Adam scowled. “I’m looking out for you.”
“I don’t need anyone to look out for me,” he snapped. “And I find it ironic that people have been quite happy to joke about me charming women into my bed all over the place and yet the second you think I like someone, it’s a red flag. Newsflash, it’s sex. Nothing more. But just because I’m not planning a future with her doesn’t mean I can’t do something nice.”
When he looked back over to Cora, she was staring at him—brows furrowed. She was too far away to have heard any of their conversation, but he got some weird feeling that maybe she knew what they were talking about. Not that it mattered. Trent believed Adam—he had no reason to lie, and his oldest brother was as honest as they came.
It was one of the reasons Trent had always looked up to him. Adam was a rock of stability and integrity in their family. A pillar they’d all leaned on over the years. That’s why the words cut, because he knew Adam was telling the truth.
This doesn’t mean anything to Cora. So it shouldn’t mean anything to you.
But what if it did? Could Adam be right? Was Trent falling for the wrong woman all over again?
…
Later that night, they were back at the house, extra fairy bread and leftover meat pies stacked high in plastic containers that his mother had forced on them. She’d fussed over Cora, squeezing her with hugs and complimenting her in not-so-subtle whispers to Trent. She was exactly the kind of woman his mother always wanted him to bring home—sweet, friendly, eager to be part of the group.
Cora had even tried to help his mum clean up by sneaking into the house and washing the dishes before she got found out and shooed away. Rule number one, the birthday person never had to do the washing up.
But talk about the way to his mum’s heart…
“Your family is so delightful,” Cora said as she flopped down on the bed, still in her party dress but with feet bare and eye makeup a little smudged from all the laughter. Her hair was a wild halo, frizzed out from bouncing up and down in the jumping castle for a good portion of the afternoon. She’d taken to it with gusto, laughing and encouraging everyone to join her. “I had a good chat with your brother Jace and his wife. They were telling me all about his comics, and I’m hoping to put him in touch with someone from the agency. We’ve got some of the publishers looking for more graphic novels, and he’s so talented.”
“I hope they don’t send him a letter like the one your dad sent you,” Trent replied. “I’m not sure how well Jace would do with the rejection.”
The comment came not from any doubt of his brother’s talent—Jace was blessed with more talent in his little finger than most people had in their whole bodies. But rather, the feeling came from a deep-seated protectiveness he had for his siblings. He hated seeing them hurt.
Cora propped herself up on her forearms and watched him closely. Her expression was difficult to read, like a frozen lake trapping all her emotions beneath the surface. “My father is very direct with me because he knows I can take it. But rejection is part of publishing.”
“Even from your own father?” Trent asked.
“Yes,” Cora said. “And I prefer it that way. I’d rather know if I’m any good than waste my time because he was filling my head with lies just to be nice to me.”
There had to be a middle ground between those two things.
“Why is he the person to determine whether your work is good or not? Isn’t creative stuff all…subjective?”
It wasn’t like building a house, where the lines of good and bad were more clearly drawn. If your walls didn’t line up or your foundation wasn’t properly set, then it was bad. Easy call. But like he and Jace would argue about which Marvel movie was the best until they were both blue in the face, there was no right or wrong answer when it came to art.
Cora’s gaze slid away from him, and she pushed herself up to get off the bed. “He’s been a literary agent for over thirty years. He knows what he’s doing, and I trust his opinion.”
Trent wasn’t sure whether that was the right move. Why should one person—no matter how experienced—have the right to tell someone their work wasn’t good enough?
It had given Trent flashbacks to one dragon of an English teacher he’d had back in year seven. Her comments, scrawled in red pen across his essay, had made him feel small and stupid. But when Trent had shown his father, he’d pointed out all the areas where Trent had made good arguments.
It had been an important lesson in subjectivity.
Maybe that was one of the reasons Trent had always preferred building things over writing essays. The boundaries and goalposts were clear.
“You could always have my dad read it,” Trent offered. “He’s been teaching literature for just as long, and he’s been a lover of books his whole life. I’m sure he’d be happy to give you a second opinion.”
She turned away from him and tugged at the zipper of her dress. “You can’t compare teaching with publishing. They’re two different worlds.”
Trent had always hated that phrase, different worlds. Rochelle had thrown that term at him more than once, and he’d never understood it. Were they not all human? Were they not all made of flesh and blood?
Why did people feel the need to draw these artificial lines around themselves?
His mind flicked back to the earlier conversation with Adam. Maybe this was nothing about “different worlds” and everything about Cora trying to distance herself.
“That sounded harsh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it as a criticism.” Cora sighed. “And I appreciate the offer. I’m sure your dad would have some great wisdom to share, but I need to get it across the line with my father before I show it to anyone else.”
“Why?”
“Because…” She slid the zipper down her back, and Trent watched the fabric peel away from her skin. “I want to know if it’s any good before I let other people see it. What if I am a horrible writer? I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“But you’re not.”
“You don’t even read,” she said with a soft laugh. “I heard all about your disparaging remarks about Shakespeare today, by the way. Nobody cares what some dead dude thinks about life…really?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Hey, just because I don’t appreciate the classics doesn’t mean I don’t know passion when I see it.”
She shot him a look over one shoulder as her dress slithered down her skin, creating a whispering whoosh as it fell to the floor. Underneath she had black underwear and no bra, and Trent’s throat was suddenly tight.
“Passion is all good and well, but I don’t want to be like those fools you see on American Idol who think they can sing because their families haven’t had the heart to tell them they sound like a dying cat.”
“A little encouragement wouldn’t hurt.” He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his lips to the back of her neck. “Everybody deserves to be encouraged.”
“I deserve the truth.” She sagged back against him. “And doesn’t the truth matter more than protecting people’s feelings?”
Did it? How many times had he told a white lie to make someone in his family happy? Like that time Liv baked ANZAC biscuits that were hard enough to split a tooth clean in half, but he’d dunked them into his coffee and swallowed them down with a smile on his face.
Wasn’t protecting the relationship worth more than the truth?
You didn’t think that when you found out what Rochelle had been hiding.
Yeah, but that was different.
“I can tell you don’t agree with me,” she said.
“Relationships are important.”
“Says the town charmer,” she teased. “I bet you like having everyone wrapped around your little finger.”
She made it sound like a source of power for him, but truthfully, he’d
never known any other way to be. Making people smile and helping others out was how he’d been raised. It was his personal currency.
“Have I got you wrapped around my little finger?” He swept her hair to one side and kissed the tender spot behind her ear. The resulting sigh was enough to send blood charging through his veins like a stampede of bulls.
“I’m worried about it.” Her hands slid behind her, clutching his thighs as she pressed back against him. “I’m worried you’re twisting me inside out and upside down.”
“Maybe I’m simply adjusting your worldview.”
She turned, planting her hands against his chest and shoving him so that he stumbled back and hit the bed. He dropped down, eyes wide as she stood proud and magnificent before him. Regardless of what she thought, Cora had transformed. Her time in Australia was a metamorphosis—because she was confident and sure and in charge.
She stepped toward him, eyes smoky and dark as she lowered herself to straddle him. She rubbed over his lap, giving him the barest hint of contact. It was enough to fully ignite him—turning him to ash and bone. Hardening him all over. Making him hers.
“I don’t need my worldview adjusted,” she said with a wicked smile. “The view is pretty damn perfect right now.”
He chuckled. “That so?”
“I’ve got a hot man at my mercy, a long sexy night ahead of me…” She pressed down, rubbing herself against Trent. He let out a soft moan and tugged her face to his, nipping at her lower lip with his teeth. “Another week and a half of bliss before I have to be an adult and face the real world.”
The words turned his stomach to stone. She was already thinking about the end. Her leaving.
“I want to make the most of this while we can,” she said, grabbing his hands and bringing them to her breasts, encouraging his greedy fingers to take, take, take. She moaned when he palmed the firm mounds, softly at first. Then harder. “Trent…you’re incredible.”
“So are you,” he whispered. More words hovered on his tongue, things he shouldn’t be saying to her. Words like “stay” and “more” and “future.” Words like “I need you.” Words like “You’re fucking incomparable.”
Her lips found his neck, and she pushed him back against the bed, taking charge of his body. He rolled his hips up against her. She was so hot, bare breasts pressed against his chest. Sexy little black underthings left most of her glorious backside free, and he let his hands take full advantage.
“And the man who doesn’t like Shakespeare has all the best words.” She kissed him, her tongue sweeping the inside of his mouth while her body writhed on top of his. “Who would have thought?”
“Not me.”
“You are a charmer.”
He bristled at the description. “I don’t care about charming anyone else, Cora. Not now. Now it’s…you. Only you.”
“It’s only you, too,” she whispered, something flickering in the depths of her eyes. Something wary and wonderful and raw.
“I want you to stay in my bed tonight. The whole night.” He brushed her hair back and glided his thumb over her cheek. Cora nodded, bringing her mouth back down to his and kissing him like the air in her lungs depended on it.
His words were true. He thought of her day and night. Only her. He wanted her in his bed, in his arms, in his shower. He wanted her lips brushing his ear as he fell asleep and her fingers entwined with his. And he wanted to wake up next to her as well.
Nobody else would satisfy him.
And he never thought he’d feel like that about a person ever again.
Chapter Twenty
Her desperate heart wanted so badly to read into his words—to believe she was special.
But she, Cora Cabot, was not special.
Never had been, never would be. Special was for people who were born talented and beautiful and exceptional. Special was for the select few. And she’d learned the hard lesson over the years that she was absolutely and thoroughly average. Not bad, but average. Not ugly, but average. Not unintelligent, but average.
In fact, her father’s website called it out specifically: our agency is founded on the rigorous pursuit of exceptional literature.
And he’d rejected her manuscript. Meaning it wasn’t exceptional.
That stung. But Cora wasn’t one to indulge her ego nor the delusion that she was above the norm, despite Trent trying to woo her with such words. She could not be suckered into believing that this whirlwind vacation fling was anything more than scratching a primal, physical itch.
Even if her heart didn’t believe a single word of the protection plan her brain was laying out.
She’d almost crumbled when he’d offered for his dad to read her manuscript, when he said she deserved encouragement. It was a tempting cocktail and he seemed to know, better than anyone, how to reach her.
Which was all the more reason to hold him at a distance.
“You’ll forget all about me the second I’m gone,” she said, smoothing her hands up and down his chest.
Trent’s skin was honeyed and warm, deepened by the day spent in the sun. His hair seemed even lighter, strands of it almost pure white gold. But his blue eyes were no longer a calm ocean; they were a storm—dark and direct and unwavering.
“I won’t,” he said. “Even if I wanted it more than air, I wouldn’t forget you.”
“Please don’t.” Her voice shook.
“Don’t what?”
“Make this out to be more than it is.”
She pressed her face to his neck, moving her body to draw his mind to the physical and away from the emotional. It would be only more painful when she had to pack her bags. When she had to walk out that door. Because Trent had marked her, and the truth of it was, she would never ever forget him.
These memories would follow her to her grave.
“And what is it?” His voice was like flint.
“We’re having fun… Aren’t we?” She chanced a look at him.
Trent held his arms tight around her, the press of his hard muscles a comfort she never thought she’d crave. To be trapped in a man’s arms like this… She felt safe. Secure. Wanted.
“Yes, we’re having fun,” he replied, burying his face in her hair. “But if you think I’ll happily skip on to the next woman the second you walk out that door, then you’re wrong.”
What was she supposed to make of that? It was a trap. A rocky, crumbling cliff face luring her to emotional ruin. His secret was a wedge between them, her baggage wrenching that space even wider.
There were too many obstacles, too much bad timing. Too many things that would result in both of them being hurt.
“I told you to stop.” She pulled away.
“I thought you said the truth was the most important thing.” His hands roamed her body, dulling the sharpness of her mind, thawing her heart. Hushing her worries. “And the truth is…I want you more than anything.”
“Then be quiet.” She pressed a finger to his lips and shimmied down his body, her hands finding the button of his fly and pushing it open. He was hard inside his jeans, and it made her blood pulse eagerly in her veins. “And let me show you how much I want you.”
She drew his zipper down and palmed him through his boxer briefs. Trent’s moan cut through the quiet room, sharp as a blade. When her hand connected with his warm flesh, her insides flipped. And as she lowered her head, her hair brushing his stomach and his fingers threading through the curling strands, she forced herself to focus on the physical.
He tasted of salt and skin, and the slide of him along her tongue was more erotic than any time she’d done this before. Because deep down she knew this was something different. Something more. At least to her, it was. But she’d seen how quickly people could turn—like when her ex’s declarations disintegrated once things got too difficult. Words didn’t mean a damn thing.
But action…action meant something. And she would show Trent what he meant to her, how he made her feel emboldened and empowered and transformed. Only recently, she’d pulled away from their first kiss, afraid to proceed. Now she was in charge, controlling their passion. Charging it and churning it up.
“Cora.” He moaned her name.
She took him deep, using her hands as well as her mouth, and for now, she was relieved that he could only say her name. Because walking away from Trent—from this great, explosive pleasure—would be torture. But her heart could be shattered only so many times before she might not be able to put it back together.
She had to go home and figure out her life. Figure out her head. And now, because of him and this incredible, beautiful place, she felt strong enough to do it.
“If you keep going…” he warned, fingers tightening in her hair. But she wasn’t going to listen. This was her time to be in charge.
She felt his thighs tighten beneath her as his orgasm swelled, saw the muscles clench beneath his white T-shirt. The change in him was breathtaking—the raw sounds coming from the back of his throat, the feel of the bed shifting as he thrust into her mouth, the taste of him as he exploded, crying her name like it was a prayer to every god that ever existed.
…
The next week followed a similar pattern—Trent would try to talk to Cora about what was going to happen at the end of her vacation, and she would distract him by any means necessary. This had resulted in another sexy reading session, blindfolding him with a silk Hermès scarf that she usually had tied to one of her purses. Another time it had been touching herself in the bath, hands diving under the bubbles and letting her head roll back while he watched, enraptured. Last night she’d stooped even lower—anticipating that he’d bring the subject up after dinner, so she’d gone into the kitchen to “get dessert” and had come out wearing nothing but whipped cream and strawberries.
Her Aussie Holiday Page 21
