Life’s unfair. Sooner you learn it, the better.
Thanks, General Joan! My grandmother’s voice never leaves my head. She was that strong an influence. I owe her a visit. She’s eighty-seven years old, and I don’t know how much time I have left with her. Though she’s still strong and fiery as ever. I’m twenty-eight. She took on raising me at the age most women are done with babies, fifty-nine, rather than let my mother put me up for adoption. We’re family and that’s that, as she says.
I lean close to the mirror, checking my mascara. All set. I head back to the living room and take a seat in the corner of my cushy pale green sofa. Everything in my apartment is done in soft pastels. The living room is all about comfort—sofa with two matching cushy chairs, lots of throw pillows I knitted myself, and a soft geometric-patterned area rug. It’s my haven where I can snuggle in.
I check my phone. Maybe he’ll text he’s going to be late, or that he can’t make it after all. I’ve heard all the excuses from guys who find a better invitation come up on our date night. No text. A rush of excited nerves goes through me. It’s a point in his favor. He’s not bailing. God, it’s sad how low the bar is set.
I pull up Alice Segal’s The Scoundrel and the Governess on my phone. Nothing relaxes me more than getting lost in the funny banter of this long-ago time. Oh! I should get my paperback to give to Garrett. He said he’d have Alice sign it for me. What if he invites me to the palace where she lives? I feel like Alice and I could be best friends. At least the version of her I know through her stories. Silly, I know. She’s no more her characters than I’m one of the characters I play. Though I did hear that the scoundrel was based on her real-life husband, Prince Lucas Rourke. (I should’ve made the connection from Lucas to Alice to Garrett earlier. The royal Rourkes are Garrett’s cousins, of course.) At one point Lucas was the world’s most eligible royal bachelor and totally fit her scoundrel description. Now he’s hopelessly besotted with her. (One of her heroine’s favorite ways to describe him.)
I pluck the paperback off my bookshelf and hug it to my chest. I should get all of her books to be signed. I gather them up and put them in a canvas tote bag for Garrett.
The intercom buzzes, and my heart races. Calm down. He’s a nice guy. My brain knows that; I just need to convince my heart. Josie sings his praises all the time. She even told me his mom used to call him her teddy bear. I was a little embarrassed for him that she shared that, but I can see it. A big muscled teddy bear.
I hit the intercom button. “Yes?”
“Your date is here,” Joe says. My new bodyguard insists my visitors go through him so no one sneaks past with a fake identity.
“The hot one,” Garrett puts in.
I laugh and open the door. “Hi, come in.”
He’s carrying an insulated bag over one shoulder and a brown bag tucked in his other arm. “I had some time, so I whipped up dinner ahead of time.”
“Oh, cool.” I direct him toward the kitchen.
He sets it down on the counter. “I made enchiladas because they travel better.” One corner of his mouth curves up. “Truth is, I didn’t want to be cooking here and get something on my suit before we go to the theater.”
“It’s a very nice suit.” He’s in a black suit, open white dress shirt, no tie. It’s the open white dress shirt that has my attention, exposing tanned manly chest. I’m dying to see more. Josie told me he was shirtless for his commercial and that he’s gorgeous. How unfair is it that the rest of the world gets to see that and I don’t?
“Thanks. You look beautiful.”
I take a deep breath, looking away. “Wine?”
“The proper response is thank you.”
I flutter a hand in the air. “I’m not good with compliments. Thank you for saying that.”
“I mean it.”
I bite my lower lip, a fluttery feeling bouncing around inside me. Excitement? Nerves? Lust? I’m all over the place. “I’ll get some wine.”
He grins. He has the perfect amount of scruff, so sexy. “I brought beer. Mind if I put it in your fridge?”
“Sure.”
He sets a six-pack in there. Is he going to drink all that, or will he be returning for date two or three or…I break out into a cold sweat. Why does a six-pack of beer feel like a commitment? And why am I so terrified? It’s not like I’ve never had a relationship before or been in love. It’s just that I’ve had so many bad experiences, I’m finding it hard to try again. Perfectly normal, I assure myself. It was only three weeks ago I found out Colton had cheated on me. I’m just being cautious.
Garrett takes a sip of beer, eying me over the bottle. “Need help uncorking the wine?”
“Sorry, I got distracted. I’ve got it.” I head for the kitchen drawer, where I keep the corkscrew, but he’s partially blocking it with his body. “Could you shift a little to the side so I can open the drawer?”
“There’s a tax.”
I lift wary eyes to him. “What kind of tax?”
“You have to make eye contact for more than three seconds so I don’t feel like you’re terrified of me.”
I force myself to keep my eyes on his, channeling my tough persona. “I’m not terrified of you. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’d never hurt you.”
“I know that. Move, please.”
He pinches my chin. “In any way. Okay? You can relax.”
My heart beats double time. “I’m very relaxed.”
“Okay, lamb chop.” He drops his hand and steps out of the way. “Tell that to the pulse point in your neck beating like a trapped rabbit.”
I grab the corkscrew. “Ha! First I’m a lamb; then I’m a rabbit. Someone’s quite the carnivore.” I retrieve the wine from the refrigerator and remove the cork with efficient movements. “Could a terrified rabbit do this?”
He presses his lips together, his eyes dancing with amusement. “I doubt it. No opposable thumbs.”
I’m tempted to chug straight from the bottle. Now that he’s called out my nerves, they’re worse. “Go ahead and take a seat at the dining room table. I’ll serve up dinner.” I indicate the light wood table in the open living area.
He smirks before heading over there. It’s a little disconcerting the way he sees past my acting skills. Most guys can’t. Hmm…this is a guy my fake orgasm cry will not work for. Whoa, back it up. I retrieve a wineglass, accidentally fill it nearly to the top, and take a healthy swallow with my back to him. He doesn’t need to know how much I poured. And drank.
“Your place is exactly as I pictured,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yup. Soft and feminine. Ever live with a guy?”
“Once. His stuff clashed. It was ugly too. He brought over a black leather recliner and a glass coffee table with sharp edges.”
I leave my wineglass at the place setting across from him, gather our plates, and turn back to the kitchen. There’s a half wall separating the kitchen from the living area, so I can see him checking out my apartment.
“If you ever make it to my place, I’ve got a sofa kinda like yours,” he says. “Except the pillows came with it, and it’s beige. Did you make those yourself?”
“Yeah.” I glance over at the pale blue, white, and yellow knitted pillows in an assortment of Gaelic patterns. I was experimenting, but I like the way they came out. “I picked up knitting on the set of my first show from the actress who played my mom. She says it keeps you from grazing at craft services all day long. They keep snacks out for us and serve up meals. It definitely helped me not binge on M&Ms every day.”
“There are worse vices.”
“True.” I’ve seen it happen. Drugs lead to a crash and burn. A lot of actresses smoke too, partly to keep from eating, partly from nerves. I knit and read mostly. Guess I’m kinda a homebody.
I take the lid off the enchiladas and put my hand over them. “Still warm. These look so good.” He even sprinkled chopped scallions on top. I serve up a large portion for him, figuring he
eats a lot since he’s so big, and take a smaller portion for myself.
I return to the table with the food and take a seat, tucking my napkin on my lap. “I’d better be careful not to spill.”
“Me too.” He stands and removes his blazer, the play of his muscular arms catching my attention as he sets the blazer over the back of his chair. Then he sits, tucking his napkin into the top of his shirt.
He flashes a grin. “Why aren’t ya eating, lamb chop?”
Busted. He knows I was checking him out. Must be more subtle. “I was being polite, waiting for you.”
He winks. “Sweet.” He cuts into his enchilada and takes a bite.
So I do the same. The combination of flavors melts in my mouth, spicy goodness with melted cheese. “This is incredible!”
“Thanks. I can follow a recipe.”
“What else can you make?”
He gazes into my eyes. “Anything you desire.” His voice is gravelly, scraping against my insides.
I flush with heat, my pulse thrumming through my veins. I open my mouth and then close it again.
He smirks and goes back to eating. The man knows exactly what he does to me.
Yet somehow I can’t return fire. It’ll get out of hand. I’ll end up grabbing his shirt and dragging him across the table to have my way with him. I’m not great at self-control once I get into the physical. Then sex and my emotions mess with my head, and I can’t see the situation with any kind of objectivity. Probably why I’m blindsided by betrayal so often. I want to believe the best in a guy, but they always disappoint me in the end.
He lifts his beer to me. “Let’s have a toast.”
I lift my wineglass, which I completely forgot to drink. “Sure.”
“To our first date. May it be less awkward than other firsts.”
I narrow my eyes at the innuendo there, and he grins. I clink his glass. “I’m all for less awkward.”
“Good.” He takes a sip of beer, sets it down, and removes the napkin from his shirt. “Then let’s get this out of the way.”
“What?”
He pushes our plates to the side and crooks his finger at me. “The goodnight kiss. That way there’s no awkward tension at the end of the night.”
I stare at him, completely thrown. Who does that? Actually talks about it and puts it out there?
“Would you prefer I come to you?” he asks.
He assumes I’m okay with a kiss. It’s just a matter of how.
“Harper, our food’s getting cold.” He crooks his finger again. “And we don’t want to miss the show.”
It’s suddenly urgent that I lean toward him. He cups my jaw and gives me a gentle kiss. A rush of sensation goes through me like a shot of whiskey, powerful and heated from the smallest sip, warming me all the way to my toes.
He draws back, his gaze intent on mine. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say softly.
He shifts my dinner back in front of me. “No more awkward moment to worry about. Tell me how your taping went yesterday.”
My gaze jerks to his. He sounds so casual and comfortable. Didn’t he feel that chemistry? He nods for me to go ahead, his eyes smoldering. He did feel it.
I let out a small sigh of happiness. You know what? He’s right. It’s better to get the awkward out of the way. So I go ahead and tell him about the taping and how the comedian who was supposed to warm up the crowd called out sick at the last minute, so Josie went out there and entertained them just by having a conversation. I could never do that, but she’s had lots of improv training and does standup comedy for fun. Shudder.
The rest of the meal passes in such a relaxed way I’m surprised when he asks if I’d like to take a walk before the show or just hang out here.
He sets his napkin on the table and stands. “We’ve got a little time since I prepared the meal ahead.”
He sounds super casual. Too casual. It makes me think he cooked it ahead just so we’d have more time together the two of us. He’s clever, finding ways to connect with me. And is that really such a bad thing? He seems sincere.
His lips curve up, a bemused expression on his gorgeous face. “You’re thinking awfully hard.”
“It’s probably best if we stay here. Joe will have to tail us out there.” I point toward the door.
“Okay.” He stands there, hands in his pockets, looking at me expectantly.
“I’ll clean up since you cooked, and meet you on the sofa.”
“I’ll help.”
It’s weird to have a guy willing to pitch in. I guess I’m used to spoiled guys with staff to handle the mundane. Garrett rolls up his sleeves before gathering our plates. His forearms are tanned and corded with muscle. I’m dying to stroke the contour of muscle there and so many other places. I join him at the sink, where he’s rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. He barely gave me a chance to do anything besides put our glasses away. We’re finished in no time. There’s still leftovers, so I put the lid back on the glass dish and transfer it to the refrigerator.
“Do you mind if I leave the dish and beer here?” he asks.
“Of course. Not like you can take it to the theater. I’ll get it back to you through Josie.”
“Or I could pick it up.”
“Sure. Whatever works.” My voice hits a high pitch. I feel like I’m already committing to date two at my place. I’m not sure how much longer I can resist temptation.
He smiles, his eyes soft. “For once I’m not adding flirty meaning. It’s just a casserole dish, bag, and five beers. You can keep them, or I can get them later. Just stuff, yeah?”
I stare at him. “How do you do that? How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“You’re sensitive, right?”
I clamp my mouth shut. That’s a major flaw of mine I’ve worked my whole life to hide.
He gives my arm a squeeze. “I know you are. It’s in your eyes. It shines through on Living Gold. I am too. So I can read you just like you can read me. If you tried to read me, that is. I can tell you’re not trying too hard, or you never would’ve been a scared rabbit earlier.”
“I was not a scared rabbit,” I say through my teeth.
He leans toward my ear, and I wait for his whispered comeback that I’m sure will throw me off, but instead his lips graze my neck. My knees go weak.
He meets my eyes and brushes his thumb over my lower lip. “That’s right. You’re my lamb chop.”
I’m speechless. He takes my hand and guides me toward the sofa. I follow blindly, anticipation racing through me. Maybe I am his lamb chop.
I halt, nerves racing through me. I’d better stall, shorten the window of opportunity from kissing to naked. “I need to freshen up.”
“Sure.” He takes a seat on the sofa, leaning back and pulling his phone out.
I blow out a breath and head to the bathroom. After several minutes, I emerge with a minty clean mouth, fresh makeup, and a new determination. I will take charge of the evening. I’m not going to sit there, a bundle of nerves, trying to restrain myself. There’s something very specific I want from him.
I return to the living room, standing across from the sofa, leaving a coffee table between us. “We still have some time.”
“Yup.”
I gird my loins. “I’d like to see you shirtless.”
13
Harper
He flashes a smile that he quickly covers. “And why is that?”
I gesture toward him. “Because everyone else gets to see you shirtless in that commercial. It seems only fair.”
He stands, his eyes burning into mine as he closes the distance. “I dunno, Harper,” he drawls.
“It’s up to you, of course. No pressure.” Wow. I feel like the guy here, orchestrating the journey into the physical.
He stops just out of reach, and I stare at the exposed tanned skin at the top of his shirt. He left the top two buttons undone. I’m so tempted to unbutton it myself, but I want him to feel comfortable with i
t. Of course he’s comfortable with it! He took off his shirt in front of total strangers!
He waits until I meet his eyes before saying in a teasing voice, “It seems a little fast for a first date.” He unbuttons the third button, giving me a glimpse of his pecs. “Not sure how I feel about it.”
Another button.
I close the distance, fascinated. I’ve seen muscular man chest before, but nothing like his. He looks like a warrior—wide shoulders and broad barrel chest. I could totally picture him wielding a sword.
“Keep going,” I whisper.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks in a husky voice, undoing another button. His rippling abs appear in front of my hungry eyes.
“More,” I say.
“I’m running out of buttons.” He finishes the last one, the shirt gaping wide open, but still tucked into his dress pants, obstructing my view.
I untuck the shirt and push it open. Wow, just…wow. There’s ridges upon ridges. His abs lead to a deep V that disappears under the waistline of his pants. I’m torn between asking for the pants to come off or just exploring what he’s offering.
He cups my jaw, bringing my gaze to his. “What’s next?”
“I want to touch you, but I don’t want you to move.”
“Go for it.”
I peel his shirt off, my fingers brushing his heated skin. I fold the shirt neatly in half and drop it on the coffee table before turning back to him. Now he’s all mine. I place my palms on his chest and then roam, enjoying the play of hard muscle. His breath comes harder as I get bolder, flicking my fingers over his flat nipples, sliding down his sides, tracing the deep V I’m dying to follow all the way down. I glance at the bulge in his pants before lifting my gaze back to his.
Rogue Beast (The Rourkes, Book 12) Page 12