If he weren’t dating Rosanna she’d ask. She’d put herself out there and demand to know if he’d been turned on when they’d kissed because of the adrenaline rush of the stage or because of her, if their moment of intimacy in his sound room had been as discombobulating for him as she suspected. She’d ask and she’d force his answer. But he was dating another woman.
“Scrapbooking it is,” she said.
13
“Pass me the scissors. And that Bahamas ad.” Wes was on the floor, long legs stretched out under Annie’s coffee table. He clenched a green marker in his fist as he glowered at his scrapbook page.
“If you keep making that face, it’ll stay that way.”
“Why does the glitter get everywhere?” He rubbed his eyes, defeated. “It was supposed to stay in the clouds.”
“Because your man-hands are too big for delicate work.”
He accepted the scissors and ripped magazine page, then shot his big mitts in the air. “So, you finally admit I have strong, masculine hands.”
“I admit nothing.” Including the fact that scrapbooking with Weston Aldrich was Tickle Me Elmo fun. “Your ego doesn’t need the stroking.”
He pointed at the wonky palm tree filling half his page, the jagged airplane he’d cut and pasted. “My drawing skills are up there with a three-year-old’s, my scissor abilities aren’t much better, and I have no clue how I got glue in my arm hair.” Lip curled, he picked at his forearm.
This really was the best night ever. “It wouldn’t be fair if you were a crazy smart executive, a crazy talented DJ, and a crazy amazing scrapbooker. Challenges keep you grounded.”
“You said this would be fun and relaxing. What part of me looks happy and relaxed?” He brushed a stray thread off his cheek and wound up with green marker smudged on his skin.
Definitely the best night.
She smoothed down the ribbon on the corner of her piano page. The keys were made out of various materials, some soft, some silky, a few out of leather. She’d created a scrolling music sheet with buttons and string to indicate the notes, all glued next to a photo of her piano student Joyce. It wasn’t as creative as some of her pages, but she loved bumping her fingers over the textures, reading the image like Braille. If only reading Wes were as easy.
“Fucking hell,” he mumbled as he tried to shake a partially glued piece of paper from his thumb.
“You’re trying too hard to make your page perfect. Let it be whatever it will be.” She peeled the paper off his thumb and stuck it in their garbage pile. “But don’t you dare touch that Vogue page. I dream of wearing that dress and will not have you destroy it.”
He picked up the open magazine and scanned the image. Black scrunched lace was layered over a bold cherry printed maxi dress. Fun. Flirty. Classic Betsy Johnson. The model was posing for a perfume ad, but the dress was the real standout.
“I can see you in this,” Wes said, sounding irritated. Because of the dress picture or his art project, she wasn’t sure. His attention slid back to his scrapbook. “What’s the point of doing something I’m bad at?”
She lifted one of her Sudoku books from the table. “Do you ever see me getting frustrated because I can’t finish these pages?”
His gaze skipped to the other two books on the floor. “That habit of yours is maddening.”
“Answer the question, Herbert.”
He smirked. “The creatively brilliant Anthea Ward is carefree and happy in all things in life and never gets frustrated. She’d rather quit when puzzles get hard, than hurt her brain.”
“You’re a real comedian.” She fanned her hand at his travel-inspired scrapbook page, which was as atrocious as he thought. “Stop thinking about the outcome. Just create.”
His amusement swirled down some invisible drain. “You make carefree look easy.”
“It’s not easy. Not always, at least. I’ve started teaching piano and it’s—”
“When did you start?”
She listened for annoyance in his abrupt question. Irritation that she hadn’t shared her newest job/hobby. All she heard was curiosity. “A couple months ago, and it’s hard. As much as I practice, I worry I’ll never be good enough to teach beyond the beginner level. I’ve thought about giving up—which is shocking, I know.” She nudged his calf with her foot under the table. A sad smile, too sad for a scrapbooking night, tilted his lips. “But someone in my life is always on me to stick with the tough stuff. You might know the guy. He irons his underwear and his socks.”
Wes didn’t laugh at her joke. He stared over her shoulder at her bookcase. The wood shelves were filled with more unfinished puzzle books, romance novels, mystery novels, historical novels. No rhyme or rhythm to her taste. “I don’t think I’m fine,” Wes murmured, as though to himself. Then louder, “When you asked about how I’m coping…I think I’m drowning a bit.”
She closed her book, whisper-soft, worried too much noise would send Wes back into martyr mode. “At work?”
“Work, the merger, my music—biting off more than I can chew.”
“Can you cut back on any of it?”
He brushed excess sparkles off his page, an absentminded movement. “There’s too much on the line at work right now. And I’m on the cusp of something with the shows. A way to engage the crowd in social issues.”
“The video feeds?”
His eyes snapped to hers, questioning. “I haven’t put my finger on it yet, but yeah. I have this unique access to people. They’re already in a space they love, attuned to me, listening to music that lifts them up. It’s the perfect medium to say something meaningful, but it has to be the right message, and it has to be done right. I need more time to figure it out.”
He hadn’t mentioned the video recordings while she’d been around. With his no-questions rule, she hadn’t asked him about his plans with the project, but the gimmick had so much potential. Leo would have loved it. He’d be ten steps ahead of them, thinking of ways to broaden their appeal, make them more than background beauty. Maybe the images could be a tribute to him, a way to remind people lax gun laws had consequences.
“I could help with that aspect,” she offered. “Play with footage that might work.” She wasn’t sure Wes would like the gun-control angle. They’d only started talking about Leo. She could work on it before telling him, make sure it had merit before spilling the idea.
But the control freak said, “No.” Didn’t even blink.
“You don’t think I’m good enough to help?”
He made a weird face and grunted, then pulled himself up onto the couch. “You have enough on your plate. I won’t add to your stress.”
“You already are.”
A rough laugh rushed out. “Now I feel worse. I should probably go, let you get some sleep.”
He didn’t move to leave, and he didn’t understand what she was getting at, all stuck in his head as usual. “I’m glad you came, and I don’t want you to go. But, yeah, seeing you stressed upsets me.” That wasn’t quite it, though. Seeing him struggling affected her on a visceral level. She took a breath and said quietly, “When you hurt, I hurt.”
He closed his eyes, his elbows falling heavily on his knees. A familiar pose. Her lungs felt like shriveled husks. She had no clue where that admission had come from. It hadn’t even been a thought in her lovesick head. Those hadn’t been head words, though. Those had been heart words.
He didn’t reply or accept her help or acknowledge the depths of what she’d admitted. He stretched out his fingers and picked at the glue stuck to his hand.
Glue she could focus on. Scrapbooking. Her late brother’s best friend zapping her heart with static-electric bursts? Hard pass.
She fetched a warm washcloth from her bathroom, returned, and crawled between Wes and the edge of her coffee table. She knelt on the floor in the middle of his spread thighs. Probably a bad idea. “If you let me touch your manly hands, I’ll rescue you from glue prison.”
His hard jaw sharpened furthe
r, his cheeks becoming dark craters. An intimidating look from any other man. Not on Wes. She knew he slept with a nightlight on in his en-suite bathroom and drank warm milk when he couldn’t sleep. Under his granite exterior and piles of money, he was just a man trying to get by.
After an awkward few seconds—her on her knees between his heavy thighs, him looking all Mike Tyson about to go ten rounds in the ring—he offered her his hand.
The second she touched his skin, she flinched. Or he did. Maybe they’d both flinched as their fingers softly brushed. That galloping heart was definitely hers, though. She should drop the cloth, let him de-glue himself on his own. Not risk him seeing how deeply he affected her.
Tibetan monks didn’t have that level of willpower.
She splayed her palm out under his, letting the tips of her fingers press against his pulse point. Tingles spiked the fine hairs on her arm, more static-electric bursts scrambling her brain. If she felt his pulse correctly, hers wasn’t the only heart rate accelerating.
Keep calm. Quit reading into things that aren’t there.
She ran the wash cloth along his thumb, softened the stuck glue enough to pick it off, then rubbed the warm-damp fabric over the spot to soothe the inflamed skin. She found another spot, did the same. His back relaxed, hunching heavier over his bent knees. She worked the cloth over his fingers, taking her time on his knuckles, traveling delicately along the dips in between, then pressing harder. His blueish veins stood out, the pads of his palm lightly callused from working out, but his nails were clean and trim. Strength and elegance rolled into one.
A classical song with a commanding backbeat.
Then the glue was gone. His hands were warm and clean, still held by hers, and she wasn’t ready to lose this heady connection. She dug her thumb into the center of his palm, massaged in an outward motion. Wes’s eyelids slid shut, and a purr rumbled from his thick chest. She didn’t speak, too terrified to break this spell.
“I like piano for you,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re playing again.”
“It feels good, even though it’s frustrating at times.” Whispered words as their hands touched. “I love that you’re DJing. I don’t think I told you how talented you are. It’s really something to behold. Leo would be so proud.”
His fingers closed slightly over hers, his other hand shifting, moving slowly toward their joined hands. Contact. More static. He traced the outsides of her fingers as that electric energy sizzled through her body. “He’d be amazed by you,” Wes murmured. “I’m amazed by you.”
I love you. The thought filled her struggling lungs until they ballooned. So full. Too full. Too much air to hold as she digested this frightening revelation. She loved Weston Aldrich. It wasn’t really a shock. It was the biggest shock of her life.
She loved his uptight designer clothes and fascination with modern art. She loved his silly rabbit and his resting brood face, and how his laugh made her feel unbuttoned. She loved that he worried after her, cared for her, showed her his soft underbelly while being everyone else’s kingpin. She loved his scrapbook-worthy lips and tidal-wave eyes that never failed to pull her under and how she was the best version of herself around him. Funnier. Challenging, because he challenged her.
She loved Weston Aldrich, but he was in a relationship. Unattainable. Unless, maybe, her pathetic hope had been true and he was dating Rosanna because he was scared of this intense connection.
He released her hand, rubbed his palms down his thighs. Rubbed her hope away.
She bit down on her cheek. She should know better by now. Tonight was about them returning to their normal, not unrequited love. She could do normal. She would do normal. She would not lose his friendship to her infatuation.
“I think we’ve scrapbooked enough tonight. Movie time?” God, her voice sounded strained.
She extricated herself from the small space between his knees and the coffee table. He nodded while tracking her movements, his piercing gaze following as she stood. She rubbed the soreness from her knees and tossed him a practiced grin. “I have it on good authority you love watching things blow up. That new movie with The Rock should fit the bill. I can stare at him while you get your testosterone fix.”
He didn’t crack a smile or joke back. He watched her intently, then dipped his chin and looked at his scrapbook page. “Explosions sound good.”
At way-too-early in the morning, Annie woke as twisted a contortionist. Her mouth tasted like stale wine. She winced as her lower back torqued. She didn’t remember the movie ending or falling asleep on her couch…or resting her head on Weston’s lap.
A very awake lap.
Its owner was passed out, but he shifted slightly. Everything about Wes was solid and masculine: the thick expanse of his thighs, corded forearms, broad chest, shoulders meant for lugging heavy things or just looking super strong. From her angle, his angular jaw was downright brutish. Her gaze flitted back down to the male power stretching the fly of his pants.
She sighed. He stirred.
Life wasn’t fair.
The soft wool of his slacks rubbed along her cheek as his legs spread wider. Danger, Will Robinson. One large hand moved to her neck, dragged up, up, into her hair. And her body bloomed, a painful ache spreading lower. Wes murmured, too low to make sense, but he seemed in the throes of a dream, eyes still closed, body loose. All but his straining erection.
She seriously needed to move. Bolt upright and quit picturing sliding his zipper down, freeing him, touching him, running her tongue around that thick girth.
She steeled her willpower, took one last look at all she couldn’t have.
Then Wes said, “Annie. Oh fuck, Annie.” His sleep-fueled voice was gravelly. Erotic.
His fingers gripped her hair tighter.
She tensed, stole a glance up. He’d said Annie. Not Rosanna.
His eyes were still closed, his lips parted as his hips did a seductive roll. Was he dreaming about her? Did the thought of them together, skin against skin, turn him liquid, too?
His fingers dug into her scalp, pressed her face closer to his erection. The ache between her thighs flared into a bonfire. She was anchored against the couch, awkward, her hot breath brushing his fly. She wriggled to get some kind of friction between her legs, a bit of relief.
He groaned. “Fuck, Annie. Fuck.”
His fingers jammed harder into her hair. His hips bucked. Then he jumped to his feet, sending her flying. Her shoulder smacked the coffee table as she hit the floor.
“Shit, Annie. You okay?”
He knelt down and tried to help her up. The effort involved her knee hitting the table again and both of them twisting uncomfortably. By the time they stood, he was panting. She bit her lip, and he stared at her mouth. A feral quality in his aqua eyes made them look more raging sea than calm waters, but he turned abruptly and adjusted himself in his pants.
“You were dreaming about me,” she blurted. Whatever his relationship status, she couldn’t ignore this. Wouldn’t. That moment of abandon, however subconscious, proved she wasn’t alone in her feelings.
“No, I wasn’t.” Still with his back to her.
“You said my name.”
“You must have heard wrong.”
She swallowed a growl. Going along with his denial would be the easy path. The expected Annie path. She was done with easy. “Interesting theory, but I specifically remember hearing you say, Annie. Oh, fuck, Annie, as you tried to hump my cheek. So I’d say you’re the one who’s having memory gaps.”
He swore, dropped his head forward. His turmoil was potent. She wanted to help, not hurt. She wanted answers more.
She pressed her hand to his straining back muscles, felt them tense then release. “I’m not sure what’s going on with Rosanna, how serious things are, but I know you’ve lied to me a couple times. Told me you were seeing her, then I’d see pictures of her out on her own those nights.” Stalker alert, but she was past the point of caring. “I think you’re trying to kee
p your distance from me.”
Her hand rose with his deep inhale, but it didn’t lower. He was holding his breath and his words. The guy was whip-smart when heading Aldrich Pharma, a genius who could schmooze a pack of wolves. With her, these days, he was all broody silence.
She’d have to be the brave one. The honest one. The one willing to put it all on the line and possibly lose. She hoped she wasn’t about to lose. “I’m taking a major plank-walk here, but…I think about you all the time. It started before I knew you were the one who kissed me, and it obviously skyrocketed after that. And the angsty scrapbooking? My recent efforts have been out of jealousy. Seeing you with Rosanna has been crazy hard. And I can’t even believe I’m saying this stuff out loud, but I’m tired of pretending I don’t have feelings for you. Real feelings. Not just lusty thoughts, which are totally there, too.”
Seriously? Lusty thoughts? She needed a cure for her foot-in-mouth syndrome. “What I’m saying is this is scary and confusing for me, but also kind of exciting. We know each other so well, all the good and bad, and our love of music is special. We could rock a stage together, which isn’t the point here. I know we fight like cats and dogs, or in our case rabbit-squirrels and mutant jaguar-squirrels, but if you give this—give us—a chance, I think we could be epic.”
His back was still turned. She tried to catch her erratic breath, kind of wished she could shove that deluge back into her mouth as she waited and waited, wobbly on her unsteady legs, her heart beating in her throat. He remained mute. Deathly still. Like he’d fallen asleep on his feet. Had she misread him? A dream was only a dream, after all. Not real. He wasn’t facing her, claiming her, telling her Rosanna had been a distraction to keep him from what he truly wanted.
His silence should be answer enough, but she was tired of hoping. One hard punch was better than a thousand slaps. “Tell me you want Rosanna, not me, and I won’t bring it up again. We’ll get back to our normal, whatever that is. Tell me you haven’t spent your nights reliving our kiss, and I’ll find a way to let this go.”
The Beat Match Page 14
