Romancing the Bachelor (A Hamilton Family Series)

by Diane Alberts

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “Painting. With canvases. And paint. And brushes.” He smiled. “Do you like it?”

  Once upon a time, when she’d gone out and done fun things, she’d loved to paint. It had been years, though, since she’d picked up a brush. George hadn’t liked when she painted, since it took her attention off him, where it belonged. “Uh…yeah, I guess so. Why?”

  “I got invited to this paint and wine thing tonight with my sister and her boyfriend. I told them I didn’t want to go, but they begged me, and told me to bring a friend.” He side-eyed her. “You’re my friend, and you like to paint, and I don’t want to go alone.”

  Meeting his sister? That seemed way too relationship-like. But then again, friends did meet each other’s families and other friends. “Wine and painting, huh?”

  “As friends,” he pointed out again, turning left toward the courthouse. “Come on. Say yes. Don’t make me be a third wheel. Make us a full car.”

  She snorted. “How could I say no to that?”

  “Then it’s a da—” He cut himself off. “A friend meeting.”

  This time, she skipped the snort and went right to the laugh. Her mother had always told her to find a man who could heat her blood and make her laugh, a man with strengths that paralleled hers, and she finally had. But he lived in Atlanta. “Wow. That’s just…wow.”

  “I don’t know what else to call it.”

  “Me, either.” She took a sip of her chai. “What do you do?”

  “Um. Hi. I’m a lawyer.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not for work. For fun.”

  “Um. Hi. I’m a lawyer,” he repeated.

  “Come on.” She smacked his arm. “Stop it.”

  “I’m serious,” he said, his tone lost in wonder as he blinked. “My life is my job. I don’t really have hobbies, or socialize, aside from when I…”

  “Bring home girls to sleep with?” she supplied helpfully.

  “Yes. That.” He frowned. “Shit. You’ve made me realize that I’ve become my father. He’s a good man and all, but shit.”

  “He brings home lots of girls, too?”

  “What? Ew. No.” He tightened his grip on the wheel. “He’s happily married and would never cheat on my mom like that.”

  He’d lost her. “Then how are you like him?”

  “Work. He’s obsessed with his work. Misses events for office meetings, and lives for it.” He swallowed and let out a small laugh. “So do I. I work all the damn time, and I never make time for fun. No wonder why Anna and Brett told me they wouldn’t take no for an answer for this wine and painting shit, and that they paid before they even asked me so I’d feel obligated to come. They knew I’d get out of it if they didn’t.”

  She studied him, seeing the way he looked almost disappointed in himself, and for some reason that made her want to hug him. It also made her see him not just as this perfect guy she had a major crush on—because, God, sometimes he seemed perfect—but as a man. A man with flaws—and that was so much hotter than perfection. “I’m sure—”

  “No. I wouldn’t have gone.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I’m no fun.”

  A small laugh escaped her. She couldn’t help it. When he shot her an injured look, she held a hand over her mouth, stifling the sound. “I’m sorry, but that’s not true. We had fun last night.”

  Too much fun, if you ask me.

  “Yeah, and you know what?” he said immediately.

  “What?” she asked slowly.

  “It’s been years…hell, maybe my whole life, since I let myself laugh like that. Since I took a girl on a date, let down my guard, and just had a good time without an end goal in sight.” He stopped at a red light and looked at her. “With you, I’m different. I laugh and have fun. I’d forgotten what that felt like until we were in that elevator together, to be honest. All I’ve done is work and focus on my five-year plan. Hell, I even worked at my own brother’s wedding.”

  It took all her control not to smile when he said she was different. Bad Shelby. Bad. “I think you’re overreacting a little. I’m sure you’re fun with other people, too.”

  “Nope.” He dropped his forehead onto the wheel. “I’m a boring, stuck-up, stick-in-the-mud lawyer. You might as well put a fucking tweed suit on me now, stick me in my father’s club, and hand me a smoking pipe. I’m an old fart.”

  She laughed again. He shot her a “Seriously?” look, and she held out a hand. “I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re easily the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, you’re amazing to watch in a courtroom, and you make me laugh all the time. You score women left and right, and never spend a weekend alone unless you want to. And you think you’re boring?”

  The light turned green, and he stepped on the gas. “Yep.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” She rolled her eyes. “Tell that to all the girls you bring home.”

  “I can’t bring the one I want right now home with me,” he said softly. “Unless walking you to your door as your friend counts, anyway.”

  She stared straight ahead, gripping her knee with her free hand, not sure what to say. Because little did he know, he could bring her home all too easily. And that was the problem.

  Maybe he wasn’t the only one who had forgotten how to have fun. She hadn’t brought a man home in years, choosing instead to lock herself away behind closed doors. She didn’t used to be so scared. Didn’t used to like being alone. At first, she’d kept to herself as a safety mechanism while she healed from the wounds George left behind. Those wounds had healed long ago, though, and she was still alone. All the time.

  “Eric…”

  “I know. Sorry.” He let out a small laugh, running his hand through his hair. “But, anyway, yeah. That’s my answer. For fun, I win cases at my job.” He glanced at her. “How about you? What do you do for fun?”

  Nothing. I haven’t had fun in years. The question is, do I have the strength to change that? “I knit hats and destroy illusions that perfectly good men have about themselves.”

  He laughed out loud. “Jesus. You’re not kidding.”

  “Sorry,” she said, laughing too. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re fun.”

  He pulled up to the curb. “I know you’re fun.”

  “Eric—”

  “Seriously, though, you made me see something I hadn’t seen before. I’m going to fix it. Time to find myself some hobbies.” He nodded. “Like painting with wine.”

  “Right. Warning, though. I rock at painting.”

  “I haven’t tried in years.” He frowned. “I used to be good.”

  “I don’t think it’s a skill one loses.” She opened the car door, but didn’t get out. Judge Michaelson walked by, looked inside the car, and waved. They both waved back. It wasn’t until he walked away that she realized: “He totally thinks we’re banging now.”

  Eric chuckled. “Who the hell says ‘banging’ anymore?”

  “Me. I say it.” She gestured toward the retreating judge. “And he probably does, too. Along with groovy, and awesome, and—”

  “Shelby.” He rested a hand on her thigh. “It doesn’t matter what people say or think. Even if we were fucking, I wouldn’t give a damn. There’s no rule against a court reporter and a lawyer dating, so we’d have nothing to hide. But we’re not. We’re just friends.”

  She swallowed hard. He kept saying that. Was he reminding himself, or her? “I know. But they don’t know.”

  “Who gives a shit?” He handed her the chai latte he’d gotten her. “You’re not back in a small town yet, Shel. Relax. No one cares what everyone else is doing here. They’re too busy living their own lives.”

  Well…he had a point. She’d seen one of his lawyer colleagues getting head in the bathroom during a Christmas party, as had a few others, and no one ever talked about it. “Okay. You’re right.”

  “Pick you up at six?” he asked, shooting her a look out of the corner of his eye.

  She slid out of t
he car, took her tea, and winked at him. “For our playdate.”

  “That just sounds dirty,” he said, smirking.

  She locked eyes with him, forced herself not to look away, and said, “Maybe I meant for it to sound dirty, Eric. You’re not the only one who realized they need to have a little more fun.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but she slammed the door shut before he could—and before she said something way too logical and ruined her uncharacteristic flirtation.

  Even though she should.

  Chapter Seven

  Eric stroked the brush over the canvas, looking at the teacher as she painted the corner of the stark whiteness in front of her with soft, sure motions. Frowning, he tried to mimic her movements, and it came out as more of a blob than anything even remotely resembling artistic. Cursing inwardly, he tried to relax his touch and move the paint around until it looked better, but all he did was leave a streak of white in a blob of red. He glanced again at the teacher, who was still showing off at the front of her class with her pretty paintbrush skills. She made it look so fucking easy. It wasn’t.

  This was hell.

  He was in hell.

  And nothing was going to save him.

  Brett laughed and pointed at his own canvas, a glass of red wine at his side next to his paintbrush cup. His brown hair was longer than the last time Eric had seen him, and his green eyes shone with a happiness he’d never noticed in his friend’s face before. “It looks like I painted a damn cross. Which would be fine, if I was supposed to have a cross in the corner…but I’m not.”

  Anna laughed and nudged him. She had gray eyes and hair that was a little lighter than his, and she looked utterly, completely at peace with herself and her life. She didn’t have a ring on her finger, so Brett must not have proposed yet. Or he had, and Anna had said no…which was pretty fucking unlikely. “I like it. It adds an artistic flair to an otherwise boring picture of a wineglass and a bottle of wine.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Brett accused, setting his paintbrush down and pulling her close. “But I love you for it.”

  “I love you, too,” she said, smiling and letting her brush fall to the table, too, as Brett kissed her briefly. “But I really do like it.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Brett muttered, whispering something in her ear that only she could hear.

  Anna’s cheeks flushed, and she swatted at his arm. “Stop it.”

  Brett grinned and picked his brush back up.

  Anna did the same, her head low and her cheeks hot.

  Eric eyed them both, torn between being disgusted…and jealous.

  Where the fuck had that come from?

  Since when was he jealous of his friend’s obvious happiness?

  It’s not like he wanted that for himself. He didn’t. He just wanted to hang out with Shelby, maybe convince her that they could be more than friends for a short time, and make the most of the time they had together. But he didn’t want this. Didn’t want love.

  He glanced over at his date for the night. She watched Brett and Anna with an almost wistful expression. Shit. He damn well better have not been staring at them like that.

  When she saw him looking at her, Shelby leaned over to see his painting, avoiding his gaze. “Wow. That’s…”

  “Shitty,” Eric finished for her.

  She hesitated. “Well, I wasn’t going to say that. It’s…it’s…” He watched her, letting her struggle for the right word on her own. She’d give in eventually and use his. “Different.”

  He frowned at his painting. His wineglass was wiggly, and the wine he’d tried to paint with a graceful hand was way too solid a line to be liquid. Not to mention the fact that the stem of the glass that he’d tried so damn hard to do properly was crooked. “What’s yours look like?”

  “The same.”

  She picked up her wine and took a big gulp. She’d picked out Moscato at the store on the way here. All night long, she’d been fun, and teasing, and friendly with his sister.

  Anna seemed to like her, and that should have set alarm bells ringing in his head. Anytime your family liked a girl, it was serious, but since Shelby wasn’t looking for anything with him, he ignored those screaming warnings. Even if he somehow managed to get her in his bed, she’d still leave come the first good job offer, which was why they made perfect sense.

  “Let me see,” he demanded, reaching for the easel to turn it back.

  Anna watched with wide eyes.

  Brett smirked.

  “Hey.” She turned it away. “No.”

  He cocked a brow. “No?”

  “That’s right. I know you’ve never heard the word before, but it means that you can’t look at it.” She lifted her chin and pointed the end of her paintbrush at him. “Capiche?”

  A small laugh escaped him. “Did you seriously just capiche me?”

  “Yep,” she shot back. “It means—”

  “I know what it means. Jesus, Shel.” He dragged a hand through his hair, laughing again. “Are you actually a sixty-year-old man in disguise?”

  She wriggled her brows at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  This time, his laugh was loud, and he leaned in, caught her hand, and pulled her close. She waited breathlessly as he whispered in her ear. “Actually, I would, and you damn well know it. Anytime. Any place. I’m yours.”

  Her grip on the brush tightened, and she shot a quick look at his sister. Anna smiled at her, her eyes still comically wide, and Shelby smiled back. It wasn’t her real smile, though. It was too tight. “We’ll talk about that offer later, when we’re alone.”

  Well, hell. That wasn’t a no.

  He’d take it.

  Anna cleared her throat. “So, uh, how do you two know each other, again?”

  Brett nudged her, shooting her a mind your own business frown.

  Anna, in return, mouthed: “What?”

  “We met at work, technically, but we also live in the same building,” Shelby answered.

  Eric was too busy watching the interaction between Anna and Brett. They didn’t need to say a word, and yet they understood one another. It was fascinating.

  Was this what people did when they paired off into monogamy? Did they take classes on how to silently communicate, or did they wake up one day with the ability to know shoving your elbow at the person you loved and frowning with deep, awkward eye contact meant knock it the fuck off?

  “Oh, so you’re a lawyer, too?” Anna asked.

  Shelby returned her attention to her painting and picked up her brush. “No, actually, I’m a court reporter.”

  “Oh, that’s cool.” Brett took a sip of his wine. “So, you’ve seen Eric in action in the courtroom?”

  “I have.” She side-eyed him. “It was one of the things I admired most about him, when I first saw him. His ability to argue his way out of anything is fascinating to me.”

  Brett cocked his head. “You like his arguing?”

  Shelby nodded, lifting her glass and swallowing the rest of the wine. Their bottle was empty because the class was almost finished. “Yes. In fact, I find it incredibly attractive. Nothing is sexier than a good brain, if you ask me. It’s always the first thing I take note of in a person—the ability to think things through. Even when I didn’t like him, I admired that.”

  Anna’s eyes bulged. “You didn’t like him? Why?”

  “He…” She shot Eric an apologetic look, and he shrugged, silently giving her permission to go on and say what she wanted to say. “I kind of thought he was a player without a soul.”

  Eric laughed. “Wow. No sugarcoating for my sister, huh?”

  “You shrugged!” she cried, swatting at him. “That meant I could say what I wanted.”

  It wasn’t until she correctly voiced their silent communication out loud that he realized they’d done it. Silently communicated. Aw, fuck. “Shelby—”

  “But I was wrong about him,” Shelby said, smiling at Anna and Brett. “As
I’m sure you know, he does, indeed, seem to have a heart. And he’s actually a pretty cool guy, one I’m proud to call my friend.”

  Well, hot damn, she’d given him a compliment. An actual compliment. Smiling, he asked, “We’re friends now?”

  She opened her mouth to answer him, but the art teacher came up behind her and gasped. “What do we have here?”

  Shelby flushed. “Uh…”

  “Have you taken lessons before?” the teacher asked.

  “N-No.” Shelby was now the same color as the red paint on his brush. He craned his neck to try to see her painting, but the art teacher snatched it up. “I used to paint, before…”

  She didn’t need to finish that sentence for him to know where she’d been going with that. Before she’d followed her ex out here and been abandoned. Shit, he wished he knew where this ex lived, or if he was even still here in Atlanta. He’d show him exactly what he thought about him taking a girl like Shelby and trying to destroy her. Even now, having all eyes on her, she looked two seconds from running out of the room and never coming back. Also, she kept looking at him like he was going to be pissed off.

  Why the hell would he be pissed off if she was good at painting?

  Was her ex that kind of guy? The kind that couldn’t bear for her to be better at something than he was? If so, they’d been doomed to fail from the start. He might not have known Shelby for long, but he knew her well enough to think that she was pretty damn good at pretty much everything she decided to try. If her ex wasn’t a big enough man to handle that?

  Then it was his loss.

  Clearly.

  He caught her hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

  The teacher held the painting up. Even though they’d all painted the same image, there was something about Shelby’s that just screamed of…of…a life unlived. He wasn’t a big art critic, or really into art at all—not like his father was—but this right here? He could feel her desire to live vibrating off the damn painting. He wanted to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, and show her how much fun life could be if she was with the right guy.

  If she was with him.