The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3)

by Kristen Casey

  What was left of it after this morning’s brush with her superfan, anyway.

  Honestly, though—why did it feel like Tate’s presence was seeping into every corner, demanding her notice? Why did she feel like she was breathing him in with every inhale? It couldn’t just be because he’d put his arm around her earlier, and run his fingers through her hair.

  That would be dumb.

  Directly behind her, Tate cleared his throat and Lyla jumped so badly she was pretty sure she left part of her psyche on the ceiling.

  “Sorry about that,” he chuckled. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your flow or whatever with that call.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m fine,” Lyla stammered. “You should have told me it was your birthday, though.”

  “I was hoping you didn’t hear that.”

  Lyla shrugged. “Come on. If I’d known, we could’ve tried to do something nice today, instead of you being bored out of your skull while I type in here.”

  Tate arched a dubious eyebrow at her. “Like what? You’ve got a signing in an hour.”

  “Well, it’s too late now, obviously. But I could’ve at least gotten you a cupcake at the coffee shop this morning.”

  Tate smiled wide. “I like chocolate frosting. For future reference.”

  “Duly noted.”

  He scanned her room briefly, then backed toward the adjoining door. “It’ll probably take us about twenty minutes to get to the bookstore. I should let you get ready.”

  “Right. Sure,” Lyla said, fount of all things smooth and professional that she was.

  “And still no suit, right?”

  “Just keep being normal,” she agreed. “Blend in.”

  Tate gave her a thumbs-up, stepped through the opening and swung the door mostly shut.

  In her head, Lyla was screaming, Who is Grace? At least, she thought it was in her head.

  But then Tate knocked and stuck his head back through the gap. “Hey, Lyla?”

  “Yes?”

  “Grace is my cousin. She and her fiancé run a café,” he told her. “In case you were wondering.”

  “Oh,” she nodded, “That’s cool.” She acted like it was all the same to her. She hoped.

  Tate nodded back. “I just thought you’d…” He hesitated, then blurted out, “Anyway,” before disappearing again.

  Lyla waited, but he didn’t pop back in with any other juicy tidbits. While she got changed and put on some makeup, she tried not to feel as happy as she did for the one measly crumb he’d given her.

  She should not want to know any and all personal details about her bodyguard. It was wrong, wrong, wrong, just like her superfan liked to say—even if her heart kept singing that Tate was all kinds of right.

  LYLA’S HANDS WERE shaking. As she stood in the back room of the indie bookstore on the outskirts of Philadelphia, waiting to be introduced for her book signing, she wasn’t sure if she could do this tonight.

  How could she paint a smile on her face, when she felt like her scary fan could pop up at any moment? How could she act like everything was normal? She had no idea how other people functioned like this.

  That guy could be here, somewhere—his little gift this morning had made that fact eminently clear. And it was equally obvious that he wanted her to know it.

  Out near the table piled with some of her more recent books, the bookstore manager was grinning and gesturing to her, a gaggle of people was standing and clapping nearby, and Lyla was frozen in place.

  Tate’s big hand dropped to her lower back, calm and steady.

  “You need another minute?” he asked. His voice was low. Concerned.

  Lyla squared her shoulders. “Nope. I’m good.”

  If she kept dropping the pen when she was signing books, then so be it. Most people understood about imperfect days, and Lyla had found out along the way that they only liked her better for having them. It helped them relate.

  So, the whole “stars are just like us” effect would just have to work in her favor now. Lyla was a professional and she wasn’t going to fight it or whine about it. She was simply going to go out there and do her job, no matter what she was feeling.

  “You sure?” Tate asked.

  “Yes.”

  His hand pressed on her back, urging her gently forward. Lyla took one step out, and then two—and then she was in full fake-it-until-you-make-it mode.

  For three long-ass hours.

  The thing was, Lyla did enjoy meeting her readers. She liked hearing what they thought of her characters and her plots, and she even liked to hear how they might have written the story differently.

  She enjoyed the way people’s different life experiences made them absorb her books in their own unique ways. And she especially loved hearing about how her books got people through their rough patches.

  What she hated about this evening, though, was how she couldn’t help looking into each of their faces with a kernel of suspicion and doubt. Lyla despised how defensive she felt, every time someone’s eyes strayed over her shoulder and landed on Tate, quiet and solid as a monument behind her shoulder.

  Could she trust their kind words, or was it all an act? Were their smiles fake? It felt like stepping into the pages of one of her own mysteries, and Lyla’s busy brain couldn’t help playing out each storyline.

  The reader did it, in the bookstore, with a letter opener they pulled from the clearance gift table.

  The author never stood a chance.

  IN THEIR RENTED SUV afterward, Tate kept studying Lyla like she was a strange new snack that might be delicious—or might give him food poisoning.

  “What,” she muttered.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he wondered, keeping one eye on the road and one on her.

  “I’m fine. Just tired,” she said. Lyla leaned her head against the cool glass of the window and told him, “It’s kind of a drag shuttling from town to town. We’re only a couple of days in and I already want to go home.”

  “I can see that,” he replied. “But you hide it well. Once you were out there, I bet no one could even tell how nervous you were.”

  “You noticed, huh?”

  “I’m supposed to. But don’t worry—I’m sure no one else did.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Getting nervous?”

  “Yeah.”

  Lyla thought about it. “I guess I always have a few butterflies. That’s normal, though, right? I want to do well, and I want people to like me enough to buy my books. And now, since Red is trusting me to help get the new imprint off the ground, I don’t want to disappoint him.”

  “Today was different, though. Because of what happened at the hotel in Newark, right?”

  Lyla blew out a long breath. “You’re right. It was tough. I kept thinking…” Then the rest of the words wouldn’t come out.

  “I know,” he said. “But you were really good with those people, Lyla. Walmart shoppers or high society—you could talk to all of them. It was really something.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Lyla…” Tate hesitated, then went on, “…it’s exhausting to keep conquering your fears over and over in order to do your job. Take it from someone who knows. You have to give yourself some downtime, too, or you’re going to flame out.”

  Lyla felt herself wilt even further into the seat. They’d barely begun, and here Tate was, already having to give her a pep talk. “It’s only for a few weeks,” she sighed.

  “That’s right. And I’m here too, Slick. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay?”

  Lyla couldn’t talk about this anymore, or she was going to break down for sure. She searched for a change in topic. “There were some real characters there today, weren’t there?”

  Thankfully, Tate accepted her 90-degree conversational veer readily. “There were. Did that one lady have a dog in that little stroller?”

  “Two tiny teacup chihuahuas. Their names were Bing and Bong
.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Apparently, she reads my books to them every day. They are big fans.”

  “Uh—”

  “Don’t ask,” Lyla laughed. “I liked the old couple toward the end, though. They were holding hands and wearing matching sweatshirts. Did you see them?”

  “I did. They were cute, but the motorcycle logos kind of threw me. I would’ve pegged them for the shuffleboard courts, not the Harley circuit.”

  “You never know,” Lyla smiled.

  They’d been super sweet and polite, and if there hadn’t been another ten people in line behind them, she might’ve gotten their contact information so she could send them something special.

  She told Tate, “I like to put people like that into my books, did you know that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People I meet. Sometimes I stick them in stories as cameos or side characters. Just for fun. I like to think of them as the ones who got away, the survivors, the happily-ever-afters that come after my part of the story is over.”

  “Lyla, that kind of rocks,” Tate grinned. “Do they know you do it?”

  “I doubt it. It’s just an inside thing for me, and they’d probably never recognize themselves, anyway. We never see ourselves how others see us, you know?”

  “True.”

  He drove for a while, watching the GPS and checking street signs while he looked for their hotel. After a while, he got pensive, though.

  “So…do I need to worry about showing up in one of your books one of these days?”

  She smiled at him. “Maybe, Birthday Boy. Do you plan on doing anything really interesting this month?”

  “I mean…look at me. I’m fascinating without even trying,” Tate scoffed.

  He had no idea. And Lyla could see just how she’d write him, too—tall, strong, capable, and studly. Hard where a woman was soft, tight and straight where she was curved…but who was she kidding?

  Lyla didn’t write biographies or odes. She wrote mysteries, and the only mystery here was whether Tate would catch on sooner or later that she was nursing the world’s most inappropriate crush on him while he tried to keep her safe.

  NINE

  INSTEAD OF SENDING them directly on to Baltimore, the next stop on Lyla’s book tour, Trident’s publicists had booked them for a second night at the hotel in Philly.

  That was fine. Tate was enjoying driving the tricked-out SUV they’d rented, but he was happy to have the break, too.

  Lyla wasn’t complaining either, that was for sure. As stressed-out as she was getting from all the stalker crap, she was probably thrilled to have the day off.

  They’d both vegged out for most of the morning—Lyla working on her laptop on her side of the suite, and Tate watching movies and emailing his buddies overseas on his. Almost exactly like they’d done yesterday—and while it might not have been the most exciting birthday he’d ever spent, at least it’d been comfortable and relaxing.

  That was probably why Tate was so startled to suddenly hear the blast of a ref’s whistle blaring loudly from Lyla’s TV now, followed almost immediately by a string of curses coming from Lyla.

  He lunged for the door that connected their rooms, but Lyla wasn’t working on her computer any longer—she was perched on the ugly hotel loveseat watching a hockey game, of all things, with a couple of beers on the coffee table in front of her and a bag of pretzels in her lap.

  “What…” Tate hesitated and reviewed the scene a second time, just in case he’d missed something—but unfortunately, it was still weird on the re-run. “What’s going on in here?” he inquired.

  “Bruh,” Lyla muttered darkly. “You told me I should have some downtime, and it’s the freaking Stanley Cup playoffs. What do you think I’m doing?”

  Tate rubbed the back of his neck. “Since when do girls watch hockey?”

  No girls he’d ever known had—though admittedly, he hadn’t been talking sports with the majority of them, and Lyla was no ordinary chick.

  Added to that, Tate had realized, somewhat recently, that he was kind of a dumbass when it came to women’s non-bedroom likes and dislikes.

  Tate tried again, “What I meant was, since when do you like hockey? Or beer, for that matter?”

  “Tate?” Lyla asked distractedly, never once peeling her eyeballs from that TV screen.

  “Yes?”

  “Fight me.”

  Okay, so maybe some women enjoyed hockey. Tate blinked, flabbergasted by the strange transformation Lyla had undergone before his very eyes.

  He told her, “I don’t think Red would care for that, actually.”

  “All right, have it your way,” Lyla scoffed. “But if you’re done talking, you may as well pull up a seat and watch. I’m not going anywhere until the Rangers have this baby in the bag.”

  Tate edged closer and kept a wary eye on her as he lowered himself slowly onto the side of the mattress. This was a new, completely unanticipated side of her, and he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.

  “Beer?” she asked, offering him a bottle from the six-pack he hadn’t noticed near her feet. He had no idea where she’d gotten it, but it was fair to say he was not on his game right now.

  “No, thanks.” And then, because Tate didn’t want to come off like a total Puritan, he added, “I’m technically working here, Lyla.”

  Right—because that sounded so much less dickish than alcohol fucks with my meds, babe.

  Lyla shrugged, then gestured to the television with her own bottle, sloshing some India pale ale onto the table in the process. “Who ya got?”

  Tate looked around for a take-out napkin or something, so he could have her wipe up that spill before it wrecked the wood of the table. “Uh…”

  “Don’t be wrong, dude.”

  “Um, Rangers?” he offered, glancing quickly at the TV. It was hard to focus on the game in progress, while also keeping an eye on Lyla’s rather sudden personality transplant.

  For lack of a better option, he got up and found the tissue dispenser near the bathroom, grabbed a few, and brought them over to her.

  “That’s right. Thank you,” she bellowed, banging her beer down on the table. “The Devils can suck it.”

  Lyla swiped the tissues from his hand and mopped haphazardly at the beer spill, then tossed the soggy mess across the room, hitting a perfect three-pointer in the trash can next to the desk.

  “Yes. That,” Tate agreed.

  It seemed possible—no, it seemed likely—that someone had managed to sneak past him and drug his formerly-well-behaved charge, turning her from a mild-mannered writer into some kind of puck punk.

  The why of that was a conundrum, of course, and he couldn’t figure out how it had happened. He’d been here all afternoon.

  “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you hesitated right there,” Lyla accused him, following the fast-paced game with avid focus. “Much more of that, and I might have to kill you off in my next book.”

  Tate took a long pause before answering. There was no pressing need to set off a potentially volatile situation, but he should probably know the answer to this question: “Lyla…I hope you’ll forgive me for asking this, but—are you drunk?”

  Lyla snorted and finally turned to him. Her eyes were a bit too bright. She toasted him and knocked back the remainder of what appeared to be her third beer, then pushed her glasses up her nose. “Only a lot. Wish I could say the same for you.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Tate couldn’t remember the last time he’d had enough booze to even feel buzzed, but this chick was flying after only three beers. There was something bizarrely charming about that, but now clearly wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

  Instead, he said, “So, I’ve met mean drunks and I’ve met sentimental ones…”

  “Don’t forget horny.”

  God. Tate absolutely could not think about Lyla drunk and horny or he would lose what was left of his mind. “Right. And those. But I�
��ve never seen this. This is…you apparently turn gangster when drunk?”

  Lyla grinned at him, and the megawatt beauty of it punched into Tate’s chest with the force of a cannonball. “It’s a thing, homie,” she said proudly.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. She was so cute and he was so screwed. Why was this happening to him?

  “No. It isn’t,” he managed to say.

  The whistle blared from the television again, and Lyla swung back around before she could volley anything back at him. “Oh, come on!” she yelled at the screen. “You big baby. Get off your ass and go sit down so the big boys can skate.”

  The problem was, in his downtime, Tate had started concocting a mental list of fantasy dates—places he’d like to bring Lyla someday if he were a different guy, and their situation was different, and she somehow magically caught the feels for him.

  However, he’d almost certainly have to scratch off hockey game now, because bringing the lunatic beside him to any live sports event was liable to get them both killed.

  For the moment, Lyla was oblivious to him. With her bare feet parked on the table and the rest of her slumped back on the couch, she was keeping up a rambling commentary on each bit of action while she munched on her pretzels.

  When he’d encouraged her to build some downtime into her book tour, he’d never envisioned this.

  At least she wasn’t cracking open another beer, though. Tate thought maybe he’d have to stop her if she did—for both of their sakes.

  As it was, he was perilously close to asking her to try using her inside voice.

  Oh, how the tables had turned. Red had probably set this whole thing up specifically to spite him.

  Tate put his hand down to steady himself, and all at once, his position in the room hit him.

  He was sitting on Lyla’s messy, unmade bed. The heavenly scent that sometimes drifted off her was everywhere, surrounding him and filling his lungs with an essence so elementally Lyla, it was like he was merging with her somehow.

  Worse still was that his hand wasn’t resting on a crisp white hotel comforter. No, under his palm, to Tate’s great dismay, was a filmy scrap of navy-blue silk and lace. Lyla’s underwear was just lying there, out in the open. Under his hand. Holy Christ.