Goddammit.
I stand on the bottom step and watch her. Watch the woman who showed up looking nothing like the Sidney I know and exactly like the one I would want to know. She’s wearing blue jeans and a yellow tank top. Her hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail. She looks like she belongs in our neighborhood—in this house—drinking beer from a bottle instead of wine from crystal in the palace she comes from.
Even worse, I want her.
I’ve sat here all night long, begging myself to hate her, when all I can think about is how much I fucking want her.
Doesn’t that make me the asshole?
This is on her. Every single fucking part of it.
She staged the kiss. She planted the picture. She’s here to sweet talk me into doing the damn photo shoot for her. She’s here to ease her own goddamn guilt because her manipulations hurt my son.
She. She. She. She. Can’t say it surprises me.
Well, screw that.
Isn’t that the problem, though? That’s what I want.
Christ. I’m doing nothing but running myself in circles. I rake a hand through my hair and remind myself I’ve walked down this road before. I paid the price. Luke is still paying the price for it.
Still, what I can’t quite wrap my mind around is why she didn’t bail? She really sounded like she cared about Creepers and Villagers and Steve Blocks when I thought she’d be out the goddamn door the minute I told her Luke didn’t know the picture in the paper was of her.
I study her as she cleans up the figures and hate that she looks like she belongs here. In my house. At my table. The normalcy of the moment. It’s a blatant slap in the face of what exactly I’m missing in my life . . . what I’m making Luke miss out on, and it erodes the desire eating away at me.
When I clear my throat, she drops the last handful into the bucket and turns my way—lips parted, cheeks pink, eyes surprised.
“You can stop pretending you like him now. Your guilt can be absolved. You can go.”
“But I do like him.” She rises from her seat and takes a few steps toward me.
“Cut the act, Princess.”
“What’s your problem, Malone? I came here because I heard about Luke and I felt bad that something I did hurt him.”
“You mean the photo you staged and the article you planted to save your ass.”
“I did no such thing. You kissed me. You said things that made my head spin, and then you ran out.”
“And then you followed me out and kissed me again.”
“You’re blaming this on me?” she shrieks.
“Shoe fits?” I take a step closer to her.
Her laugh grates on my nerves. “My bad. Only the man is allowed to initiate a kiss? How foolish of me to think otherwise.”
I disregard her logic, too blinded by my own anger to hear her. “You knew there were photographers there.”
“So did you,” she grits between her clenched teeth as we stare at each other, our tempers thickening the air around us.
“The difference is that I did what I did behind a closed door. You did it to set me up.”
She rolls her eyes and has me clenching my teeth. “That’s bullshit. But you keep thinking what you want to think, Grayson. I didn’t make you kiss me, and I didn’t set up photographers. I didn’t plant a story.”
“No, but you manipulated this whole goddamn town into making me be in this contest when I don’t want to.”
“It sounds to me like your own brothers did that to you by entering you, so maybe you should take it up with them.”
Her smart-ass comment tees me off. “What the fuck more do you want from me? You’ve already gotten what you wanted. I told you I’d participate, and you’ve made certain with the little party that I can’t back out . . . so I’ll ask you again, why did you come here tonight? What more do you want from me?” My body vibrates with anger as I stare at her and wait for an answer.
“I didn’t know the photo was taken. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You’re goddamn right you weren’t.”
She grits her teeth again and takes a second before she speaks. “I kissed you because I wanted to. I kissed you because you left me in that office and the only thing I wanted was more. I was so angry about what you said, that I just acted.” She clears her throat, and I want to believe her. I want to see sincerity in those brown eyes of hers. And I want to ignore every part of my libido that’s listening to her tell me she wants more. “I should have remembered there were cameras. I should have realized this place is nothing but one giant gossip mill. I should have thought about Luke and how he would feel if he found out about it. Hurting him was not my intention, and I’m sorry for not thinking.”
“Yeah, well, women like you never think about anyone but themselves. I know that firsthand.” It’s out of my mouth before I can take it back—a swipe at Claire when it’s Sidney standing before me. And before I can force the apology from my lips she speaks.
“Screw you, Grayson.”
There’s hurt in her eyes I can’t ignore this time. The desire to kiss her is so overwhelming that I hate myself for it.
Is she telling the truth? I don’t know.
All I know is she’s standing before me not afraid to go toe-to-toe with me, which makes me think she’s telling me the truth. If this were only about her and her wants, then why is she still here fighting with me? Wouldn’t she have bolted at the first sign of conflict?
Back away, Gray.
I take a step toward her.
“We can’t do this,” I murmur as I reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear. Wanting to touch her. Needing to. Hating myself for giving in to her.
“Whoever hurt you, she really did a number on you, didn’t she?” I shake my head to reject her words. “I’m not her, Grayson. I’m not Claire.” Her voice is soft—tentative and yet somehow resolute. But my face must reflect my surprise. “I ran into Cathy Clementine today. She’s the one who told me about the fight and Luke, and she gave me the gist of what Claire did to you and Luke, and there’s nothing more I can say about it other than I’m sorry . . . but I’m not her.”
I hear her. I know she’s right. Yet, I don’t trust myself to believe it just yet. “I know.”
Our eyes hold in that suspended state just before a kiss when you know you’re going to do it but know you shouldn’t.
When I brush my lips against hers, it’s so different from the kisses we shared the other day. There’s no anger. There’s no retribution. There’s just my need to connect with someone—with her. There’s my need to feel like a man she wants rather than a man to fix her problems.
Her lips are soft. Her tongue is warm. And after her initial hesitation, when she moves into me, I know I’m so fucking screwed it isn’t even funny.
She tastes like heaven and hell. Like want and need. Like deception and desire.
My hands cup her cheeks, hold her head steady as I sip and take and taste in a slow and silent seduction of senses. Every part of me wants more in this dangerous hand of poker I know I can’t win.
But hell if I don’t want to go all in.
“Dad?” Luke’s voice calls from the top of the stairs. We freeze. My hands on her cheeks. My forehead resting against hers. Our breaths held. Cold water on a fire just lit.
I clear my throat. “Be right there.”
But we don’t move. It’s almost as if it’s the first time we haven’t been at odds and we don’t want to ruin it.
Either that or it’s regret dropping like a lead weight between us.
“We can’t do this.” It’s her that whispers it this time. It’s her telling me we need to take a step back. But neither of us moves. “This has to stop before it starts.”
This time she says the words and takes a step back. Her eyes well with tears I don’t understand, and her fingertips reach up to touch her lips.
Seconds tick.
Pass.
Stretch.
And then she skirts around me and walks out the door.
“This has to stop before it starts.”
I watch her back as she jogs down the steps and know that she misspoke.
It has already started.