“All the more reason to say yes. It can be terrible, and that’ll be okay because you’re outta here, right?”
“You’ve got me there. I don’t…” She saw the hopeful look in his eyes and melted. “Okay.”
He perked. “Okay?”
“Yes, I’ll go. But you’ll put your pants back on before the main course, won’t you?”
“Babe, as far as I’m concerned you are the main course.”
“In that case, how about we go inside and work on dessert?”
“That sounds—”
The cat. The damned cat was on the windowsill.
Next to her, Crosby snorted.
“How is this even remotely funny?”
“It’s just…I’ve never been cockblocked by a pus—”
He broke off as the cat broke his yellow devil glare to hop down into the apartment. A low growl rumbled in his wake.
Estelle elbowed Crosby in the ribs. “I rescued you once. This time is on you.”
He glanced from her to the cat and back again. The cat snarled.
Crosby tucked himself in his jeans. “If that cat bites me again,” he said, headed for the open window. “You’re going to take a good, long look at my ass.”
Estelle crossed her arms and watched as he tried to circle behind the cat. Another view of that ass?
She should be so lucky.
Chapter Ten
Estelle woke tangled in the sheets, the apartment at a perfectly sublime temperature for snuggling deep under the covers and making a day out of it. With the A/C cranked low—although not nearly as low as it had been earlier—she wasn’t doing her part to resolve the energy crisis, but her sex-wrecked body welcomed every indulgence, no matter how small.
She rolled over and didn’t see Crosby, but then she heard the shower. Thank God she’d scrubbed it down. Having him see that shower in its original state would be almost as embarassing as…omigod. The sex they’d had. The crazy part hadn’t ended with the fire escape…it had started there. She had no idea she was such a freak, but now she knew…and she wasn’t the only one. Hotty McHotterson knew it, too. How the hell was she going to look him in the eye? Granted, he’d participated, but…
Oh. God.
The bathroom door swung open. Crosby, shirtless, jeans unzipped and unbuttoned, emerged in a burst of steam. Catching her stare, he offered an easy smile. “I hope you don’t mind I used your shower. I tried asking, but you were dead to the world, and I didn’t want to go to my apartment and disappear on you.”
She watched the fine mist that dusted him merge into water droplets, which tip-toed down his ripped chest and stone-carved abs like they relished the ride. Why the hell wouldn’t they? She had, and she’d bet the neighbors all knew it.
Oh. God.
He must think she was some kind of sex ninja. So much for friends only. That theory had been blown to hell, and she had never, ever let loose like she had with him. She was mortified. She sat up, dragging the sheet up with her to hide her nakedness, but trying not to be obvious about it.
His face froze with concern. “You okay?”
“Um, yeah. I just…have a thing.” She felt around for her clothes.
“You have a thing?”
“A friend,” she lied. Or maybe not. She’d have to call Peyton, her best friend from college. She was due to touch down that morning to visit her parents at their Hamptons estate after yet another stint in London or Paris or some other European stalwart likewise made of stone, and she had insisted they meet up. “Don’t you have to go to work?”
“My first service isn’t for about two hours. Do you want to get some breakfast? There’s a place around the corner with the best glazed donuts on the planet.”
Glazed donuts. Her favorite. Of course. Not as earth-shattering as the green pizza topping combo, but still. Was this guy anything close to real? He looked normal enough—if ripped sex gods were everyday things, and they weren’t—but the way he moved inside her, like he could read her every desire, was almost disturbing. It was amazing and terrifying and it was bliss and insanity and…too much.
It was too much.
Finally, she found her tank top and yanked it on. Her shorts. He’d pulled them off and…that was, what, six orgasms ago? She peered over the side of the bed and found them in a ball, tangled with her underwear. She grabbed them both and maneuvered them on, as much under the covers as possible.
Crosby gave her an odd, puzzled look as she tried to finger comb her hair and failed. Great. He was probably thinking about the thing with the thing and… “I have to run,” she said.
“Like, go running?”
“No. Just go.” She grabbed her purse and her phone, which was down to a whopping ten percent battery after she’d failed to charge it—a side effect of getting fucked ten ways to Tuesday, she guessed—and pasted on her best everything-is-fine-as-long-as-you-ignore-whatever-is-going-on-right-now smile. “Can you lock up when you leave?”
She didn’t wait for his reply. Of course he’d lock up. He was a freaking Boy Scout. Outside of the bedroom, anyway. Inside, he was a god. A legend. A sex machine.
Definitely not a Boy Scout.
She threw a wave over her shoulder as she fled in yesterday’s clothes, her hair a wreck, and her flip flops on the wrong feet. Classic walk of shame with the added embarrassment of running from her own damned apartment.
And the best sex of her life.
But for what? She was leaving. So leaving.
Hands shaking, she used her last ten percent of phone charge to text Peyton.
…
Crosby flinched over Sawyer’s incredulity. “You had sex?”
“Careful. I’m not sure the whole family heard.” Their younger brothers, Ethan and Liam, were off on service calls, but both parents were in the front office. And while Crosby was looking for a shipment of parts, his brother was standing over him like he hadn’t a care in the world. “And the sex wasn’t the point. She left.”
“She left her own apartment?” Sawyer asked as Crosby pushed past him.
He threw a couple of empty boxes to the side and unearthed a folder of blank estimates that should have been on one of the trucks. “Not only did she leave it, but she did so in yesterday’s clothes. And I think her shoes were on the wrong feet.”
Sawyer’s expression was some mixture of awe and disbelief. “What the hell did you do to her?”
Crosby tried not to glare. He really did. But his brother’s amusement at his expense merged with his frustration over Estelle to form a combustible force. Frankly, he was surprised he didn’t incinerate Sawyer on the spot. “I hoped you’d have an idea,” Crosby said, “seeing as how you can’t keep your dick in your pants for more than five minutes.”
Sawyer shook his head and laughed. “Yeah, but I can’t say I’ve ever made a woman run.”
“It was more of a fast walk,” Crosby muttered. Although that was a technical point at best. Gone was gone. “Don’t you have work to do? Or is leaving me to do your work, along with my own, your way of admitting I’m twice the man you are?”
Sawyer leaned against the wall. “I stand corrected—on the running, I mean. Not the rest. And I repeat, what the hell did you do to her?”
He blew out a breath. So much for sparing the play by play, although there was no way there would be sex details. Not ever. Sawyer didn’t need that kind of ammo, but more than that, Estelle deserved Crosby’s respect. “I assaulted her with broken glass and pickle juice in the grocery store, then I brought her the A/C unit. We went to the park. We had pizza. She likes my pizza, you know.”
“That green shit? Find her.”
“Funny. Anyway, she asked to see my ass about fifteen times—”
“You made her ask more than once?”
Crosby picked up a box of tools, and the bottom fell out. A few choice words followed the clamor of forged steel hitting the concrete. He kicked the pile, scattering it. “The neighbor’s cat bit me. She wanted to play nurse.”
Sawyer’s brow spiked skyward. “Again, you made her ask more than once?”
Crosby ignored him. “And she said she wanted to have sex, so it’s not like I misread her.”
“So you had sex once? And she didn’t leave until morning?”
“We had sex until we ran out of condoms. We slept. She woke up and split.”
“Ah. Morning-after regrets.”
Crosby frowned. “It wasn’t like that.”
Sawyer detached from the wall and helped with picking up tools. “It was clearly like that. And I know you don’t get around all that much, but a box of condoms is supposed to last more than a night.”
“It wasn’t a full box. Why the hell would she take off like that?”
“Because she saw you in broad daylight, that’s why. Take a good long look in the mirror, bro. But brace yourself first.”
“You really aren’t helping.”
Sawyer dropped the handful of tools he’d picked up after the spill and turned his full attention on Crosby. “Look, man. You could have been the most amazing sex she ever had. You could have thoroughly rocked her world. You could have ruined her for every other man for life. None of that negates what morning light shines on sex between strangers. And I’m going to be straight with you, Crosby. You’re one strange bastard.”
“But—” But what? Forty-eight hours ago, he hadn’t known her name. He couldn’t reconcile that in his head. Two days. One incredible night. He felt like he’d known her forever. He certainly knew her body, but that didn’t make much of an argument. Certainly nothing he’d lead with.
“Did you call her?” Sawyer asked.
“Not yet. I figured I’d give her some time.”
“Good for you. Just don’t wait too long, or she’ll think you got what you wanted and hit the bricks.”
“She left. Her apartment. Before I did.”
Sawyer grinned. “Doesn’t matter, bro. It’s on you to make it right.”
Great. Absolutely no pressure there. Only there shouldn’t have been. She wasn’t going to stick around. He had a legacy to resurrect and no time for a social life until he did.
Maybe all she wanted was a one-night stand. Or maybe that was all she expected. Sure, she’d agreed to attend the family thing, but he’d kind of sprung that on her in a weak moment. But if they still had a chance—even one destined to last less than two weeks—he wanted it.
And he knew just what to do next.
Chapter Eleven
That afternoon, in a show of astounding competence, Estelle managed to find the restaurant suggested by her longtime bestie. Doing so required not just boarding the subway, but switching trains. She felt a little like a ferret in the tunnels, but when she emerged onto the street, and then minutes later found herself staring at the upscale eatery, she had to suppress the urge to do a victory dance.
Peyton Wentworth was a gorgeous twenty-eight-year-old socialite who routinely rubbed elbows with the upper crust on two continents. She was confident, stylish, and not someone who would ever run out of her own apartment wearing yesterday’s underwear and the not-so-subtle scent of sex. But, as would any best friend, she’d absolutely appreciate that Estelle had.
They small-talked their way through the menu perusal. Paris was beautiful, Venice must-see. Whatever. Venice didn’t even have grassy medians. Not unless seaweed counted, and Estelle wasn’t even sure they had that.
As soon as the waitress left with their orders, Peyton rested her arms on the table and fixed her stare on Estelle. “I know you don’t care about Europe, so clearly you’re stalling. Spill.”
Estelle cut to the chase. “I had sex. All night.”
One of Peyton’s sculpted eyebrows lifted. “Did you say all night? Does he have a brother?”
“Three brothers. And I bailed on him this morning. Totally fled. It was embarrassing.”
Peyton took a calculated sip of her wine. “The sex or the fleeing?”
“The sex was amazing. It was also…wild. I did things I’ve never done before. I said things I’ve never said before. I made demands. It was so easy and natural at the time, but then we ran out of condoms and slept, and when I woke, he was in the shower, and it was just…normal. And I just kind of freaked. Seriously, we did it everywhere. The bed. On the fire escape. And on the counter. And against the wall. And there may or may not be a handprint on my ass.”
“Well, hot damn. And what’s wrong with normal? Although, what you’ve described sounds anything but normal.” Estelle must have blanched because Peyton quickly lay a hand on her arm. “Not like that. I mean, it sounds unbelievable. Pretty much every single woman alive dreams of what you’ve just described.”
“Good for every single woman alive. Meanwhile? I. Am. Mortified.”
“Why?”
“Because the neighbors probably heard me screaming like cheap porn, and, well, I know he did.”
“I bet he loved it.”
Estelle’s face heated. “He definitely loved it…but that’s not me. He didn’t have me. He had some closet sex freak.”
“That’s clearly you.” Peyton gave a dainty, socially acceptable snort. “Besides, it’s a vacation thing. Be a freak…who is ever going to know?”
“You mean besides the neighbors?”
“They aren’t your neighbors.”
It was Estelle’s turn to sit back in surprise. It finally hit her that Peyton wasn’t being the voice of reason—at least not the way Estelle expected. “I had no idea you were so…unrefined.”
Peyton laughed. “I’m so over refinement. I would love to have a wild night. Or even a mildly stimulating date.”
“You can’t get a date?”
Peyton waved off the question with one perfectly manicured hand. “We’re here to talk about you. What did you do after you ran out on him?”
“I hid in the laundry room until I saw him leave.” Estelle buried her face in her hands, not caring that her elbows sat uncouthly on the table. “The things I said. I can’t even repeat them now.”
“Were you drunk?”
“Stone sober. I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.”
Peyton shrugged, but the sparkle in her eyes belied her indifference. “Maybe you just needed the right guy. Maybe he’s the one.”
“I’ve known him two days. He’s married to the city, and I can’t wait to get home. He’s definitely not the one.”
“Maybe he’s the one for now.”
“Is that a thing?”
“Look. You had some amazing sex, and you have, what, two weeks in the city?”
Estelle nodded.
“Then chill out. Have fun. Make it unforgettable. It may be temporary, but clearly you have stellar chemistry. What’s so wrong with riding it out? Pun intended.”
“Okay, so I spend my remaining week and a half as a freak. Just like that? If he’s still talking to me, that is.”
Peyton patted her arm. “I don’t care if you went out the window on knotted sheets. Trust me, if there’s a handprint on your ass, he’s still interested.”
The words haunted Estelle long after she and Peyton parted ways, but that wasn’t all she took with her. Something was different about her friend. Peyton had never been one to brag, but during lunch she’d waved off her European adventure like it had been a boring trip to the grocery store—one devoid of broken pickle jars and spilled nuts—and hadn’t mentioned a guy at all, other than to hint she could use a good one. And Estelle had really counted on being told she was crazy, and that she needed to cross her legs and get the hell off the fire escape before she was arrested. Instead she was…encouraged. Which meant the world had more or less slipped off its axis…likely about the time the whole fire escape started rocking. She and Crosby probably loosened those rusty old bolts in the aged, brittle masonry and would fall to their pornographic deaths if they tried it again.
If. Why was there even an if? Estelle shook her head. Peyton and Crosby were ganging up on her, and they didn’t even
know it. So she now knew she was a screamer. So the whole neighborhood did. What was the worst that could happen? Earl would smack her brother on the back—or the ankle, seeing as how the old man never seemed to get off the floor—and tell him she was a sex-yeller? By the time he got that tidbit secondhand, she’d be back home where all the sanity was. She’d deny the accusation, then hang up the phone and laugh. Or cry. Because Crosby made her scream for a reason, and to say she’d miss it when she left was an understatement of titanic proportion. She could not imagine a day when she wouldn’t crave what he’d done to her, much less a moment when she’d let anyone else close enough to rival it.
She. Wanted. Crosby.
Which made her exodus seem pretty stupid. Most men avoided drama like the plague, and she’d stirred up a mess of it by fleeing. He hadn’t called or texted, which meant he’d probably written her off. She wondered if she was still committed to meeting his family, then decided she maybe sort of hoped she was. If she could look him in the eye without dying of embarrassment or flinging her clothes to the ground, there was a chance they could move past her awkward destruction of the morning after glow.
Right?
Sigh.
Estelle managed to find her way back home, subway train switch and all, and was grateful to see she wouldn’t have to climb over Earl to get to the stairs. Of course the elevator was still out, and frankly, Estelle wasn’t sure she wanted to get on the thing. If nothing else, she should have great legs by the time her stint in New York was over.
On the second floor landing, her cell rang. Her heart leapt, and she immediately hoped for Crosby, but what she got was the picky client who was more worried about having her plants lined in military precision than she was the landscape itself. Estelle wanted to ignore the call, but she’d have to deal with the woman sooner or later. Besides, wasn’t that what she wanted? To get back to her life?
Still, she cringed inwardly as she accepted the call. “Hel—”
“Did you fix the design?” the woman interrupted. “My daughter’s wedding is six months from today. I want everything to be perfect.”
Estelle rolled her eyes. If the woman’s daughter’s wedding was perfect, no one would notice the symmetry, or lack thereof, of the trees. Besides, it was an indoor event. “Your design will be symmetrical,” she promised. Several minutes later, she ended the call. It’d be difficult to appease the woman. Though part of her thrived on the challenge, and all of her enjoyed designing wedding landscapes, she had to admit that high-maintenance clients were her least favorite part of a job she otherwise loved. Estelle had been thrilled for the high-profile exposure potential, but the woman’s irrational demands were just…ugly.
Five Things I Love About You Page 8
