by Kim Karr
Cross your fingers that it works.
Besides, he owes me one freak-out.
It’s a little before seven thirty, and I decide to head on out. This will help me mentally prepare myself to see him, and all his hotness.
In addition, I can go over my speech again. Although I really haven’t finalized even the first few words.
Crap.
Pulling my suitcase behind me, I open my door, and suddenly everything I worried about all night and morning disappears.
Just like that.
Because there he is, leaning against one of my pillars, with two cups of coffee in his hands, looking like he just walked off the runway.
Black and white never looked so good.
Black suit.
White shirt.
Funky black and white tie.
Simple and yet smoking hot.
A Simon Warren, I can tell.
I want to lick him, and I haven’t even apologized.
I’m so screwed.
But then a slow, easy smile turns up the corners of his lips and my heart melts a little. Mind you, my heart has never melted. Somehow that smile says it all, and I know in my gut that everything is going to be all right.
“Maggie.” His voice is warm and gooey caramel, smooth and yummy.
“Keen,” I say, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. No need to overwhelm the guy. “You’re early.”
With my body a trembling bundle of nerves, I find that I’m struggling to get myself, my raincoat, umbrella, suitcase, and oversized purse out the door.
With his eyes devouring every inch of me, he sets the coffees down on the porch railing, and I swear the air crackles as he rushes toward me. “Hey, let me give you a hand.”
The Maggie of yesterday would have scoffed at the thought of Keen Masters helping her. The Maggie of today can play the damsel-in-distress card if it means gaining empathy. “Yes, that would be great. Can you grab—”
Just then he reaches for my suitcase and as soon as our hands connect, a zap of electricity whispers wicked promises for the night. “What is all this, anyway?” he asks, although it comes out much more mumbled as the first signs of thunder boom in the distance.
The wind picks up and I feel like I’m talking too loud. “I’m going to stay at my mother’s tonight. The early morning flights are killer, and staying in West Hollywood shaves an hour off the morning commute to LAX.”
He wheels the suitcase to the top of the steps. “Great idea. I’ll grab my stuff before we leave and get a hotel for the night.”
Disappointed he didn’t whisper a naughty invite in my ear, I lamely agree with him. “Yes, it will be much easier that way.”
Okay, that was dumb and this is awkward.
Keen grabs one of the coffees and hands it to me. Right away I can see the box next to the word vanilla is checked.
My heart skips a beat. Yesterday in the kitchen he had paid attention to what I was drinking.
“You brought me coffee? Do I have to call you ‘dear’ now?” I say with a smirk.
“No.” He laughs. “But you can call me ‘sir.’”
“Um…no.”
We laugh together and it feels good. Like everything is going to go right back on track. Whatever track this is. Undefined. Unknown. And okay.
Instead of reaching for me, though, he takes a seat on the railing beside his coffee and leans slightly forward, his head dipping down and his eyes lifting.
After taking a sip of my coffee, I warm my hands on the cup and meet his gaze.
That’s when I know nothing is back on the unknown track. I know I have to come clean. Open the door.
“About last night,” we both say at the same time.
Uneasiness creeps over me, and not because in the distance I can see the sky growing darker. Call it intuition, call it whatever you want, I just know I am not going to like whatever he says next.
It can’t be good.
Suddenly I realize he’s out of character—he’s being way too nice. The coffees aren’t about him wooing me.
The question is what are they about.
A peace offering? No.
An apology? For what? New Year’s again? The hate fuck last night? Crossing the line? We talked about all that last night.
“You first,” he offers.
I sip more coffee and try to release the tension in my muscles. “No, you first.”
He runs a hand through his more-than-perfect hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t come over last night.”
“Umm…what?” I hold up my free hand.
He leans farther forward, leaning his arms on his thighs, those blue eyes still piercing me though. “I should have called.”
Not expecting that in the least, I have to admit that it hurts like hell to know he didn’t even try to come to me.
Here’s the thing: the shock on my face isn’t something I can control, nor is the ire I’m feeling. “You really are an asshole!” I shout.
He straightens. “Let me explain.”
I throw him a disgusted look, feeling triumphant when he flinches. “Don’t bother. I locked the door anyway.”
The muscle in his jaw flexes. “You weren’t going to let me in?”
Anger sparks in my eyes. “No, I wasn’t. I changed my mind before I even made it in the house. Decided I couldn’t trust you. And obviously for good reason.”
His nostrils flare. “Bullshit.”
I blink rapidly at the nerve of him. “Why weren’t you coming over?”
He shrugs. “I thought it was for the best.”
“Bullshit,” I curse, using his word. “You were afraid.”
Standing up, he takes a step toward me. “You got me all wrong, sweetheart. I’m not afraid of anything, but obviously you are.”
“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’!” I scream.
Just then the door swings wide open and Brooklyn stands there in a pair of board shorts, running his hand through his hair.
We both look at him like deer caught in headlights.
“What the hell is going on?” he says with a yawn.
“Nothing,” we both say at the same time.
“Then what’s with the yelling?”
We look at each other and Keen gives me a slight nod to take the lead. What? No, he only relents control because he’s scared of his little brother. I should clue Brooklyn in, but I won’t. What happened between us happened between us and for some reason I’m not ready to let anyone in, so I straighten my shoulders and smile at him. “We are just discussing something that we can’t seem to agree on.”
Brooklyn raises a brow. “Anything I can help with?”
I ignore Keen’s questioning look. “No, you know how your brother is.”
Brooklyn grins at me. “Yeah, you mean he can be an ass.”
With a wink, I point my finger at him. “You know him well. Don’t forget I won’t be back until Sunday.”
“Right; I’ll water the plants.” He laughs.
It’s a joke between us. We have no plants or nothing live to take care of. It makes going out of town easy. Something Brooklyn does way more of than me.
Without even looking, I can feel the burn of Keen’s stare on me as I grab my suitcase and head toward his car parked at the end of my walk. “Be a dear and unlock your car, will you?” I toss over my shoulder. “And the trunk as well,” I add, keeping my voice sweet for Brooklyn’s sake.
“Just leave the suitcase—I’ll load it,” Keen calls to me.
That damn chivalry, he can shove it right—well, you know where. “I got it.”
To my surprise, the lights flick and the trunk pops right away. I had forgotten the trunk was in the front, so I’m thankful for that little hint. Still, I leave my bag on the walk for him.
The beep-beep of the lock and the creak of the trunk mask the murmur of voices from the front porch, but I don’t even bother trying to hear what Keen and Brooklyn are discussing.
I really don’t care.
&n
bsp; In fact, as far as I’m concerned, the past is long erased. Right now, Keen Masters is nothing more than a two-week inconvenience that I have been saddled with.
And trust me when I say I know just how to handle inconveniences.
25
PICTURE TO BURN
Maggie
I’ve never owned a Louisville Slugger.
In fact, I’m not certain I’ve ever even held one in the palm of my hands, but right now, I really wish I had one, and whether it comes in maple, birch, or ash, I really don’t care.
It’s not a baseball I’m dreaming of hitting with it. Oh, and just to be clear, it’s not him, either. I wouldn’t want to mar his gorgeous drop-dead looks, even if I do think he is a giant dick.
Pairing my phone with his radio is done easily enough. The rain is coming down in sheets and causing nothing but chaos on the freeway. Deep in concentration, he doesn’t even notice what I’m doing. Then again, we haven’t spoken a word since I laid on his horn to hurry him up.
After tossing my suitcase in the trunk, along with his duffle and suit bag in the mini seat behind us, he got in, started the car, and has yet to glance over at me.
As always, the tension is thick between us, but I’ve devised a way to help clear the air, or perhaps not.
It’s a toss-up.
But this is war, now.
The screen on my phone blinks PAIRED, and just like that I have control of the radio. Goodbye hard rock, hello country. Now, I don’t usually listen to country, but when I was looking for anti–Valentine’s Day songs, I came across this little gem and downloaded it.
Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” blares through the BOSE speakers, and Keen’s head snaps in my direction. “What the hell, Maggie?”
Ignore your name on his lips.
Luckily I’m able to.
My smile couldn’t be brighter. “What?” I ask innocently. “I thought a little variety would be nice since we’re going to be in the car for a while.”
Coming to a complete standstill on the pavement, I watch as Keen’s body stiffens, and then he stares over at me with an infuriating imperiousness. And yet, he remains silent.
That is unacceptable.
Stretching, I arch my back. “This is such a good song. Don’t you think?”
His eyes rake down my body, and they take their time drinking me in on the climb back up.
Under his heat-filled stare, it is hard not to squirm, but I manage. “Her voice is amazing.”
He looks away, returning his gaze to the rain coming down in buckets on his windshield. And then his lips twist as he uses the controls on his steering wheel to turn the music down.
We can’t have that, now, can we. I reach over and use the knob to turn it up, just in time for Carrie to sing about taking her Louisville Slugger to both headlights and then smashing a hole in all four tires of her ex-boyfriend’s pride and joy.
Now, Keen is not my boyfriend and never has been, and obviously cheating isn’t an issue, but cowardliness is, and this song seems oddly appropriate. Besides, the look on his face is priceless as the lyrics sink in.
Just for effect, I reach in my purse and jingle my keys as she sings about digging her key into the side of his car and then carving her name into his leather seats.
My fingers twitch at the thought, and for a moment I get caught up in the idea of doing it. Not that I ever would—I mean it’s not the car’s fault that its owner is such an ass.
The traffic starts moving and his leg jerks in an exaggerated motion to lay on the gas. “Don’t you dare!”
“Dare what?” I ask while blinking in mock confusion.
Those blue eyes pierce me. “You know what.”
My stomach does that thing again, but I ignore it, and then give him one of my flirty smiles that I swear makes his eyes dance.
It comes a little too late that my smile is not causing the gleam in his eyes. Rather, it’s Rod Stewart’s voice. “Maggie May” penetrates my ears, and it seems as if Keen somehow managed to fast-forward it right to the part where Rod sings about being kicked in the head.
That bastard!
My blood starts to heat. “That is really uncalled for,” I say through gritted teeth.
He glares at me. “That’s inappropriate, but playing a song about wrecking my car isn’t?”
“Ugh!”
All of a sudden the car jerks forward and there’s this loud popping noise that eclipses even Rod’s vocals. Keen has a death grip on the wheel. “Hold on!” he yells.
Shit, is this karma knocking at my door? If so, I had no intention of ever doing harm to his car, I swear.
A set of headlights coming at us tells me we are heading in the wrong direction. “Watch out!” I scream, truly fearful that I am going to die an evil woman and forever have my ill treatment of this man on my conscience.
As the car continues to spin, it pirouettes in such a way that I have to wrench my head around to figure the correct direction we should be headed.
Seized by fear, I cannot open my mouth wide enough to scream as loud as I want to.
“I got this, Maggie,” Keen says over the rain and the sound of his car losing control.
My name on his lips brings me focus with a strange sense that he isn’t going to let anything happen to me.
Jerking my head in his direction, I watch as he slams his foot down on the brake and then eases off it, pumping it with total competence. And then I watch as he somehow manages to pull the Porsche 911 over to the side of the road in order to avoid crashing into the car in front of him.
The car comes to a screeching stop and I’m catapulted forward. There’s a weight on my chest that for some reason makes my breath come out in pants that I cannot control. And then my heart starts pounding, and I have some vague idea that my fingers are tingling.
Rod Stewart’s voice has returned to high-octave level as he tells Maggie May that all she did was wreck his bed and in the morning kick him in the head, and then just like that the music stops.
There’s a clicking noise. And then another, and then my seat belt is no longer across my chest.
“Maggie, look at me,” Keen orders as he peels my hands off the dashboard.
I turn to see his face etched with concern.
His hands are now squeezing mine. “Tell me you’re okay.”
Hot. My body is so hot, as if it is the middle of July. “What happened?”
Those callused palms of his find my face. “A tire blew out. You hit your head on the dash. Are you sure you are okay?”
“Why are your hands so callused?” I ask.
“From rock climbing and the boxing gym.”
I turn his hand in mine and run a finger over the rough calluses. “I was curious why a Wall Street wolf shows signs of physical labor.”
With a shake of his head, he says, “I take it you’re fine?”
I look up and meet his gaze. “I think I am, but I’m going to be late for work.”
He grins at me. “You and me both.”
“The store will be empty anyway. The torrential rain is bad for business.”
Keen shrugs out of his suit coat. “That is why Internet sales is one of the first things I want to introduce to Simon Warren.”
“I agree.”
Next, Keen undoes the knot of his tie and pulls that off too. “Stay put,” he tells me and then opens his door.
“Keen,” I call.
It’s too late. He’s already striding to the front of the Porsche and opening the hood. Guess he has no intention of calling AAA.
The rain is relentless, lashing the trees, the Porsche, the passing cars, and Keen.
All I can see is a faint black shape.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
White bolts of lightning illuminate the sky between claps of thunder. Leaning forward, I squint my eyes and catch sight of his silhouette. Lightning strikes closer and I start to worry about him out there. I open my window and the
rain assaults me. “Keen?” I call.
No answer.
All I can see is the movement of his faint silhouette.
And then finally, he slams the hood closed, strides around to the driver’s door, and gets in.
Rain slicks his hair over his forehead and drips off his nose. His clothes hang sodden, the white shirt made sheer by the water. Muscles bulging. Heart beating. He stares at me, but makes no sound except the slightly raspy hiss of his breath.
I am already reaching for him when he pulls me to him. “Maggie,” he sighs.
“Keen,” I whisper.
His lips hover over my mouth. “You’re right, I was scared. I don’t know why, but I was.”
I lick around his lip, tasting rain and him. “I was scared too, and I also have no idea why either.”
Two truths.
No answers.
It doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters anymore.
Not the past.
What he did.
Or how I acted.
It just doesn’t matter.
The rain is cold, but he is hot beneath the wetness. With my palms flat to his chest, I begin to unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers. When I finish, I pull it open, and for a moment all I can do is stare. I can look at him a hundred times, and I think every time will feel like the first.
“You know what happened after you left New York? It wasn’t about you, right?”
I nod.
“So will you forgive me for shutting you out after New Year’s?”
I give him a soft smile. “Yes, I think I do. I think I did yesterday. Keen, I get it. I don’t like it, but I do get it. My life has had its fair share of swings, but promise me, whatever happens in the future, you’ll talk to me.”
“I promise.”
I run my fingertips up and down his chest.
“So where do these confessions leave us?” he asks.
I look at him. “I don’t know.”
He laughs deep from his throat. His damp hair clings to the sides of his cheeks and on impulse, I reach to smooth away one sleek piece. He turns his face to push his mouth against my hand. “Come here, my little bedwrecker.”
I don’t know how it happens, but I’m on his lap before I can even think about it—straddling him with his face in my hands and his hungry mouth devouring mine. I taste coffee and rain and feel his wet hair on the backs of my hands.