Truth & Temptation

by Riley Edgewood

  But really, who am I kidding? This is where the night's been heading since I first saw him. There's not a person alive who's attracted to guys who wouldn't say exactly what I'm about to.

  I slide my stool back and hook Cassidy's blazer over my elbow. "I'm picking your brother marrying the wrong girl as a truth—and if the one about your bones is truth too, let's get out of here. Like, five minutes ago."

  Frank stands, throwing up a hand to catch the bartender's attention, again. "We need our check. Now."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FRANK PAYS THE tab, over my protests. We both stick out money—me cash, him a card—but when the bartender pauses, Frank gives him some stupid intimidating stare and my bills are ignored.

  Annoying.

  I roll my eyes. "This isn't a date. I can buy my own drinks."

  "So you're automatically assuming I'd pay if we were on a date? That's rude."

  "No, I mean…" I can't bite back a small smile. He's winning with sarcasm, beating me at my own game. "Fine."

  "Don't smile at me that way," he says, his tone full of warning.

  "Why?" For some reason his words make me grin even wider. I shove my money in the pocket of Cassidy's blazer so I won't forget it. The blazer, that is. I never forget where I have cash.

  "Because I'll never be able to say no to you if you do."

  "What if I ask you to be a screen door?" Another set of words that fall from my mouth, like I'm this brazen thing who will bang anyone anytime. From what he knows, I am.

  Oh, well. Clearly it doesn't bother him.

  Plus, he isn't anyone anytime. Not that I plan to see him after tonight, but I have a feeling he'll be memorable.

  His expression falters. "I asked you to come home with me, didn't I?"

  "So you're automatically assuming because I'm coming home with you we'll be…banging like screen doors? That's rude."

  He laughs and scribbles his signature on the receipt when the bartender drops it off. "I don't expect anything. But I find myself hoping."

  "I make no promises, but what sort of person would I be if I stomped all over your hope?" My tone says I'm sure of myself, but as we make our way toward the exit, nerves shoot through me so fast and so sharp they create a hole for my stomach to fall out of. It hits the floor, splattering everywhere, the stupid-ass nerves hopping and dancing around down there to the beat of the music in the bar.

  Can I do this? Am I really going to do this?

  "Why the change of heart?" I ask, stalling near an empty pool table, running my fingers along its edge. "Twenty minutes ago you were so against becoming a screen door."

  "I don't want to be a screen door," he says. "But I do want you." He trails his fingers down my arm and runs them against the small of my back again, and my heart freaking seizes. From his touch—but even more from his words, which keep coming. "And maybe I can convince you in the meantime that I'm more than"—another short laugh slips through his lickable lips—"a piece of wood."

  Don't look down. Do not look at the space below his belt. My eyes sting from all the effort to remain pointed toward his face.

  His thumb moves in an arc over my lower back, and I almost jump. I need him to remove his hand. I need him to put his other one on me. I need to take another shot.

  I need to get a damn grip. "Maybe you're a collection of smooth words with no substance."

  "Maybe I want the chance to show you you're wrong."

  "Maybe I can't figure out why." Oh shit. Too much. Didn't mean to admit that. "Or, you know, maybe I don't want to find out. Maybe I only want your hot body."

  "Maybe I want yours, too."

  Okay, this is definitely too much. "Whatever, this game's getting old. You got the drinks, so I'll pick up the cab."

  "I have a driver." He says it casually, like an afterthought, like everyone's got a driver.

  "Oh, right. It's a good thing, too, because my pilot's home with a cold." I pull off the sarcasm, but on the inside doubts are forming stronger than ever. This guy has a driver? God. The closest I've ever come to having a driver is when my freaking car breaks down again and I have to ride with a tow-truck driver to the repair shop.

  Actually, that's not true. I won VIP tickets to a concert last summer, and the experience included a chauffeur. I took Cassidy with me—and spent the night giving her shit for taking an internship at her father's company, like a complete asshole.

  Because it was supposed to be her brother's internship, but he died. And his death soured me.

  Well. It made me more sour, anyway.

  But the tables have changed this summer and now I'm the one working for Cassidy's father's company. Thank God she's a better person than I am, because she hasn't said "I told you so" even once. If I were in her shoes? I'd be merciless.

  "I drive a ten-year-old Toyota with a broken taillight." I don't know why I have to make sure he knows this, that he gets we come from different worlds, but I do.

  "Cool." He doesn't flinch, doesn't stutter—so that one was obviously a lie.

  "It's so old you can't even tell what color it used to be." My guess has always been red, but that's probably because of all the rust.

  "Do you think telling me you drive a beater is going to change my mind about wanting to take you home with me?"

  Am I that transparent, or is he that good at reading people? I nibble at a fingernail, my expression as composed as I can make it. "Do you have alcohol at your place?"

  Now he pauses, and then slowly nods. "But we can go to yours if you'd prefer."

  That's laughable. I can imagine Gran's reaction to this guy setting foot in our place. I can hear her now, telling me I'm no better than my mother, leaving with someone like Frank. Spreading my legs for a pretty face and a bank account.

  "Hey, where'd you go again?" He lets go of me, waiting for me to turn my face toward him. "I can have my driver take you home—by yourself—if you're having doubts. All you have to do is tell me."

  Sometimes in cartoons a character finds herself with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, battling it out over a questionable decision. For me, on one shoulder my Gran's calling me a whore, and on the other my empty shot glasses from tonight are telling me I shouldn't even wait till we get to his place to wrap my legs around him.

  I cross my arms over my stomach, my hands in fists, because I'm starting to get annoyed. Not at him, but at myself. At life in general.

  Ugh. Why can't I ever get out of my own head?

  Okay, Teagan. Get your shit together. Let's not scare off the guy who's going to be The Guy tonight.

  Deep breath.

  Another.

  Nope. Not working.

  "Give me a second," I say, pretending to check my purse for something. Blindly, I grab my cell phone—there's a text from Cassidy. You okay? I feel bad for leaving you with a random. He's hot and seemed nice, but still. #friendfail

  She has a point, but I can't even count the amount of times I've failed her in ways much worse. If I'm honest with myself, I'm a pretty shitty friend.

  Oh, good. There's more irritation. Yep, and now it's slithering right into red-hot anger.

  God.

  Stop.

  This has to stop.

  I close my eyes and take another breath. I smell the bar, a little sour like old alcohol—because, duh—but I also inhale Frank's scent again. It's kind of calming this time.

  Mentally, I shove everything away from my shoulders, and then there's only me. Standing next to a guy who's smoking hot and wants to take me home. One who's not commenting on my standoffish behavior, who's letting me have a moment to myself even though the heat of his arm is sinking into my own. The heat of his stare is searing the side of my face.

  I'm starting a new job on Monday, and I want a better life to come with it. I need to learn to loosen up—and maybe the best way to do it is with a bang.

  With Frank.

  Who, when I turn my face toward him, is looking at me with these come play with me puppy-dog
eyes and a charming little grin—like he knows his expression is exactly what I need to make up my mind. The last drop of irritation rolls away. I wonder how many girls he's used it on.

  I don't care.

  "I want your place," I say, starting toward the exit again, pulling him with me. "And liquor. And you."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FRANK'S DRIVER IS a guy named Miles. He's ancient and bone-thin and smells like cigars. I like him immediately, and when he tells me to be sure to buckle up back there with a smarmy double eyebrow raise—as though he's maybe talking about using a condom instead of a seat belt—it's clear he and Frank have a relationship outside the realm of just driver to passenger. And also that maybe Frank gets around…

  Then Miles closes the door behind me¸ and I'm alone in the back of a town car with Frank, with one tiny seat between us, and there goes all the ease, right out the closed car window. In its place is something cutting, something spicy. Nerves on top of nerves on top of the sizzle of attraction.

  Frank, however, seems calm, leaning against his seat and glancing at me with a grin as the car starts to move. "I'm glad you decided to come."

  "Yeah," is what I attempt to say, but it comes out strangled and unintelligible and I'm forced to clear my throat and repeat myself.

  "Water?" He slides toward me and reaches across my seat—across me—to grab one of the (chilled, sparkling, and, of course, glass bottled) waters Miles set out for us on this little platform near the door. He pulls back, and this time he moves a little slower in the space that should be mine and, for a moment, the top of his shirt, unbuttoned, is eye-level and his scent sweeps across me like a breeze and my blood rushes through my veins like it's revived with a second wind.

  I stare at his throat, at his Adam's apple, because if I lift my gaze to his face… I might be tempted to run my nose along the scruff lining his chin. Which is a weird thing to want to do, but knowing that doesn't keep away the impulse. But, also… I think if I look up, he'll kiss me. And the thought makes me panic.

  And then the moment's over and he's in his seat, unscrewing the top of the water and pouring it into a thick-stemmed glass, while I sit still as a statue and try to slow my breathing.

  He holds the water toward me and I take a second too long to grab it. My fingers accidentally slide over his in the exchange, and he maneuvers until mine are trapped beneath his. I can feel his smile widening, but I can't take my eyes off of the water. Off of his fingers—they're big, covering mine.

  But I break the moment and take the water from him because damn if I don't need a sip of it with the way my mouth goes dry.

  I'm so out of my element. I want to take back control of the situation.

  "Tell me, honestly," I say, wrapping both hands around my glass. "Why did you want to leave with me? Why me, when you look…the way you do?"

  He studies me, half a frown tugging at his mouth. "I don't know how to take that. Is it a compliment to me, or an insult to you—which would make it an insult to me too, actually?"

  "Just tell me." I stare at him, unblinking, trying to keep my expression serious, even if my cheeks and my eyelids are a little heavy, like gravity's pushing harder on them than usual. He's slightly blurry in my vision, but that only means the water I drank at the bar didn't kill the swing of my buzz.

  "I overheard you talking about your screen door—"

  "And thought I'd be easy to bang your way into?"

  He shakes his head and leans toward me until his face is tantalizingly close to mine, and even though my tone makes me an asshole, his eyes are dancing, like his own mood won't be deterred. "Didn't we already have this conversation? I'm not in the business of sex with no emotions, remember?"

  He takes away the cutesy screen door metaphor and lays the truth of it bare and I wonder how I've managed to find someone—a guy—who's so sincere. It feels…weird. And it turns me on so much I have to cross my legs. He watches my movement and amusement highlights his features. "I approached you because you sounded sure of yourself—"

  "And you're using this as a way to somehow knock me down a peg?" I'm being a jerk. He's not trying to knock me down; I can spot that shit from a mile away after growing up with my grandparents. Basically, what we have here is another example of me being a bitch for no reason without the ability to stop myself.

  Before I can blink, he's in his own seat and the charming twinkle in his eyes is gone. "Do you want me to have Miles take you home? Because I'm getting a hell of a mixed bag of signals from you, Cindy." I cringe. Both because of the name and that I've already managed to push him past his tipping point. "I don't want to do that, but if you're this uncomfortable with me, or this certain you have me pegged as whatever type of guy you think I am, I have some pretty strong doubts you'll be happy to wake up next to me tomorrow."

  He's wrong, though.

  I do want to wake up next to him tomorrow.

  I want to wake up with a fresh perspective and a new me.

  I want it every morning, to be honest, but…tonight could be the exact jumpstart I need.

  "Will you answer my question?" I place the glass of water in a cup holder and grab Cassidy's blazer, draping the fabric over my pants, spreading it out with my hands. But Frank doesn't say anything and I think he's waiting for me to meet his eyes again. So I look up.

  "You're pretty," he says. "Maybe I'm shallow, but I like the way you look. And when I walked past your conversation, you sounded sexy and confident—and I liked that even more. It made me want to know you."

  "Oh." Heat pulses under the skin of my face, and yet again I wish I was a pretty blusher, all tawny pinks instead of balloon reds. But he's given me one of the best compliments I've received in a long time. Maybe ever.

  Then it hits me. He heard me boasting and acting like I didn't have a care in the world. He's attracted to my fake personality, the one I wear for everyone else. Guess it goes well with the fake name.

  Tonight I'll be Cindy. I like her better, anyway. "I don't want Miles to take me home."

  "Thank God." His tone is back to light and the mood between us shifts again, less intense now. He glances down into his lap and then at me with a huge grin. "Because there are two of us in this seat who would've been really fucking disappointed. You didn't think I was unaffected when I slid across you for the water, did you?"

  I follow his gaze, because of course I do. And his pressed gray slacks are extremely tented. Because of course they are.

  Of all the reactions I could possibly have in the moment, I put my face in my hands, and I giggle like a fucking schoolgirl.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "ARE YOU GIGGLING at my boner?" Frank asks, and when I uncover my face, his eyes widen. "You are."

  The urge to keep giggling fills my stomach like a balloon. I glance toward Miles in the rearview mirror, but he's focused on the road, giving no indication that he heard Frank. Don't giggle. Don't giggle. "I'm not… I mean…"

  "Come on, kitten. You're kinda killing my ego."

  "I didn't even touch you," I say. "You…surprised me, that's all. I don't think you're…small, or anything." The opposite actually, if the rise in his slacks is any indication. Not that I'd tell him that.

  He winces. "Well, now his pride's pretty much nonexistent."

  "Well, now you're speaking about your…" I clear my throat and another giggle slips out. "…thing like it's an actual person with actual feelings."

  "You couldn't even use the word dick."

  I'm hit with the blush of the fucking century. He's right. What am I? Thirteen?

  Oh, but that thought pushes my mind into a better comeback. "You're the one who's rock hard when we haven't even kissed yet. What are you? Thirteen?" There. Point, me.

  "I like that word…yet," he says. He's still smiling, but his focus is on my mouth now, and all of a sudden we aren't in a game anymore.

  Or we are. But it's not the kind with silly insults and childish blushing.

  This is more like…a dare situation.
r />   I just don't know how to go about stepping up to the challenge.

  Or I do, but it turns out I'm a coward. I look away first, out the window at the trees that line the parkway and streetlights that flash by. Then the trees are gone and we're passing Springs Corner—an outdoor shopping center, all lit up with restaurants, local boutiques, a huge movie theater, and even bigger pavilion in the center of it all. I pretend to be fascinated by the place, staring so hard out my window, it's a wonder the glass doesn't crack.

  I tap my fingers on the seat beside me, trying to drum up the nerve to turn and kiss him. He already thinks I'm forward, so why am I feeling shy?

  Because I really want him.

  Because I super want him.

  Because sitting in the back of a town car with him feels too good to be true. These things don't happen to me.

  But then he covers my hand with his own, and I drop my gaze to watch, and I realize they do happen to me. Right now. This is happening. Finally. And it's perfect. One night of a fairy tale.

  Granted, a fairy tale where the prince doesn't know the princess's real name, but maybe that makes it better.

  He rubs his thumb over the back of my hand, trailing heat across my skin, and finally I lift my heavy eyes toward his.

  "Hi," he says.

  "Hi." I breathe.

  "You don't need to be nervous." Another stroke of his thumb. Thank God it's over the top of my hand, because my palms are getting damp. "I won't bite."

  I wipe my free hand across my lap. "Just wondering where you live."

  "Oh. I thought you might be thinking about whether or not I'd bite. But you have my word I won't."

  "What if I want you to?" Seriously, I'm getting whiplash. Ballsy Cindy or gun-shy Teagan. I can't keep track of myself.

  "Then that's a different story." He flashes those damn dimples again. "Here we are."

  Miles pulls into the circular drive-thru of a sky-high condominium complex, a sign naming it The Grands, to drop us off. He opens the door and I step out, craning my neck to scan up the length of the building. Floor-to-ceiling windows in every unit make the whole tower look as though it's made of glass. "Whoa."