Lyla breathed a sigh of relief and got gratefully back to work.
WHEN IT WAS all over, Lyla expected Tate to simply escort her home and be done with it. For one thing, he couldn’t possibly have expected to be the center of attention like he’d ended up—though he’d handled it good-naturedly.
For another, he had to be tired. Lyla was exhausted, and she hadn’t been the one standing at attention for hours.
But instead, Tate surprised her once more, and somehow convinced her to stop for a dinner out again.
Which didn’t indicate that he was dying to spend more time with her, she reminded herself. It only meant that Tate was staying in a hotel and didn’t have a kitchen to cook in. She was reading too much into it, she knew.
Since it was still on the early side, they didn’t have to wait long to be seated at the restaurant they picked. The hostess walked Lyla and Tate back to a booth near the kitchen, handed them a couple of menus, and took her own sweet time in leaving.
Surprise, surprise—the girl couldn’t peel her eyes off Tate. However, despite the fact that the hostess was about twenty-five years old and pretty—with long black hair and painted-on jeans—Tate didn’t even acknowledge her attempts to flirt with him, much less try to flirt back.
Lyla looked him over, impressed with his restraint. “So, that was a scene, today, huh? What did you think?”
He looked up from his menu. “It was cool.”
“You sure got a lot of attention.”
“Maybe a little,” Tate hedged.
“More than a little,” Lyla corrected, shaking her head. “What are we going to do with you?”
“What?” he protested. “They liked me, didn’t they?”
“Too much, Tate. They liked you too much.”
“I…apologize.” He looked thoroughly confused, the poor thing.
Lyla sighed. It was hardly Tate’s fault that he was freaking adorable—or that a room full of female bookworms was particularly inclined to notice that fact. But he and Lyla had a whole book tour to get through, and he had no idea how much worse it could get if he kept being cute and charming.
“Don’t be sorry,” she told him. “But we might have to make some adjustments going forward.”
Tate set down his menu, all business. “Okay. Like what?”
“I suppose staying out of sight won’t work.”
“I mean...it could be fun,” he mused, “but I probably need to stay close if you expect me to leap into action at the first hint of trouble.”
Lyla rolled her eyes. Men. “What about…” Donning an ugly-suit? Hell, Tate’s inveterate charm could probably overcome that. “Maybe you could lose the blazer.”
He’d been taking this conversation with reasonably good grace so far, but now Tate looked thoroughly piqued. “What? But it’s brand new!”
“You bought a new jacket just to be my bodyguard?”
“I didn’t want to make you look bad.”
“I think it’s fair to say you’re not going to do that. But maybe you could just wear regular street clothes going forward.” Lyla frowned. “Try to blend in, if you can.”
With Tate’s height and muscles, that seemed unlikely, but Lyla supposed she had to work with what she had.
Fortunately, he’d perked up at her suggestion. “So, no ties?”
“I really don’t think they’re necessary.”
“Oh, thank Christ.” Tate immediately yanked the one he was wearing loose and unbuttoned his shirt collar with a groan of happiness.
Lyla laughed. “Let me guess—not a fan of suits?”
“That’s a negative, Ghostrider.”
“I’d think you would love them, given the amount of adulation they seem to garner you.”
Tate snorted. “That’s because you haven’t ever been choked by a tie for hours on end.”
Talk about a softball over home plate. As much as Tate seemed to enjoy teasing her, Lyla couldn’t resist the chance to toy with him a little, now. “You don’t know that,” she smirked, making it sound as dirty as possible.
He froze, blinking owlishly at her. “Uh...excuse me?”
A waiter stopped by to take their order, but once he was gone, she relented. “Just kidding,” she said, “But hey—fair’s fair. You have to wear ties, and I have to wear pantyhose and heels. So, we’re kind of even.”
“Ugh. Touché.”
Tate took a long sip of his water, then asked, “Other than your poorly-hidden jealousy of me stealing the show, that went well, though. Right?”
“Right. Good turnout, invested fans, lots of excitement. I think this book tour is going to be a big success. At least, it will be if you can suppress your cheekiness.”
Tate sneered at her, “Ha, ha.” Then he added, “Anyway, it’s nice of you to lend your name to Red’s new imprint.”
“It was nice of Red’s fiancée to pass my name along to him,” she said.
“Come on. Piper can’t be the only reason he hired you.”
“Okay, then how about…it’s nice of Red to put so much faith in my books,” Lyla countered. “There are a lot of bigger name authors he could have picked to launch Red Devil. I’m honored he picked me and happy we could come to an agreement on the contract so easily.”
“That’s extremely diplomatic of you,” Tate chuckled.
“Feel free to tell him that.”
Their food arrived and they both dug in, but Tate kept eyeing her, laughing at her last comment. “Man. Red must be paying you a shitload of money to take this on, huh?”
Lyla laughed right back at him, “You’re one to talk.”
“I never cash checks and tell.”
“You don’t have to. But if I were you, I’d be hoarding that PKM gold like a leprechaun. Once this gig is up, you’ll be back to taking Uncle Sam’s money, and we all know how stingy he is.”
Tate’s smile faded and he got quiet. “Way to be a buzzkill, Lyla.”
“But I thought you loved your real job and missed your buddies,” she taunted.
“I do. But let a guy enjoy his vacation, why don’t you.”
He was actually serious. Lyla had no idea what she’d said to flip his switch from joking around to somberness, but she wished she could undo it and go back to how he’d been before.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think that was a sore subject.”
“It’s not,” Tate claimed, but his entire demeanor said otherwise.
“Are you sure? Because—”
He brushed his hands together and dropped his napkin beside his plate. “Hey, you ready to get out of here? We pay up front, I think, and it’s getting pretty crowded at the bar. I bet they want to turn this table over.”
Well, that was sudden, and not a little disappointing. However, Lyla agreed, “Yeah, sure. You’re probably right,” and got to her feet.
“I don’t think we don’t need to grab a taxi, do you? Didn’t you say your house was close?”
“Yeah, we can hoof it. It’s only four blocks or so.”
Tate kept a hand on her back as he ushered her out, and Lyla tried to view it as protectiveness, instead of him just hustling her along.
When he dropped his hand to his side once they were out on the sidewalk, Lyla reminded herself that ladies only got to lament stuff like that when they were on actual dates with people they were allowed to like.
They could not get angsty about hands and touching when they were at a business dinner with a coworker—someone who also happened to be BFFs with their boss, and who was only in the city on a very temporary, involuntary basis.
Ah, romance. How did people ever freaking survive it?
BACK AT HOME, Lyla hung back a step once they reached her floor and fought the nearly overwhelming urge to bury her face in Tate’s sleeve while he looked to see if there was another note on her door.
But Tate wasn’t there in a boyfriend capacity, and he wouldn’t be sticking around for anything even approaching the long term. So, Lyla let him move a step ahead,
but she kept pace and tried not to let her fear show.
Until Lyla’s shoe caught on Mrs. Meecham’s oversized welcome mat, making her stumble ten feet from her front door, that was.
Tate’s reflexes were lightning fast. His arm shot out and tucked Lyla behind him before either one of them could take a breath—and so there she was, after all, eyes squeezed tight against fine black gabardine, her hands wrapped around his large, hard bicep as she held on for dear life.
If she’d had any concerns about his lack of experience, they evaporated instantly in that one, fraught second.
“Lyla, no one’s here,” Tate said finally. “And there’s nothing on your door. What happened?”
“I tripped,” she whimpered, embarrassed, but not quite ready to let go.
Tate chuckled, and it sounded even deeper filtered through his chest and clothes. That sound was kind and familiar, and for some reason Lyla would rather not look at too closely, it steadied her.
“Why don’t you give me your key, and I’ll take a look inside?” he asked.
“Okay.”
Tate went through her apartment the same way as last time, sifting through every corner and checking every lock to make sure the place was safe and secure, and clear of any threats.
Lyla trailed after him as he worked, trying to see her house through his eyes. Maybe…she needed to make more time to straighten up once in a while.
She had begun packing for their trip, and there were clothes strewn all over her room. At the very least Lyla should try to make her bed and get her laundry in the hamper more often, and perhaps she should invest in more shelves, to help with the stacks of books everywhere.
Tate probably thought she was a total slob, but he was too nice to even make a joke about it.
Lyla frantically kicked a bra under her bed when his back was turned and plastered an unconcerned expression on her face, figuring that if she acted like her lack of neatness was no big deal, he might, too.
At last, Tate completed his loop and they arrived back at her front door once more. He lingered in the doorway, and Lyla wished that meant he was as reluctant to leave as she was to let him go.
Once he left, she’d be alone in this place, and she’d never noticed before how many dark corners there were.
“Lock the door as soon as I leave, so you don’t forget,” Tate instructed. “And leave your windows closed tight and locked, too, okay?”
“I will.”
“And…” he shifted on his feet, hesitating. “If the phone rings, don’t pick up unless you know who it is. You have caller ID, right?”
“Yes, Tate,” Lyla smiled. “And voicemail, too.” He was being so cute, she had to forgive him for his abrupt flight from dinner.
“Good.” He looked over her shoulder and scanned her living room yet again. “Don’t be shy about calling me if you hear or see anything strange. I’ll come right over, I promise.”
“Tate, we’re in Manhattan. If strange is the barometer we’re using, you may as well just stay the night here.”
There was no mistaking the way his brows winged up and his eyes twinkled at that suggestion, and Lyla’s heart skipped a beat or two in response. Bad, bad heart, she scolded.
Tate told her, “Believe me, I’m tempted. But remember—there’s normal strange and weird strange. Trust your gut to know the difference.”
“What if my gut’s wrong?”
“Then I’ll have come running over here for no reason, and I won’t even care because we’ll all know you’re safe. Until then, you’re going to have to settle for me picking you up tomorrow at nine for your hair appointment.”
Lyla flushed with gratitude—for her friend Piper, who’d so kindly passed Lyla’s name to her publisher fiancé, Red, when he’d wanted to start a new mystery imprint. And also for Red himself, for thinking that his old friend might make the perfect bodyguard for Lyla.
She was also thankful for Tate, who was cheeky and funny and strong and protective, and who would’ve had her stupid heart singing arias if Lyla had met him under any other circumstance but this one.
Regret for the missed chance flooded her, and Lyla had to turn away so Tate wouldn’t see. On impulse, she dug around in the small drawer of the console beside her, finding what she wanted almost immediately.
“Here,” she told Tate when she’d pulled herself together. “You probably ought to have this. It’s my spare key.”
Tate nodded, looked her over one last time, and stepped back into the hall. “Good night,” he said.
“Night, Tate. And thanks—for everything.”
“My pleasure,” he told her.
If only that were true.
SEVEN
IT WAS TOO warm in this damn hotel room, Tate thought. He wondered if Lyla was having the same issue.
They’d landed at this midrange chain, which didn’t even have a full restaurant downstairs, after Lyla’s second event in Newark earlier that day. Without any excuse to hang out together, they’d both retired to their rooms and called it a night.
Tate had already called the front desk twice, but it had yielded no measurable results on the temperature front, and a quick glance at his watch confirmed that it was too late to knock on Lyla’s door to check on her.
He was stuck here, hot and alone with his fucking insomnia, watching the worst television show in history. Yet somehow, it still felt better than being in the desert, staking out some asshole zealot camped out with his homies in a fucking cave.
Would wonders never cease.
As he gazed at the lingerie fashion show unfolding on the TV screen, Tate decided—as long as he was here—that he had a bone to pick with the person in charge of supermodels these days.
The poor women stalking that runway looked like storks—all long skinny limbs, pale feathers stuck everywhere, and awkward gaits.
The dry ice swirling clouds around their feet only added to the odd effect.
He knew his complete lack of arousal probably put him in the minority among men, but those lacy outfits on the stick-thin models did nothing for him. They only made him uncomfortable—and not in a my-pants-just-got-too-tight kind of way.
Tate supposed all the ribbons and buckles crisscrossing their bodies were supposed to look seductive, to compensate for the ladies’ lack of female curves. But those ribbons could not make them look like something a man might actually want to touch.
Not this man, anyway.
As TV specials went, this one was about the least erotic thing Tate had ever seen. If the guys in his unit could see him now, they’d probably want to kill him. He turned the show off and heaved a long sigh.
He’d ordered a couple of sodas and some snacks from room service as soon as they’d checked in, then made sure Lyla was squared away in her room before settling in here.
She was no doubt writing or sleeping now, or whatever it was that she did on her own time—all of which was decidedly none of his damn business.
Tate had merely stripped to his undershirt and boxers as soon as he realized he was stuck in a sauna for the next twelve hours, and then attempted to find something worth watching on TV. But now, the TV was a lost cause, the sodas were soaked in condensation, and his damp t-shirt was sticking uncomfortably to his back.
Tate drained the dregs in the second bottle of pop and began tearing the sodden label off in strips as his mind wandered. He’d had a lot of time to consider what he wanted in a woman in his last several years in the Army, as had many of the soldiers.
All that time waiting for shit to happen gave a guy plenty of time to think, it seemed. So now Tate knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if he ever got the chance to pick his perfect woman, she wouldn’t be a beanpole like those models had been.
He liked women who were fit, sure—but gaunt and wiry gym rats did nothing for him. Tate wanted a healthy-looking woman, one with actual breasts and hips and thighs. An ass that filled his hands. He wanted someone he could hold close at night without getting jabbed by her
elbows or hip bones.
Tate liked when a woman’s stomach had that slight, enticing curve to it, just below her navel. The sunken abdomens of the women on TV had only made him want to feed them—not to get busy plastering them in kisses.
Maybe that was the root of his dislike, though. When you loved to eat, it sucked to be with a woman who viewed food as the enemy. Luckily, Tate did not currently have that problem. He had no woman, and his body still required a hell of a lot of calories to perform his job. He got to eat whatever he wanted, and he did.
Someday, though, he hoped to find someone who approached food the way his mom and grandma did. They were people who enjoyed the whole process of a meal—they liked shopping for special ingredients, the prep work and the cooking, and the savoring of the end product with loved ones. They had taught him to enjoy all the phases, too: the appetizers and sides, the entrees and desserts.
Because, with that kind of attention, the meal became something more than fuel. It became community, and love. Was it so wrong to want to share that with someone special, someday? It was as good an example of home, and the kind of thing Tate missed, as anything he could think of.
Lyla, for example, was a woman who might get that. She had a normal relationship with food, as far as he could tell.
They’d gotten dinner together a few times now, and even if she didn’t eat meat, she still seemed to savor reading menus and trying new things.
Tate could picture her finding funky new restaurants to try in the city and making special trips to discover the best places to get good produce.
He immediately shook off those treacherous thoughts. What Lyla liked did not matter. She was only someone he was being paid to keep safe, not a new flame to evaluate for her wife potential.
Jesus. This heat was fucking with his brain.
Tate stomped into the bathroom to rinse off, but his thoughts started roaming again. In some ways, he was like a lot of other guys—he’d played football and joined a fraternity, then went into the Army, for crying out loud.
In other ways, though, he’d never been into the same things as other dudes. Maybe he was just old-fashioned.
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 6
