Desire (South Bay Soundtracks Book 1)

by Amelia Stone

  Sight: I cracked one eye open. As expected, this was not my bedroom. I opened both eyes and sat up, blinking against the bright sunlight streaming in from the windows. Once my eyes had adjusted, I looked around the room. The ceilings were high, probably twelve feet, and the floors were wood, with an intricate inlay around the perimeter. The similarly elaborate base and crown moldings, the dark bedding, and the lack of any aftermarket decoration whatsoever told me I was in a Victorian home owned by a dude.

  Graham’s house, then.

  Taste: None as of yet, other than the stank breath that told me I hadn’t brushed my teeth before bed. But I was eagerly anticipating a different taste. (See above re: smell.)

  I slid to the edge of the bed, realizing as I went that it was much larger than I’d originally thought. A California King, then. Which made sense. Graham was huge. He probably had trouble fitting in a regular bed.

  I thought of him in the shower, then blushed, wondering if he was huge everywhere.

  Unless I’d been imagining it, we had a moment last night, in the kitchen. We’d been bantering and laughing like two friends would do. He was funny, and really easy to talk to. But then I’d teased my new friend about his love life in high school, and suddenly his eyes were burning holes in my skin. And I ate it up like a cat with cream. I distinctly remember licking my lips and giving him the fuck-me eyes, in fact.

  And then it had all gone to shit.

  My emotional barometer had been all over the place yesterday, the needle spinning out of control and leaving me feeling punch drunk. Not just loose, but loopy. Loopy enough to spill the entire sordid tale of Daniel’s trust fund, anyway. Not exactly the kind of thing you tell someone you’ve just met.

  But then something strange had happened: Graham had actually listened to me. He just sat there and let me ramble on about people he’d never even met, and never would meet, and he didn’t interrupt me, or judge me, or tell me to “let it go, Larkin, it’s time to get over it.”

  It had made me absolutely crazy with the need to unburden myself. I didn’t just want to talk to him some more. I wanted to tell him everything.

  Couple all of that with some very tasty micro brews, and like an idiot, I’d told him all about the worst day of my life. And predictably, it had completely killed the mood. I’d cried into his very muscular chest, probably leaving irreversible snot stains, knowing my luck. I’m pretty sure I’d cried myself to sleep, actually. While sitting on his lap.

  Obviously, I was sure now that he would never, ever want to feel up my body parts, spicy or otherwise. Not now that he knew just how damaged my goods were.

  I tried not to think about how dismayed I felt about the idea of Graham never touching me intimately. Instead, I thought about all the reasons why I wasn’t ready to get touched like that. Namely, all the pain I’d unloaded on my newest friend last night, and how I still wasn’t over it.

  Even if part of me wished I could get over it, or at least learn to live with it. I was tired of feeling so dead inside.

  I had to admit, though, I felt a little less dead after telling Graham about the day Daniel had died. It was clear that I’d really needed to get it off my chest. I’d never told anyone about the fight, not even Taylor. I’d just let her assume that everything was good between us, because I couldn’t face the truth. I couldn’t tell her that the last words my husband had ever heard from me had been angry ones. I didn’t want to see the disappointment, or probably even disgust, that I knew would be all over her face.

  So I’d been holding it in for far too long, letting it eat at me until I was almost all gone. But last night, sitting on Graham’s dock in the moonlight, surrounded by his strong, solid body, I’d felt safe. Safe enough to trust him with a tiny bit of my pain. And he took it like a champ, just like I knew he would. He listened to me, commiserated with me, and comforted me.

  And now this morning, I felt almost better.

  Almost.

  I stood up from the bed, stretching with my whole body, the way you do when you’re just waking up. Fuck, it felt good to have gotten a full night’s sleep. I checked my watch – it was ten thirty-two. I wasn’t sure what time I’d fallen asleep, but it had to have been at least ten hours ago. Not too shabby for a girl who hadn’t slept in forever.

  I froze. No, it had been sixteen months, twenty-five days, twenty-three hours, and – I checked my watch again – thirty-seven minutes since I’d gotten a good night’s sleep.

  I frowned as I looked around the room without really seeing anything. I didn’t estimate. I didn’t make generalizations about time, or anything else that could be quantified with exact numbers, for that matter. I counted. It was just what I did.

  I felt deeply unsettled as I stood there, still unable to move. Why hadn’t I counted the hours when I first checked my watch – hell, when I first woke up? It was my usual routine, so why not today?

  Maybe because, like so many of the things I did to cope with this impenetrable wall of grief, I was growing tired of it. Marking the time since Daniel’s death had been a comfort to me, in a weird way. I may not know how to be this version of myself, this Larkin who cried over stolen futures and raged at ghosts. But at least I still knew how to count. The numbers still made sense. Time marched on at the same pace it always had, even if it was marching along without me.

  But I had to admit, the routine had become less comforting as the days passed. The more I counted, the more I had to wonder why I did it. Was I forcing myself to remain stuck in this pattern, too afraid of the unknown future to break it? Did time have to move on without me? Did I have to be stuck here, unable to move on?

  Could I make a choice, a conscious choice, to be better?

  I’d been thinking about it a lot, especially in the last few days. I really did not want to give Taylor any credit for the awful shit she’d said the other night, but maybe she had a point. Maybe I was holding myself back. I hated the word “wallowing,” because it implied that there was a right way to grieve, a right way to feel when your whole world is falling apart. And that was a steaming pile of bullshit. There was only how I felt, how I grieved.

  But I had to admit that I was tired of feeling bad. And I could, in theory, decide to let myself feel better. I could decide to enjoy some of the finer things in life. The sunshine on my face. The rich colors and the pungent scent of decay of the falling leaves. The smell of the ocean and the feel of the wind in my hair. The rushing of the blood in my veins when I ran. The buoyancy in my lungs when I laughed. The pleasurable ache in my cheeks when I smiled.

  The fluttering in my belly when Graham aimed that smile at me.

  I heard the shower turn off in the other room, and I tensed. I’d forgotten for a moment that he was just a few feet away, but now it was the only thing filling my mind. I looked around the room again, more purposefully this time. I needed to get out of here, preferably before Graham caught sight of the hideousness that was me upon first waking.

  Because I may not give a fuck what the neighbor from hell thought, but Graham was another story altogether.

  My shoes were on the floor a few feet away, and I grabbed them, jamming them on my stinky feet – and making a mental note to try to remember my socks the next time I went for an impromptu therapy run. I was just about to sneak out of the room when I realized what song Graham was singing.

  I smiled as he emerged from what I now realized was an en-suite bathroom, since steam billowed out the instant he opened the door. I hastily redid my ponytail and straightened my clothing, deciding to brave his reaction to pre-coffee me.

  Because I suddenly had an urgent need to mock the shit out of him for his shower soundtrack.

  But the smile slid right off my face when he stepped into the sunlight and I got a good look at him.

  Graham was wearing nothing but a towel. I repeat: he was nude, except for a bit of terry cloth covering his naughty parts. This was not a drill. Graham ‘Workout Expert’ Morris was mostly naked and less than ten feet from me.
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  And yeah, whatever his workout regimen was, he needed to patent it and sell it. Because let me tell you, it fucking worked. He was ripped. If he decided to share his secrets with the world, he’d be a millionaire overnight.

  He was still humming quietly, but he stopped when he saw me. His whole body seemed to lock up, and he gave me an uncomfortable-looking smile, his eyes darting around like he was panicked. Probably because I was being a mouth-breathing, man-ogling weirdo again.

  “Good morning.” He hurried over to the dresser, opening drawers and blindly pulling out clothes.

  “Morning,” I grunted. “You have two shirts there,” I pointed out. “And no underwear.”

  And then of course I thought about him going commando, and I had to clear my throat to get rid of the desire creeping into it and stealing my voice.

  He made a weird noise halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Thanks.” He corrected his error, then turned back to me, holding his clothes in front of his towel. Which was smart, because now he’d be covered in case he had a towel malfunction. But also not smart, because now his entire upper body was on display for me.

  I tried not to look. I really did. But his muscles were just everywhere. He had beautifully defined pecs. And abs. And obliques. And his arms – fuck! I mean, I’d been surrounded by those arms last night, and while my always-simmering desire for him had been the last thing on my mind at the time, I remembered how strong his arms were, and how safe and secure I felt in them.

  An image popped into my head unbidden. An image of how it might feel to be a little unsafe in his arms. How it might feel to lose control, in the best way. What kind of pleasure those arms might be able to give me.

  He cleared his throat, and I looked back up at his face. His eyes were wary, and his smile was tight. He looked uncomfortable. Of course he was. I probably looked like I’d been chewed up and spit back out, barely half-masticated.

  “I made coffee,” he said. His voice sounded deeper, richer in the morning. I shivered, even though it was perfectly warm in this house. “You can head downstairs while I get dressed. Unless you want to shower first?”

  I made a face. I did want to shower. But I didn’t exactly like him pointing out that I badly needed one.

  “Don’t worry about having to put the same clothes back on,” he assured me, misinterpreting my frown. “I think Ellie has some clothes here. They might not fit exactly right, because she’s so tiny. But they are clean.”

  He dug around for another minute, producing a pair of leggings and a sweater.

  “It’s supposed to be chilly again today, and I noticed you weren’t wearing a jacket or anything yesterday.”

  Awww. That was sweet. Caring, even. He was such a nice guy. Inwardly, I melted a little.

  But outwardly, I shrugged. “Probably just as well, since it would just have gotten pepper sprayed, too.”

  He laughed. “Now there’s an incident I definitely won’t ever forget.”

  “Me neither.” I smiled, unfolding the sweater and holding it up to get a look at it. Then I stopped, looking at it, then down at myself, then back to the sweater again.

  “Fuck,” I grunted. “This goes a bit beyond ‘not exactly right.’”

  There was absolutely no way I’d be able to wear it. It was basically kid-size.

  I looked up at Graham, who was frowning at the offending garment.

  “Yeah, no.” he drawled. “That’s not going to work.” He ran his hand through his wet hair, causing it to stand on end. “Uh, hang on.”

  He dove back into the drawer once more, then finally emerged with a flannel shirt that was so big it could only be his. He handed it over, and since I didn’t really have any other choices, I took it. I would be swimming in it, but at least it wouldn’t expose several inches of belly.

  “Thanks.” And look at me – that one came without even a smidge of dragging my feet! Progress.

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled at me, and I blinked a few times, feeling dazed. He was so damn pretty when he smiled.

  But I quickly caught myself, shaking my head vigorously. It was too damn early – and I was way too undercaffeinated – for the Almost-Naked Graham show.

  I cleared my throat, trying to dislodge the fog of lust. “Do you need the bathroom again, to shave or whatever?” I asked.

  He ran a hand across his jaw, which was still covered by several days’ worth of beard growth.

  “Nah, I usually only shave once a week. Monday mornings.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “I’m kinda lazy like that.”

  I snorted. “I can’t even remember the last time I shaved my legs,” I blurted. “Or anything else. So at least you’re not alone in your Sasquatch-ness.”

  And then I closed my eyes. Had I really just said that? Had I really talked about my lackluster grooming habits?To this man, of all men? Had I really just implied to Graham ‘Towel Model’ Morris that I was rocking a full bush?

  Fuck. He was probably going to run screaming from the room in three… two… one…

  But he didn’t run screaming. Instead, he laughed, though it did sound a little forced. “We can start a club then. Sasquatches Anonymous.”

  I laughed, too, though it was a little hysterical, feeling relieved and grateful that he wasn’t horrified by the idea of my hairy body.

  And also because he was funny. I’d noticed that yesterday, too. He made me laugh, if not exactly effortlessly, then at least with a lot less effort than anyone else had to expend.

  “Is it really anonymous if we’re so easily identifiable?” I asked, reaching up and tugging at his scraggly facial hair.

  Mistake! Shit. Very, very bad mistake. Because it wasn’t scraggly – not at all. It was rough, yes, but in a delicious way, a way that had me eager to feel more. I ran my fingertips along his jaw, loving the way the hair scraped against my skin.

  This was very strange to me. Daniel had never grown his facial hair. He hated the way it felt; he said it was itchy and uncomfortable, and he shaved twice a day to keep the stubble at bay, since his hair grew so fast. My dad and Sage also kept their faces clean-shaven, a habit they’d both acquired in the Army. All in all, I’d grown accustomed to smooth, hairless skin when I touched a man’s face.

  So I wasn’t really prepared for the pure, unadulterated need I felt when my skin met Graham’s almost-beard. Need that travelled from my sensitive fingertips all the way to places that hadn’t been sensitive in a long, long time. I swayed a little, mesmerized by the tantalizing novelty of it all.

  Until Graham cleared his throat and stepped back, looking uncomfortable. I blinked, still holding my hand up awkwardly.

  “So do I pass inspection?” he asked, his voice gravelly and rough. He gave me a strained smile. “Can I stay in the club?”

  I choked out a laugh, shaking my head and dropping my arm. What the fuck was that? I’d just been groping a man’s jaw. A man I didn’t really know. Granted, I had just spent the night in his bed. Although that was less a justification and more a what the fuck is wrong with you, Larkin? Going to a stranger’s house, getting drunk, and passing out literally on him?

  I’d lost my damn mind, clearly. But what else was new?

  He was looking down at me, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, like he was expecting an answer. What were we talking about again?

  Right. Hairy legs. Inappropriate groping. Sasquatch club.

  “I don’t know,” I hedged. “Do you think you could stop shaving altogether? We’re looking for dedication in our members.”

  He let out a shaky laugh. “So I need to be more Harry, less Henderson?”

  I nodded seriously. “If you could work on that for next week’s meeting, that would be perfect.”

  “I think I can do that.” He winked, and yeah, maybe I shivered. Ugh. Fucking hypnotic almost-beard.

  “Don’t forget your dues,” I reminded him.

  He made a face. “There’s dues?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Sounds like a lot of hoops to jump throu
gh.”

  “But think of all the benefits,” I cajoled. I started ticking them off on my hand. “Camaraderie. Staying warm. Saving money on razors.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “And you get to be friends with me.”

  He smiled. “Well, in that case...”

  I rubbed my hands together, chuckling evilly. “Sucker.”

  He laughed, too. “What are the dues?”

  I made a big show of thinking about it. “I need coffee.”

  That earned me a grin. “Luckily, I made some.”

  “And French toast.”

  He chuckled. “I think I can make that happen.” He nodded his head toward the bathroom. “But you’d better get a move on.”

  I shook my head as I walked over to the bathroom. “Is that any way to talk to your club president?”

  “And who says you get to be the club president?”

  “Duh,” I intoned solemnly. “You can’t be the prettiest member and the most powerful. It wouldn’t be right.”

  He gave me a thorough look, causing another shiver to race up my spine. Then he grinned at me.

  “Then you definitely can’t be the president.”

  I stopped short in the middle of the sunny sidewalk, confused. I looked all around us, sure that we were at the wrong place.

  Graham walked ahead of me, pulling the door open. “Coming?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “This is a bar,” I informed him. Because obviously he didn’t know that already, or we wouldn’t be standing here before noon on a Sunday.

  He smirked. “I know that.”

  I frowned. “I’m not actually a lush. You know that, too, right?”

  Though to be fair, I had gotten drunk off an entire bottle of wine the first time we met. Which was only two nights ago. And last night, I’d had a few beers, confessed my greatest sins, and then had a total emotional breakdown. In his lap.

  Okay, so maybe he had good reason to believe I was an alcoholic.

  But a bar? For breakfast?

  “I know.” He gave me a soft, persuasive smile. “Trust me?”

  I blinked up at him. Oddly enough, I did trust him. After that amazing dinner last night, and the impassioned speech he’d given me about the joys of cooking, I knew he wouldn’t steer me wrong. So I took a deep breath and stepped into the bar, a cute, rustic-industrial-vintage hybrid of a pub called Amity Ales.