“She was seventeen,” I say, sidestepping his question.
Connor looks away. He knows it was a dick move. “Don’t tell Della,” he says. “She doesn’t know, and it would change things between her and Liz.”
“I won’t tell.” My shoulders sag, some of the fight draining out of me. It’s a relief just to know that he cares how Della would feel. “You were at the club last night snooping into my business, weren’t you?
Connor drags a hand through his hair and nods. “Your dad saw the money gone from your account. He asked me to look into it, and someone said they’d seen you spending time with one of the girls there.”
Fuck. I drop my gaze to the floor, doing my best to calm the surge of anger I feel at the thought of Asia. Oddly, my anger isn’t as hot or volatile as it was yesterday. A night with Liz was like a balm to my soul. “Tell my father there’s nothing going on that’s a danger to his precious campaign, so he can relax.”
“You know, I’m not the enemy.”
I sigh. He’s not. As much as I hated Liz defending Connor last night, she was right. He is the best kind of good guy, even if it sometimes feels like he stole my life. “I’m sorry I was shitty with you last night. I didn’t like you coming here. Didn’t like the idea of you just showing up at her bedroom door in the middle of the night.”
“We’re friends. Liz is honestly one of the best people I know.”
Yeah, that’s the problem. “Think about it from Della’s point of view before you come running here next time.”
“Say what you mean, Bradshaw.”
I roll back my shoulders. “I mean, you still have a thing for Liz. It was all over your face when you two were cuddled on the couch last night.”
“Is this about me, or is it about you?”
“If Della knew you’d come here, she’d be pissed.”
He grimaces. “Yeah, I guess. Are you two . . .?” He nods to Lizzy’s bedroom door. “Are you going to be spending time together?”
“Are you asking me if I’m going to make an honest woman out of her?”
He grunts. “You should. I don’t like the idea of you using her as an escape from your problems and then sneaking out of her bed like she’s one of your random hookups.”
“Don’t.”
He must see the warning in my eyes, because he shows both palms in surrender. “I’ll get out of the way. You sure you don’t have something going on you need to talk about?”
“I’m sure.”
He nods and heads toward the front of the house.
I sneak into her room one more time before I leave. She’s on her stomach, her head turned to the side, those crazy blond curls fanned out around her head. If it weren’t for the way she was drooling on the pillow, I might think she positioned herself like that trying to look irresistible.
But Liz doesn’t try to look irresistible. She just is. Smoothing a few locks off her face, I kiss her forehead. Because even with everything hanging over my head right now, even with Connor’s guest appearance, last night was amazing.
For maybe the first time ever, I’m thinking about . . . something more.
Chapter Eight
Liz
“Good afternoon, Miss Thompson,” Mr. Bradshaw, Sam’s father, says when he sees me walk through the bank doors on Monday. “How can we help you today?”
“Is Sam available?”
“He’s in the back office. Could I help you with something?”
“Um, no. I just needed to discuss something with Sam. Thanks.”
My stomach does a wild, fluttery flip-flop as I make my way to Sam.
When I step into the office, my first thought is that I have the wrong place, because the man behind the desk doesn’t look like the Sam I know. His face is covered in hard lines and tension, a study of stress and anger.
“It looks like you’re doing actual work in here,” I say, going for light. “Careful, someone might see you and ruin your reputation.”
His head lifts slowly, and as his eyes settle on me, it’s gratifying to see some of that tension leave his face, some of the anger leave his eyes.
But that doesn’t change what I see there. He’s working through something heavy. I have no idea what it is, but I know exactly how to help him.
He rakes his gaze over me slowly, taking in my button-up blouse, unbuttoned past my collarbone, my fitted black skirt, and my four-inch red heels. It was an outfit I chose very deliberately. It’s sexy, but not so overtly that it’s obvious I dressed for him—though I did.
I tug my lip between my teeth. I want more than his gaze on me. More than his hands, even. I want the weight of his body pressing into mine, the feel of his mouth on my skin. His eyes lift to mine, and tension fills in the air between us—the good kind of tension, the kind with snapping teeth and tongues and promise.
I reach for the door and shut it behind me. Sam lifts an amused brow, more of that anger melting away. It’s good to see the man I know back in that face. This other guy, the stranger, he scares me a little.
“Why are you here, Rowdy?”
Swallowing, I walk to behind his desk and go to the window that overlooks the side of the parking lot and the river beyond. I feel him move behind me as I pull the blinds shut. His fingers brush my neck, moving aside the few strands that have escaped the twist. My eyes float closed at the contact.
He steps closer. “You didn’t answer my question,” he whispers against my ear.
I turn to face him, but he’s too close, and even in my heels I’m staring at his chin. I crane my neck to meet his eyes. I wonder if he can tell that I’m practically trembling with nerves. With need. “I’m here to collect on your promise.”
“What promise?”
“The promise you made me at the wedding. The ideas you put in my head. You did not follow through on all the dirty things you whispered in my ear.”
He groans, low and guttural, and some of my nerves flitter away.
I grab his tie in my fist and tug him down an inch, two. “Don’t assume I’m like other girls,” I whisper against his lips.
“Oh, I know you’re not like other girls. That was never the question.” His lips are so close I can practically feel them brushing over mine as he speaks.
I want his kiss badly. Too much. So much that I step around him and away from the temptation to take it, because I don’t want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me. The distinction normally wouldn’t matter to me, but it’s different with Sam. Everything’s different with Sam.
Sinking back into his chair, he rests his elbows on his knees and drags a hand through his hair. “I’m going through some fucked-up shit right now.”
“And I’m here to distract you.” I push the papers on his desk aside and hoist myself up to sit in their place. Sam’s eyes immediately seek out the exposed thigh where my skirt is riding up, but I have something so much better for him to see. Leaning back on my hands, I part my legs, watching with satisfaction as his gaze follows my skirt higher up my thighs.
His eyes meet mine, as hot as I feel. “You came to my bank without panties?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Why don’t you check?”
He stands, gaze flicking to the door, then back to me. “The bank’s closed, but we’re not alone.” He touches my knee, and my eyes practically roll back in my head from the pleasure of his skin connecting with mine. His hand inches north so slowly; the swirling ache of want low in my belly causes me real pain.
I’m already wet. I feel it between my legs, gathering for him. For this. When his thumb meets the slick juncture of my thighs, his breath draws in with a hiss.
My eyes float closed and my hips lift of their own volition, pushing closer to his fingers, his touch. When he dips his head down to my ear, his fingers dance across the swollen flesh between my legs—teasing, promising, but not delivering. It’s all I can do not to grab his wrist and cup his hand firmly against me.
“You know how fucking delicious you look?” he whispers. “All I want to do i
s shove your skirt up, spread your legs, and bury my face between your thighs. I want to tease you with my lips and tongue until you beg me to let you come.”
I gasp—at his words, at the buzz of the pressure of his thumb against my clit.
“Could you handle it, Liz?”
“Why do you think I’m here?” I’m so proud of myself for constructing that sentence, so I try for another. “As far as I can tell, Sam Bradshaw, you’re all talk.”
“I’m asking if you could let me touch you here”—he runs two fingertips down the length of me—“and not make a sound.”
My lips part, but I can’t think of a damn thing to say that would leave me with any dignity.
His honey-brown eyes flash hot, and he slides a finger into me. “Jesus, you’re hot.”
I reach down and draw my skirt higher up my hips, and his hand stills between my legs. He shifts his stance slightly to the left, his gaze darting to some spot behind my head.
“Liz.” He leans his head against mine and says, “We can’t.”
“What?”
“Not here.” His gaze darts to that spot behind my head again. “Cameras.”
Two emotions zip through me simultaneously—horror at what I’d have done with Sam right here without thinking of those cameras, and an erotic thrill at the thought of having it recorded.
Slowly, he removes his hand from between my legs and smoothes down my skirt.
My cheeks burn with the shame of rejection. I lift my chin an inch. “Wouldn’t have thought a little video tape would slow down a man like you.”
His chuckle is low and pained. “Normally, it wouldn’t. But since a woman who used to change my diapers sits at the desk by the video monitors, I think it’s best I practice a little restraint this time around.” He gives an apologetic smile and rubs his thumb across my cheek in a movement that’s almost tender.
I nod, that ugly feeling of rejection still hanging over me as I slide off the desk I’d hoped he’d fuck me silly on. I follow him out of his office and to the parking lot.
We stand by my car for a minute—the awkward aura of hookup interruptus around us.
I shift, my too-high heels pinching my toes. “Well, that didn’t go as I planned.”
Again, that low, deep chuckle. Can you be touched by a sound? Because his laugh seems to stroke me in all the right places. “I didn’t think you were the type, Liz.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “You’re a nice girl.”
I snort—loudly—breaking the tension. “God, Sam, can I give you a hint? When a girl shows up at your office without panties, the last thing she wants you thinking is that she’s a nice girl. I’m not nice.” I’m horny. But I don’t say that, because I have a little dignity left. “I’m as dirty as the last trollop you took to bed.” Or I could be. With a little practice and the right teacher.
He lifts a brow. “I’m pretty sure the last woman I took to bed wouldn’t appreciate you calling her a trollop.”
* * *
Sam
Ever since I left my office tonight, my hands have been itching to pick up the phone and call Liz. I want to do more than call her. I want to have her in my bed, naked, bound, and moaning.
Her invitation to take her on my desk was almost more than I could resist. But I’m a Bradshaw, and we’re trained very carefully to be mindful of things like cameras. That doesn’t mean I can’t invite her over tonight, though.
But by the time I walk in my front door, my plans change. Because Asia is waiting for me in my living room, and she says the only words powerful enough to keep me away from Liz.
“I’ll keep the baby.”
Chapter Nine
Liz
I find myself in Sam’s driveway, jacked up on lust and optimism. I have no idea how our night together left him feeling. I’m not even sure what this is I’m feeling. But I know I don’t want to walk away, and I know things would have gone further in his office if it weren’t for those pesky security cameras.
There’s more to him than a hard body and a dirty mouth, and I feel like I just got a peek at it. I want to know more, to explore him like I explored the woods by the river as a child. I want to get him to open up to me when he doesn’t open to anyone else. And I’m going to tell him so.
Only I don’t make it out of the car before I see him through the picture window at the front of his house. It’s dark and all the lights are on, framing and illuminating the two people on the other side of the glass like a scene on a screen for everyone to see.
He has his arms wrapped around a woman—a beautiful woman in a tiny black dress and sky-high heels. My heart stutters in my chest and I can’t remember how to breathe, and when I try, it hurts. It actually hurts to pull oxygen into my lungs while watching him hold her.
I force the air in, and suffer the sharp pain of my lungs expanding against the jagged tear in my heart. Any hope I had that she’s a sister or cousin, or that there’s some completely reasonable explanation for him touching her, flees. He brings his hands to her face and lowers his mouth to hers—gently, softly. It’s a kiss filled with all that tenderness I yearn for, the affection men just don’t feel for me.
I’m frozen, the jagged edge of my heart sawing at the soft tissue of my slowly expanding and deflating lungs. I can’t take my eyes off him—I can’t unsee this side of Sam I just came to believe was there and hoped to resurface for myself. When he breaks the kiss, he lifts his head and looks right at me. There’s so much on his face that he’d typically hide behind his ever-present cocky grin, but I see it now. Hurt. Regret. Terror.
For a moment, I think he can see me, but then he looks away and I remember I’m concealed by darkness while they’re visible to anyone who might happen by. And he doesn’t care.
That snags on a piece of my heart and it breaks off, tumbling to the pit of my aching stomach. He didn't want anyone to know about us this weekend, but he obviously feels differently about whoever she is.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I whisper to no one. Why do we call ourselves names when we’re alone? Does confessing the worst about ourselves to the darkness make our flaws easier to bear? Or is it because we fear only the darkness is willing to take us as we are—imperfect, incomplete, and so desperate to be accepted?
Sam wraps his arms around her shoulders and gestures outside, and when he gives her that smile—not the cocky grin, but the sweet, vulnerable boy smile—I finally find the strength to put the key in the ignition and drive away.
One night. I promised him I could play by his rules. He worried I’d want more. He was right, and I’ll never let him know.
* * *
I’m a girly girl and proud of it. I wear heels and makeup and do my hair and nails. I don’t like getting sweaty and I love romantic books and movies and the color pink. When Hanna and I got this house together to live in while we finished at Sinclair, the first thing I did was paint my bedroom a very pale shade of pink. I loved it. It was just pink enough to be girly without looking like it should be a baby girl’s nursery. But when I walked in from going to Sam’s last night, the color made me sick to my stomach. Don’t ask me how the color pink makes me think about having my hands tied behind my back and my mouth on Sam, but it does. I can’t live with it anymore.
“Are you okay?” Hanna asks from my bedroom doorway. Maybe she’s asking because I’ve been on a tear all morning, and now all the bedroom furniture is pushed to the middle of my room, draped in pink sheets, and the walls are almost completely repainted.
Beige. It’s a terrible color and a terrible way to feel, but I’ve chosen to surround myself with it. Beige. Stupid beige.
I force a smile, because Hanna’s sensitive, and I don’t want her worrying about me. “I’m fine. Ever feel like you just need a change?”
The wrinkle between her brows tells me she’s not buying my fake peppiness, but she knows when not to push it. “Sam’s here and asking for you. What’s tha
t about?”
My stomach protests at the thought of Sam waiting for me at the front of the house—fear and hurt and hope all take hold of my heart and engage in a three-way game of tug-of-war. Part of me wants to imagine he’s here because he has feelings for me, but it’s more likely that he wants to make sure I don’t tell Miss Little Black Dress about our night together.
He never struck me as the kind of guy who would cheat.
I wipe my hands on my pink sheets turned paint rags and climb down the ladder. “Does he need a cup of sugar?”
She lifts a brow but doesn’t argue with my suggestion. “I’ll be here when you want to talk about it.”
“Talk about what?” My smile is so plastic you could make Barbies with it. I push past her and find my way to the living room, where Sam is standing, looking out the window with his hands shoved into his pockets.
He’s in a simple white T-shirt and jeans, but he’s so gorgeous it hurts to look at him. Sometimes it’s nice to want things you can’t have, and sometimes the want is so deep that it’s a flame tearing through your heart.
“Hey, Sam!” I call, keeping my Barbie smile in place.
He turns, and I wait for his eyes to skim over me in my too-short cut-offs and tank, but they don’t. In fact, he’s looking at me, but I can tell he’s not seeing me at all. “Can we talk?”
“Sure! Let me slip on some shoes.” I don’t want to leave with him, but I’m so ashamed of the position I’ve put myself in, the heartbreak I brought on myself, that I don’t want Hanna to witness this conversation either.
I slip on my flip-flops and grab my hoodie from the hook by the door, then lead him outside. We walk for a bit without talking, just breathing in the cool, late-autumn air and trying to figure out where we fit with each other now. Or at least, that’s what I’m doing.
“I know we said it was just one night,” he begins.
I can’t handle hearing more, so I butt in before he can speak again. “No strings, no attachments, no expectations. You’re not here because you’ve changed your mind on me, are you?”
He stops walking and blinks at me. “I . . .” He shakes his head then swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “A friend gave me some news this morning, and I wondered if I could take you out. Talk to you about it.”