“You’d better.”
She hung up the phone and steadied herself against the countertop. Debbie had a point. Her life had been filled with nothing but stress the last few months; maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to live a little.
So long as living doesn’t involve any promises or commitment. You’re done with that crap!
Totally done. She’d trusted her ex, had even flirted with the idea of getting hitched in the late darkness of night when she’d curled up against him. But it turned out that she hadn’t really known him at all...and he clearly hadn’t known her.
She wouldn’t put herself in a position to be ripped apart like that again. But she could still have some fun...right?
Wren drew a knife from the wooden block next to her stove and placed it on her cutting board. She didn’t have to make any decisions right now. She would be in New York for at least a month, so she could take her time. Maybe talk to Mr. 401 a little more before she made a move.
But first she had a pizza to make; she wasn’t in the habit of doing any serious thinking on an empty stomach.
* * *
RHYS GLOVER ROUNDED the last corner of his run, dodging a couple with linked arms as he pounded his feet into the pavement. He loved nothing more than getting fresh air on the weekend, be it running, biking or otherwise. He put long hours into his job—which he wouldn’t trade for anything—but it didn’t exactly make for an active or healthy lifestyle during the week.
So Saturdays and Sundays were all about getting out of the house. Getting his blood pumping and his heart racing. Getting his sweat on.
You might be able to do a few of those things indoors if you had the stones to ask Blondie on a date.
He shook his head as he slowed to a stop in front of his walk-up, detouring to collect his mail. Blondie—aka the smoking-hot fox who’d recently moved into the apartment across from him—occupied far too much of his headspace lately. But, try as he might to evict her image from his mind, the waist-length hair that shimmered like spun gold and those long limbs tempted him beyond belief. Rhys prided himself on being a man of solid self-control, but one glance at her and he was as horny as a teenager.
Chiding himself, he shoved the key into his box. A small stack of letters sat inside, mostly bills. A bright blue envelope caught his attention. It bore his stepbrother’s neat, utilitarian print and the childish scrawl of his niece. A happy face decorated one corner. They insisted on sending him a real birthday card, even when he told them he was happy with an email or phone call. A wave of jealousy ghosted through him.
It wasn’t fair to resent his stepbrother, Marc, for the perfect, happy life he’d been gifted. But it was hard not to compare. Or compete. They were the same age and had grown up together as best friends before their parents had gotten hitched. He’d always envied how easily everything came to Marc—grades, girls, sports. Everything.
And now, as adults, Marc still had the edge. He’d given their parents two grandchildren and he had a beautiful wife whom he adored. Marc often joked that he envied Rhys his bachelor lifestyle, but Rhys didn’t believe it for a second.
Rhys knew part of the reason he felt compelled to settle down was because it was the one thing Marc had over him. In their parents’ eyes, he’d achieved the dream. Happy wife, two healthy kids...and Rhys was still lagging behind, as always.
But it was hard to have a relationship when he didn’t even put himself out there. He was just too busy with work to meet people.
“You don’t even know if Blondie’s single,” he muttered to himself as he started up the stairs.
But she hadn’t looked at him the way a woman in a committed relationship would when they’d almost bumped into one another earlier.
The pink blush that had crept into her cheeks had done crazy things to him. The kind of crazy things that were not so easily concealed in a pair of running shorts.
The fourth floor was deserted, and Rhys couldn’t stop himself from glancing at number 402 as he walked up to the door of his own apartment. Maybe he should formally introduce himself? It would be the neighborly thing to do.
He glanced down at his sweat-soaked tank and shorts. It might be the neighborly thing to do, but he wasn’t exactly going to make a great impression if he knocked on her door smelling like a locker room.
Tomorrow.
Satisfied that he’d committed himself to an action, he pushed open the door to his apartment with his free hand. Toeing off his sneakers, he hung his keys on their designated hook and placed the letters into the inbox he kept on the bureau near his desk. All except the blue envelope, which he tore open as he walked into the living area.
Inside the brightly decorated, homemade card—which looked like an insane craft teacher had thrown up all over it—were messages from his stepbrother and sister-in-law, his eldest niece and a proxy message from the little one. They’d even drawn on a paw print to represent the dog.
He put the card on his entertainment unit, next to his new fancy universal remote—the birthday present he’d gifted himself since his family didn’t really get his love of technology. The card looked totally out of place in what Marc jokingly referred to as “the computer nerd’s bachelor pad.”
By the time he reached the bathroom he was itching to get out of his workout clothes. He pulled off the soaked cotton. A light ache had spread through his muscles, a sign he’d pushed himself hard today and he’d need to spend some time on the foam roller to ease out the knots.
He’d been tighter than usual the last few weeks. Stress, his trainer had said. Lack of stretching, according to the remedial masseuse. Working too hard, his buddies at the security company admonished. But he knew it wasn’t any of those things.
Dissatisfaction. A lack of purpose. He’d felt it burrowing slowly under his skin, creating an incurable itch that niggled at him in the quiet portions of his day. In the dead of night. In the dark corners of his dreams.
He shook off the troubling thought and stepped under the running water, sighing as warmth seeped into him. As he lathered up, the scent of soap filled his nostrils. Perhaps it might be a good idea to put himself out there again. After all, his life couldn’t be all work and no play.
Tomorrow.
The promise rolled around in his mind, and just like that Blondie popped back into his head, soothing all his worries away. God, she was gorgeous. Fair skin and rich golden hair, bright blue eyes. And perky breasts that seemed to often be uninhibited by a bra. This morning he’d noticed the way the pert mounds moved beneath her white tank top, the stiff little peaks of her nipples pressing forward against the fabric.
He was hard as stone just thinking about it. He wondered if those nipples would be golden like the rest of her, or would they be rosy and pink? Would she have a dusting of hair between her legs or smooth, silky skin?
He’d gone way too long without sex and now all the carnal thoughts had piled up like traffic on a highway. But a knocking sound snapped him out of the fog of arousal. He rinsed off the last of the soap suds and shut off the water. Another sharp knock rang through the apartment.
“Hang on!” he called out as he wrapped a soft gray towel around his waist, knotting it to conceal the still-raging erection he was sporting.
His wet feet skidded on the floorboards as he hurried to the door. Who on earth would be dropping by without calling first?
Grasping the knob, he pulled the door open and was greeted with the very object of his fantasies. Blondie.
There she was in all her golden glory, long hair tangling around her shoulders and spilling down her body. Eyes wide and blue and bright. It wasn’t until he saw the wad of blood-soaked tissue in her hands that he realized something was wrong.
2
“UH...HI,” HE SAID, his eyes darting down to her hands and widening.
Crap. This was really
not how Wren had imagined their first conversation would go. Especially not after Debbie had gotten the idea of having sex into her head. But he was topless, and boy, oh boy, had her dreams failed to do his body justice. His muscles had muscles of their own, and the gray towel he’d knotted at his waist hid very little. A spark of arousal flared low in her belly.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, his eyebrows crinkled.
“Oh yes. I, uh...cut myself.” A nervous laugh bubbled up in her throat but she pushed it down. No need to do anything else to convince him that she had a screw loose. “I don’t have any bandages in my house and I was wondering—”
“Of course. Come in.” He held the door and let it swing shut behind her. “Let me grab my first-aid kit.”
“Thank you.” Only then did the throbbing pain start to push through her giddy state. “I’m sorry I interrupted your shower. I should have thought to buy some bandages at the grocery store today.”
But, as usual, she’d gone without a list. Or without any idea of what she needed or wanted to buy. Wren usually let the ingredients inspire her as she shopped—allowing her to make up her dinner menu on the fly—and that meant that important purchases like bandages and antiseptic lotions were often forgotten.
He pulled a small white tin down from the top of his refrigerator and opened it up. The inside was neat and tidy, like a perfect Tetris arrangement of adulthood. Band-Aids, antiseptic wipes, burn lotion, cotton balls and gauze bandages all neatly packed in a way that made her feel slightly inadequate.
“Show me.” He held out his hand and she gingerly removed the wadded-up kitchen towel.
Blood immediately pooled in the slice along her palm, trailing along the crease in her skin and rushing toward the edge of her hand. She dabbed at it, but the paper was soaked through.
“Let’s get that hand under some running water.” He led her to the bathroom sink, her skin sparking at the comforting way he touched her arm. “You’ve done a number on yourself. Thankfully, it doesn’t look too deep. You shouldn’t need stitches.”
He held her hand under the running tap, the blood washing over her fingers and staining the water pink before it swirled down the drain. In the confines of the small room—which mirrored her own except for the simple gray shower curtain that hung in place of her own chaotic rainbow version—he was incredibly close. The scent of soap on his skin filled her nostrils and made her giddy.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he pulled her hand out from under the water to inspect the cut. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”
“No.” She shook her head. Thankfully, she could blame the wooziness on the blood—although the truth was it didn’t bother her in the slightest. She’d never been the squeamish sort. “I’m fine.”
Mr. 401 disappeared for a moment and returned with the necessary first-aid items. Within moments, she was patched up and almost as good as new.
“Thank you so much, uh...”
“Rhys.” He stuck out his hand and she shook it as best she could with her injury.
“Rhys,” she repeated, weighing the name in her mouth. It suited him—strong, masculine. Direct. “I’m Wren.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Wren.”
She inspected the expertly applied bandage. “You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”
“I do a little downhill mountain biking. Cuts and scrapes come with the territory.” When he smiled Wren felt like she was staring directly into the sun.
“Well. I’m very grateful you’re so prepared.”
“You make me sound like a Boy Scout.” His honey-brown eyes twinkled.
Judging by the way her mouth had run dry and her heart galloped in her chest, Boy Scout was the last thing she would compare him to. Man Scout wasn’t a thing...was it?
“That doesn’t seem to fit you,” she said, shocking herself with the flirty tone that came out of her mouth. God, if she didn’t watch herself she’d be twirling her hair around her finger and batting her eyelashes like some giddy schoolgirl.
Get a grip, Livingston. He’s just a man...a hunky, incredibly well-defined, thrilling man.
He chuckled, the low sound rumbling deep as thunder. It made her skin tingle. “What gives you that impression?”
“Boy Scouts don’t usually have six-packs, do they?” Her tongue darted out involuntarily to moisten her lips.
What alien had taken over her body?
He didn’t seem in the least bit self-conscious of his near-naked state. Wren, on the other hand, might as well have been in her birthday suit for how exposed she felt. Funny, since the naked form appeared often in her artwork...but this didn’t compare with brushstrokes on a canvas. He was far too real, far too alight with sexual energy.
His eyes swept over her with a languid slowness, smoothing over her hips and breasts and hair. “No, I guess they don’t.”
“Can I offer you some dinner?” she blurted out. “I was making pizza when I cut myself and I’d like to thank you for coming to the rescue.”
“There’s no need to thank me. That’s what neighbors are for, right?”
At that moment she kind of hoped neighbors were for wild, hot, no-strings sex. “Please. I’m new and I’d love to have a friend in the building.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” He grinned and Wren was quite sure her panties were about to melt into a puddle at her feet. “I’d love to. Give me a few minutes to change and I’ll come over.”
“I’ll see you when you’re ready.” She returned his smile and headed back toward the front door, forcing herself not to bounce up and down with pent-up excitement.
It’s just a dinner, you goof. A friendly, neighborly meal between two adults. It doesn’t have to lead to orgasms.
But the throbbing between her legs would mark her a liar if she said she wasn’t already fantasizing about it. Rhys showed her out, his broad shoulders blocking the door frame as he waited for her to make it back inside her apartment. She risked a glance behind her as she stepped inside and he was still there, the heat in his gaze unmistakable.
A tremor ran through her, excitement and fear mixing in a strange, delicious medley of emotion. The fact that her body was reacting so strongly was a good sign. After what had happened in her hometown, the very thought of sex or nakedness had filled her with guilt and shame.
But now her blood was pumping through her veins hard and fast, her heart fluttering with anticipation. Tonight, she was going to shake off the past and have a little fun.
* * *
RHYS CONSIDERED HIMSELF a logical guy. Computers were his world and binary made him feel comfortable. Even the one-two pound of running appealed to his logical side. But right now a little part of him was enjoying the thrill of a situation outside his control.
And things could go wrong if he slept with Wren and it didn’t work out. They’d have to face each other in the hallway each day, making politely awkward small talk. There’d be guaranteed cringe-worthy moments if either one of them ever brought a date home and the other happened to see. The old Italian lady in 403 was also a huge gossip. Plus, there was a possibility that they wouldn’t be compatible in the bedroom.
“Who are you kidding, man?” he muttered to himself as he whipped off his towel and proceeded to get dressed. “There’s no way you have chemistry like that without it transferring to the bedroom.”
And, if his still-aching erection was anything to go on, his body wholeheartedly agreed. Besides, the only way he’d ever have the chance of finding the right woman was if he actually went on dates. And dinner counted as a date...didn’t it?
He pulled a fresh T-shirt over his head and fished out a pair of black boxer briefs from his bedside drawer. By the time he’d added jeans and sneakers to the mix, he’d also decided to take a bottle of wine with him.
When he knocked on
her door, a thrill ran through him at the thought of seeing her again. Reality didn’t disappoint. She opened the door with a flourish and a tinkling laugh. Long blond waves tumbled over one shoulder, and she’d thrown an apron over her white tank and floor-length flowy skirt.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said, gesturing with a pair of tongs like a grand magician. “It’s a little sparse at the moment. But I can assure you my pizza will make up for it.”
“I have no doubt.” He stepped in and took in the surroundings, placing the wine down on the kitchen counter as she grabbed two glasses.
She hadn’t been kidding about it being sparse. Other than a small table with two chairs, a battered couch and an overturned cardboard box acting as a coffee table, the room was empty. He’d expected to at least see boxes with her belongings dotted around, but there wasn’t a single one in sight.
“It’s very...minimalist,” Wren said. She poured the wine and handed him a glass, holding her own out so they could clink them together.
The wine was good, not too sweet and not too dry. The flavor danced on his tongue, and he wondered what it would taste like on her lips. Her tongue. The fantasy rushed up, tracking along his muscles until his whole body felt coiled and tight.
This is what happens when you leave it too long between drinks.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying,” she said. “So I didn’t want to waste money on getting lots of furniture.”
Disappointment stabbed at him, but he brushed the feeling aside. There was no sense worrying about the future of their relationship when they hadn’t even had one meal together. “Not sure if you’re a fan of New York yet?”
“It’s more that I’m not a fan of long-term decisions.”
He cleared his throat. “Where did you move from?”
“Somewhere you’ve probably never heard of.” She stuck the tongs in a large silver bowl filled with a colorful salad. “I’m a small-town girl.”
“Living in a lonely world?” he quipped.
A Dangerously Sexy Secret Page 2
