“We always have a choice. But you have a soft spot for vulnerable women. I’ve seen it before.”
“Don’t ever ask Trippi to lie to me. He won’t, but it puts him in a bad spot. Especially since he’s fond of his balls.” He reaches over and tugs on my hair, stealing a fry off my plate, while he’s at it.
I swat his hand away from my food. “The last thing I want are his balls.” But my instincts are right not to trust him to keep his mouth shut.
Gray gets up to grab another sandwich. “I asked you to come upstairs and wait for me.”
“Actually, you told me to go upstairs and wait. It might be just semantics, but there was no asking and a lot of telling. Trippi might have gotten the gist of it wrong, but I doubt it.”
He deposits a handful of fries on my plate before sitting down. “You were my guest. When I—”
“It was the right thing to do,” I interrupt, before he goes any further down that road and I end up wanting to smack him. “You own the place, yet when something needs to get done, regardless of what it is, you pitch in. Your woman would do that too. Besides, I can run that dining room in my sleep.”
“My woman, huh?” There’s a small smile playing on his lips.
“Isn’t that what we want the world to believe?”
He doesn’t respond, and all of a sudden, he seems faraway and broody again.
I rest my plate on the small table between us, and close my eyes, enjoying the breeze. It’s been a long day, filled with new experiences and bits and pieces of information that I need to hold onto. No wonder I’m tired.
“Am I a monster?”
What? My eyes shoot open, and I turn my head toward him.
I need him to repeat the question, before I go anywhere near it. What if I nodded off and completely misunderstood? “I’m sorry. I missed part of that.”
“No, you didn’t. You’re just not sure how to answer.” He snickers. It has a ring of sadness to it. “You’re probably the wrong person to ask.”
Monster? Where did this come from?
“I’m exactly the right person.” I respond too quickly and reflexively, almost as though I’m gearing up to defend him—but against what? Himself?
“I’ve seen a lot of sides to you, Gray. And I’m the right person to ask because I’ll tell you the truth.” I shrug. “When I worked at the club, I saw mostly good in you—toward everyone. But once I left, you were ugly to me. And now?” I gaze up at him. “Some of your behavior has been downright deplorable, and confusing, to be honest. But no, I don’t think you’re a monster. Far from it. That’s why I agreed to join you in a mission.”
“You agreed?” The cords in his neck are so tight, I can see them under the dim light. This is the broodiest he’s ever been around me. “Is that what we’re calling coercion now?”
“Yes. I agreed. I’ve been clear about that. Your threats got my attention, but they didn’t play any role in the final decision. I’m not afraid of you. I never have been.” I get up and reach for my plate, but Gray grabs hold of my arm, and pulls me into his lap. There’s something about his mood that guts me.
“Sit here with me for a minute. Let me enjoy the way your hair and skin smell. The way you feel. All soft, and at the same time strong. You’re such a contradiction. It’s beguiling.”
I curl into him, laying my cheek against his hammering heart, and close my eyes. He’s a contradiction too. Maybe we’re made for each other.
His heart eventually slows to a beat that feels familiar. “What did you get for dessert?” he asks after several minutes of just quietly being together.
“You want dessert?”
“I thought you might.”
“It was pecan pie. And it was delicious.” I feel his shoulders shake before I hear the laughter. A great relief washes through me. This is the man I know—the version of him that I like best. “It was getting late, and it’s not like you keep any food in the house. I didn’t want to pick at the chicken salad. I was saving it until you got home.” Home. Why did I say that? This isn’t my home.
“I don’t want dessert.” He holds me tight, so I can’t move, and kisses my head. “Make a list of things you think we should have in the apartment. Next time someone goes to the market, they’ll pick it up.”
A list of things we should have in the apartment. Not I should have, but we should have.
It’s pretend, Delilah. All pretend. You’d do well to remember that.
I should probably leave it alone, but his heart was heavy when he came in tonight. I can’t believe whatever was on his mind is gone completely. “What made you ask if you were a monster?” I ask, rubbing his chest lightly.
He doesn’t respond immediately, and after a couple minutes I’m convinced he isn’t going to respond at all. But sometimes it takes a little extra time to collect the courage to bare your soul.
“Laurel didn’t want to tell me she was pregnant. She needs the health insurance and thought if I knew, I’d find a reason to fire her.” Gray lifts my chin until our eyes meet. “Am I so shallow that someone who works for me would think I’d fire her because she’s pregnant?”
There’s something about him that looks vulnerable. I’m sure he wants my reassurance, but the truth is, in her shoes, I would have been concerned too.
“Pregnant women have a whole host of hormonal things going on that neither you nor I can appreciate. Hell, Gabby once cried at a commercial for a feminine hygiene product. But I can understand why Laurel was worried,” I say gently.
He stiffens under me, and I feel terrible about hurting him, but I’m not going to lie. That serves no purpose. “It’s not you, Gray. Wildflower is a carefully crafted fantasy. Everything about it is beautiful and decadent—even the part that’s above ground. You sell sex. A big belly and swollen ankles are a repellent to the kind of sin you peddle. They’re the result of sin, a warning of what’s to come when you partake in the fun, not an enticement.”
“I’m a perfectionist and I demand loyalty. But I was always under the impression that my employees understood that their loyalty would be returned. I’ve always tried to do right by them. It’s important to me.”
“While I worked at Wildflower,” I say, sincerely, “I always had the impression that everyone adored you, despite your exacting ways. You’re good to people who work there. You do it quietly—like going in the ambulance with Laurel without making a big deal.”
I pull his face toward mine, until my lips reach his. It’s not the kind of kiss that’s big and sexy—it’s the kind that says I’m on your side.
“You’re a good soul, Delilah.”
His mouth meets mine, with a raw energy that stokes the sleeping fire. He sinks his teeth into my bottom lip, sending jolts of pleasure through me. When I begin to pant, he slides a hand under my shirt, caressing one breast, then the other. Not sweet, gentle caresses, but firm, skilled strokes that demand my nipples furl in appreciation.
“What are we going to do about the little lapse tonight?” he murmurs.
My brain is in a fog. Between his sexy mouth and those hands—I’m a muddled mess. “What little lapse?”