The Playboy Bachelor

It also meant that in a few short weeks, he’d be gone, and she’d be hurt, because no matter how pretty she was, or how often her lips made his body ache—he couldn’t go through it again, the thought of losing her.

  She may not make it.

  Dead.

  Dead.

  Dead.

  Every single time she blinked in his direction he was reminded of their shared past. Stolen moments. Laughter. And like an idiot, he forgot about it whenever they were lost in conversation.

  The hard part?

  He meant every word.

  And he really shouldn’t have.

  He shouldn’t say those things and mean them.

  Bentley wished he was that guy, the one that was deserving of the look she was giving him right that minute—but he wasn’t the hero, he’d never been the hero.

  He’d proved that when he left her.

  He’d proved it when he lost his mind with grief and anger—when anxiety overtook common sense and caused him to lash out.

  No, he wasn’t a hero.

  If she knew that the only reason he was there was for a job that he was no longer sure he even wanted? So he could get paid more money he didn’t need? So he could finally gain approval from his family after all these years?

  If she knew that she was his ticket to bigger and better things within the company, and that he’d had to be bribed to even spend time with her?

  Then again, it wasn’t like she didn’t know he was there for a reason. How was being there for a job worse than being there because her grandmother paid for him at an auction?

  Maybe it wasn’t as bleak as he thought.

  But that was what spending time with Margot did: It confused him; it reminded him that he’d snapped once and it all came back to her—their friendship, the relationship he’d always wanted, and the one he thought he’d lost.

  “So.” Margot popped a grape in her mouth. “You asked about my career and even read one of my books…but I’m pretty sure there isn’t any book out there that reveals more about the great Bentley Wellington.”

  “Oh, so now I’m great?”

  “Well, you fed me.” She shrugged. “And offered whiskey.”

  “That’s how I lure every woman into my bed. You’ve been warned.” He held up his hands in innocence as a deep shade of red stained her cheeks.

  An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

  He coughed.

  Seriously?

  He was coughing to fill awkward moments now?

  “No book,” he said quickly. “But I’m pretty sure a quick Internet search will tell you anything you’re dying to know.”

  Was it his imagination or did she look guilty?

  “Really?” She averted her eyes. “So all the women…all the parties…”

  Bentley tried to keep his grin in place, but it hurt to stretch out a smile he wasn’t really feeling—especially since he didn’t have a past he was proud of. And no matter the reasons behind his actions, it still didn’t justify what he had done, not fully.

  Suddenly itching to move, he crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. “All the women,” he repeated. “All the parties.” With a nonchalant shrug, he took a sip of his whiskey and prayed it would magically be enough to get him drunk. “All of it’s true.”

  “The senator’s wife?”

  He shrugged and took another sip.

  “Married women?”

  Another shrug.

  “Bentley!” She threw her hands in the air. “Okay, at least answer this: Why would you sleep with a married woman?”

  “I think the correct question would be: Why would a happily married woman sleep with me?”

  She gaped and then narrowed her eyes. “So it’s their fault?”

  “Do you think I actually need to roam the streets to find someone willing to spread their thighs for me?”

  Margot gasped.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He snorted. “Does my bluntness offend you?”

  “No.” Her nostrils flared as she crossed her arms and glared.

  “They come to me.” Why were they having this conversation? What was supposed to have been a nice way to lure her out of her cave had suddenly turned into the damn inquisition.

  “But you could always say no.”

  He grinned into his glass. “You’re cute, you know that, right?”

  “Well, that’s offensive,” she mumbled.

  Bentley grinned harder and set down his glass. “Riddle me this…” He eyed her up and down. “Why do people take risks in life? Why do they take chances knowing that they could get hurt or hurt someone else? Why the hell would someone base-jump off a cliff when they know that there’s a fifty percent chance the chute won’t open?”

  Swallowing, she tucked a piece of red hair behind her ear. “For the thrill?”

  “Because it feels good,” he whispered. “So if a married woman wants me to fuck her brains out because her dumb-as-shit politician husband’s been cheating on her for the last ten years? Then yeah, I’m probably going to go for it, especially if that same politician’s known for being dirty and the only way to expose him is to splash his image across every newspaper in the United States.” Bentley stood. “Was it wrong?” He made a face. “Probably.” He leaned over her, his body casting a shadow across her cheeks. “Am I sorry? Absolutely not.”

  Her gaze darted like a scared deer’s from his lips to his eyes. “I’ve never done anything bad.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Nothing?”

  “Not after the accident.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “Why?”

  “Being good all the time is boring as hell, Margot. Believe me, I watched my brother Brock try to live that life.”

  “So you took it upon yourself to be the yin to his yang?” she shot back.

  Digging. Margot was digging.

  He jerked back. “Don’t pretend you know the man I am now just because we used to be best friends and I was obsessed with your hair.”

  She gasped.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, hating himself for lashing out at her—again. “I didn’t mean…” Shit. He ran his hands through his hair. How had the conversation gotten away from him so fast? “I’m not the same guy. I wish I could say I was, because maybe that would mean all this shit between us wouldn’t exist. It was easy then…at least it felt like it. Movie nights on the weekends, sleepovers where I begged to jump into your bed only to get shut down every damn time…” He smiled at the memory. “My girlfriends always hated you, you know.”

  “Girlfriends, plural?”

  Well, at least she was talking and not trying to strangle him for his asinine comment. “I typically dated two at once.”

  Margot rolled her eyes. “Screwing and dating are two different things, you know that, right?”

  “One of them threatened to break up with me. It’s me or Margot.” He could still hear her shrill voice as she stomped her foot and waited for him to make his decision.

  Margot hung her head. “So that’s why?”

  “That’s why what?”

  “You left.”

  “Hell no.” Bentley reached for her hand. “I told her to go screw herself and showed up at your house a few minutes later begging for food.”

  “You were always begging for food.”

  “I was growing.” He teased. “Besides, you always had Doritos.”

  “And Coke,” she finished.

  “Sometimes, if I was really lucky you’d have donuts, too, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Her smile fell.

  Shit.

  Her eyes narrowed in on him, all traces of teasing gone. “A question for a question, right?”

  Dread pooled in his stomach. “Right.”

  She blinked up at him. “What kind of man are you, now? Really.”

  He offered her an easy grin, the same kind he gave his brothers when he wanted them to believe he was totally fine. The same grin he wore when his grandfather stomped all over his
dreams. The same damn grin he’d been wearing his entire life, the phony one. “I’m like Fort Knox. Don’t mistake my confessions as something they aren’t. This—” he gestured between the two of them “—is just an indoor picnic between two old friends who are trying desperately to bury hatchets, elephants, and a shitload of sexual tension.”

  “Wow, and here I thought we were having a real moment with real progress.” She rolled her eyes.

  She saw too much. Cared too much. Wanted too much.

  Margot stood and shoved past him. “You know…” Hands on hips, she turned and glared. “I don’t think you’re scared of letting people in. I think your fear is that once they get in, they’ll realize there’s nothing there. You’re empty, because you don’t even know yourself, do you? Who is Bentley Wellington? A playboy? A man who sleeps with politicians’ wives? Do you even know who you are anymore besides what your family wants you to be?”

  “Margot—”

  “Who is Bentley Wellington?” she asked again.

  And he had no answer.

  Because she was right.

  He didn’t know.

  And that was one of the scariest realizations of his life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Margot couldn’t sleep.

  Not after her fight, or whatever it was, with Bentley. He had to be the most confusing man she’d ever met, not that she had many people to compare him to, but still. One minute he was all easy smiles and chatty, the next dark, moody, and defensive.

  It was irritating that she’d spent the better part of the night, the part where she should have been sleeping, searching through her high school memories of the best friend she used to adore.

  He was still there.

  But he was beneath so much emotional turmoil, she had to wonder what sort of traumatic thing happened to him to make him feel the need to go to such great lengths to pretend like everything was perfect—when it wasn’t.

  Did it have something to do with his whole “exhaustion” stint in the hospital?

  Her heart dropped.

  She shouldn’t have said what she did.

  She actually had no right to say those things to him, not anymore, but they had just come out. Was she that much of a homebody that she didn’t even know how to have normal conversations with people anymore without getting nosy and asking personal questions?

  She punched the pillow to her right.

  And stared at the door.

  Maybe he was still up.

  Maybe she could just apologize.

  Even though she wasn’t sure it was entirely her fault that the conversation had floated into dangerous territory.

  Mumbling to herself, she sat up and put on her prosthetic, then pulled her pajama pants down over the leg.

  The house was blanketed in darkness.

  Bentley’s light was on.

  The crack beneath the door glowed in the dark hallway.

  She lifted her hand to knock when the door jerked open.

  “You are literally the loudest walker I’ve ever heard.” He crossed his arms over his naked, bronzed chest.

  She sucked in a breath.

  “You should probably close your mouth—don’t want me to take that expression the wrong way—it’s two in the morning.”

  She finally found her voice. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” he said, leaning against the door, “you could be down here for a booty call…”

  She laughed.

  His eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t making a joke.”

  “Oh.” She bit down on her lip and blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

  Bentley took a step backward, his eyes widening. “You’re apologizing?”

  She nodded.

  “To me?”

  Another nod.

  “Why?”

  “Because I was being nosy, and what I said was mean.”

  “Even if it was true?”

  “Yes.” Her voice cracked. “Even if it was true. Anyway…” She forced a smile. “I couldn’t sleep so, hopefully, now I’ll be able to.”

  “Oh, I get it, so you were down here apologizing because you couldn’t sleep, so really, it’s about you.” He smirked.

  “Ughhhh, why do you have to make it sound so selfish?” She walked into his room.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No!” Her shoulders slumped. “Sorry, apparently I’m the loudest walker ever and I can’t even apologize right.”

  He grinned. “I’ll give you a free pass this time.” Bentley slid off his boxers and walked, completely naked, to his bed. “Can you get the light?”

  Margot gaped after him.

  “Margot?” He pulled the covers over his gorgeous body. “The light?”

  “Y-yes, sure, I…” She did a slow circle. Where was the light again? Why did it need to be turned off? “I, um—”

  “It’s by the door.”

  She mentally slapped herself in the face. “I know.”

  “I know you know. I just wanted to remind you just in case the view of my dick was blocking the way.”

  She clenched her fists. “I really don’t like you sometimes.”

  Margot could have sworn she heard him mutter, “Good,” before she flicked the light off and made her way back upstairs.

  It wasn’t until she was tossing and turning, again, that she realized he’d done it on purpose.

  To punish her.

  Because visions of his naked body were the only thing she could concentrate on.

  And when four a.m. came around, she gave up and went to her computer. At least now she had something to work with.

  She smiled and started to type. “His body glistened with sweat…”

  * * *

  “It’s really good,” Bentley said.

  Bentley? Why was he there? What was happening? An ache pounded in her temples, and she slowly blinked her eyes open.

  “I mean, I don’t know if I’m that big, but still…I think that she needs to scream a bit more, though.”

  Why was he talking?

  The first thing she saw was her computer on the side of her desk. She’d fallen asleep against a stack of books.

  And Bentley was standing over the computer.

  Reading.

  Coffee cup in hand.

  Looking way too sexy for however early it was.

  He winked at her. “Don’t you think she should scream more? I don’t think I’ve ever screwed a woman who didn’t scream my name at least a dozen times.”

  “What?” she rasped. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s nine a.m. I was worried… I knocked, but you didn’t answer, so I let myself in.”

  “Clearly.”

  “And started to read that dirty sex scene I must have inspired last night…” He grinned and took another sip of coffee. “I think the part where she has three orgasms is my favorite.”

  Groaning, she banged her head against the books and willed him to go away.

  “Up you go.” Bentley set down the coffee mug by her face and pulled her into his arms.

  “What are you doing—?”

  “Sleep.” He dropped her onto the bed and pulled the comforter over her. “I’ll check on you later. Oh, and Margot, if you needed more inspiration, all you needed to do was ask.”

  She chucked a pillow at his face.

  He dodged it then turned to her, and his eyes drank her in. “You can laugh, you know, even smile a bit. I won’t tell anyone.”

  She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

  And then Bentley tossed the pillow back at her face.

  She gasped. “Did you just hit me in the face with a pillow?”

  “I was returning the favor.” He chuckled and then moved over to the bed and straddled her. “Say thank you.”

  “You’re annoying,” she said breathlessly.

  “But I kind of grow on you, right?”

  “Like a fungus.”

  “Was that a compliment?”

  “Did it sound like
one?”

  He nodded and then leaned down until she could have sworn he could hear her heart pounding in her chest. “I miss your laugh.”

  All the air whooshed out of her lungs. “What?”

  “I want to hear you laugh again.”

  “I heard you the first time.” She shook her head. “You can’t…you can’t say things like that to me.”

  “Funny.” His eyes lingered on her mouth. “Because I just did.”

  Neither of them moved. Her breathing was way too loud. He probably thought she was hyperventilating. And maybe she was; her chest felt tight, and it was nearly impossible to suck in a full breath without drawing attention to herself. It had everything to do with how beautiful he was—and how he was looking at her.

  The way she wrote about the hero looking at the love of his life in her books.

  The way she wanted to be looked at.

  Her leg throbbed.

  She quickly shifted away and closed her eyes. “You’re right…I should get some sleep.”

  “Okay.” Soft lips met her forehead and then the bed dipped. The door clicked shut.

  Margot exhaled as a single tear ran down her cheek.

  It wasn’t fair.

  He wasn’t playing fair.

  Because he would end up hurting her without even realizing it—because she already knew she’d miss him when he left.

  And he would leave.

  Just like last time.

  Only for some reason, she was terrified this would be worse.

  In high school he’d broken off a piece of her heart.

  If he left now? He just might take it all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Margot woke up from a much-needed three-hour nap—to absolute hell.

  Her phone showed that she’d slept through two calls and numerous texts.

  She recognized the numbers, but she needed to take at least ten deep breaths before listening to the two missed voice mails.

  One from her agent.

  The other from her editor.

  Hands clammy, Margot dropped her phone onto the table and forced herself to take a few more deep breaths, then finally logged onto her e-mail to confirm what both her agent and editor had said in their messages.

  Congrats, you’ve been nominated for another RITA!

  Dinner.

  Drinks.

  In town for RWA.

  Know you hate public appearances, but at least meet with your publisher. So exciting!