“Right there.” He sets his burger down, drops both hands to the table, and leans forward. “You want to call me out, call bullshit on my answer. But something in you was raised or curatednot to be rude, to keep the pretty polish. That’s the war. Between what you think you want and what you really do.”
“Want to know what I really want?” I stand, wadding up what’s left of the burger in the paper and walking it all to the trash can.
I turn my gaze as I walk past, stopping to look down into his ochre eyes. Studying the crinkles around his eyes, the ever so slight graying of his sideburns, the pillowy fullness of his bottom lip. I lean closer, a hair’s breadth away from his mouth. “A hot bath.”
Liam
What the hell?
That little convo very nearly ended with me pulling her to my mouth or onto my lap. It took every bit of discipline not to pin her down on the dining room table and finish dinner and dessert, both between her legs.
She’s infuriating.
She’s gorgeous.
And she’s playing with fire.
And I don’t mind fire. Arson one-oh-one—commit to the plan.
I pitch my trash, wipe down the kitchen, and flip on the microwave light.
The question now is if we play by her rules or mine. Do I let her play, let her explore, and set her own rules? Do I sleep next to her at night, wake up hard with her sprawled across me, and not touch her?
Do I move my guest room furniture in here, have some place that doesn’t smell like her, someplace that doesn’t tempt me and make me yearn?
She’s a novice, and I’m a master. Playing the wrong game means we both lose, no matter the score.
I head to my house, grabbing the laundry detergent from my garage and putting it with my washer and dryer. It was one of the dozen items I needed that were in the cart during our forever shopping spree, those items we grabbed to make dinner and still ate burgers.
Nothing is amiss. Not that it would be after a day or two. I grab basketball shorts and my pillow. This is starting to look like acceptance and moving in.
Guest room furniture. I need to move that to her place. Definitely at least a bed. The lawsuit could take months, and I’m no saint.
Besides, I gave myself one rule to break. Only once before this ends. And it won’t be the walking away one.
I realize my mistake when I’m back and working at the kitchen island. I forgot blankets to bail on the sofa. Later. I can grab them later.
I need to get with Briggs. Seeing as he’s my best paying client right now and referrals are my bread and butter, I can’t put him off.
Wandering down the hall, I call, “How do you feel about a trip to Jackson Ho—” The word dies on my lips.
Lorien has her back to the door, foot up on the bed, slathering lotion down her legs while only wearing a towel. Mentally, I bite my knuckles. I swear she’s up to something, if she were adept enough to orchestrate this kind of game.
Her head whips around, her wet hair dripping water down her bare shoulders. “What?”
Religious cults. Bloody bodies. Creepy movers. My father.
Even that doesn’t work.
Keeping my focus above her head, I repeat myself. “Are you interested in going to Jackson Hole this weekend?”
She bites her lip and fights to avoid eye contact, eventually propping the other leg up on the mattress and beginning the lotion seduction on the other side. “I’m going home this weekend.”
Excuse me.
“You didn’t think to tell me?”
“I wasn’t avoiding it. I just kinda… forgot.”
