchen, dining room all in a row, as is typical of Brooklyn rowhouses. They keep the pocket doors separating the spaces open.

  I smile at her and take my seat. “I’ll be in to help in a bit.” I’m eager to talk to her about getting started in modeling. I have to strike while the iron is hot. On my current pay, it’ll take years before I can afford a house.

  “Sounds good,” she says, smiling at me.

  I turn to my dad, who’s sitting across from me on the matching loveseat, spine straight, shoulders back. I swear he could sit anywhere—from a barstool to a ratty old recliner—and look like he’s sitting on a throne. You can take away his crown, but he will always be king.

  “Seems you’ve become a local celebrity,” he says.

  “How did you hear about it?” I didn’t think my parents read the society pages or gossip rags.

  “Mrs. Bianchi told us,” he says. “Apparently, she has a Google alert on all of us Rourkes.” He barely holds back an eye roll—too undignified—and exchanges a look with my mom. Mrs. Bianchi is our next-door neighbor.

  “She’s looking out for us,” my mom says diplomatically.

  “Right,” my dad says.

  There was a feud. For as long as I can remember growing up, Mom and Mrs. Bianchi were stone-cold furious at each other. Family legend says it all started with a missing serving spoon at a neighborhood potluck dinner at the Bianchis’. This was before I was born, but I heard whispers. Mom returned home and realized she didn’t have her spoon, so she went next door to get it. Mrs. Bianchi claimed she’d never seen it. My mom swore that Mrs. Bianchi had seen it since she’d complimented the pattern. Anyway, Mom returned home, furious, and said Mrs. Bianchi was a thief. Things went downhill fast when the Bianchis got a dog, who constantly escaped through their broken fence to take a crap in our tiny yard. From there, it was all-out war between Mom and Mrs. Bianchi, with the two husbands running interference over one grievance or another. But that’s all over now, ever since Mrs. Bianchi’s daughter, Ariana, married my oldest brother, Dylan. Everyone is friends again. Friendly.