by Tara Sivec
Shut up, Belle!
“No,” he deadpans, twisting the key into the lock and pushing open the massive door, holding it for me to enter ahead of him.
I take a tentative step past him, trying not to freak out that he’s standing so close. And I just walk into the house of this frustrating man, whom I barely know, out in the middle of nowhere. It’s pitch black inside.
His body bumps up against my back, forcing me to move further inside, and I jump when the door slams closed behind him. Since my feet are pretty much glued to the floor, and I refuse to go any further when I can’t see where I’m going, his chest slides along my shoulder blades and I hear his hand slide against the wall to my right. In seconds, I hear the flip of a switch and the room is suddenly bathed in soft lighting from the glow of a few lamps standing on end tables.
My mouth drops open in shock when I get my first look at the inside of the cottage. It’s definitely not what I expected. Once again, I feel bad for judging the man, but considering I’m still not a hundred percent certain he didn’t bring me out here to kill me, it’s only natural I expected the walls to be littered with stuffed, dead animals with pointy teeth or a bunch of rusty, medieval weapons and torture devices.
The inside is definitely much bigger than it appears from the outside. The room we’re standing in is a living room, and it’s absolutely beautiful. The ceiling is vaulted, with rustic wood beams spanning the expanse of it. A stone fireplace that matches the exterior of the cottage is huge, taking up half of the wall on the other side of the room. The walls are painted deep red and hung with a few framed pieces of artwork depicting beautiful outdoor scenes. There’s a brown leather couch, loveseat, and two matching brown-leather club chairs arranged by the fireplace as the focal point of the room, and I can just imagine myself curling up in front of a crackling fire with a book in my hand and a blanket over my lap.
“Vincent, this place is beautiful,” I whisper as I turn in a circle, taking everything in.
He quickly shoves my bag back into my arms and nervously runs his hand through his hair. For the first time since I met him, he seems uncomfortable, and I’m wondering if it was because of my use of his first name or the praise about his home.
“Pillows and blankets are in the cedar chest next to the fireplace. Bathroom is down the hall. The couch will have to do for tonight. I need to clean out the spare bedroom.”
“The couch is fine,” I quickly respond. “Honestly, anything is better than the floor of the library. Please, don’t worry about the spare bedroom. You don’t have to go to any trouble for me. Besides, this is just for tonight. I’ll figure something else out tomorrow.”
He growls under his breath, and I realize I’m starting to actually like that sound coming from him. It’s animalistic. And kind of hot. And thoughts like these are definitely not appropriate. I’ve had enough fantasies about this man before I was spending the night under the same roof as him.
“Your friends are pretty shitty,” he suddenly states.
When I stare at him blankly, he begrudgingly continues.
“Letting you sleep at the library like that. I’d get new friends if I were you.”
I can feel my cheeks redden in embarrassment, and I quickly look away from him and down at my feet.
“They don’t know,” I whisper, clearing my throat nervously. “They’re not shitty. They’re the best friends I’ve ever had. They’re the only friends I’ve ever had. They’ve just got a lot going on in their own lives. I didn’t want to bother them with my problems. Please, don’t say anything to PJ. I’m going to tell them, I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, and I finally look back up at him to find him studying me.
“You’re weird.”
“I know,” I reply with a shrug. “Thanks for not bringing me out here to kill me.”
It could be the shadows in the room playing tricks on my eyes, but once again, I think I see the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. Just as quickly, his mouth is back in a thin, straight line.
“You know, rescuing a damsel in distress is something right out of a fairy tale, Vincent. If you’re not careful, I might think you’re a knight in shining armor.”
With a deep sigh, he turns and walks away from me, pausing with his back to me at the door to a hallway.
“I’m nobody’s hero, princess. And this isn’t a fairy tale.”
With those parting words, he disappears down the dark hallway, and a few seconds later, I hear the slam of a door.
Chapter 7: Maybe You Should Try a Man
“What the hell?”
A scream flies from my throat and I whirl around to find Vincent standing right behind me. Bits of scrambled egg fly off the spatula in my hand as I turn, smacking him right in the chest before plopping down on the hardwood floor.
I forget how to speak as I stand here staring right at his chest. His naked, muscular chest, which looks like it was carved from marble. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of grey drawstring sweatpants, which sit dangerously low on his hips. I knew he was built just by looking at the way he fills out his T-shirts, but not this built. That gorgeous chest connects to washboard abs that taper down to . . .
Sweet mother of pearl, he’s got the V.
My eyes stay glued to the indents on either side of his lower abs, something I’ve only read about in romance novels and didn’t think actually existed in real life.
“You must work out a lot,” I whisper in awe.
“My eyes are up here, princess.”
I quickly look up to his face and try not to feel mortified that I ogled him like a piece of meat, hoping I don’t say anything else to embarrass myself.
“Did you know the V on a man’s body is one of the most difficult physical attributes to obtain? A lot of men try to do a ton of crunches to get it, but it takes serious work like planks, lower ab exercises, and vast amounts of cardio.”
Damn it.
Vincent ignores my rambling, and now it’s his turn for his eyes to trail downward. I suddenly realize I’m standing in his kitchen in my pajamas. It’s just a pair of yellow-and-white plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt, but in my haste to wake up first and surprise him with breakfast as a way to say thank you for letting me stay over, I forgot to put on a bra.
“Nice shirt.”
Glancing down at myself, I’m more than a little grateful he keeps his house at a comfortable seventy degrees and I’m not freezing. I realize he’s staring at the words on my shirt and not my boobs and let out a sigh of relief.
“Boys in books do it better,” Vincent reads aloud.
“True story.”
He takes a step towards me and leans forward, placing his hands on either side of the counter, caging me in.
“That’s because they’re boys. Maybe you should try a man.”
My heart is beating so fast inside my chest I’m surprised he can’t hear it in the quietness of his kitchen. His body leans even closer to mine until I’m surrounded by his scent. It’s nothing but clean and soapy, and I’ve never been so turned on by the smell of Irish Spring before.
Just when I think he might do something completely crazy like kiss me, he jerks his head back and stares at me with wide eyes, like he’s completely surprised those words just came out of his mouth.
You and me both, buddy.
He looks away from me and quickly reaches above my shoulder, opens up a cupboard, and grabs a coffee mug. I let out a slow breath when he moves away and over to the coffeemaker, which I started as soon as I woke up, sitting on the corner of his counter.
When my heart rate finally slows to a normal speed, I turn back around and finish scooping the scrambled eggs into a serving bowl, taking them over to the island in the middle of the kitchen, where I’d already set out plates, silverware, orange juice, and toast.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he states, moving over to one of the bar stools and sitting down.
I hop u
p on the stool next to him, trying to calm the flutters in my stomach as I watch him scoop eggs onto my plate, adding a piece of toast to it before filling up his own.
Get a grip, Belle. Having a guy serve you isn’t romantic. He said it last night. He’s a goddamn gentleman, that’s it.
“I almost didn’t make you breakfast. Your fridge is filled with nothing but eggs, orange juice, expired milk, and fifteen containers of takeout. But it was the least I could do after you rescued me last night.”
He lets out an irritated sigh as he shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
“I didn’t rescue you. I gave you a place to crash. And I don’t cook. I’m at Charming’s a lot. I mostly just eat there or grab something on the way,” he says around a mouthful of food.
I take a minute to look around his kitchen, completely appalled that he doesn’t cook in this thing. It’s a cook’s dream. Brand-new stainless-steel appliances, a double oven, and so many mahogany wood cabinets I lost count after twenty.
“I love to cook. Cooking is therapeutic for me. Did you know twenty-eight percent of Americans don’t know how to cook, and ninety percent just don’t like doing it? They’re too busy, and they want something fast and easy. They don’t realize they’re missing out on something amazing. My best memories growing up were sitting on a stool in our kitchen and my dad teaching me how to cook. He’d let me crack the eggs and measure stuff, and we’d talk about everything and anything while we did it.”
I stop rambling when my throat gets tight and tears fill my eyes, thinking about my dad. This is the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other, not to mention talking. As much as he smothered me, I still miss him like crazy. I miss telling him about my day and my plans for the library. I miss talking about the books we’d read together. I hate not knowing if he’s okay, if he’s remembering to take his vitamins, or if he’s filling up on junk food and forgetting to eat his vegetables.
Feeling Vincent’s eyes on me, I quickly start shoving eggs in my mouth to stop myself from crying like a baby in front of him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here as soon as I finish eating and clean up the dishes,” I tell him in between bites, grabbing my toast and inhaling that as well.
I realize it’s totally unladylike, and bits of toast are falling out of my mouth when I speak, but I don’t care. It’s better than crying.
“You’re staying.”
The toast gets stuck in my throat and I start coughing, quickly grabbing my orange juice and taking a huge swallow. When I get myself under control, I turn on my stool and stare at him.
“Excuse me?”
He finishes up his last bite of scrambled eggs, letting the fork clatter on top of the empty plate.
“I said you’re staying.”
Pushing his stool back from the counter, he gets up, taking his plate over to the sink and dropping it in before turning around and leaning against the counter, crossing his arms.
“I’m not staying here. I can’t stay here. I barely know you!”
“I think we’ve established that I’m not going to slice your body into tiny little pieces and bury you in a field somewhere,” he deadpans.
I can feel my face flush, remembering what I said to him right before I passed out in his truck last night.
“Fine, so you’re not a serial killer. That still doesn’t negate the fact that I don’t know anything about you, other than you’re friends with PJ, you work at Charming’s, and we like the same books,” I remind him.
“What do you want to know?”
How often do you work out? Do you work out naked? Can I watch?
“What’s your last name?”
“Adams,” he quickly replies.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Do you have parents?”
“No. I was raised by a pack of wolves.”
This time I definitely see the corner of his mouth twitch before he continues.
“Tom and Laura Adams. Married for thirty-five years. Vacationed in Paris five years ago and decided to stay.”
My shoulders droop, and my mouth turns down into a frown.
“Don’t,” he mutters.
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face is like an open book. I don’t have abandonment issues. They come home several times a year, and I talk to them on the phone more than is necessary. My mother is chatty. You remind me of her.”
Oh, eew. Not exactly the kind of thing you want to hear from a guy who makes your heart all aflutter.
“If you don’t stay here, where are you going to go?”
And that right there is the million-dollar question, isn’t it? I don’t have anywhere else to go, but I don’t want him to know that and feel sorry for me. It’s bad enough he knows I’ve been living at the library, he doesn’t need to know why. And also, I have manners. I don’t want to impose, or cramp his style. What if he wants to have people over? Oh, my God, what if he wants to have a woman over?
“Oh, don’t mind the weird girl sitting in the corner, spouting random useless facts. She doesn’t mind. Just try not to scream too loudly when I take you back to my bedroom and show you how much better a man is compared to a boy.”
“I’m not here much, anyway,” he continues. “I’m at Charming’s until all hours of the morning, unless I have a night off like last night. And then when I am here, I sleep half the day. We probably won’t even see each other.”
I make sure my face is devoid of emotion so he doesn’t know how much I do not like that idea. I want to get to know him better. I want to know why he lives all alone in this beautiful cottage out in the middle of nowhere. I want to experience more of those butterflies he gives me. I like him. I like his company. I like the way he listens and doesn’t get annoyed when I ramble.
“Fine. I’ll stay here. But just until I start booking gigs with the Naughty Princess Club and can afford my own place.”
He pushes away from the counter with his hip and comes over to the island, resting both of his hands on top of it. I force myself not to stare at the way the muscles in his biceps and forearms tighten with the motion.
“I have rules. First—”
“Wait! Let me get my notebook,” I interrupt him, scrambling down from the stool and over to my bag, which I left next to the couch.
Pulling out one of the many notebooks I take with me everywhere, I pull a pen out of the metal spirals as I come back into the kitchen, smacking the notebook on top of the island and uncapping my pen.
“Okay, shoot.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I look up from my notebook to find him staring at me.
“You’re taking notes?”
“Yes, I’m taking notes. I like notes. Notes help me remember things and keep me organized. Shut up and give me your rules,” I tell him.
Another lip twitch from him makes me want to beg him for a damn smile already, but I’m trying to be serious here.
He sighs before speaking, and I duck my head and stare down at my notebook so he can’t see my smile.
“No slumber parties with your two annoying friends. No redecorating my house and hanging girly shit up on the walls. No bras or underwear or any other frilly things hanging from my shower rod.”
When he stops speaking, I pause from scribbling in my notebook to glance up at him.
“That’s it?”
“No.”
I roll my eyes at him and start writing again.
“There’s a room down the hall, across from my bedroom. It’s locked. It’s always locked. Don’t touch it, and don’t try to get in it. That room stays locked and no one goes in it.”
Oh, shit. He really is a serial killer and that’s where he keeps the dead bodies.
“No, that’s not where I keep the dead bodies.”
When my mouth drops open and my eyes widen in shock, he points at me.
“Open book, princess. Open book.”
He leaves the kitchen and
a few minutes later, I hear him turn on the shower. I stare down at the list of rules and read them over a few times, just so I won’t be tempted to think about him in the shower. Naked. Wet. Dripping with Irish Spring soap.
I think it’s finally time I tell Cindy and Ariel the truth. Maybe after they stop freaking out about where I’m living now, they’ll see this might be just what I need. Forget about that stupid Match Made in Heaven and the pervy emails. I can get all the experience I need with the opposite sex right under this roof. It will give me a chance to find out how a man thinks and what makes him tick, and who knows? Maybe it will lead to more. Maybe I can convince Vincent he really is a knight in shining armor.
Besides, he did say I should try a man. What better man than him? The one that will be the most difficult to figure out.
Chapter 8: Blink Once for Yes, Twice for No
After cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I sent a text to Cindy and Ariel, then took a quick shower.
Okay, fine. It was a thirty-minute shower and the best thing I’ve ever experienced. I’m not sure if it was because I’ve been showering at the local YMCA, which is hit or miss with hot water, for the last week, or because Vincent’s shower is like something you’d find in a fancy hotel. The showerhead has eight settings, each one more glorious than the last.
As I finish putting my wet hair up in a messy bun and put my glasses back on, I look down at the simple, long-sleeved floral maxi dress I’m wearing, also grateful for the fact that Vincent owns an iron. Wearing wrinkled clothes that had been shoved into a duffle bag was starting to make people at the library look at me funny.
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO OUR FRIEND, YOU OVERGROWN ANIMAL!”
“Oh, no,” I mutter to myself when I hear a shout from the living room.
I glance down at the watch on my wrist as I fling open the door to the bathroom, wondering why they’re early. I skid to a stop in the living room just in time to watch Ariel pull her arm back and punch Vincent in the stomach as hard as she can.