by K. Bromberg
That’s why I startle when Rush comes strolling into our bathroom while I’m mid-brushing my teeth.
“Get dressed,” he says, his grin wide and mischievous.
“That was the plan,” I say around my toothbrush.
“No. I mean, get dressed, I have somewhere I want to take you.” I glance his way in the mirror to his boardshorts and plain black T-shirt.
“Where?”
“That’s the best part. Nowhere in particular.”
“What?” I ask as he backs out of the bathroom.
“Ten minutes, Nox. Better get that fine arse of yours moving.”
Fifteen minutes after hearing a horn honking from the driveway, I stroll out the front door, purse under my arm with my bikini inside, since he had board shorts on, and stop to a halt. There’s Rush sitting behind the wheel of a bright red, convertible Mustang, engine revving, grin as wide as can be.
“What are you . . .” My words fade off and I laugh as I lift my phone to take a picture of him. Right now, it’s the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. Smile wide, eyes alive, and so excited. “You sure you can drive that thing? I mean, aren’t you on the wrong side of the road?” I tease.
“I’m skilled. You can vouch for that.”
This man does things to my insides. “You’re getting your wish. To drive a classic American car.”
“I am.” He stretches across the car and opens the door. “Hop in. Come for a ride with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Wherever we want.”
And we do. Rush navigates through the endless traffic of Los Angeles’ freeways out to the Pacific Coast Highway until we’re traveling north. The congestion of the city makes way to the winding road that follows the coast. The ocean is sparkling to our left as we fly with the sun on our faces, the wind in our hair, and with Rush’s hand on my thigh.
It feels like freedom after being confined in a sense to Johnny’s house for so many weeks with only the contract with MLS, my work, and his training as part of our everyday routine.
There’s even something liberating sitting beside Rush and not being able to talk. The wind whipping around us as we drive simply allows us to enjoy each other and not feel forced to fill the time with nonstop talk.
I’m not sure how much time passes before we exit the freeway in the outskirts of Santa Barbara County. I glance over to Rush and notice for the first time that he’s watching the GPS on the dash. I never realized there was an address input into it.
The street we pull down is lined with trees and the brine of the sea is in the air. Our eyes meet briefly before he looks at the addresses of the houses to our left and although it’s a second, I know he’s up to something.
But I don’t say a word.
I wait for him to pull up to the gate, punch in a code that has it swinging open, and then turn the engine off once we’ve driven through.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” I ask when he just looks at me with a mischievous grin.
“A little R&R.”
“R&R?” I laugh. “What are you talking about?”
“This is ours for the next two days,” he says nonchalantly as he climbs out of the car and rounds the hood to where I’m staring at him with surprise on my face.
“What do you mean for the next two days?” I stare up at him to where he’s standing with the door open.
“You told me you didn’t want anyone to know that we’re doing whatever it is we’re doing . . . so, now,” he says and waves his hand around us, “no one will know. We have a private beach, a secluded house away from everyone—”
“And no food or clothes or toiletries or so many things.” I laugh the words out, stunned at this gesture.
“The fridge is fully stocked as per my request to the owner, and who needs clothes? We have a private pool, and I’m sure there are those fluffy white robes if you want them. Toiletries were also on my request list. Remember I share a bathroom with you so I know what you like, and when it comes to the so many things part—”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Johnny deserves to have his house back to himself for a few days,” he says as he takes my hands and pulls me up and into him. “And, darling, I really want you alone for a few days so I don’t have to worry about getting caught every time we have our horrible, unsatisfying sex.”
“It is terrible sex, isn’t it?” I ask and savor the tender kiss he places on my lips.
“Dreadful.” Another kiss. “You come. Then you come again. Then I come. It’s completely unsatisfying.”
“I’m glad you have this all planned.” That, of course, is a gross understatement. I’m astounded. To think that this man thinks he’s a bastard. Selfish. A hard client to deal with. Well, aren’t all clients? They should be since it’s their life they are advocating for. But the rest? No. He’s nothing like the man people think he is.
Like I said to him the other day, I think it’s the façade he wants people to see. And yet, he’s selflessly brought me away. For R&R. No one has ever done something like this for me. And I’m shocked. In awe.
“This is the part where you tell me how incredible I am, I repay you with some wine and cheese, and then later some dessert with my tongue buried between your legs.”
“Oh.”
Well, no woman is going to complain about that, now is she?
“Exactly. Any more thoughts on the matter?” he asks.
“I think we should go inside and practice our horrible sex.”
“Practice does make perfect,” he murmurs before we laugh and go explore our new place. “Or in our case, it makes it perfectly horrible.”
RUSH
“I’M STILL IN SHOCK YOU did this.” Lennox looks at me from across the deck. She has my T-shirt on and nothing else, its dark color accentuating the tan on her very long legs. Ones that I’ve been between the better part of the afternoon, and I’m definitely not complaining about that. The breeze is blowing through her hair and the sun is at her back as she takes a sip of wine.
She’s a sight to behold and for the first time since I’ve been in the States, there’s something—or rather someone—who might make me sad to leave and go back home.
“We both deserved a break.”
“I think poor Johnny deserved a break from us too.”
“I think he’s going to disinfect the entire house while we’re gone.” I laugh and grab a cracker and slice of cheese from the table beside me.
“Nothing could ruin my good mood today,” she murmurs and twirls around, some of the wine sloshing over the top of her glass. “Oopsie.” Her giggle floats across the patio, making me smile, and I realize she’s a bit tipsy. “Party foul.”
“It happens to the best of us.” God, she’s bloody gorgeous. I pat the spot beside me on the chaise lounge. “Come sit with me.”
She eyes me coyly, her smile carefree. “I thought I wore you out.”
“To sit, Nox.” God knows she did wear me out earlier. “Just to sit and watch the sunset.”
“In that case then,” she says and skips over before plopping down and snuggling into me. “Perfect. This is absolutely perfect.”
“It is,” I say and press a kiss to the top of her head as I pull her in tighter.
Business-savvy Lennox is sexy. Bedroom-vixen Lennox is every bloke’s dream. But tipsy Lennox is equal parts adorable and amusing, which makes me want to lean forward and kiss her senseless.
“I needed this,” I murmur against the top of her head. “Somewhere to go without people knowing or watching or wanting something from me. You have no idea how much I needed this.”
How much I needed you.
The thought takes a second to register and when it does, I push it as far away as possible, because I don’t need anything. Or rather, I don’t need anyone.
I did once.
And after she died, I vowed I’d never let myself need anyone again.
We sit in silence as the waves c
rash onto the shore and the sun dips slowly toward the ocean.
“You gave me the sunset,” she murmurs almost dreamily out of nowhere. “No one’s ever given me a sunset before.”
“That’s ridiculous. Surely—”
“Shh,” she says and presses her lips to mine. “Let’s enjoy it.”
She lays her head back on my chest.
No one’s ever given me a sunset before.
I’m not sure why that one comment hits me so hard, because Lennox Kincade deserves more than just sunsets. She deserves sunsets and sunrises and everything in between.
And as if on cue, her phone rings a distinct tone that has her scowling. “Except for that. Go away, Dekker,” she grumbles.
“I don’t mind if you get it.”
“Well, I do,” she says with a huff before walking over to where her handbag is, carrying it back to where we sit, and then unceremoniously dumping the contents of it onto the chaise beside us. The contents she fumbles through makes me laugh: a purse, a makeup bag, a baseball with signatures all over it—which I’m sure has some value but instead is just thrown in there like most women would a scrunchie. Oh, and there are a few of those too, along with business cards and pens, but it’s when I see her toss a mobile phone to the side before picking up a second one that I laugh.
“Two mobile phones? Are you that important you need two?” I laugh.
“It’s a long story,” she mutters and waves a hand my way as one of the mobiles rings again. “There!” She pushed the button on its side with a dramatic flair and then the ringing stops immediately. “Problem solved. Interruption handled.”
She looks up at me with the biggest, cheesiest grin before she resumes her position cuddled to my side.
“Is there a particular reason you’re not talking to your sister?” I ask.
She snorts. “Lots of reasons.”
“Like?”
She shakes her head, and even though I can’t see her eyes, I swear she’s rolling them. “Because they always seem to be perfect and I always seem to be . . . me.”
“And what exactly is that? Gorgeous. Intelligent. Feisty. No nonsense. Sexy. Fun.”
“But why did you lead off with gorgeous?” she asks with a bite to her tone.
Warning bells sound in my head. “I wasn’t aware it was a crime to tell you that you’re gorgeous. Especially when you’re sitting like that,” I say motioning to her leg draped over mine, my shirt hitched all the way to her hip, those inquisitive eyes irritated, and her lips pouting at me. “I assure you it wasn’t meant as an insult. Quite the opposite, actually.” Her sigh in response is heavy. “You want to explain what me calling you gorgeous has to do with why you won’t pick up the call from your sister?”
“It’s complicated.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “You’re talking to me, remember? King of complicated as of late.”
“Working with your family is complicated.”
“I can imagine. I bet there are some fun fights there.”
“Between four sisters?” She snorts.
“Do you like what you do? Does it make you happy?”
“Yeah.” She says the words, but there’s something that glances through her eyes that tells me otherwise. Perhaps it’s the same something I’ve caught in snippets when I’ve walked in and she’s having a conversation with one of her sisters. There’s snark to her tone. Almost a combination of hurt and irritation that she plays off the minute she notices I see it.
Just like she did right now.
“That doesn’t sound too convincing.”
Her smile softens. “When you’re one of five in a family business, sometimes it gets a bit crowded. Opinions. Dibs on clients. Everything.” She chuckles but that spark is still missing. “But yes, I’m happy.”
I twist my lips and nod. “I can imagine that at times it feels like you’ve lost your identity in a sense. You’re one of “the Kincades” rather than Lennox Kincade.”
“I’m sure psychologists would say it’s classic middle-child syndrome,” she murmurs and then rests her head back against my chest, this time lacing her fingers with mine.
“I’d say it’s more that you feel you’ve become part of the scenery at KSM. Camouflage if you will.”
“Camouflage?” She laughs the word out.
“Yeah. In a sense. You all fit into this puzzle that works and fits in all the right places, but every once in a while, you want to be an edge piece versus the middle piece. Every once in a while, you want to wear the crown and step into the limelight instead of being part of the court standing in the background.” I squeeze her hands. “You’ve lost your crown.”
She laughs. “That sounds ridiculous. You know that, right?”
“It might, but it also hits you because it rings true.”
“Rush.”
“It’s the same for me. I love playing football. It’s my passion, my life. The best part about it? I’m part of a team. I can blend in. I can support them. But I also love being selfish sometimes. Taking the ball down the field and doing it for myself. Hogging all the glory and owning it rightfully. There’s no better feeling than that moment when the ball hits the back corner of the net and the crowd goes bloody wild.”
“You never blend in on the field, Rush. You stand out every time you touch the ball.”
“Just like you do.”
“What?” she asks with disbelief. “You’re crazy.” But when she looks up at me with tears filling her eyes, I can tell what I’ve said means something to her.
“It’s okay to want the crowd to go wild. It’s okay to break away every once in a while, and be selfish. There’s no shame in it. Your work at KSM is yours, but not. Make it yours. Find what you need when you need it to make the crowd go wild. Until you do, darling, you’ll never be happy.”
She looks up at me and for the first time since this conversation, her smile rings true. “Who knew Rush McKenzie was a secret philosopher?”
“Hardly.”
She leans up and presses a kiss against my lips and tugs on parts of me that typically lie dormant. “You’ve given me more than you think, Professor McKenzie. I used to be in the spotlight, on the stage. Taking the limelight. I know the allure. Not sure I want that anymore.” That last bit is but a whisper. “Where was I? Oh, I know.” She giggles. God, she’s fucking cute. “You’ve given me several orgasms, copious amounts of wine . . . and an escape. And now kind words that I needed to hear.”
“And I’ve given you the sunset.”
“Yes. You have,” she says and runs her fingers up and down my stomach absently.
And we stay like this until the sun dips and the colors stop dancing across the sky to make way for the stars.
LENNOX
THE COOL MORNING AIR BLOWS in off the ocean. It’s that grayish time of the morning where the sea and the sky look like they’re one color, and there is no way to tell where one ends and the other begins.
I’m sitting up in an amazing expanse of bed with the comforter pooled around my waist in this luxurious beach house that Rush has rented, and I’m not sure why I feel so unsettled. I should be asleep, I should be snuggled up beside him, and when I turn to look at him over my shoulder and study him, I know exactly why I feel unsettled.
It’s him.
It’s Rush.
The sight of him makes my pulse quicken and stomach flutter. That happened when we first met, but this is different. That’s supposed to fade—hell, it typically dissipates after the first date for me most times—but with him, it just keeps growing more intense.
Have I slept in the same bed with men before? Of course, I have. Have I wanted to? Not really. I don’t like cuddling or the small talk. I’m not a fan of feeling forced to be something I’m not—the grateful girl because the guy picked her.
That’s bullshit.
They should be the grateful ones . . . and yet when I look at Rush, I feel grateful. I feel . . . things.
Things I don’t know how to p
rocess, nor do I really want to, because they’re not something that can be on my radar.
And yet when I look back out at the ocean, I can’t help but feel . . . relaxed. Appreciated. Wanted. Heard. It’s the oddest combination of things and yet what I needed all the same.
“Hey.” Rush’s sleep-drugged voice fills the room the same time he rests his hand on my lower back.
“Good morning,” I murmur as I turn to look at him over my shoulder. There are pillow creases on his face and his scruff is darker than normal, but it’s his eyes—the crinkles at their corners, the clarity in them for just waking up—that hold me rapt. “Sleep good?”
“The best.”
“What’re you doing? It’s early.”
“Just enjoying the peace. It’s not often I get to sit and just be.”
“I understand that.”
I turn back to the surf and its crash coming in through the French doors we left open from our second-story bedroom. “So did your American car live up to the hype?”
“It did. There’s nothing like a fine piece of Americana planted firmly between your legs.”
“I’m thinking I should be offended by that comment.” I turn to him and lift a brow, and it’s met with a devilish grin.
“Not in the least, darling,” he says and then falls silent as his fingertips dance over the dimples in the small of my back. “It is stunning, isn’t it?” He adjusts the pillow beneath his head so he can sit up higher and enjoy the view. “Sunrises are my favorite.”
I go to speak and then close my lips as last night comes back to me. No one has ever given me sunsets before. Oh my God. Did I really say that? Did I really sound like a sappy Hallmark card while under the influence of wine, sex, and chocolate?
I cringe and hope maybe Rush was under the same influence, but know damn well he wasn’t. Instead, he gave me a speech about crowds and crowns that struck so many chords in me that I even had a ridiculous dream about riding some stupid chariot in the middle of a stadium where the crowd cheered when I lifted my crown.
Yes, Rush is messing with my head.
The question is, what am I going to do about it, because whether I want to admit to it or not, I’m okay with it. The panic and sudden arm’s length I hold men to when they get too clingy hasn’t happened yet.
