I laugh and shake my head, pointing at my cheeks and then turning to the mirror, hands pressed to the counter. “This is your fault,” I say, looking at myself and then him. “I’m always naked and in bed before I get my makeup off.”
He saunters toward me, setting the cup on the counter. “I’d apologize,” he says, “but I just can’t be sorry.” His hands find my waist, and he turns me to face him, his touch somehow more electric than ever before, the collision of our eyes, which is always intense, now downright combustible. “I like you naked and in my bed too much,” he adds, a rough quality to his voice that is somehow both silk and sandpaper at the same time. And as we look at each other, there is something I cannot name expanding between us. Something happening between us. Something rich with those possibilities we’ve vowed to explore.
And suddenly, I can’t seem to catch my breath. “I…uh…” I swallow hard. “It turns out I sleep really well in your bed, when I haven’t been sleeping well really ever.” That confession is out before I can stop it, exposed all over again, and in turn, I change the subject, “Why didn’t you wake me up? My flight—”
“Your flight leaves when I say it leaves, and I didn’t wake you up because I like you in my bed.” He reaches for the coffee cup. “I made this special for you, and there are chocolate croissants on the nightstand that I had delivered from the bakery on the corner.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For an arrogant bastard, you’re very considerate.”
“Let’s keep that as our secret,” he says. “I don’t want anyone but you believing I’ve grown a heart.” I’d ask if he has, but he quickly, almost too quickly, moves on, offering me the cup. “Try it.”
I accept the cup, my gaze lowering as the brush of our fingers sends a rush of sizzling heat rushing up my arm, and I wonder if Nick feels what I feel. This crazy, fierce magnetic pull that wants me to just melt into him. I take a sip, the secret rich beverage surprising my taste buds, my gaze lifting to his. “Is that Baileys I taste?”
“You know your whiskey,” he says.
“Only the sweet-tasting, wonderful stuff, like Irish cream,” I say. “And are you trying to get me drunk? Because you know I’m a lightweight. Or if you don’t know, you’re about to if I finish this.”
“Nothing wrong with a little buzz,” he says, stroking my cheek, his tone sobering. “We need to talk, sweetheart, and I thought I’d help you relax a little in advance.”
My defenses prickle, and the fear that I’ve read him wrong,uswrong, comes at me hard and fast. “Nick, if you regret last night and that talk of a new hard rule—”
“I don’t,” he says, taking the cup from me and setting it down. “We need to talk about the winery, and I need to be your attorney for a few hours. And I know that’s not easy territory for you. It’s not going to be easy territory for us.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he says, cupping my face. “Sweetheart, Iaman arrogant bastard. A ruthless, arrogant bastard.”
“Your point?”
His lips curve. “Your point,” he says, at my obvious agreement. “My point,” he says, softening his voice, “is that all the good that is in me is here with you—hell, maybe because of you. So, I don’t just want those possibilities. I’m pretty damn sure that I need them, which means you. Stop looking for the bad. Unless you—”
“I don’t want to back out,” I say, realizing only then how much I mean that statement. “Hard rule: possibilities.”
“Good,” he says, his hands settling back on my waist. “Drink your coffee. Take a hot bath if you want, and relax. No one uses that tub, so you should. There’s no rush. I’ll be in the kitchen at the bar working when you’re ready. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and then he’s releasing me and walking to the door, gone before I can stop him, though I’m not sure why I want to. I just do. I want to pull him back, but he disappears. I inhale as he departs and face the counter, staring at my mascara-stained face, which he actually seems to find acceptable. Macom would not have thought this was acceptable, and I think back to all the times I thought I was raw andrealwith Macom. I was never real with Macom, and as for raw, well, perhaps, but in a cutting, harsh way, not like what I have with Nick, which I can’t even name or truly describe.
But if that is what Nick wants, raw and real, then raw and real means he’s willing to let me see all those hidden pieces of himself I try to paint. And if he lets me see his, I’ll need, even want, to show him mine. But I’m not sure I can take that risk, even with him. Even if I want to. And I do. I want to trust Nick. Maybe I can. Maybe he can handle all of me. Maybe I need to know before I get any further in this. Or maybe not. Maybe I just need to enjoy him while I can.
CHAPTER THREE
Faith
Maybe I will enjoy him while I can.
Or maybe I can’t enjoy him past today.
Because I have secrets that I hold close to my chest, the ones I try not to think about, to deny even to myself, and at least one of them, the one that stirs guilt in me, leads to the winery. And Nick Rogers is not the kind of man, or attorney, to leave a stone unturned. That man will wade into the muddy, crocodile-infested waters of my family secrets, and kill the crocodile. Which is good and bad. Good because I need that kind of attorney. Bad because I really care about this man and I haven’t been honest with him about who and what I am. But how could I be? We were two strangers who crossed paths and chose to stay on one.
I down the whiskey-laden coffee like it’s a shot, because Nick’s right. I need it, and the fact that he knows that I need it suggests that he’s already been diving into those muddy waters. But he hasn’t found the crocodiles or he wouldn’t be offering me hot baths. Then again, he gave me whiskey. I glance at the tub and walk to the shower, eager to just get dressed and pack, so I’m ready to leave if things go south. Moving quickly, I step under a spray of warm water in no time, when the buzz of the Baileys hits me, numbing my brain. Numb feels pretty darn good right now, too, just like the water, and while I am in a rush to get downstairs, I am not in a rush to say goodbye, and I find myself lavishing in Nick’s shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, rather than my own.
Soon after, I stand atNick’ssink, inNick’shouse, feeling incredibly comfortable in the alpha domain, of a man who might have his head in the mouth of my crocodiles. I apply my makeup and dry and flat-iron my hair, while, of course, stuffing my face with croissants. Because why wouldn’t you stuff your face with loads of calories when you’re pretty certain the alpha man of the house won’t be seeing you naked again after this talk? Once I’ve packed on five pounds, I spray on Nick’s cologne, because he smells better than me, and I’m obviously feeling a bit more clearheaded, because I’m not vowing to eat carrot sticks, rice cakes, and nothing else tomorrow. Which is me lying to myself, the way I feel like I lie to the world. And I really hate carrot sticks and lies, I think, and part of me just wants to confess all to Nick, and see if he can handle it.
I think I will. I’ll confess all.
Or not.
I make my way to Nick’s large walk-in closet, where I’ve hung my clothes, the neat, organized way his clothes are lined up exactly as I expect of a dominant control freak. Exactly as Macom’s always were. There are similarities in the two men that I only just now am acknowledging, though on some level I’ve known they existed. But Nick is not Macom. Not even close to Macom, and it’s an insult to him that I even think of them in the same box. And damn it, all I’m doing is justifying reasons to walk away when I get downstairs, and I know it. I shove my own nonsense away and get dressed, choosing black jeans and a lacy top, I pair with knee highs, and lace up black boots. And when I’m done, I don’t let myself pack my bag. Instead, I retrieve my coffee mug and after a quick path through the bedroom, I’m traveling down Nick’s glass and steel stairwell, toward the lower level of his home. The high ceilings and long, clean lines of the entire structure, as well as the pale hardwood floors, as sleek and sexy as the man—everything in this house screams sex and power, like the man who owns it. I’m quite certain everything about my demeanor right now screams of guilt.