by Lauren Layne
Sophie gave a rueful smile. “And here I’ve gone disturbing your peace. As usual.”
“As usual,” he agreed.
Sophie couldn’t help the wince. At what point would his rejection stop stinging?
She turned to go, leaving him to his dark solitude, but he grabbed her hand. “Don’t.”
He stared down at their joined hands for several moments before very slowly lacing his fingers with hers. It was one of the sweeter and strangely most erotic sensations of her life. Holding hands wasn’t supposed to be sexy.
But holding hands with Gray was.
She didn’t know how long they stood there, two mismatched souls holding hands in the moonlight, but she didn’t want it to end.
“Gray,” she whispered, still not looking at him. “I—”
“Don’t, Sophie,” he said, giving her fingers a squeeze.
It was hardly the first time that Gray had silenced her, but she was getting damn tired of it. For once she hadn’t been about to pry or pester or annoy him. She’d just wanted to talk. Hear his voice. And he denied her even that.
She peeled her fingers away from his and walked out of the conference room, back to her desk. Her eyes were watering as she picked up her purse and began stuffing her belongings into it.
So the man wanted quiet? She’d give him that. He wanted solitude? He could have that too.
In fact, he could pretty much have those things the rest of his life, because no woman in her right mind would—
A firm hand jerked her around so roughly that her purse fell to the ground. Sophie’s eyes went wide as she stared up into his angry face. This was a Gray she hadn’t seen before. There was none of the earlier gentleness, and the soft look in his eyes had been replaced by something hot and fierce.
His mouth was on hers before she could move.
She stiffened for the briefest of seconds before relaxing into him. Sophie heard herself gasp at the unexpected rightness of it. She’d thought about this moment. Dreamt about it. She’d expected it to feel wrong.
But there was nothing wrong about the mouth moving slowly over hers, his lips taking hers in quiet demand. She tentatively kissed him back, and when his hands slid up her arms to cup her face, she slid hers around his waist, pulling him even closer. Their bodies fit together like the last pieces of an impossible puzzle.
Gray groaned, using his lips to coax open her mouth and slide his tongue against hers in silky rhythm. There was nothing slow and gentle about the kiss now, and she clawed at his back and kissed him like he was the last man alive.
Her hands moved to the buttons of her shirt, but she only had half of them undone before she realized that he was one step ahead of her. Her blouse was fully unbuttoned, and he was roughly tugging it down her shoulder. His mouth moved to the crook of her neck as his hand found her breast over her lace bra and they both moaned.
“God, Sophie,” he said against her neck. She wanted to tease him that there was supposed to be no talking, but she didn’t feel like teasing. At least not that kind.
Her uncoordinated hands had finally undone the last of his shirt buttons when they heard the unmistakable sound of keys jingling in the hallway.
Please keep going, she silently begged the owner of the keys.
But the jangling stopped right outside the office doors.
“The janitor,” Gray whispered, pulling back abruptly. Sophie was unprepared at the sudden loss of his support, and stumbled off-balance, catching herself on the side of her desk.
Her desk. Horrible reality flooded over her. She had nearly just had sex with her boss in the office.
Who does that? she screamed at herself.
She heard a key turn in the lock, and she’d barely pushed her arms through the shirt Gray tossed at her when the door opened.
The fluorescent light spilled in from the hallway, and Sophie squinted against its harshness.
A very startled-looking janitor blinked at them as Sophie held her purse in front of her half-buttoned shirt and tried to look natural.
“Mr. Wyatt?” he said, clearly confused.
“Hello, Walter,” Gray said in his usual calm voice. “Come on it. We were just finishing up a couple of sales reports.”
If Walter suspected anything, he was too kind to show it, because he merely nodded and gave her a shy smile before wheeling in his cleaning cart.
“I’ll drive you home,” Gray said quietly in her ear. But she knew that tone. This wasn’t the Gray who had cooked dinner for her, and it certainly wasn’t the Gray who had kissed her senseless.
This was the cold Gray. The one from the elevator.
She should have known that any kind of intimacy would only blow up in their faces. This was the type of man that pushed away anyone who got beneath his defenses. Gray was already fully dressed, looking for all the world like he’d just come from a nice business lunch instead of fondling his secretary on her desk.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, her voice crackling as she finished buttoning her shirt.
“Sophie—”
“This was the worst kind of mistake. Don’t even try to deny it.”
And he didn’t. Just stared at her with cool gray eyes. “Yes, it was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
Sophie gave a curt nod and grabbed her shoes to keep from having to make eye contact. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said brightly, before heading toward the door without looking back.
He said nothing.
By the time she exited the elevator, she was a sobbing mess.
This job at Brayburn was supposed to be her path toward respectability, and she was messing everything up.
Nobody would respect the girl who fell in love with the boss.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sophie Claire, are you listening to me?”
Sophie switched her cell phone to her other ear as she threw yet another rejected shirt on the bed. Her entire wardrobe was office-ready, but not even remotely first-date-ready. When had that happened?
“Sorry, Mom, what?”
Phone conversations with her mother were trying on the best of days, and painful when her mother was attempting to coax Sophie into yet another “self-improvement plan.”
Marnie let out the smallest of dignified sighs. “I was saying that Blair has an opening this weekend and is willing to take you on as a client. Don’t you think a little change to your look would be nice? I’m thinking darkening the blonde to something more natural. Maybe getting rid of the length? You’re not sixteen anymore, you know…”
“Brynn’s hair is the same length as mine,” Sophie said as she held up a green dress in the mirror. She made a face and tossed that in the reject pile. Mint green only looked good when she had a bit of a tan. Not something she could claim at the moment.
“Hmm, is it?” her mother was musing. “I suppose so, but Brynn wears hers straight, so it’s more age-appropriate.”
“Well, Brynn is older than me,” Sophie said with sham cheerfulness, “so when I’m her age, then we can have this chat, okay?”
“So what should I tell Blair?”
Tell him to take a flying leap. Or her. Sophie had no idea what gender her mother’s beloved hairstylist was, and she really didn’t care.
“Mom, I’ve got to go. I have another call coming in.”
“You do not. Who is it?”
“Good-bye, Mother. I’ll see you Sunday,” Sophie said, hanging up before her mother could attempt to launch her next campaign for Sophie’s betterment.
She tapped her phone against her chin as she surveyed her bedroom. There were now more clothes discarded on her bed than there were clothes in the closet, and she still didn’t know what to wear. For that matter, she didn’t even know what this date entailed.
Michael seemed like a decent enough guy. He was one of Will’s friends from college who’d just moved to the area, and Will wouldn’t set her up with a creep.
And yet, she hadn’t heard from him once since he’d first
called to ask her out, despite his promise that he’d call with more details. He’d probably forgotten, since, being a guy, he had about three wardrobe options to choose from instead of a thousand.
She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. She had two hours until he was supposed to pick her up. Would it scream “high-maintenance” if she called and asked where they were going? A restaurant was a restaurant, but what if he was one of those creative types who had planned a picnic? She certainly wouldn’t be able to think about getting romantic if she had the Seattle spring breeze blowing up her cute skirt.
Screw it. Finding his number in her phone’s address book, she took the plunge.
The creaky voice that picked up was so unlike the masculine voice she remembered that she had to double-check that she’d called the right number.
“Michael?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, it’s Sophie Dalton.”
A pause.
“Oh shit.”
Sophie closed her eyes. “You’re sick, huh?”
“More like half-dead. I haven’t moved in two days. I completely forgot about our date.”
Sophie began hanging up dozens of shirts. The only thing she’d be wearing tonight was her sweats. “No worries,” she said. “You can’t help being sick.”
“Still, I should have called,” he said with a nasty cough.
“Please. You sound like a tuberculosis patient. I’m sure you had other things on your mind.”
Like dying.
“I’ll call you later this week for a reschedule?”
“Absolutely,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “I hope you feel better.”
Sophie tossed her phone into the pile of clothes and sat on the edge of her bed. She waited for the expected rush of disappointment.
It didn’t come.
If anything, she was bummed that it was the first sunny Saturday of the year and she had no plans. But she was oddly indifferent to being dateless. Michael was probably a nice enough guy, but if she was honest with herself, she’d only agreed to go out with him for one reason.
To forget The Kiss.
It had been almost two weeks since she’d nearly jumped Gray’s bones in the office, and the two of them had been circling each other like wary cats. He’d retreated behind a mask of ice, and Sophie had responded like a petulant four-year-old, needling him in every way that she could.
But neither one had mentioned what happened that night. Just like they hadn’t mentioned the dinner at his house, or the emergency room visit that had followed. It was like two eighth graders who couldn’t have a straight conversation and needed a mutual friend to pass notes.
Except there was no mutual friend in this case. And they weren’t immature eighth graders. They were scarred, wounded, emotionally crippled adults.
Who could not be more wrong for each other.
Sophie’s phone began to vibrate, and she groaned as she dug it out of the pile of halter tops and miniskirts. Probably her mother calling to remind her not to swear on the first date. Or any date.
Finally finding her phone, Sophie stared down at the name and number.
Definitely not her mother.
“Hello?” she asked. This had to be a pocket-dial.
“Sophie.”
Not a question. He’d called her intentionally.
“Gray,” she replied, relieved that her voice sounded calm. “I am not coming into the office on a Saturday, I don’t care how far behind you are on your plan of taking over the world.”
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh,” she said, flopping back on the bed. “Finally got up the courage to use my call-girl service, then, huh? I’ll have you know, I’m not cheap—”
“Would you like to come to a dinner party tonight?”
All of Sophie’s snark flew out the window and she sat up in confusion. “You mean like a date?”
He cleared his throat nervously. “Well, I mean, there’d be other people there. My friend Ian and his wife. Maybe their son, although I think he might be off at a birthday party or something.”
Sophie stared at the generic flower print hanging above her dresser in disbelief. “You want me to come with you to your friend’s house? For dinner?”
“That’s what a dinner party usually means.”
She pulled the phone away from her ear and frowned at it briefly. “This is sort of out of nowhere for someone who had his tongue down my throat and then didn’t talk to me for two weeks.”
“You didn’t talk to me either, Sophie. And don’t think I don’t know you swapped my coffee for decaf and pulled all the cheese off my sandwich before giving it to me. Very mature.”
Yeah…not her best moves. She’d been desperate to provoke him.
“All right, I’ll go,” she said simply.
“You will? You don’t have plans?”
“No,” she said on a sigh. “I was supposed to have a date tonight, but he got sick.”
“You were going on a date?”
There was something low and menacing in his voice, and Sophie couldn’t hide a smile. Maybe the man wasn’t so indifferent after all. “Yes, Grayson. A date. But he has consumption, so I’m free now.”
“What?”
“Never mind. What time?”
“Is an hour too soon for me to pick you up?”
“Gee, I’m glad I wasn’t a last resort or anything.”
He was silent for several seconds. “It took me this long to work up the courage.”
“Oh.” The admission melted her annoyance slightly. Okay, it melted it completely. She was practically mush. “I can be ready in an hour.”
“Great,” he said, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice. “Bring a sweater or something. Ashley is insisting we sit outside even though it’s barely sixty degrees out.”
“Honey, in Seattle, this is practically beach weather,” Sophie said, pulling out a pair of blue capris, a white tank, and a yellow cardigan she’d stolen from Brynn. “Now go away. I need some time to don my hooker gear.”
“Don’t forget the boots,” he said before hanging up in her ear.
Sophie did a ridiculous little happy dance when she hung up the phone, before taking a deep breath and telling herself to pull it together. It was just a dinner party. With chaperones. Not a marriage proposal.
But it was the first time that Gray had been the one to initiate spending time together. And for a man whose emotions needed a wheelchair, that had to mean something.
* * *
“Holy crap,” Sophie said as she took in the treelined drive of Ian’s house. “Is it a requirement that all of your friends be fellow CEOs or pirates?”
Gray gave her a sidelong glance before parking next to an enormous fountain. Yes, an honest-to-God fountain. At someone’s house. Sophie was suddenly relieved that she’d had the foresight to be waiting on her front porch when Gray had picked her up. No way was he going to see the inside of her studio apartment now. His best friend probably had showers bigger than her entire home.
“Ian’s an attorney,” Gray said as they climbed out of his car. “He owns his own practice.”
“Jeez, no wonder my parents didn’t want me to drop out of law school. Do these people have their own stable? A carriage house?”
Sophie didn’t know much about real estate, but Ian’s address alone screamed “money.” Medina was one of Seattle’s richest suburbs, with many of its homes located near the water. It was minutes from downtown, and yet far enough away to have a view of downtown.
In other words, rich-people heaven.
Not her scene.
“Quit being a snob,” Gray said, as he led her along the walkway toward the front porch.
“I’m not,” Sophie said, trying not to squirm when he briefly set his hand on the small of her back. She wished she better understood what this was. A dinner party at his college friend’s could hardly be considered a date. But he’d invited her. Not Bryn
n, not some perfect potential girlfriend.
That had to mean something. Damned if she knew what. He’d barely spoken to her on the ride over. An open book he was not.
“I’m not a snob,” she said again, resisting the urge to see if the perfect hedges were fake. “It’s just intimidating, you know?”
“You weren’t intimidated at my place.”
“Well, sure, but your place, while nice, is hardly on par with this,” she said, gesturing to the enormous grounds and slice of waterfront view poking around the right side of the enormous white house. “No offense.”
“I don’t have need for all this space,” Gray said distractedly. “Not for one person.”
Sophie paused and stared at the back of his gray polo shirt. “Are you telling me you could afford this? If you wanted to?”
Gray glanced back and gave her an exasperated look. “What is with you? I’ve seen your parents’ house. It’s nearly as big as this. I’m guessing you hardly grew up on food stamps.”
“That’s my parents’ money,” she said defensively. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but cocktail waitresses can’t exactly afford Bentleys. And it’s not like Brayburn’s paying me all that much. Perhaps we should discuss a raise.”
Gray grabbed her hand and pulled her none too gently up the brick steps to their front door. “Just behave. Please.” He gave the door an impatient knock.
Sophie ran a finger over the door frame. “White. How is this possible? How can they have a perfectly white front door without a single scuff or speck of dirt?”
The pristine white door in question swung open, and Sophie’s first thought was that Gray was right. She had been a prejudging, stereotyping snob.
Ashley Porter was wearing cuffed jean capris, a plain white T-shirt, and those boat shoes that Sophie thought only people in the Hamptons wore. But the shoes were well worn, and the T-shirt had some sort of red stain near the hem. Hardly the immaculately groomed housewife that Sophie had been fearing.
