by Amelia Wilde
I don’t know what I’ll do. But I can guarantee it will be drastic.
Keep it cool. I need to keep it together until she gets here, and even after that, because this should not be such a big deal. But it is. Her voice sounded shaky on the phone, high and nervous. Every nerve is screaming to be near her. A ceiling caving in . . . Jesus.
“Hey.”
I spin around in the middle of the sidewalk. Annabel stands there, a half grin on her face, eyebrows raised. “You’re pacing.”
“Are you all right? Annabel—” I’m not planning ahead when I step toward her and put a hand to her face. Her smooth skin underneath my palms is the only thing on the planet that can loosen the knot of worry behind my rib cage. “Are you all right?”
She sucks in a breath and raises one hand to mine, as if she can’t believe I’m touching her like this. I can’t believe I’m touching her like this. Something about her makes me reckless. This time it feels right. “My apartment caved in!” She chirps the words, bewildered. “A chair fell straight through the ceiling and crushed my coffee table.”
I lift her chin, looking for any marks on her skin. It’s irrational, and I know it. “You weren’t in the living room when it happened?”
“I was asleep.” A laugh tinged with fear bubbles up. “I woke up to the sound of falling plaster.” Annabel’s forehead wrinkles. “Two maintenance guys came in to check that there was nothing wrong with the ceiling. They had a key and everything.”
A hot, wild flush of rage surges through my veins. How could the super give two men a key to an apartment like that? How could he do that without making sure it was empty first? Does the man know what kinds of things can happen given that scenario?
Annabel looks up into my eyes, worry clouding hers. “Your face is red,” she says gently, putting her other hand on top of mine.
I’m in too deep, and I know it. An inch forward, and I could kiss her. I want to kiss her. I want to taste her so badly that my only option is to step away.
So I do, even though it kills me.
“I’m furious.” I try to release some of the anger with a controlled breath but fail miserably, settling instead for running my hands through my hair. “I don’t have any right to be. I know that. But something could have happened to you. Those men—”
It clicks then, and her expression shifts. “I’m okay,” she says slowly, reaching out and putting her hand on my elbow. Her touch is a calm warmth over my angry heat. My shoulders relax. I didn’t even know I was tensing them.
“I have no right to feel this way.”
Annabel steps closer. The scent of her shampoo is carried on the breeze, light and clean. “If it’s worth anything at all, I feel better”—she swallows hard, blushing scarlet—“now that I’m here, with you.” She laughs, squeezing my arm. “It was some crazy stuff, this morning.”
My anger drains out of me then, my heart beating hard into a pale worry. It was so close. Another few feet of weak ceiling. She clearly didn’t consider the apartment before she signed the lease, but I can’t bring myself to be mad at her now.
“I’m glad you’re all right.” I cover her hand with my own. I swore I wouldn’t kiss her. I swore I wouldn’t get in over my head. And I’m not. This is called being a decent human being.
Annabel bites her lip and leans in closer, as if we’re standing out here in the bitter fall and not on a late-summer afternoon. “Don’t worry about me,” she says, the words barely audible over the sound of traffic going by on the street. “But I will admit,” she says, cocking her head to the side, “I like it when you send me text messages.” She takes another long breath. “I have no reason to like you,” she continues. “You’re so . . . serious. But I do, Beau.”
What? What? My heart skips a beat, then two. Flirting at dinner. A few unguarded text messages. And here she is, standing in front of me in broad daylight, jumping in with both feet. The alarm sounds in the back of my mind. Slow down. Slow down. Consider all the possibilities. Make a careful choice, not a dangerously reckless one. Pull away, I tell myself, but instead I find myself leaning in.
Our lips brush against one another—it’s electric—when there’s a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Bennett!” booms a voice from directly behind me. The interruption is like having ice water poured down the back of my neck. “Getting frisky out on the sidewalk! Yes, my man!” Then I’m being pulled, turned around, and yanked into a tight, manly embrace, thumps raining down my back.
It takes me a good while to get out of his grip, pushing back with both hands. “West.” I stare at my best friend, caught somewhere between enraged and delighted. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Surprise!” He holds out his arms like he didn’t tackle me in broad daylight. “It’s time for an Overton reunion! I heard your new hotel is open for business.”
Oh, not this. Not now. Not when I was about to take Annabel inside and personally escort her to a private suite. The possibilities blow away on the breeze. “West, I have—”
“Annabel Forester,” Annabel says, reaching around me to shake West’s hand. “Nice to meet a friend of Beau’s!” Her smile turns from disappointed to genuine. “I’d stay, but I have work.” Then she’s gone in a flash of pink, jogging up the steps of the Pearl.
West looks after her with an assessing grin on his face. “New girlfriend?”
Almost. Then you interrupted. “Stay away from her,” I growl, then cover my burst of possessiveness with a smile. “What’s this about a reunion?”
Chapter Thirteen
Annabel
That went well. That went so well that my cheeks are still on fire two hours later. I can’t stop reaching up to touch my lips where they brushed against Beau’s, which is such a teen movie cliché that it’s almost as mortifying as the kiss itself. What was I doing, swooning in the middle of the sidewalk because he offered me a free hotel room?
I’m going to take it. For sure. From Cynthia’s constant stream of texts, it appears that the building owner is offering to put us up in the World Hotel. That text came with seventeen exclamation points and six noes. She’s going to stay with her old college roommate. And me? I’m not going to turn down a room that makes my commute nonexistent.
It’s almost hard to feel affection under the complete and utter mortification, but this job is growing on me. It makes me nervous, in a way, because I’m so into the work that the sweet spot might come early. For once in my life, I don’t want to bail. I’d like this beginning time, this time full of stress and late nights and small explosions from Marilee, to last a while longer. I can’t explain why. The fabric feels good under my hands. I like bantering with the cast of the production, who have begun to stream in ahead of rehearsals, which began this weekend. Bethany, the woman playing Juliet—they’re calling her Julie, in this show—has the most exaggerated expressions I’ve ever seen. As my mother would say, she is a hoot.
I’m on my knees, adjusting the hem of the gown she’s going to wear in the opening scene, when she puts her hands on her hips and looks down at me.
“You look like you’re about to have heat stroke.”
“It’s hottinhrr,” I mumble around the pins in my mouth.
“What?” She holds a hand up next to her ear, careful not to move her hips. I appreciate her well-thought-out theatrics.
I take the pins out of my mouth. “It’s hot in here.”
“You’re a bad liar, or my name isn’t Bethany Kirke. It’s freezing in here.”
“That’s because of the tulle.”
“Come on,” she needles. “I’m a stranger in a strange town, and you have a secret.”
“You live in Queens,” I say with a laugh.
“It’s not the same as Manhattan. Spill it. I’m dying here. Most of what I hear all day is”—she purses her lips—“the greatest love story of all time. Terrible ending, though. Your face is like a fire engine, Annabel.”
“Hot flash?” I stick another pin into the hem and resist the u
rge to touch my bottom lip with my fingertips. I might as well be in high school again. That’s how giddy and stupid I feel, and it’s all because of a kiss that was derailed right before the good part by Beau’s longtime friend West.
What is that guy doing here? I know he lives in the city—that much I gathered from our conversation last night—but Beau definitely mentioned something about him being out of the country. And a reunion? I don’t know. I entered a fugue state from the kiss and had no control over my reaction.
“Annabel,” Bethany says firmly. “We are close friends.”
“We met a week ago.”
“We are close friends, and it’s offensive that you would keep a secret like this from me. The smiling, Annabel. The smiling.”
“What smiling?” I pretend to be shocked, but she’s given me another reason to grin like an idiot. I am an idiot. I shook his friend’s hand and then ran away to my job instead of leaping onto him like I wanted to. Like I still want to. It’d be stupid to get involved with a man like Beau. Certain heartbreak. But I want to. My whole body is alive with the anticipation of it.
I can always leave when the sweet spot hits, before we get in too deep.
If I can recover from that scene on the sidewalk.
I focus on the hem, but I can feel Bethany’s eyes on me. Ever so lightly, she taps the toe of one foot on the wooden pedestal.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “There may be . . . someone I’m interested in.”
“Man or woman?”
“A man.” Good. If it’s going to be twenty questions, I can drag this out indefinitely without giving her any real details. The less everybody knows about this—and everybody includes the cast of The Lovers—the better it will be when it’s time to duck out.
“Did he take you home with him last night?”
If only. “No, I spent last night in my own home. And then my ceiling caved in.”
“What?” she gasps. “Okay, that’s a good one. That’s a really good one, Annabel, but I still want to hear about this man.”
“He’s a Mystery Man,” I tease.
“Is he admiring you from afar?”
Beau was standing so close on the sidewalk. “I don’t know if afar is the right word to—”
“My apologies for interrupting.” Four words. Four words in that smooth, low voice and all of me is on fire, tensed and ready to pick up where we’d left off. “A minute of your time, Ms. Forester?”
I turn away from Bethany. Beau is standing at the doorway to the costume shop, leaning against the frame and looking every bit a Greek god. “Mr. Bennett,” I say, trying to keep it casual. “Absolutely.” A smile flickers across his face. This game—this one sends a surge of excitement up my spine. I look back up at Bethany. “Do you mind?”
Mystery Man, she mouths at me, her eyes shining. “Not at all,” she says out loud and steps off the pedestal, pulling her phone from a pocket under her skirt. Two graceful steps later and she turns, collapsing onto one of the prop sofas. It’s a pretty picture, and I know it was staged for us by the way she smiles to herself.
I brush past Beau on the way into the hallway, trying to play it cool. “What’s going on?” I ask him, keeping my voice low.
He leans down. “I’d like to show you your suite.”
Chapter Fourteen
Beau
“This is too much,” Annabel says, but she can’t stop smiling.
“I haven’t even opened the door yet, so how do you know if it’s too much?”
“You said suite. I share what’s essentially a closet with my roommate. There’s no need for—”
I raise a finger and press it across the softness of her smile. “We’re past that now, don’t you think?” Annabel is radiating nervous energy, and I’d bet a thousand dollars it has to do with that kiss. Curse West. Truly, curse him for his terrible timing and the fact that he found it necessary to hug me when I was clearly otherwise engaged. “First hand me your phone.”
“For what?” Annabel asks the question but she’s already reaching into her pocket. She pulls it out and sets it in my hand, trusting me in one motion with all of her most intimate information. “Oh—here.” She turns the screen back toward her and types in her passcode.
I navigate to the app store and download the app for all the hotels that fit under the Bennett Inc. umbrella. It takes seconds to sign in, and I already had the front desk connect it to her account. “Your room key.” I hand the phone back to her. “Hold it in front of the sensor.”
Annabel opens her eyes wide. “Very fancy.” She waves the phone in front of the silver pad below the doorknob. Green lights around the edge of it circle once, and the lock clicks open. God, I’ve never wanted to be inside a room with a door closed behind me so much in all the years I’ve been alive.
“After you.”
Annabel steps inside, head turning one way, then the other. “This is too much,” she says again under her breath.
I’ll admit: aside from the penthouse and one other floor beneath it—West, conveniently, seems to have rented that out—this is the best room in the house. Room? Actually, it’s several rooms.
I follow her down the entry hall past a coat closet and kitchenette into the main living area. Low-seated furniture faces a picture window with a view of Manhattan. Annabel is drawn to it like a moth to a flame. With the afternoon sunlight spilling over the city, it is a sight to behold.
“Wow,” she breathes, looking out over it all.
I hardly see the city. She’s silhouetted against the window. Her black T-shirt hugs the sloping line of her waist, and her jeans move over her curves where I want my hands to be. My palms ache with the need to touch her. After what happened on the sidewalk, I’m not in any mood to hold back. From the way Annabel is standing, one hip cocked to the side, rising up ever so slightly on tiptoe, she’s not, either.
I cross the room toward her. I’m a step away when she turns, her cheeks pink, and bites her lip.
“Annabel,” I say.
“I want to make out with you.” The words make contact, and a beat later they register in my mind.
I don’t know which of us moves first, but she’s in my arms in a flash, arms wrapped around my neck. Her lips are on mine, and it’s nothing like that timid, interrupted travesty of a kiss on the sidewalk. The word scorching rings through my mind, but I love the burn.
Annabel presses against me, her hips making tiny movements side to side, and I’m practically bursting from the kiss. Don’t ravish her. Don’t tear her clothes off and throw her onto the bed. Don’t. Don’t. Annabel’s tongue battles with mine. She’s coming at me, putting on the pressure, and she might not even realize it. On instinct I raise my hand to her face and take her jaw in my hands, squeezing so she knows that when it comes down to it, I’ll be the one in control.
Her eyes flutter, and she moans into my mouth, moving one hand to wrap around my wrist like she needs to feel it to believe it.
I pull back, breaking the kiss. My cock throbs with every thundering heartbeat, but there’s something holding me back, holding me still. Annabel searches my eyes, her breath fast and hard. “What—what is it?” Her words are soft and sweet, and bloody hell, I want her even more.
“Do you want this?” I tilt her face up another fraction of an inch. “If you don’t, I’ll leave right now. There’s time to—” My mind is melting at the sensation of her skin under my palm. “There’s time to slow down.”
A slow smile spreads over Annabel’s face. She looks almost surprised, and then her eyes darken. “I want this,” she says, her grip going tight on my wrist. I reach up behind her with my other hand and curl my fingers through the low bun of her hair, her ridiculous pink-tipped hair, and give the slightest tug. Her eyelids flutter as she gets lost in this. It’s a simple thing, the tug of her hair, and she’s responding like I’m rolling one of her taut nipples between my fingers. “There are no guarantees,” she says, her voice so low I can hardly hear it, “but I want this.”
I bend and kiss the exposed skin of her neck above where my fingers cover her jawline. “I don’t do this,” I tell her, struggling to keep my voice even. “I don’t fuck women I meet on the street, even if they’ve driven me wild . . .”
“You haven’t fucked me yet,” she whispers. “But I wish you would.”
Her words crack open the last of my propriety, and when she jumps into my arms and wraps her legs around my waist, I’m done for.
Until Annabel pulls back, her forehead wrinkled. “What’s that?’
“What?”
She’s still. “The buzzing.”
Then I feel it, insistent in my front pocket. My phone.
It’s my personal line, and I never miss taking a call on my personal line. Not when I work with people like Edgar Sykes.
Annabel seems to sense it, letting her feet drop to the floor while I dig my phone out of my pocket and look at the screen.
Speak of the devil. If it isn’t Edgar, ruining the best moment of my life.
Chapter Fifteen
Annabel
Beau composes himself before he answers the call, but judging by the fire in his eyes, it’s a near thing. “Bennett,” he says, and his voice is so mild that if I was on the other end of the line, I’d have no inkling that anything was wrong. Jesus. This man is a consummate professional, but I’m not sure it’s limited to the hotel business. You don’t need this much of a poker face, this much self-control, to manage hotels—even if they are fancy boutique ones like the Pearl.
I let myself steal one glance at the front of his pants, mainly to keep my mind off the desire pooling between my legs. I’m not the only one who’s been left hanging in the most awful way.
