Tess
NICK IS A jerk.
Nick is a jerk.
Nick is a jerk.
I repeat this over and over in my head as I finish my food, but it doesn’t seem to stick because honestly, I’m not so sure he is. There’s more to him than I’ve paid attention to. More to him than he lets on. A lot more to him.
Hmmm.
Once my plate is almost clean, I slide it forward. “I can’t eat another bite.”
Nick practically puffs out his chest, looking very pleased with himself. Of course he is. Did I say there was more to him? What I meant was a whole lot more arrogance.
Just as I’m about to roll my eyes, he suddenly stands. “Come with me,” he beckons, in that dominating tone of his that normally drives me mad. Tonight though, I’m only mildly annoyed by it, and even forget the eye roll all together.
Slowly, and with a slight hesitation, I get to my feet. When I don’t move fast enough, he urges me forward.
What?
Does he think he’s going to send me to bed like a child?
I’m about to turn to tell him off, to remind him he’s not here to babysit me, when he places a firm hand on my back, and I’m silenced where I stand. That thing happens again. The thing where my body feels like it’s on fire. I swear even my cheeks feel a little flushed from the flames. The non-existent ones.
Trying not to show my ridiculous schoolgirl reaction to his touch, I square my shoulders as he guides me into the living room. “What are you doing?” I finally manage to ask.
“Getting us both a well-deserved brandy.”
My eyes widen. “Ethan’s only for certain occasions brandy?”
“The very one.”
I rub my hands together in excitement. “He’s only offered me a glass once.” And that was when I showed up on Fiona’s doorstep a broken mess and told her Ansel and I were over, but I don’t tell Nick that part.
The story goes—Ethan’s grandfather was a liquor salesman, and during a business trip to the Soviet Union many, many years ago, he managed to purchase a case the very famous Jubilee Brandy of 1967. Remaining bottles of this production run are highly sought after and Ethan has six of them.
“Count yourself lucky,” Nick laughs. “I’ve known Ethan for almost ten years and the stingy bastard has only shared two glasses with me over that entire span of time. The first time when he found out he was going to be a father and the second was the night Jace’s wife died.”
Interesting.
What is the common factor that solicits the offering?
Once we cross the threshold to the living room, Nick heads to the bar cart where the crystal decanter is kept, and I head toward the couch in front of the fireplace.
I sit and watch as the actual flames from the fireplace lick their way upward. I can’t help but feel like that is what is happening to me right now. There’s a fire inside me, and for some crazy reason, Nick is stoking it with each touch, each glance, each word.
I can’t explain it.
Too much wine is the only answer.
When Nick hands me the large brandy snifter with a small amount of amber colored liquid inside it, I try to expel the feeling and find myself taking a healthy sip of the liquor to help me do so.
“Now, Tess,” Nick says with a speculative look my way.
“Yes, Nick,” I answer, and it’s then that I notice he’s slid his long, lean body onto the couch not that far away from me. I take him in. He has an ankle on one knee, his glass resting on his thigh, and I swear he looks different than I’ve ever seen him. Sure, he still looks so very confident, so very in control, but he also looks so very male. Glancing over at him makes the heat inside me spread like wildfire. And then, all of sudden, an anticipation I can’t explain emerges as I wait for him to speak.
The brandy glass has just barely left his lips when he does. “Tell me why your day was so shitty?”
Surprised he remembers I mentioned that, and more surprised he even cares, I find myself opening up to him. I quickly tell him the entire story about how I almost found my new café a home. Without thought. Without thinking about what it is Nick does for a living. Without realizing he might know Mathias Bigelow. Be his friend, even.
Pausing before I get to the end of my story to take another sip of my drink, I watch as Nick’s feature’s draw together. His eyes grow cold. His jaw tightens. And his forehead creases.
Crap.
I now really do think Mathias and him are friends. And Nick is growing angry as my story goes on because I assume he thinks I’m exaggerating it.
After a long pause, Nick seems to force his words out. “Are you telling me you met him, by yourself, earlier this evening?”
It’s not really a question, though. It’s more like an accusation.
I nod, not sure if I should stop or continue.
“And,” he snaps, as if I am the one who had done wrong by meeting the man.
Angered that his reaction is so visceral, that it seems he has sided with Mathias before even hearing me out, I go on if only to prove to him I was not the shady one.
When I get to the part where Mathias invaded my personal space, I don’t tell him I was worried about my well-being. I don’t tell Nick, though, not because I am uncertain about his relationship with Mathias Bigelow, but rather because what happened makes me look weak. And the one thing I never want to be is weak, especially in front of a man.
My father was a man of God and believed strongly that a dutiful wife did as she was told. My mother believed the same and never spoke up. Perhaps if she’d spoken up, if she hadn’t been so weak, her and my father would still be alive. She didn’t want to go on the mission trip to Nigeria, but he insisted. She said it was dangerous. He said they’d be fine. They were killed two days after arriving by a local terrorist organization.
Shutting out the pain, I finish the story by telling Nick I strode out of the rental space without signing anything and headed back here. Then I add, “And I’d been sitting where you found me at the island ever since, mulling everything over.”
A low hiss escapes Nick’s lips. “Did he touch you? Hurt you in anyway?”
Immediately, I glance away. I don’t want any weakness to slip through my already cracking façade because no, he didn’t physically hurt me, he just scared me, and that angers me. Really angers me.
“Tess, look at me.”
Though his tone is gentle, there is no mistaking the command in his voice. I’m not accustomed to obeying men, and yet, I give him what he wants, and look his way.
Nick’s gaze is hard. “Did he?” he repeats.
I shake my head. “No, but he did get really close to me. Close enough that he gave me cause to never want to meet with him alone again.”
Everything about Nick goes stiff. “That son of a bitch!”
Without thought, I reach out and place my hand on his thigh. “Nick, really, I’m fine.”
The doubt remains evident in his stare.
Through the thumping beat of my heart, I try to find the right words. I have to remove my hand from his leg to do so. It’s as if the illicit touch was almost too much to stay focused on the conversation. “To be honest,” I tell him, “I’m just pissed at myself for allowing myself to be put in a situation like that. I’m normally much more careful about who I meet with and where.”
Nick mutters something under his breath that I can’t comprehend. His expression is practically murderous as he shifts his gaze from where my hand had been mere moments ago up to my face.
“Nick?” I whisper, wondering what he is thinking.
There is fire in his brilliant blue eyes, and he looks like he might explode at any second. “You have to give me a minute,” he mutters.
Not quite understanding his disposition, I do so anyway.
He visibly inhales and exhales through his nose as if trying to calm himself in what I perceive to be a much-practiced manner.
I find his coping method interesting. Different than I’d have thought. I watch him for the second time tonight. He really is a beautiful man.
Dark and brooding—yes.
Authoritative—yes.
Arrogant—absolutely.
Yet, it doesn’t stir fear inside me. No, not at all. In fact, right now, the only thing I feel is safe. Safe, in that he would never do what Mathias did. Safe in that I can talk to him and tell him how I feel. Safe, in that he somehow understands me.
After another sip of my brandy, I set the glass down and attempt to break the silence. “The thing is, that location is the only place in the area I can afford.”
Nick sets his own glass down and startles me when he reaches for my arms and pulls me close to him to look me directly in the eyes. “Right now, I’m not sure if I should go beat the shit out of Bigelow for what he did to you or spank your ass until it turns red for still considering getting in bed with the devil.”
Wide eyed, I swallow hard. But again, this is not fear. Not fear at all. I should be repulsed by his threat. I’m not. I’m actually somehow turned on by his chivalry. And how screwed up is that?
Obviously, I had read this situation completely wrong at the start of our conversation because it is clear Mathias Bigelow and Nick Carrington are anything but friends.
“I have a place I can show you tomorrow,” he says.
The declaration throws me for a loop. “No, I don’t think that’s a good—”
Nick cuts me off before I can finish. “It’s an old print shop that I’ve been saddled with for a while. The place needs a lot of work, and you’d be doing me a favor by taking it off of my hands. Besides, the rent is cheap.”
As I stare into Nick’s eyes, I consider his offer. I weigh the issues. The biggest being that this time I want to do this on my own. Because of this, I should say no. I probably shouldn’t say yes. Yet, cheap is exactly what I need, and besides he wouldn’t be involved. I glance away, and then I quickly glance back. Words hover on the tip of my tongue, and finally I say them. “Okay, you can show me the property tomorrow, but no strings.”
Nick gives me a nod. “No strings.”
That nod that used to infuriate me is now making my pulse race.
What the hell?
With the touch of his fingertips searing through the fabric of my top, all I can think is—what is happening here?
I have no answer.
After he tells me a little bit about the rental space, I thank him and then stand to head to bed. He follows behind me. Upstairs, I turn to look at him before I enter my bedroom, and as I watch him close his door, I can’t help but wonder what he and I are becoming.
Friends?
Not quite.
Business Associates?
Perhaps.
More?
Just maybe.