Chapter Eight
“COME ON, BABY, you’ve got this,” Grace urged. She stood at the head of the bench press, spotting Sophie as she struggled through her last set Wednesday morning. Grace helped guide the bar onto the rack and smiled down at Sophie. “Way to go. Maybe next time you can do it like you mean it.”
Sophie rolled her eyes as she sat up and caught the towel Grace tossed to her. She wiped the sweat from her face. “Your turn, Cruella.”
“I welcome your torture,” Grace said as they switched places, and she lay on the bench. “Speaking of torture, what’s going on with your midnight leaver?”
“He’s amazing. Every. Single. Night. I swear, I feel like our friendship and all the propositions, the jokes, every conversation, were leading up to what we both secretly hoped for. I just wish he’d stay overnight.”
“So, in addition to giving you multiple orgasms and kissing you until you can’t see straight,” Grace said as she pushed the bar up, “you want him to be a mind reader?”
“No. Yes. Kind of. I mean, at what point does a guy start staying over?”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” Grace said through gritted teeth as she pushed through the last of her set.
Sophie grinned down at her, blocking the bar from the rack. “Two more for giving me crap about working out harder.”
“Whatever! I’ll do five if you’ll tell Bad boy you want him to stay overnight.”
Sophie wrestled with her emotions. “I want to ask him, but he’s got this weird thing about feeling boxed in.”
“Don’t we all?”
“I don’t. Good job. That’s three. You can stop.”
“You haven’t said you’ll tell him how you feel. I’m going to torture myself until you agree to stop torturing yourself.” She pushed the bar up again with shaky arms.
“God, you’re a pain, but thank you. I think I need you in my life.”
Grace flashed a deadpan expression. “You think?”
Sophie laughed. “He told me if he feels confined he does whatever he can to break free and things will go bad. Things are so good right now, Gracie. I don’t want to mess that up.”
“So, he’s calling before he comes over? Asking you out on dates?”
“He’s not a call-and-make-a-date kind of guy. He’s more of text-at-the-last-minute-and-show-up kind of guy.”
“And you don’t see that as a red flag?” Grace racked the bar. She sat up, and Sophie sat beside her on the bench. “Sophie, talk to me, because it’s not like you to overlook things like this.”
“Fine, but don’t judge me.”
“Do I ever?”
“No,” she admitted. Sophie looked around the gym. “You know how we have a schedule that we try to maintain, working out, going to the office, picking up groceries?”
“Yes, I call that life.”
“Right, for most of us. But look at Lindsay. She could never go into an office every day knowing she had to handle the same tasks over and over.” Her sister was an event planner and photographer, and what she loved most about her business was that every day was different. There were different people to photograph, different themes, locations. Even though her specialty was weddings and families, each job was unique.
“And she never wants a real relationship, either,” Grace pointed out.
Sophie pushed to her feet and pulled Grace up beside her, laughing when Grace pretended her arms were made of rubber. “Come on, you don’t need your arms to use the StairMaster.” As they headed for the aerobic equipment, she said, “Lindsay wants a relationship. She’s just afraid she won’t be good at it because our parents and grandparents are so good at it. I think Brett’s afraid, too, but for different reasons. Look at his family, and look at mine. From what Amanda has told me, his father lost it when his sister died. He became really mean, and their parents divorced. I’d be afraid if that happened to me, wouldn’t you?”
Grace stepped onto the machine and laid her towel over the console. “Sure. I guess you’re right. Then there are people like me. My parents are like yours, happily married since the dawn of time, and I’m in no hurry to get into a relationship.”
“Because you love your work, and it’s demanding and takes weekends and evenings, and a relationship will only add stress. Whereas my job ends when I leave the office.”
“True. But even if I didn’t work all those hours, I’m not sure I’d want a man in my life. It has nothing to do with my parents.”
“And you suffered a heartrending breakup, remember?” Sophie had been there to pick up the pieces after Grace and her first love, Reed Cross, had gone their separate ways. “Oh my gosh. You’re right. I could be way off base. Reed ruined you for all other men. Maybe some woman ruined Brett for all other women.” She hadn’t thought of that. She had no idea what relationships he’d had when he was younger, only of his refusal to have them as an adult.
“Reed didn’t ruin me. It was my decision to break up. But there are a million reasons people don’t want relationships. A person needs to be happy with who they are before they can be in a relationship and have something to offer someone else. So maybe he’s not happy with himself.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I doubt it. He’s more confident than any man I’ve ever met. I mean, he knows himself well enough to admit he could mess things up between us and that he doesn’t want to. That takes confidence.” Sophie picked up speed, huffing through her workout. “Why do I feel like, if someone did hurt him, I want to track her down and beat her up?”
“Maybe because you’re with a guy who looks and acts like he can do anything. He makes you laugh, makes you moan,” she said with a lift of her brows. “He’s at your house every night and texts you sexy stuff all the time. But he can’t give you the one thing you have always wanted.”
“Well, I’m not giving up on him. I’ve never felt this way before, and I—”
“Trust my heart,” they both said at once.
“You know I love you,” Grace said. “But if it were me saying I wanted to try to fix a man, you’d haul my butt into a bar and get me drunk. Then I’d give up, because I don’t really want a man in my life. But since we’re talking about you, and I’ve never seen you so loopy over a guy before, I’ll just say this. If he hurts you, even if it’s your fault for wanting something he may not be able to give, I’ll kill him, sexually gifted or not.”
“You won’t have to. He’s not broken or in need of being fixed. Just figured out.”
BRETT SAT IN the conference room with his management team, reviewing the security details for the upcoming concert and trying not to show his agitation at being stuck in the office at seven o’clock at night. There was no avoiding the late meeting, as coordinating a team of busy managers required flexibility. The concert was taking place in a few weeks, and with the recent attacks on public venues, they had to make sure they had all their bases covered.
“Where do we stand?” Brett pointed to his top guy, Giovanni “Gio” Amato.
Gio had worked for their company for the past seven years. With a background in terrorism detection, a decade in the military, and five years as a private investigator, he never missed a beat. He set a steady gaze on Brett, rubbed his square jaw, a mannerism that gave away his meticulous nature, and said, “We’re set. We’re taking anti-terrorism precautions on all levels. The facility is in complete lockdown when not in use. Starting three days before the event, we’ll be doing bomb sweeps every morning and night, and we’ve got a team in place to search every package delivered through the day of the event. The venue has already banned carry-in items except for purses, which will be searched. As agreed, we’ve doubled our security personnel, and every person who enters the building will get a pat-down as well as metal-detection screening. We’ve added extra camera surveillance and metal detectors on all levels, behind the scenes, and at all entrances. We’re also blocking entrances and ramps so nothing wider than a wheelchair can fit through.”
“Great, and the staff has all been put through the ringer?” Brett asked Thomas Crull, who managed security for the backstage crew. Brett glanced at his watch, his leg bouncing restlessly beneath the table. He wanted to stop and pick up a bottle of wine and grab a movie from Redbox on the way to Sophie’s. When he’d texted her earlier, she’d said she’d had a rough day at work and he hoped it might help her relax.
“We’re in solid shape,” Thomas answered. “No more hires are going to be made between now and the date of the concert, and the existing staff has been screened and validated. Backstage will be locked down, which the artist isn’t thrilled about.”
“It means he can’t line up his groupies as easily.” Brett shook his head. “I don’t give a shit if he gets pissed. No one who hasn’t been screened gets backstage.”
“Did you seriously just say that?” Thomas glanced at Gio, who smirked.
Brett knew he micromanaged the team, but after the recent public bombings, he wasn’t taking any chances.
“You should have heard the crap they said when we told them we had to check out the band members,” Thomas added.
“The artists are always the worst,” Brett said. “They think that because they’re the talent, they’re clean, but one of these days it’ll be a drummer who loses his mind.”
“Not on our watch,” Gio said.
There was a rumble of agreement and head nodding around the room. Half an hour later they wrapped up the meeting. Brett picked up a bottle of wine and a movie and hightailed it over to Sophie’s, worrying whether his staff had felt rushed, or if that was just his impatience to see Sophie getting the best of him.
When he stepped from the cab and raced up the steps to Sophie’s apartment building, her voice trailed through his mind. Don’t you ever plan anything?
He stopped at the entrance, chastising himself for not remembering to call ahead. “Fuck.”
“Excuse me?” the doorman said.
“Sorry. Forgot something.” Brett jogged back down the steps to the sidewalk and called her.
“Hey.”
The smile in her voice took his anxiety down a notch. “Hi. I, um. Are you busy tonight? I’d love to see you.”
“Um, I have a standing booty call with this guy I know…”
“Soph,” he said, and looked up at the clear night sky. “Don’t call it that.”
“Sorry. I was kidding. I’d love to see you.”
“Great, babe. See you soon.” He ended the call, and the doorman pulled open the door. He must have heard Brett’s conversation, because he gave him a thumbs-up as he passed through.
Five minutes later Sophie was in his arms, smiling into their kiss, and nothing else mattered.
When their lips parted, her hand snaked around his neck the way he’d come to adore, and she said, “I’m not done yet,” in a seductive voice that made his body, and his heart, throb.
He deepened the kiss, and the bottle of wine he’d forgotten he was holding slipped. He fumbled for it, catching it just before it hit the floor and slowing him down enough to get a good look at her. Sophie always looked gorgeous, but tonight she had on a pair of cutoffs and a simple white shirt, with a long tan cardigan that hung to her knees. She looked relaxed and comfortable, like the small-town girl she was, and it made him want to experience more of that side of her.
“You brought wine?”
He held up the movie from Redbox. “And Get Out.” The shine in her eyes made his heart feel even fuller, which he hadn’t thought possible.
She snagged the movie from his hands. “Oh my gosh. You got a movie? Suspense? You hate suspense. Wait. Do you hate suspenseful books and movies?”
He chuckled and pulled her in for another kiss. “Both, but you love it, so I can deal with it.”
She ran her fingers over the label on the wine, tempered hope brimming in her eyes. Tempered. He hated that. He wanted her to know how he felt, to count on him and take for granted that he wanted to do things just for her. His pulse quickened erratically with the direction his thoughts were taking him, but he didn’t push back. Not this time. Not when pushing back meant seeing that tempered look, which made him even more restless than he was when they were apart.
“Château Lafite Rothschild?” she asked.
“Your favorite red wine from France.”
“How did you know?” Her mouth twitched in a surprised and still hopeful smile, giving him another dose of too-much-to-handle.
“You ordered it at Mick and Amanda’s wedding, and I heard you tell the girls it was your favorite.” Mick and Amanda had gotten married last year at a bar called the Kiss, and Brett and Dylan had taken over as bartenders for part of the evening.
“And you remembered?”
“I notice and remember everything about you, even before then and every day since. I noticed the way your cheeks pinked up when I propositioned you all those times before we got together, the way you stood up straighter and your eyes squinted the tiniest bit when you were preparing to turn me down, and the way you make sighing sounds at things that must warm you or something. Why do you think I’ve got a bottle of it at my place?”
“Wait. You weren’t kidding when you said that the other night?”
“I told you I would always tell you the truth, didn’t I? I wasn’t kidding. I was hoping you’d eventually accept my proposition.”
“You bought a six-hundred-dollar bottle of wine on the hopes of making out with me?”
“No.” He swept her into his arms and touched his lips to hers. “I bought it knowing I’d never give up trying.”
“That sounds awfully committed, Mr. Bad.” She grinned up at him, and all that hope turned to something he was afraid to name.
“We’re not going to use that word, but yes, I was determined to have you, Ms. Roberts. Now, may I interest you in a movie and a bottle of wine?”
“Like a date?” She whispered the word date.
“What is it with you and labels?”
“I work in a field where we need to be very clear about our intentions.” Her expression turned serious. “Besides, a girl likes to know when she’s crossed over from booty call to something more.”
Brett clenched his hands, scared to take the plunge he avoided like the plague, not because he didn’t trust his feelings for her, but because he didn’t know how the part of him that ran from commitment like a rebellious child would react if he gave in to them.
One look in her eyes and he knew this was a step he wanted—needed—to take.
“You were never a booty call, Soph. You were always something more.”