by Hope Ramsay
Restlessness consumed him. He popped up from the sofa and paced the length of his living room a few times before he threw open the French doors and stepped onto his balcony. The midsummer sun had finally set, leaving the world in twilight.
Dammit. He wanted to cross the divide between them. He wanted to feel Courtney in his arms and sink himself into her body. He also wanted to talk to her and share things with her. He wanted her to trust him. And he wanted to trust her.
But none of that would ever happen if he stood here waiting for it. In fact, nothing in his life was going to happen if all he ever did was wait around for it.
Chapter Fifteen
Courtney should have stopped after her second Manhattan. If she had, her walk home would have been less harrowing. She could have floated along on a buzz instead of stumbling a tiny bit.
And she would have been better prepared for what awaited her at home in the form of the ridiculously handsome Matt Lyndon lounging on his balcony with a long-necked beer in his hand.
If she’d been sober, she could have ignored him or even pretended that she didn’t see him. But no. Her brain was semi-pickled, and so she stood there looking up at him and said, “Hi,” and then giggled like an idiot.
He leaned on the railing. “You’ve been drinking,” he said, his eyebrow doing its thing.
She stumbled slightly because looking up messed with her balance. “Did you take lessons?”
His mouth tipped into a smile. “I took a lot of lessons. Which ones are you talking about?”
“The one where you learned how to do that thing with your eyebrow.”
He chuckled. “No. Everyone in the family does that. You should see my father. It’s very intimidating.”
She nodded. “I’m going up now. Have a nice night.” There. She’d been adult. Polite. Now all she had to do was make it to her apartment in one piece.
She dug in her shoulder bag, searching for the key that would open the building’s outer door. Damn. Her keys were in here somewhere. She shook her purse, satisfied by the metallic jingle. She stumbled sideways a little. Damn, it was dark out here.
She squatted down and rested her purse on the pavement as she dug deeper. She almost fell over on her ass. This was not going well.
The apartment building’s door opened. Thank God it was Matt and not Alyssa Riley, the ground-floor tenant.
No, wait. Something was wrong with that thought. Maybe it would have been better if Alyssa had come to her rescue.
Matt stepped onto the sidewalk looking delish in a golf shirt and jeans. He offered his hand. “Here, let me help.”
She stared at his hand for a long moment, trying to decide what to do next. He had beautiful hands, square fingered, broad palmed. Beautiful, talented hands that knew precisely where to touch, where to stroke. A little inarticulate sound escaped her throat.
“Come on. I’ll walk you up,” he said in that deep voice of his.
“Will you quote poetry?” A warm, intense yearning coursed through her.
“Come on, Courtney. It’s time to go up.”
He sounded so stern, and maybe a little disappointed. She was an idiot. He probably saved his poetry for the women he seduced. She turned back toward her purse, digging deep, and the keys finally made their way into her hand.
She pushed up from the sidewalk, ignoring his hand, and would have been fine if she hadn’t stumbled again. Matt was right there, putting his talented hands on her shoulders.
She looked up at him then, the streetlamp sparking in his espresso eyes. She leaned in, overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him.
But he kept her at bay. He shook his head. “Not like this,” he said.
Damn. She was making an idiot of herself, but just as she decided to pull away from him, he started reciting in that deep, incredible voice.
“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:”
So instead of pulling away, she leaned a little closer. “Have I ever told you that your hair is vaguely Byronic?” she asked on a ridiculous sigh.
He barked a laugh. “No. But I’m impressed that you recognized Lord Byron. I didn’t think of you as a romantic, Courtney.”
“Bull. You know I’m a romantic. I’m just a jaded one.” She really should get the hell out of his arms. “I bet you quote that poem to all the girls.”
“No.” He shook his head, and for some reason, the light in his eyes grew sharper or something. She wanted to believe him.
“I think of that poem every time I see you.”
“Really?” She was melting in his arms when she should be freezing him out and running like hell.
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and Courtney’s body caught fire. “Really. You have such dark hair and such bright blue eyes.” He cupped her jaw and ran his thumb over her cheek. “I love your eyes. They always make me wonder about what’s going on inside that head of yours.”
Damn, damn, damn. She couldn’t resist. Even if she’d been sober, she would have succumbed. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, another groan escaping from her.
“Come on,” he said in an entirely different tone of voice. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
He took her keys and guided her through the door and up the stairs. He even unlocked her front door for her. And right there the fantasy unraveled. Aramis sat inside the doorway and gave out the feline equivalent of a lovesick howl the moment Matt crossed her threshold.
“Doom, bro, wazzup?” Matt let Courtney go and scooped the kitten into his arms. Damn. Damn. Damn.
She almost accused him of loving the cat more than he loved her, which, on reflection, was the absolute truth, since Matt Lyndon was not the kind of guy who did relationships. Except with cats. And she, on the other hand, sucked at being a spinster cat lady.
Her love triangle could be summed up this way: He loved her cat, she loved him, and the cat was a turncoat. It was enough to make anyone cry. Especially if the person had overindulged in alcohol. Tears overflowed her eyes, and Courtney wasn’t able to stop them. The sudden glimpse of a life lived utterly alone flashed through her brain, and it was more than she could bear. The sob she tried to hold back overwhelmed her, and she fled, utterly humiliated, into the bathroom.
She locked herself in right before she tossed every single one of her cookies.
“Go away,” Courtney said through the locked bathroom door.
Matt sat down on the floor outside the bathroom, settled his back against the wall, and let Doom circle his lap looking for a nice, comfy spot. “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t leave you locked in the bathroom. It goes against my moral code.”
“This is my apartment. Please leave.”
Matt took Courtney’s annoyed tone as a positive sign. He was also glad that she’d stopped coughing and gagging. If that had gone on much longer, he would have broken down the door. As it was, he had to hold himself back. Sometimes a woman needed privacy, but he had never abandoned a woman in distress. He was happy to give Courtney all the privacy she wanted, so long as he could make sure she was all right in the end.
He and Doom settled in, prepared for a long wait.
After five minutes she said, “Are you still there?”
He said nothing. Telling her the truth would only prolong the situation. She was moving around in the bathroom, washing her face, brushing her teeth. When the noises faded, she said, “I know you’re still out there. I can hear you breathing.”
He kept silent, and another few minutes passed.
“Go away.”
Doom, being a young cat with little patience, took matters into his own paws. The cat stood up, gave a sinewy stretch, and then pussyfooted out of Matt’s lap. He sat in front of the bathroom door looking up at the knob and meowed.
“Aramis?”
The cat meowed again and scratched at the door.
&n
bsp; “Has he gone, Aramis?”
Matt found this both adorable and amusing even if he hated the name Aramis.
The cat meowed again, right on cue. Matt was going to have to find some way to get this cat back. Doom had a bright future ahead of him…as a therapy cat.
When the doorknob rattled, Matt scrambled to his feet and took a step to his left so Courtney wouldn’t see him immediately. The door swung open.
“You stayed,” she said to the cat, bending down to scoop him up. “I was so sure he’d seduce you into leaving me. And then I’d be all alone.” Her voice wavered at the very end.
Damn. She was still drunk and upset. Evidently about the cat.
He peeked around the door, but not before securing it in order to head off any retreats. She looked beautiful even with a swollen red nose and mascara rimming her puffy eyes. “I would never seduce your cat,” he said in a soft tone. “In fact, I’ve been taking good care of Ghul over at my place. You’re the one who abandoned him and absconded with Doom.”
“I did not. You seduced him, and I simply brought him back home.” She sniffled, and her lips trembled. “But he still misses you,” she said.
“Does he?”
She nodded. “He sometimes stands at the front door and meows, like he wants to go visit you.”
“He can come over anytime,” Matt said, releasing the door and taking a step toward her.
“I guess we’ll have to arrange a playdate for him.” She looked down at the cat, refusing to meet Matt’s gaze.
“You can come over too.”
She frowned. “Not a good idea.”
He put his finger under her chin and lifted it so he could stare down into her incredible eyes, which were still brimming with tears. “Why not?”
She blinked, and one of the tears escaped. He brushed it away. “Because…” Her shaky voice trailed off, and her lips trembled.
He didn’t press her for an answer. “Come on, it’s time for bed.”
She blinked again. “Are you going to take advantage of me?”
He snorted a laugh. “I don’t do that sort of thing. I was thinking more about making sure you’re tucked in nice and safe, with a couple of aspirin for the headache you’re going to have tomorrow.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “That’s a little disappointing.”
“You want me to take advantage?”
She shrugged. “Does that make me desperate?”
He shook his head. “No. But you might hate yourself in the morning.”
“I wouldn’t.” She took a tiny step in his direction and leaned her head on his shoulder. Doom snuggled down between them and started to purr.
Matt couldn’t just stand there, could he? No. So he put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her a little closer, tucking her head under his chin. He buried his nose in her hair, drinking in the scent of wildflowers and whiskey. He wanted her.
“I need to tell you a story,” he said, speaking the words against her temple.
“Is this going to be like a bedtime story?”
He chuckled. “You have a one-track mind, don’t you?”
She looked up at him. “And you don’t?” The frown she gave him was nothing short of adorable.
“Get this straight. I’m happy to tell you bedtime stories. In fact, I need to tell you this particular story. But no sex. Not tonight. You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Damn. And here I thought you were a scoundrel.”
Doom decided he’d had enough of his people. He launched himself out of Courtney’s hands and then scampered away in the general direction of his food bowl. The cat’s exit gave Matt a chance to move Courtney toward her bedroom.
He’d never been in her bedroom before, and he’d expected a wedding planner to have something lacy and frilly and pink. But Courtney’s bedroom was none of those things. It looked like something out of a magazine captioned with the words BEDROOM OASIS. It was contemporary and done in various shades of calming gray. Damn.
Had she hired an interior decorator? Or did she have mad skills? Maybe he could ask her for a few tips on how to make his apartment look this nice. Maybe if she helped him, he could reassure Mom that he was going to be fine.
He guided her to the bed. “You want your bedtime story now, or do you want to put on a nightie or something?”
She fluffed the pillow before hopping into bed and leaning back. “It depends. Are you going to watch me put on my nightie?”
“Maybe I should just tell you the story.”
She patted the bed beside her. “Climb in. Make yourself comfy.”
Dangerous territory. But hadn’t he decided that he was tired of waiting around? So he accepted her invitation—with only the best of intentions. The mattress was soft and comfortable, like the woman and the room. He leaned back on a pillow. “Are you ready?”
She looked up at him with her tear-ravaged face. “Is this going to be a sad story? I don’t think I could do sad tonight.”
“Like all stories, it has its ups and downs.”
“Okay.” She snuggled back into her pillow. “You may begin.” She closed her eyes.
She would probably be asleep in thirty seconds. So maybe it wasn’t the best moment to bare his soul. But he’d crossed the bridge and it was time to set fire to it.
“Once upon a time,” he began, “when I was fourteen and a freshman in high school, I weighed about one hundred and fifty pounds, but I was only five foot three.”
“So it’s true. Wow,” she murmured, but didn’t open her eyes.
“Wait a sec. Did someone tell you that I was short and fat in high school?”
She nodded. “Yeah. She said you were dorky.”
“She? Who?”
“Allison Chapman,” Courtney murmured on a long, sleepy breath.
The name was like a prizefighter’s punch to the gut. It took a moment before he could collect his breath. “What did she say about me?” he finally asked, his pulse suddenly racing.
But Courtney didn’t answer; she’d fallen fast asleep.
Courtney startled awake. Something was different. She rose on one elbow, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she checked the digital clock on her bedside table. It was 2:30 a.m., she was fully clothed, and someone was hogging her blanket.
She sat up, her eyes as gritty as sandpaper. A gibbous moon spilled a ghostly, silver light through the French doors and revealed the blanket thief. Matt sprawled on the other side of the bed, also fully clothed but sleeping on top of the bedspread, pinning it down.
He looked peaceful in sleep, and so incredibly handsome. Like a Michelangelo statue, with the moonlight turning his skin to pale marble. But he was warmer than stone. And it seemed almost miraculous that he was here, in her bed.
Memories of the evening’s events spilled through her mind. Heat crawled up her cheeks. She’d lost it last night and in so many ways: her cookies, her dignity, her cool, and her mind. Why was he still here? Hook-up Artists always ran from drama. And hadn’t she been the quintessential drama queen last night?
And now what? She’d fallen asleep on his story. Damn. He’d been talking about his dorky past—also unusual for a Hook-up Artist. In fact, staring down at his gorgeous face and killer body, Courtney could only conclude that she’d been wrong about Matthew Lyndon.
He was not a Hook-up Artist. She ran through her list of man types, jettisoning each one as she tried to apply it to the man snoring softly in her bed. He wasn’t a Man Baby, or a Nice Guy Not, or a Space Invader. He wasn’t Clueless. He’d never belittled or shamed her. He wasn’t Too Selfless to Be True, and while he did work hard, he didn’t strike her as a Workaholic. And finally he was not an Ogler. The few times she’d been out with him, he’d never once even looked at another woman. In fact, Matt had a way of focusing in on her that made her feel special and beautiful and wanted.
Last night, he’d even tried to talk about something deeply emotional. Something that had probably scarred him early. As a high school ugly du
ckling herself, she could totally understand the pain of being fourteen and overweight. Negative body images were hard to overcome, and any man willing to open himself up to talk about those painful times simply couldn’t be Emotionally Unavailable.
So the question was: If he wasn’t any of the standard man types, then what the hell was he?
An emotion, tender and warm, spilled through her. A woman needed to be careful, but a woman also needed to see the truth when it knocked on her door. Matt was a man worth risking everything for.
She leaned over him and brushed his hair back from his brow before placing a small, heartfelt kiss on his forehead. He voiced a sweet, inarticulate noise that arrowed through Courtney. She truly wanted this man, on any terms.
She pressed against his chest and continued her assault on his face, linking tiny kisses from his temple down across his cheeks and jaw to the sweet spot under his earlobe. He responded by snaking his arms around her waist and giving her a small upward flex of his hips.
Yes. That was more like it. Fully clothed or not, there was no mistaking the fact that Matt was waking up, and with consciousness came that coiled male energy that had always turned Courtney on. He flexed his hips again while his hand ran across her butt in a sleepy exploration, right before he pulled her a little closer.
This time Courtney let go of a deep, throaty noise as Matt’s hands worked their magic. He echoed her then, with a gruff noise halfway between a purr and a growl, which told her he had awakened. She scrambled up onto his body, settling more firmly against him.
She took heart and courage from the fact that he didn’t stop her from exploring his neck with her mouth and tongue and teeth. Maybe he was too sleepy. Or maybe, like her, he’d gotten tired of waiting for this. Whatever the reason, her first tentative touches and kisses morphed into something more carnal, involving arms and legs and hands and hampered by clothing.
“I need to feel you,” she finally said, frustrated by his clothes. She sat up, straddling his hips. She looked long and deep into his eyes, which managed to twinkle even in the fading rays of moonlight. She unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans.
