by Maria Luis
Working hard had never been Lizzie’s downfall.
She approached him with a sassy sway to her hips, sending a small thank-you up to the music gods when the song changed again, this time to something with a heavy Latin beat.
Brilliant.
Thanks to outings with Jade, who was half-Cuban, Lizzie knew exactly how to move her body.
Eat your heart out, Gage Harvey.
Hand on his shoulder, she circled him once, then stepped back into his line of sight. Not that he looked at all tempted to cast his gaze elsewhere.
Lizzie shimmied. Rolled her hips. Lifted her hands to the ceiling, and kicked up her chin with a naughty smile in his direction. The rhythm of the music dictated each movement, each sharp thrust of her hips side-to-side in pure Shakira fashion.
Gage fell.
And he fell hard.
His hands found her hips, and he smoothly spun her around.
Her back to his chest, his breath warm against her ear. Strong, masculine thighs clenched behind hers.
It was a heavenly blend of bliss and torture, and Lizzie had no shame in tugging his left hand away from her hip and folding it across her middle, just below her breasts, as her head fell back against his shoulder.
“You’re killing me,” came his guttural voice in her ear. “You’re fucking killing me, Lizzie.”
Lizzie, not princess.
She smiled, and didn’t stop. But she did twist her head just so, to stare up at him. “Are you complaining?”
His fingers tightened against her. “Hell no.”
Black met blue, their gazes clashing in the middle of the crowded club. And Lizzie . . . she breathed it all in, soaked up the excitement, as well as the nerves of having him so close. It was the most thrilling moment she’d had in years with a man, if ever, and she never wanted it to end.
Forever isn’t an option.
Her hips paused, slowed, and then regained momentum as she pushed those thoughts of more away. This wasn’t about more, and it wasn’t about forever. It was about now, about the music threading through her soul, and the lust heating her core.
It was about being with this man and thinking of no one else.
She slipped her hand up into his hair, swirling her hips, enjoying the way his dark lashes fluttered shut to fully enjoy the sensation.
“I’m sorry I made you feel less than.”
The words against her temple were a shock to her system. “What?”
He opened his eyes. Smooth onyx, she thought, the color of his eyes were the exact hue of onyx.
“At Naked You the other day,” he explained, never missing a beat as they danced, “I never intended to make you feel less than brilliant. There are things . . .” His breath whooshed out. “I’ve spent too many years on the wrong side of the coin, the center of attention for all the wrong reasons. And I spent the same number of years working my ass off to be judged on my work ethic, nothing else. So I’m sorry, that’s all. Offending you wasn’t my intention.”
Her belly quivered with the rough admission, and she suspected that admitting anything didn’t come naturally to a man like Gage Harvey.
Even in heels, she had to lift on her toes to even put their lips in the same stratosphere. His black eyes burned bright, a silent dare for her to take what she wanted, and Lizzie planned to do just that.
“Gage, I—”
Her belly quivered again, and this time it had nothing to do with the man wrapped around her, and everything to do with that telltale sloshing sensation taking up habitat in her stomach.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
“Princess?” His hand slipped from her belly to her back, and that encouraging touch was almost worse than anything else he could have done.
Her gaze darted to the right, to the left.
And even as she made a break for the black trash bin posted against the wall, she knew exactly what was coming.
She didn’t make it.
Three feet from the garbage can, she keeled over, hands on her knees, and threw up in front of every club-goer, bartender, and worst of all, in front of Gage Harvey.
14
The sound of rock music playing woke Lizzie early the next morning.
If the music hadn’t done it for her, then the wafting scent of bacon would have succeeded in popping her eyes open.
She burrowed deeper in the soft covers, drawing them up to her chin and slamming her eyes shut against the bright light streaming in from the half-drawn blinds.
Mmmm, bacon.
Wait. Hold on.
Who was cooking the bacon?
Lizzie lurched upward, tugging the covers with her. Her eyes skirted the room, taking note of the dark wood everywhere—which was a sharp contrast to her own country-blue French-styled furniture—and the large-screen TV posted on the wall opposite the bed.
She didn’t have a TV in her bedroom.
She also didn’t listen to . . . Her ears twitched at the sound of a masculine voice singing along with the heavy rock.
There.
That.
She also didn’t have a man in her apartment.
Oh, God.
Fearing the worst, she pulled the covers away from her body and peeked down.
Clothes, she was wearing clothes. Thank you, thank you, thank you. A T-shirt had replaced last night’s dress, and, yes, those were basketball shorts. Not hers, but it was still something.
I’m not naked.
Good, that was good. As was the fact that she’d taken a cab the night before to the club, so at least she hadn’t driven drunk.
She pushed the covers away, sucking in a deep breath as the cool air hit her skin, and then very quietly slid off the bed. She was obviously at Gage’s house, that she knew. Who else would she have gone home with?
Had they had sex?
As much as she wanted the answer to be yes in any other circumstance, she prayed that it was a no right now. Not like this, not with her drunk and covered in vomit.
Gage Harvey may not be the bad boy—in the classical sense—that she’d initially thought him to be, but she had to hope that he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation . . . would he?
After a fast dart into the adjoining bathroom, Lizzie stole toothpaste and swiped it on her finger to brush her teeth, scrubbed her face clean of makeup, and flicked off the light switch.
She could do this.
Just walk in there and pretend she hadn’t slept off her drunkenness in his bed.
She wasn’t prepared for the sight of Gage at the stove.
Bare-chested.
Low-slung cargo shorts.
Purple LSU ball cap turned backward.
He was . . . Lizzie swallowed, giving his muscled back another unsubtle ogle. He was a dream. A tatted-up, walking wet dream.
The song broke into a guitar rift, and while Gage didn’t do anything so cliché as to fake-play a guitar, he sang right along with the singer, and . . .
Lizzie burst out laughing when his throaty voice cracked on a high note.
His inked shoulders tightened, and he reached for his phone on the counter and lowered the volume. “I see the lightweight has risen,” he said over his shoulder.
Grimacing, Lizzie sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. His soft T-shirt pooled in her lap as she crossed her legs. “Can we pretend last night didn’t happen?”
“No can do, princess.” He stepped away from the stove and pulled two plates from the cabinets, along with two glasses. “You caught at least two people, you know.”
Caught two people . . .?
Lizzie clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.” The words were muffled against her palm, but that didn’t stop her from saying them another two times. “Oh my God, oh my God.”
“Yeah, that was their reaction, too.” He set the plates and glasses on the island, and Lizzie didn’t know what was more alarming: the fact that she’d vomited on other people or that his upper body was pure artistry. The muscles, the tat
toos . . . She shoved her hands under her butt to keep from running her fingers over his ridged abdomen.
Eight-pack. What normal human had an eight-pack?
Well, he doesn’t drink coffee or eat donuts.
Good point. Next time he even tried to reach for her coffee, she’d slap his hand.
Cheese, too.
The crazy health regimen he preached clearly worked.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered. “Did I . . . I-I don’t even want to ask any more questions about last night. I don’t want to know.”
Two perfectly rounded pancakes landed on a plate before he slid it toward her. “OJ?” Gage asked, turning toward the fridge. “Milk?”
“I’m assuming you don’t have coffee?”
Gage’s soft laugh, accompanied by the early morning light, was the perfect antidote to her hangover. “Would I make your day if I told you that I picked you up a cup when I went to the store for breakfast stuff?”
“I would love you forever.”
He coughed awkwardly, and Lizzie had the sudden desire to bang her head on the kitchen island. Really? she scolded herself. Did you really just say that?
“I mean, I—yes, my day would be made. Absolutely.”
Snagging a Styrofoam cup from next to the microwave, he placed it by her elbow. “Might be a little cool. I bought it maybe forty minutes or so ago, but coffee is coffee, right?”
I’ll love you forever.
This time, Lizzie kept the words to herself even as she guzzled half the deliciousness. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
She lowered her arm, balancing the cup on her knee. “What do you mean, the least you can do?”
A playful grin hitched the right side of his mouth as he took the stool opposite hers. With his backward hat and naked chest, he looked like every Southern boy Lizzie had ever fantasized about while growing up. Put him next to his pickup truck and light a bonfire, and you’d have girls flocking left and right for a slice of his attention.
Her exes couldn’t even compare.
“Gage.”
More of that sexy smirking. “I wanted to make you feel better.”
Lizzie pressed the coffee cup to her chest. “And it’s much appreciated.”
“You didn’t throw up on two people.”
Relief sank her shoulders, her chin dropping to her chest. “Oh, thank God.”
“You threw up on three people.”
Her head jerked up to gape at him. “Three?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He plucked a crisp piece of bacon from their communal plate and popped it into his mouth. “You were a hot mess last night.”
He could say that again.
She’d always been a lightweight, but this was . . . this was awful. She could never show her face again at that club, no way, no how. It didn’t matter that she’d never been there before anyway. Someone could offer her a hundred-k, and she’d turn her back without a second thought.
“I think I’ve lost my appetite,” she said weakly, fiddling with her knife as she set the coffee on the granite counter. “I’m so sorry. All that and then you took care of me? You deserve a medal of honor, a plaque, some sort of reward.”
“Oh, trust me,” he said, that wicked smile curving his mouth again, “I got my reward.”
“You did?”
With his fork, he pointed at her face. “This right here? That’s my reward. You didn’t throw up on a single person, Lizzie. Not at the club, anyway. I became a casualty on the ride home, though. Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.”
She wasn’t sure which was worse: believing that strangers had been the victims of her alcohol-induced night or that Gage had been. For that matter, she couldn’t believe that he’d pranked her.
When he reached for his next strip of bacon, Lizzie batted his hand away and stole it for herself. “You’re a jerk.”
“A sexy jerk.”
Her heart thudded. “I didn’t say that.”
“Your eyes did it for you.”
He was driving her insane and her head still pounded like the devil and she needed coffee. After depleting the cup, she countered, “My eyes aren’t on speaking terms with you right now.”
Dropping one forearm to the counter, Gage oh-so-casually drank his orange juice and then murmured, “Your nipples are.”
Her nipples . . .?
She glanced down, and sure enough, the girls were on point. Literally. Crossing one arm over her chest, she stabbed her fork in his direction. “I probably shouldn’t be surprised that you’re a boob guy.”
“No, ma’am,” he drawled in that almost Texas-twang of his, “full disclosure, I’m all about the butt. But, see, I’ve already had my hands all over yours. The same can’t be said for your breasts, so I can’t help but . . . notice them more frequently.”
She couldn’t help but narrow her eyes and suspiciously ask, “You didn’t cop a feel when you undressed me last night, did you?”
“Nah, undressing was all your own handiwork.” Standing, he retreated to the fridge again and poured more OJ into his glass. This time, he brought the jug back to the table to fill her empty glass, as well. She didn’t want to be charmed by the way he moved about, taking care of her, but it was impossible. Retaking his seat, he added, “If you don’t believe me, check out the tags on the clothes. T-shirt, backwards. Shorts, backwards. I tried to convince you to let me lend a hand, but you were stubborn to the end. Showered on your own, changed on your own, passed out on my bed on your own.”
“And you slept . . . where?”
He indicated the living room behind her with a tilt of his chin. “Couch. Trust me when I say shoving my six-two frame onto my sofa was not my finest moment.”
Guilt gripped her. He’d done so much for her: meeting her at the nightclub, despite the fact that he hadn’t looked at all like he’d wanted to be there; bringing her home after the alcohol (and her sloshed body) had decided to ruin everything.
“I don’t even know how to make it up to you.” Her hands came up, palms to the ceiling. “Do you do this all the time? Permanently indebt people to you?”
“It’s a special talent of mine.” He gave her a two-finger salute, and then doused his pancakes with syrup. “But there is something I do want to know.”
“You can have the last bacon strip.”
Heart squeezing at the sound of his husky chuckle, she watched as Gage pushed the bacon plate to her side of the island. “Have it, princess, there’s more where that came from. But no, what I want to know is why you let yourself fall off the deep end yesterday. Not that we’ve known each other for that long, but you don’t strike me as the type of person who willingly gets tanked.”
Fact.
Lizzie had never been the girl who danced on table tops or dealt out lap dances like cotton candy. That wasn’t her. Sure, there’d been a few instances over the years when she’d drunk an extra glass of wine she could have done without. But getting sloppy? No. She was the girl who went out of her way to make other people feel comfortable, whether that was by hanging out with them near the food table so they weren’t alone or even by dancing exclusively with her girlfriends after a friend’s bad breakup.
Seeking comfort, she grabbed the last bacon piece and snapped it in two, handing the larger half to Gage. “It was a long day,” she muttered in a low voice. “Actually, it’s been a long month.”
“Because of your ex?” He didn’t sound jealous, merely curious.
And that curiosity encouraged her to want to open up to him; her friends might be biased but Gage Harvey was not.
Maybe she needed a purely objective look at her mangled life.
“In part.” Taking a sip of her juice, she set it back on the counter and swept a fingertip around the rim, thinking. “You were right in the coffee shop, about my job being everything to me. It is, one-hundred percent. My love for makeup, as silly as it might seem, gave me a lot of opportunities. I’ve traveled around the world,
and I’ve collaborated with a lot of brands because they want ThatMakeupGirl’s face on the packaging. It seems ridiculous and utterly ungrateful to feel like—”
“You’re tired of being ThatMakeupGirl?”
“Yes. No.” Lizzie shook her head, and then scrubbed her palms over her eyes. “Jeez, I sound so all over the place, which is sort of the problem.”
Her heart leapt when Gage’s fingers encircled her wrist and pulled her hand away from her face. “Walk me through it, then.”
“Why do you even care?”
His expression twisted, mouth flat-lining. “Pretend that I do, princess.”
She pulled her hand from his grasp. “So, you don’t?”
“Lizzie.”
Fine. He wanted to keep with the status quo. Casual. Make-believe. She got it, loud and clear. “I don’t feel as though my life belongs to me anymore. I’m whoever social media wants me to be that day. The angry ex-girlfriend. The dumb bimbo playing with makeup. I don’t think I noticed it as much when I started out—the glitz and glam lifestyle awed me, you know?”
“I’m sure it was a bit like a drug,” he said in a low voice, “the more you experienced it the more you craved it.”
“Yes!” Lizzie sat on her hand to keep from offering up a high-five. “Yes, that’s exactly it. My friends were in college or working jobs they hated, and I was traveling all over the world. It was amazing . . . it’s still amazing, but at some point, it grew old. My friends married and had kids, and had something meaningful.”
“Marriage isn’t everything.”
The way he said it . . . Lizzie cocked her head, watching as he averted his dark gaze and gathered their empty plates.
Tentatively, because she didn’t want to run him off, she rose from the stool and came around the island, purposely putting herself in front of him. His eyes went wide and his jaw clenched, but she suspected his reaction had less to do with her and more to do with whatever memories were replaying in his head.
She took the plates from him and set them in the sink. “You’d mentioned before about spending your weekdays in Hackberry and your weekends here in N’Orleans. Were your parents divorced?”
