by LJ Garland
“Maybe,” she hedged.
When the sound of his bedroom door closing reached her ears, she dialed her boss’s direct number.
Chapter Five
I almost kissed her. Dawson stared at the wedding dress draped across the bed. Was the fabric still warm where it’d touched her skin, clung to her lush curves? Did it smell like her?
With a self-deprecating growl, he turned away, toed his shoes off, and made a beeline for the bathroom. There, he stripped off his work clothes and tossed them in the hamper. Leaning over the sink, he stared at himself in the mirror. “What is wrong with you, man?”
Sophie clearly needed his help, and here he was, trying to get her into bed like some horny teenager. Yeah, she was hot. And, sure, he had a boner like a baseball bat. But that didn’t mean he had to be a dick.
Slow down, Dawson. You just met her a few hours ago.
But he’d never met anyone like her—even though he knew little to nothing about her. And he’d never felt this…whatever this was. A connection, a need to be near her, to touch her, to protect her.
Stop. Right now, she needs someone she can trust. Quit trying to get into her pants.
Pants nothing. Unzipping that dress had almost done him in. He closed his eyes, replaying how the back of the gown had parted, inch by inch, the slowest, most erotic tease he’d ever experienced. White satin and lace falling away, leaving the beautiful landscape of her creamy skin. Tendrils of red hair waiting to be swept away to allow access to her neck and shoulders, where he could kiss and lick and inhale her intoxicating scent—vanilla and spice and the promise of passion he’d never experienced.
And when the zipper had reached its end, allowing him just the slightest peek at the cleft where her sweet round cheeks parted, he’d imagined setting his palms there on her lower back. So easily he could’ve slipped his hands beneath the dress, sliding around her waist to her tummy and up to cup her breasts where he’d—
Stop, Dawson. Just stop.
He opened his eyes, hardly recognizing the man staring back at him in the mirror. Sure, he’d heard of love at first sight, but he’d never believed in it. And was it supposed to look like this? Like a damn junkie who couldn’t wait to get his next fix? Because the truth was, even though she lay on the couch in the next room, he couldn’t wait to get back to her.
Back the hell off, man. Give the woman some room, get to know her. You have no idea if she feels the same connection you do.
He turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto his face then took a breath. Connection or not, he needed to get himself under control and focus. He needed to get the truth of why she’d run off in a wedding dress, and why she couldn’t contact anyone she knew.
Splashing another round of icy water on his face did little to cool his libido. His stiffy persisted with a mind of its own—and all it could think of was the soft, sweet, supple woman in the next room.
Just stop looking at her lips and her tits, man.
Grabbing the hand towel, he dried his face. Yeah, right. And her eyes, her neck and hair, her hands and shoulders….
He padded into the bedroom, got a pair of navy track pants and a red T-shirt from the dresser, and pulled them on. The idea of falling for Sophie should scare the crap out of him—especially after his college heartbreak. But the years between then and now had given him much-needed clarity as well as the ability to recognize shallow, self-serving women—he’d even gone out with a few since then. And he could tell in the short time he’d spent with her, Sophie held none of the qualities.
So maybe the wise owner of Pat’s Irish Pub was right. Maybe he should heed Pat’s advice to stop “dallying with a lass’s heart” and end the hiatus his own heart had taken. It certainly beat with anticipation now.
Exiting the bedroom, he strode to the living room, where Sophie sat. As he approached, she smiled.
“All finished.” She held his cell out to him. “Thank you.”
He stopped near the couch and took his phone from her. “No problem.”
“He asked me to call him tomorrow, too. So, if you don’t mind…?”
“Sure.” He glanced around, unsure what to do. “Um, are you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“How about I order some Chinese?”
Her smile widened. “Orange chicken?”
“Absolutely. And fried rice, or do you prefer noodles?”
“Rice is great. And spring rolls, if they have them.”
Sitting in front of her on the corner of the sturdy oak coffee table, he tapped his phone’s screen, brought up the speed dial, and called the local restaurant. Sure will be nice not to eat takeout alone. When the guy at the restaurant answered, he placed the order then ended the call. “Usually takes about twenty minutes. So, why don’t we spend the time filling in all the blanks?”
She started to close down on him, but he set his hand on top of hers—reveling in the familiar buzz of heat from the contact.
“Listen, Sophie. I don’t mean to pry, but I do want to help. Just tell me what happened so maybe I can do that.”
She stared at him for a long moment then sighed. “Okay, but you have to promise you won’t laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?”
She arched an eyebrow, and he held up his hands in submission.
“All right, okay, I won’t laugh.”
She took a deep breath. “I…got spooked.”
“In a bridal shop?” His words rang with skepticism then he remembered how she’d complained about the gown. “Was it the dress?”
“No…well, yes. I do have a thing about wedding dresses.” Her cheeks pinkened. “I don’t like them.”
An image of her in the dress popped into his head. How can she not know how sexy she looked? “I thought all girls dreamed of their wedding day.”
She shook her head. “Not when your dad left when you were three and your mom has a closet filled with gowns. She’s the one who dreamed of her wedding day, and she relives it with a different guy every two to three years. Right now, she’s in France, meeting her latest husband’s family.” She shrugged. “She’s happy. That’s all that matters. But me? I’m more focused on my career. I don’t know if I’ll ever get married. At first, I thought I had a fear of white, but when my boss, Jackson Jacobi gave me this assignment to write about the perfect wedding and I actually forced myself to put on a wedding gown, I realized it was the white dress itself and not the color.”
Dawson could understand that. While he appreciated the connection his parents shared, their deep love obvious to anyone who watched them for two minutes, the fact that Sophie’s mother had remarried every few years had to have affected her. Though there may have been a lot of celebrations and cakes, there’d also been just as many divorces, and, most likely, arguments. Any kid growing up in that environment would have a skewed perception of matrimony. He considered her lucky most of her angst had settled on a white dress and she hadn’t doomed herself to a life of spinsterhood.
“Anyway.” She waved off her confession. “While I didn’t care for the assignment, I was determined to see it through. And the dress…well, it did have me on edge a little.” She rolled her eyes. “Okay, a lot. But it was my phone that freaked me out.”
“Who called you?”
“At first, I thought it was Hugh texting me, checking up on me. He’d made a bet with Jackson that I wouldn’t try a dress on.”
“But it wasn’t Hugh,” he guessed.
“No. I got a video from PicTalk. It showed photos of me. And of Hugh.”
His gut clenched. “The two of you together?” When she frowned, he elaborated. “Um, like sweaty in the sheets?”
She barked a laugh. “God no. He’s a co-worker. That’s it.”
He nodded, pleased with her response.
“Anyway, one of the pictures of him had a red laser dot on his forehead, like whoever sent it might shoot him or something. And the last picture showed me going into the bridal boutique. There was
a message telling me not tell anyone and that he couldn’t wait to make me his.” She shook her head. “But now that I say all this out loud, it sounds totally ridiculous. I obviously overreacted. I’m sure I must have looked like some crazed woman running through the back alleys in a wedding gown. I mean, who runs out of a bridal shop actually wearing one of the dresses? I have no clue why you even spoke to me.”
“I don’t think you overreacted at all. Pictures like that would’ve unnerved anyone.” The word stalker sat on his tongue. Reaching out, he took her hand in his. Lord help him, but he was becoming addicted to the way her skin heated his. “You should go to the police.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
She held up her index finger. “One, I dropped my phone at the bridal shop. When I called my boss, he said Hugh had it, and that’s how they knew something was wrong. Two”—she held up a second finger—“the video came on PicTalk. The moment I finished viewing it, it disappeared. And three….” She winced, her pink cheeks growing brighter. “I may not be on the police’s fave person list.”
“Why not?”
“I did a story on police response time to 911 calls. They may have told me never to call them again. For anything. Ever.”
When she’d told him Deep Insights did the hard-hitting, in-depth stories, she hadn’t been kidding. “Oo-kay.”
“Yeah. Not my finest moment. But I didn’t report anything that wasn’t true. And Jackson was happy with the story. Reader response went through the roof, which brought more advertisers.”
“I’m sure.” He drew circles with his thumb over the back of her hand.
Her gaze dropped to where he caressed her soft skin, and she licked her lips, her focus lifting to his face again. “Doesn’t matter. Even if they hadn’t pulled the don’t call us, we won’t fine you card, they never would’ve taken me seriously anyway. No video, no proof.”
“Right.” It all made sense now. Why she ran down an alley in a wedding dress. And why she couldn’t contact anyone she knew—if the stalker sent a photo of Hugh, he probably already knew about everyone else in her life. Except one. Me. “You’re welcome to hole up here for as long as you need. Till you figure out your next move.”
“Oh no. I couldn’t put you in danger like that. Not that I think there is any, really. But just in case, you should get as far from me as possible.”
Which was the exact opposite of what his instincts demanded. The need to help her, to protect her settled on his shoulders like a mantle. “Not happening.”
She lifted her chin. “I’ll go to a hotel.”
“How? You have no money or credit card.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Right. Hugh’s got all of that.”
“Stay here. I really don’t mind.” Keeping her hand in his, he set his forearms on his thighs and leaned forward. His face inches from hers, he inhaled her spicy vanilla scent. “Besides, I’m the perfect choice for you to hang with. Whoever sent you that video doesn’t know about me. I’m not part of your life or routine. If you stick with me, you’ll be in totally different places, and he shouldn’t be able to find you until we figure this thing out.” He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Okay?”
“Okay. I really appreciate it, Dawson.” Her attention dipped to his mouth, and her tongue peeked out to swipe her bottom lip.
Was that an invitation? God he hoped so. Unable to stop himself, he leaned closer, wanting nothing else than to kiss her, to taste her lips—
Ding-dong.
Damn. Defeated yet again, he dropped his chin to his chest.
“Food’s here.” Her soft voice held a note of laughter.
“Yes, it is.” He lifted his gaze to hers, finding merriment in her eyes, and gave her a regretful smile. “I’ll get it. You stay put.” After signing the printed-out receipt, he ambled back to the living room and set the food on the coffee table. “I’ll get us some sodas and plates.”
By the time he returned, she’d propped herself up on the couch, her borrowed shirt outlining the generous curve of her breasts. His attention diverted, he tripped on the edge of the carpet and bobbled one of the cans of soda. He struggled to keep from dropping it, and somehow managed to get everything on the coffee table in one piece. To keep from staring at her, he sat on the floor in front of the couch and doled out the food then handed a plate to her. Somehow, since she’d told him what happened, she seemed more at ease. Which was good. And now that he knew the truth, knew that she needed him, he would do whatever he could to keep her safe.
They ate in silence for a few minutes.
“Oh, there’s a movie coming on tonight I wanted to see,” she said.
He twisted, peering over his shoulder at her. “What’s that?”
“Pirates of the Caribbean.” The corners of her mouth curved up a bit. “The Curse of the Black Pearl.”
He finished chewing a piece of orange chicken. “The first one.”
“Yes.” Her smile grew.
He picked up the remote and turned on the television. They ate during the opening scenes. Halfway through, Sophie asked him to pause the movie so she could take a bathroom break.
“I’ll carry you,” he offered.
She stood and tested her ankle. “It’s fine, really. I’ll call if there’s a problem.”
While she hobbled off, he cleaned up the food and stored the leftovers in the refrigerator. When he came out of the kitchen, he found her sitting on the couch, holding one of the throw pillows. She gestured toward the far end.
“Would you sit with me?” Her soft voice flowed over him.
“Sure.” In a flash, he sat and held his breath while she laid the pillow on his thighs.
She lay down, lowering her head to the pillow on his lap. Leaning forward, she snatched the remote control from the coffee table and handed it to him. “I don’t know how to work this one. Can you start it again?”
He chuckled. “Sure.”
In truth, he wanted nothing more than to try and kiss her again, but he held back. Taking advantage of her that way while she needed his help would be wrong. No, they’d get this stalker business taken care of first then he’d approach her about taking whatever this was between them to a deeper level.
At some point, he tucked a throw pillow behind his head, and then, as natural as anything, he reached down and combed his fingers through her hair. Soft. Like silk.
She sighed. “That’s nice.”
So, he continued playing with the strands of her silky red hair while she watched Captain Jack Sparrow work his magic, giggling at all the wild and imaginative ways he managed to escape his would-be captors.
And Dawson watched Sophie…while she worked her magic of him.
Chapter Six
“Soooophie.”
Groaning, she rolled to her back.
“Time to wake up.” The guy’s deep timbre flowed over her as he gently shook her shoulder.
Wait. Guy? She cracked her eyelids open. Oh, wow. And cute, too. The bedhead really worked for him—set off those intense blue eyes of his.
He gave her a boyish smile, one corner of his mouth kicking up. “Hey there.”
“Hey…” She blinked several times, trying to clear her sleep-fogged brain. “Dawson.” She stared at him, her body responding to his nearness. Dawson. With her on the couch. She must’ve dozed off during the movie last night. And they—
“Glad to know you remembered my name…especially after we slept together.”
She bolted up, tugging the blanket to her chin.
He chuckled. “Trust me, if we’d had sex, you’d remember. But I do have to say, you have the cutest little snore—”
“Snore!” she squeaked then lifted her chin. “I do not snore.”
“Sure you don’t.”
She straightened and slapped her hands on her thighs, the blanket drooping to her lap. “I don’t!”
“How would you know?” His gaze lowered to her chest, and her already perky nipples tightened even more
under his blatant inspection. He swallowed then lifted his focus to her face. “You were asleep.”
Her heartbeat kicked up. The way he looked at her made her feel sexy. Desired. Beautiful. When was the last time a guy had stared at her like that—if ever?
This is crazy. What am I doing? She shifted on the couch, setting her feet on the thick beige carpet. “I, um—”
“Okay.” Leaning forward, he snatched his phone from the coffee table, unlocked it, and held it out to her. “You need to call your boss.”
When she took cell, he pushed to his feet. As she stared up at his lean, muscular form, heat flooded her body, and she clutched the phone. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve been awake the last thirty minutes watching you sleep. I wouldn’t have woken you up if I hadn’t needed to go to the bathroom.”
As he headed down the hallway, she couldn’t help but ogle his firm butt, the muscles flexing enticingly beneath the dark track pants hugging his firm buns.
“Yeah. Too much soda last night,” she quipped…then cringed and smacked her hand to her forehead. Can I sound more idiotic?
The day is young, Soph.
Slouching into the couch, she lifted his cell and tapped in her boss’s cell.
“Jacobi,” he growled, answering after the second ring.
“Hey, Jackson. Just checking in.”
“O’Neill. Good to hear from you.”
“Yeah.” A light, nervous giggle escaped her. “Still in one piece.”
“More roses came for you. The delivery guy was camped out at the office door.”
Roses. After all the weirdness of late, an icy chill skittered down her spine. “How many does that make?”
The sound of his whispery counting floated across the line. “There are eight vases sitting on and around your desk. Might want to do something about that.”
“Donate them to a hospital or retirement home.” She plucked at the blanket covering her lap. “Was there a card? Anything at all to indicate who’s sending them to me?”
“Nothing.”
The lack of a card or note didn’t surprise her. Since delivery one, there’d been no hint at who’d sent them. She’d even gone to the flower shop where they’d come from, but the order had been paid with cash—which had been left with instructions in an envelope taped to the door. When the second dozen roses arrived, she’d returned to the same shop only to learn the order had come from a different florist. At that shop, she was told the same story—cash and instructions in an envelope taped to the door. Whoever was sending her the flowers didn’t want to be found.
