Ronan
She plays for another hour. When I leave the room, working in my office, she plays even better, as if not having my direct attention gives her the freedom to get even more lost in the music. The sound carries beautifully through my apartment, and for the first time since I moved in, my home feels alive.
I’ve held parties with musicians, but it was never like this—as if I’m listening to Daisy and feeling her at the same time.
I’m a fool for letting myself get so enamored by it. Or by her. I don’t even know the girl.
The entire time she plays, I stare at the computer screen in my office. Emails and reports coming in from my team, but I don’t move to respond. The truth is, I don’t need to work anymore. There is nothing at my company that requires my attention, expertise, or time, but I do it because I don’t know what I’d do without it. That silence is the same demon I fight at night when I try to sleep. Both haunt me with painful memories and I’d rather drown them out with things I can manipulate, like money, work, and sex.
And today, I’ve discovered that having a twenty-something-year-old playing the piano in my apartment has the same effect. If not, more so.
I’m coming to grips with something pathetic, and that’s that I don’t want her to leave. I haven’t even slept with the woman and I’m thinking of ways to get her to stick around longer. Does that make me a creep?
Not that I wouldn’t sleep with her. Those beautiful long legs of hers wrapped around my waist has riddled my mind nonstop for the last twenty-four hours, but I won’t make a move. Not on this one.
I’m a man who takes what he wants. I’m hardly ever told no, and there’s nothing out of my reach.
But with Daisy, things feel different. She needs me. Well, she needs someone, and I’m in the position to help her. And so, what if I like helping her? If we make it physical, then it would only complicate things. Not to mention, I’d lose interest almost immediately.
It’s a defense mechanism, really. When there’s no real way to tell if someone is interested in me or my money, it never ends well. Having my heart broken so many times has formed a callous around it.
I am emotionally bankrupt.
The sudden silence catches my attention, stealing me from my depressing thoughts. The soft pad of her footsteps carry down the hall as she comes to find me. I’m out of my chair and walking toward her faster than I mean to.
She’s peering into empty rooms, her tight black leggings catching my eye. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier pair of legs in my life.
When she turns around to find me staring, I watch her expression for a sign. Do I repulse her? Frighten her? I might be dreaming here…but do I interest her?
There’s a slight upturn of her lips when our eyes meet, as if she’s happy to see me. Then silence stretches out between us for a few moments before she speaks, and I find myself hanging on in anticipation for what she might say.
“I’m sorry. You probably want me out of your house,” she mutters quietly. “I didn’t realize it’s already two in the afternoon.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask playfully.
“Well, I have to work at eight,” she replies with a cheeky grin.
“You’re not sleeping in your van again.”
I watch her expression harden. “Am I being kidnapped right now?”
“You drove yourself here.” I lean my arm against the wall, maintaining my smile.
“I’m serious, Ronan. I can’t impose.”
“You’re not imposing. I have the space, and you need it. Stay warm. Stay safe. End of discussion.”
Her eyes take on that sweet, playful look, and I’m fighting the urge to pin her against this wall and kiss that innocence right off her face.
I’ve been around long enough to know when a woman is playing with me, and I can see it in Daisy’s eyes, just how much she likes to pretend to be meek and naive simply to push my buttons.
“Yes, Da—” she starts to say, but I press my hand over her mouth to stop her from finishing that sentence. It might be a joke to her, but it’s certainly not one to me. She doesn’t want to know just how much that phrase affects me.
When I pull my hand away, her lips fight a smile. “Sorry.”
“Are you hungry?” I ask, changing the subject.
“A little,” she replies.
With that, I lead her to the kitchen, motioning for her to walk in front of me. Agatha has stepped out to do the shopping, but I can manage lunch. I pull up my sleeves and wash my hands at the sink. Daisy leans against the kitchen counter, eyeing me with interest. As if me washing my hands is the most intriguing thing she’s ever watched.
“Are you making me lunch?” she asks with a smile.
“Hey, I’m a good cook.”
“Don’t you have someone to do your cooking?” she asks.
On my way to the fridge, I shrug. “I don’t have time to cook every meal, but I enjoy it when I can. It’s calming to me.”
“Can I help?” she asks, watching me pull the onions and meat out of the fridge.
“Sure,” I reply, gesturing to the cutting board leaning against the backsplash. “Slice these onions.”
With a nod, she pulls the large knife from the block and gets to work slicing the onions on the board. I catch her looking back at me while I season and form two hamburger patties on a piece of wax paper. When I notice her quietly giggling, I smile.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “You’re nothing like I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me,” I say, pulling the skillet from the rack over the range and setting it on the burner. As I turn the dial on the stove, it clicks a couple times before the flame gives an audible whoosh. I’m standing close to her as I grab a handful of the sliced onions and drop them into the skillet. After a moment, they begin to sizzle as Daisy hides her dimpled cheeks.
“I just find it weird that I’m helping cook burgers in the middle of the day with the richest guy in Briar Point.” Then she shifts her hips, turning to face me as she adds, “And you haven’t tried to sleep with me once.”
Our eyes meet for a moment before I force myself to shift away, looking down at the sautéing onions in the pan. Even while I add salt and a little sherry, I’m letting her words linger, thinking about the right way to respond to them.
Does she want me to try and sleep with her?
“Say something, Ronan. It was just a joke.”
I could crack a joke in return. Make light of the conversation. Instead, I shoot for honesty.
“I don’t bring women home, Daisy. It’s why I have my own room at the club. I didn’t bring you home to try and get into your pants. I could have done that at Salacious.”
Her smile falters for a moment. When she turns back toward me, her expression is laced with curiosity. “You have a private room at the club?”
“Yes. You didn’t know that?”
“No. I’ve never even been in one of the rooms.”
A deep chuckle rumbles through my chest. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope. So, wait. You don’t bring women home?”
“No.”
“Why not?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious. “This place is very impressive.”
“Because…” I reply, reaching for the salt, “I don’t want to.”
After the onions are done, I grill the burgers in the same pan, letting the aroma fill the room. Daisy starts humming after taking a long inhale. “Smells delicious.”
When I turn back toward her, I notice she’s sitting on the countertop, her legs dangling off the edge, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from thinking very inappropriate things. How I’d love to drape them over my shoulders, feel her soft thighs against my ears and see just how good she tastes between them.
I wonder if she’s a timid lover, moaning sweetly, or if she’s wild and bold, unafraid to ask for what she wants. Considering how sweet she is now, I’d like to think she’s the opposite in bed. The idea of her digging her fingers in my hair to pull my mouth harder against her has my dick twitching just thinking about it.
Filthy images of her start racing through my mind. The thought of making her come so many times, she’s soaked and aching. The sounds she would make while taking my cock down her throat. The way she would look tied to my bed, squirming and begging for relief.
There’s something about this girl—she’s as sweet as she is fiery. I could have some fun finding all the ways to make her feel good, and I know I’d love every single second of it.
I’m growing hard behind my zipper, and I feel like shit for it. She has no idea that currently in my head, I’m licking my way into her perfect little cunt.
And it’s going to stay that way—in my head.
When the burgers are done, I serve them with leafy lettuce on a grilled bun. With the first bite, she lets out a husky sounding moan, and my dick twitches in my pants. I guess I just got my answer.
At this moment, I decide that I’m not going to let this woman out of my sight. I may not be trying to fuck her, but I’m too addicted to the sight of her devouring the food I’ve cooked to let her go.
“You’re staying here,” I say, not giving a shit that I sound like a fucking caveman.
She’s dabbing her mouth with a napkin when her eyes go wide and she stares at me in shock.
“You’ve made that pretty clear.”
“No charge. No obligations. You can stay as long as you’d like. But I don’t want you sleeping in that van anymore.”
Her brows pinch together in worry as she swallows her food and grabs a glass of water to wash it down. For a long time, she stares forward, as if the lunch on her plate holds the answers. “We don’t even know each other.”
With that, I lean back in my chair and level my gaze on her. “Okay, Daisy. What do you want to know?”
For the next few minutes, we volley innocent questions back and forth. She tells me she’s from a small town in Indiana and moved out here in January to start an adventure of her own. She asks about my company, and I explain in far too few words that I own a conglomerate holding company, but that clearly loses her interest quickly, so I shoot back with a trivial question of my own—or at least one that I thought was trivial.
“What’s your favorite book?”
The question catches Daisy off guard. Her head turns up and she stares at me with a furrowed brow and a slightly turned-down mouth.
“Just one?”
“Yes.”
The expression of contemptuous disapproval doesn’t leave her face.
“You can’t possibly expect me to answer that,” she replies with a bite in her tone.
I lean forward, setting my glass down on the table. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not a fair question. What’s your favorite book?”
“A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway,” I reply without hesitation.
She looks affronted. “Really?”
“Yes…” Now I’m confused.
“No matter what mood you’re in?”
“Yes…”
“Out of all the books in the world,” she asks, eyes bulging.
“Well, I haven’t read all the books in the world, but out of the ones I have read…yes, that is my favorite.” My eyes squint, staring at her with scrutiny.
“Well, I think asking someone to pick just one is a little rude. I could tell you my childhood favorite. Or my comfort book. Or my favorite contemporary or my favorite classic. My favorite poetry book or my favorite fiction.”
A smile creeps across my face as she continues, verbally reprimanding me for asking such an unfair question before detailing each of her favorites with delicate precision. Anne of Green Gables, and Jane Eyre, and The Handmaid’s Tale, and The Great Gatsby.
I can’t take my eyes off her. Suddenly, she’s melting into the dining room chair, her legs pulled to her chest, as she goes on and on and on.
I soak up every single word.
