Lauren is breathing hard. Her pupils are dilated, her fingernails digging into the skin of my arms. “See?” She pants out. “Extreme.”
And I feel it too, the pump of my blood in my ears, the sizzle between us, the animalistic need to tear off her pajama shorts and make her feel how amazing I think she is with every inch of my hardening length.Which is exactly what you promised not to do about sixty seconds ago.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath that comes out more shuddery than I would have liked, then look back at Lauren. “I respect the heck out of you, Lore.” I make sure our eyes stay locked so she can see the seriousness in mine. “Your fight and your fire. And I would never be the man to squash either of those.”
“Okay.” She nods, fingers easing their grip on my arms. “I believe you.”
“Good.” I realign her chair to the bar, plopping on the seat next to her and pulling my plate over. “Now, let’s talk about how you get enough studio hours down in the study for all the events I need you for.”
“How many are there?” Lauren wonders.
“Six. One black tie, two cocktail attire, one A-list birthday, a country club brunch, and one red carpet gala.”
By the time I’m finished listing them, Lauren’s eyes are saucer wide. “Red carpet?”
“Yes.” I take a large sip of water and wipe my mouth with a napkin before turning to her. “I’ve seen your designs, Lauren. They’re more than up to par.”
“It’s not that.” She picks at invisible dirt on the counter. “I know my dresses are great, but shouldn’t the woman wearing them be great as well?”
“She will be.” I raise an eyebrow and dare her to contest me. I will make this woman see her worth, fix the damage that asshole did.
Even if it takes me a lifetime, I will make Lauren Banks see how remarkable she is.
* * *
Lauren
The intensity in Michael’s gaze is wearing down my arguments, but I can’t help the sense of insecurity from bubbling up inside me. Ten years with Jason made it clear how insignificant I am. Someone like Michael wouldn’t—shouldn’t see me as worth his time and efforts. Whatever this is has more to do with me being his sister’s friend than anything else. It has to.
“I know you want to help me with exposure, but any girl wearing my dresses will have the same effect.”
“I told you, you’ll be helping me as well,” he repeats, and I reply with an unladylike snort. “I’m serious, Lore. I have this arrangement every time I’m in LA. Sure, usually it’s with an aspiring model that needs the spotlight to boost her fledgling career, but the idea stays the same—I have one girl hanging off my arm the entire time to ward off rumors and pursuers.”
“Pursuers?”
“Musicians who think they can sleep their way into Carrot Top.” He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t sleep with my artists. Aside from being unprofessional and an open invitation for trouble, it would taint mine and Davey’s life work. That’s one line I’ve managed not to cross, ever.”
I know what he’s referring to. That year after the tragedy that tore his life apart. Trista told me how hard it was, how long it took him and the entire Edwards family to recover. But this is too much, too soon. No matter how inexplicably deep our connection feels, I’ve still known this man for less than three days, and I’m not comfortable picking at his old wounds.
“And the buffers, do you sleep with them?” I ask, wondering if no sex is one of the conditions of this arm candy arrangement, though it shouldn’t matter considering it’s one of the conditions of our roommate agreement.
“Usually, no.”
I frown. “Whyusually?”
“Well, a small part of it is because when you throw sex into a fake relationship, it tends to get confusing.” I nod my agreement. “But the bigger issue for me is that I can’t tell if they really want to or if they feel they have to, so I’d rather not.” And that statement hits me right in the gut because I know what it’s like to have a man who prefers a girl that feels she has to do anything he asks because she owes him.
And the way Michael’s eyes darken has me realizing it must be written all over my face.
He hops off his stool and takes a step forward, placing his hands on my shoulders, more to offer steadiness than anything else. “Tell me what that fucker made you do, Lauren.” His voice is low and menacing.
“He nevermademe do anything, Michael. When I said no, it was no. Jason may be a grade-A asshole, but he isn’t a rapist.”
“I never said anything about using force, Lore. But how much of what he wanted were you comfortable with?” He strokes my shoulders with his thumb, no sexual intent behind it, just to let me know he’s right there with me. “How much of what he asked you to do happened because you felt you owed it to him?”
I pull on my nose and shake my head, refusing to answer. I don’t want Michael to know that girl, the innocent gullible person I was, how I spent most of my life convinced a relationship was about accepting whatever happens so long as you have a semblance of stability. Until I saw Brian and Trista, how they burned together and gave up everything for each other, and I realized what love,reallove, looks like. And I didn’t want to compromise anymore.
Michael pulls me into his strong arms, the scent of fresh mint and pure masculinity enveloping me, and my mind goes to the ocean and long evening walks on the beach. His nose buries in my hair, and I fight back the tears, more at the overwhelming emotions flooding me when I’m this close to him than at the thought of Jason.