Eighteen
Brittany was still half-asleep when the door closed. The click, and the resounding jolt of her heart with it, brought her to full awareness. John had left her alone in bed, and it was too reminiscent of a bad one-night stand where the guy can’t wait to slink away for her not to feel a pang of uncertainty.
She sat up and looked around. Her heart fell again when she didn’t see any kind of note.
She told herself not to be ridiculous. He wasn’t running away.
At least she didn’t think he was. But had last night freaked him out even more than she thought?
God, she wasn’t going to do this. She wasn’t going to overreact or make too much out of everything he did, including what had happened last night. It was just sex.
The most incredible, tender, passionate, sweet, romantic sex she’d ever had in her life, but still just sex.
Except that it wasn’t. She knew that, and if the concerned look on John’s face afterward was any indication, he knew it, too. Last night had meant something.
What, she didn’t know. She wasn’t sure of her ownfeelings, let alone his. But this time she wasn’t going to make the mistake of trying to pin him down and force something from him that he wasn’t ready to admit—to her or to himself.
She could do “take it as it goes.” She would hone her inner dude and not make too much out of the fact that he was opening up to her in a way that she was pretty damned sure he’d never opened up to anyone before, that he’d wanted to hook up with someone else but couldn’t, and that when she’d had her little freak-out—okay, major freak-out—he’d handled her so sweetly and gently before and after making love to her.
Yes, making love. It wasn’t just sex or the fucking he’d declared he’d wanted. You didn’t stare into someone’s eyes with that kind of intensity—with that kind of emotion—while slowly bringing them to the height of passion (twice!), conveying importance and significance with every stroke... did you?
Oh my God, Brittany, put up the mental stop sign already!Clearly, she was going way overboard on the analysis. With the vow she’d made only seconds ago to take it as it goes already in jeopardy, Brittany forced herself to get up—ignoring the soreness in places she shouldn’t be thinking about—and gathered all her stuff before slipping into the bathroom.
She’d take advantage of John’s morning-after abandonment—absence—and try to get a little work done before taking a shower. She wanted a bath but knew that soaking in the warm water would be too relaxing and her mind would likely wander back to last night, where she didn’t want it to go.
No, better to focus on work and the job she needed to keep. Aside from finding out what happened to her brother—which was a big aside—she didn’t want to blow the opportunity she wasn’t sure she’d ever get again to bean investigative journalist. She was desperate and not too proud to admit it.
She tried working on her article but didn’t get very far—she didn’t have much to add. She was tempted to turn on the Wi-Fi on her computer for a minute to send an e-mail to Mac, letting her know what was going on and asking if she’d found out anything, but John’s paranoia had spread to her.
She’d go the Internet café route just to be safe. After quickly showering, Brittany put on her clothes and makeup and was sitting on the bed tying her shoes when the door opened and John walked back into the room, sucking all the air right out of her lungs along with the room.
He took in her clothes, shoes, and messenger bag, which was beside her on the bed, with a glance and frowned. “Going somewhere?”
With her own quick glance at him, she took in the coffee carrier with two drinks in his left hand and the bag of food tucked under the same arm. She felt an unmistakable surge in her chest. He hadn’t run away; he’d left to get breakfast. A heap of Danish pastries if the size and heavenly smell emanating from the bag was any indication.
“I have a few things I need to get done for work,” she said, trying not to feel as ifshehad been the one running away.
His frown deepened as he set down the food on the hotel room bureau. Pulling one of the drinks from the holder and handing it to her, he said, “Work can wait. You need to eat.”
Feeling guilty for thinking he was trying to get away from her when all he’d done was go get them breakfast, which was actually really sweet, Brittany took the latte and the pastry that followed.
She took one bite of the tender cinnamon-flavored concoction with sugary icing and tried not to groan. “God, these are delicious. I guess the Danes are famous for their pastry for a reason. I’d be eight hundred pounds if I lived here.”
He grinned. “I doubt it. With the amount of crap you and your teenage-boy metabolism demolish, I think you’d be just fine.” He gave her one of those long, hot looks that made her insides quiver. “Very fine.”
She tried not to blush at the reminder of how much he liked her body. She shrugged. “I don’t like to cook, and not all of us need to be a finely honed weapon of war.”
“Finely honed, huh?” He popped the last of the second pastry into his mouth. “Guess you’ll have to finish the last one. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
He said it jokingly, but there was something in his eye that made her wonder if he might be thinking about last night. But how could he need any reassurance about that?
Right. As if John Donovan needed reassurance about anything.
Still, their eyes met, and she found herself saying, “‘Disappointment’ is the last word I would use.”
The slow, broad smile that spread across his obscenely good-looking face made her wonder if she’d been right. He looked happy. Really happy.
“Finish your breakfast,” he said. “I have a surprise for you.”
