Hey is the text I get from a number I don’t recognize.
I pause under the canopy of Lottie’s Bookstore and Coffee Shoppe. I only give my cell out to priority clients and friends.
Who is this? I send.
It’s me. What are you doing right now?
I text out a reply. I’m super busy rewatching SpongeBob SquarePants, the Band Geek episode. You got my drugs? Me and my frat bros are waiting. Bring the good stuff this time.
Is this the episode where Squidward tries to impress his fancy cousin?
Okay, they know their SpongeBob. Wrong number, weirdo.
I throw my phone inside my leather satchel and walk inside and take my favorite table. The scent of coffee washes over me, and I inhale deeply.
When the waitress comes, I settle for a cup of apple cider. I study my appearance in the window, and excitement tingles over me. Today’s meeting is with Mr. Jones, my first art client.
I fix the layered bangs I impulsively decided to cut last night, then apply more red lipstick. My cream silk blouse features a keyhole front, a vintage Versace piece from a secondhand shop. My black pencil skirt has a high waist and a gold belt. My leather ankle booties are scuffed but sturdy. My hair is up in a loose chignon, and my eyes are heavy with smoky eye shadow and black eyeliner.
I adjust in my seat. At fifteen weeks pregnant, I still have no noticeable bump, and all my clothes fit. My nausea has eased, my energy has spiked, but the moodiness still lingers. I guess it will until the end.
“Hello, Francesca. It’s good to see you.”
That voice. Soft and uncertain.
My heart stutters, and it takes several beats for me to move my eyes from the window to the man. I swallow thickly at his swept-back dirty-blond hair, the sapphire-blue eyes that always showed every emotion he felt.
“Levi?”
He tucks a hand inside a pair of stylish skinny jeans. A tentative smile curls his lips. “In the flesh. How long has it been?”
My cup rattles as I place it back on the saucer. “Um, years.”
“Yeah. Too long.” His shoulders do that hitching thing, where one rises fast and quick on one side, his nervous tell.
I clasp my hands in my lap and focus on appearing cool. “What are you doing in town?”
“I moved back last year. My dad passed away, and Mom wasn’t in the best of health, so it seemed like the right thing to do.” Before I can protest, he takes a seat across from me, then signals the waitress.
“I’m sorry about your dad.” I tap my fingers on the lace tablecloth as realization dawns. “You don’t seem surprised to see me. You’re Mr. Jones?”
A slow blush creeps up his face. “Mr. Darden and I met a few years ago at an art gala in France. He sent me the email. I’m assuming he didn’t realize our history.”
He doesn’t. “Well, let’s hope the rest of my exes didn’t get the email.”
“I was shocked to see your name there.” He winces. “Not because you wouldn’t be a great art dealer; I was just surprised to see it in black and white. I couldn’t pass up the chance to see you. I thought if you knew it was me, you wouldn’t meet with me. Forgive me.”
As always, he’s apologetic and sweet. On the surface. Perhaps it goes deeper. I don’t know.
Our eyes cling for long moments until the connection is broken by the waitress. He orders an espresso, then turns back to me. “I should have just called the number Mr. Darden sent and asked if it was okay to see you.”
I prefer to be prepared when seeing the man who broke my heart, yes. “I don’t like surprises, Levi. Besides, I thought you said it all in Rhode Island years ago.”
He rakes a hand through his hair, then hitches his shoulders. “We’re both living in the same city. We used to be friends, Francesca. Good ones.” He dips his head, a soft chuckle coming from him. “I still laugh about the time we got married with a bubble ring—then it wouldn’t come off your finger. No one would help you, and I gave in and stuck your hand in a bucket of ice.”
“Hmm.”
He smiles. “Then there was the time you were convinced a rat was in your room. You made me take part of a wall in the attic down to the studs. All we found were mouse bones.”
A small twitch comes from my lips. “Those were some freaky bones. So tiny.”
“You made me bury them far from the house.”
I sigh, pushing those memories away. I focus on the ugly parts. “How’s Maribelle?” I saw on Insta where they’d moved to Europe after college. In the early years of our breakup—if you can call it that—I used to keep up with him on my socials.
“She’s married to a vineyard owner. Happily.”
His espresso arrives, and he takes a sip. His lashes lower. “We broke up years ago. She wasn’t you. No one really was. You were the perfect muse, Francesca.”
I stiffen. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Even when it’s true?” A wistful smile flashes over his face. “First love. My muse. It’s hard to forget, Francesca.”
I stare into his soulful eyes. I chew on my lip, my gaze brushing over his shoulders, the blue sweater he’s wearing under a leather jacket. I used to lean on those shoulders as we stared up at the sky from my window in the attic. I stare at his hands, the fingers that used to trace the outline of my skin from head to toe as he memorized me.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For all of it.”
Emotion pricks at me, threatening to spill over. I swallow, my throat tight. I didn’t mean to fall for my foster brother all those years ago, but I did.
Artistic and dreamy, Levi was the son of the affluent family I lived with for three years. My social worker promised they lived in a dollhouse, and I didn’t believe it until she drove up the driveway to their restored lavender-and-baby-blue Victorian. Three stories high with tall windows, wraparound porches, and a square tower that rose out of the center of the structure—nothing about it was subtle. I wanted to live there forever.
They gave me a room in the attic, a fancy canopied bed, designer clothes, and sketching pads and pencils. They enrolled me in private school, and I managed to make friends. I even liked his dad, one of the few males I trusted. His mother was kind, his little sister a joy, and, well, Levi—I think my young heart fell for him instantly. I’d never met anyone who loved art as much as I did.
I let my guard down and slept without worry.
The sun rose in his eyes.
The stars twinkled for him.
Oh, it was a foolish kind of love, but I believed he felt it too.
It all came to a halt when Levi’s mother caught us having sex in the boathouse the summer before his senior year in college. He was twenty, and I was sixteen and enthralled with making love with him. We’d been doing it since I was fifteen, him sneaking in my room or vice versa.
I remember scrambling to cover myself with his shirt as his mother said horrible things—that I wasn’t good enough, that he was toying with me, that he had a girlfriend at college. Maribelle.
He didn’t stop her when she packed my bags and called CPS. I stared at the dollhouse as the social worker drove me away, weeping the entire way to the group home.
Everything I’d known for three years was ripped away. The best home I ever had.
“Francesca?”
I glance up.
“I didn’t come to ambush you.” His fingers draw patterns on the tablecloth. “I’ve kept up with you. I saw your engagement announcement, but I don’t see a ring.” His gaze lands on my left hand. “But then some people don’t wear them.”
“We broke up.”
He tries to take my hand, but I ease it away. “Don’t.”
His head dips as a long exhale comes from his chest. “The day you came to see me in Providence, I should have followed you when you left. I was in shock. I didn’t expect to see you, and I flaked.”
Oh yes. That.
My lips curl. “You should have seen your face when I walked in your apartment with my ragged jeans and pink hair.”
“Francesca—”
“And Maribelle? She literally called me an urchin. Who talks like that?”
“Uptight girls from Connecticut.”
I glance away from him. Eighteen and fresh out of the group home, I’d tracked him down, caught a Greyhound, and shown up unannounced. Once I saw her with him, it was finally finished. It was a relief to let him go. I could stop dreaming. I could stop loving. I moved on, went to art school, got my apartment, and buried my heart deep, sleeping my way through a long string of Levi types. Edward fit that bill.
Clarity hits. Is that why I never completely committed to my relationship with him? I huff under my breath. Edward is a bastard for cheating, but he was right about him not being what I wanted. I must have been insane. Or lonely.
He takes my hand. This time I don’t pull away, part of me curious if there’s any feeling left. “My parents insisted I keep my distance. I was too old for you, but you were so beautiful that I—”
“Francesca?” comes another man’s voice, one who’s just stepped into the store and walked to our table. I tear my eyes off Levi. Tuck’s wearing black joggers and a tight long-sleeved workout shirt, and his hair is tousled from the wind outside and hangs around his stark cheekbones.
A small laugh comes from me, and when I speak, my voice is teasing. “Hey. I was here first. Did you follow me this time?”
His green eyes skate over my face, taking in my features one by one, lingering on my mouth. His gaze narrows in on my hand in Levi’s. He smiles. “Or did you know I like this bookstore? They have great protein shakes. I get two a week.”
“I’ve been coming here long before you showed up. My tea, remember?”
“Sweetheart, I found this place when I first moved here fourteen years ago. Stop stalking me.” He smiles, slow and easy, then leans down with a palm on the table. His massive body fills up the space as his fingers toy with my locket. “I figured out where I’ve seen this.”
“Where?”
Ignoring that, he touches my cheek. “You look fucking magnificent, Princess. It’s been a while, and I’ve missed you.”
A blush crawls up my cheeks. I’ve missed our walks. The random chitchat. The brush of his shoulder against mine.
Before I can rear back, he brushes his lips over my cheek, then purrs in my ear, “Just when you think I’ll zig, I zag.”
I sputter and pull my hand from Levi’s.
“Who’s your friend?” Tuck says.
“Levi, an old friend of Francesca’s,” he says tightly. “And you’re Tuck Avery, right? Player for the Pythons?”
“Hmm,” Tuck murmurs as he grabs a chair from a table nearby and sits down at the end. “Mind if I join you?”
“By all means,” I say dryly.
Levi stiffens. “Actually, we were in the middle—”
“Lori, I’ll have a green smoothie,” Tuck calls out to the waitress who’s at the counter. He gives her a blinding smile, and she titters and gives him a thumbs-up.
“Apparently, you know every waitress’s name in Manhattan,” I say.
He smiles. “I’m a charmer.”
But underneath, darkness simmers. I sense it on the verge of spilling over. I like that about him. The shadows.
“Now, what were you saying?” Tuck murmurs as he places his elbows on the table. “Oh, yeah, you and the princess know each other . . .”
“Princess?” Levi asks.
I take a sip of my cider, ignoring Tuck and Levi’s question.
Tuck nods knowingly. “Yeah, man. Pet names usually follow after sex.”
My mouth parts as the waitress sets down his green smoothie.
“Tuck—” I snap, but he cuts me off.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Can we talk later?” I hiss. “Please.”
He takes a sip of his drink. “Sure. In a few.”
I grit my teeth, and he smiles back.
“Ah, so you two are . . . ?” Levi asks, his voice trailing off.
“Yes,” Tuck says. “Very much.”
I groan. “It—”
“It’s complicated,” Tuck interrupts, giving Levi a steely look. “But it’s going places.” He slides his eyes to me. “Did I tell you that Herman wants in on the coat thing?”
I blink, readjusting my train of thought. “Oh?”
“He’s putting boxes in the lobby for donations. It’s going to be a thing. Here’s my idea: I want to start a nonprofit that sets up stations all over the city. We can purchase coats from stores; take donations from businesses, from athletes I know; put up billboards. Of course, it’s just on the ground level, but by next year it could really be special. What do you think?”
“You’re going to fund it?”
“Yep.” He leans closer to me. “It could be a nationwide thing. What do you think?”
My lips twitch. “Imagine the endorphins your brain will release. Can we discuss it later?” I really need to settle this Levi thing, and Tuck doesn’t have the right to sit down and act like we’re together.
He nods. “The nonprofit could do more than just coats. We could set up centers in major cities for free counseling and shelter.” He slaps the table and checks out Levi. “Sorry to monopolize her. Who are you again?”
“An old friend,” Levi snaps. “You’ve interrupted—”
“Ah, an ex, I presume.” Tuck twists his lips. “Don’t feel special. She has several. I really think you should go. Like now.”
I gape at him. What is wrong with him? Is he . . . jealous?
Levi exhales. “I see. This isn’t the best moment for a conversation, Francesca.” He rises from his seat and places a twenty on the table. “It was great seeing you. You’re even more beautiful than I remember.” His blue eyes burn as they drift over me.
“Get moving,” Tuck says as he waves his hands at him.
“I have an opening at the Reinhart Gallery in February,” he continues, ignoring Tuck. “It’s an exhibition for several artists, and I’d love for you to come and see what I’ve been working on. It’s invitation only, a gala. Perhaps you can do some shopping for your clients.”
“Sure,” I say uncertainly.
He nods, then walks out the door.
“I don’t like him,” Tuck says as he takes a sip of his drink. “Super douchey.”
My temper stirs. “I’m happy about your nonprofit idea, but you shouldn’t have been so rude.” I put down money on the table for my cider.
“Where are you going?” Tuck asks as I grab my leather satchel.
“Not your business. I’m not your property, nor do we have anything that’s ‘complicated.’”
“Is it weird that I sort of wish you were stalking me? Yeah, I guess it is.”
I huff. “What’s wrong with you today?”
“I saw you from the street,” he mutters. “Not on purpose. I was just walking by to get my shake.”
“I’m sorry you had to witness me with another man.”
Before he can follow, I flip around and head up the stairs to the books. He’s still on my heels as I pass other patrons milling around the shelves. “That guy was your ex? Was he an important one?”
“Ha, you seem to already know about my exes, and don’t give me grief—I’ve read about yours. I can’t even count that high.”
“So you looked me up?” I hear the smile in his voice.
Of course I did. He grew up super rich. His parents owned most of Virginia. Old money.
I hit the third level of the store. Shelves of books create dark shadows as I walk faster. It’s quiet, with most of the customers downstairs. Our only company is a few cobwebs and old books.
“Slow down. Pretty sure you’ll hurt yourself in those shoes.”
I face him. “What was that down there?”
He leans down to me, his nose to mine. He smells like sexy Christmas again, peppermint and spice, only this time it doesn’t make me queasy. It makes my insides quake.
“I want you. You want me. What else is there? I’ve missed you.”
I shake my head at him, floundering for words.
“It’s like this. I was just walking past and saw you in the window. You had this, I don’t know, sad expression on your face when he sat down. I watched for a while, debating; then I decided you needed rescuing.”
“I see.” I march down one of the aisles, heaving a breath when I realize it doesn’t connect and I’ve hit a dead end. There’s a large window, and I glance out at the traffic on the street. With only five days left until Christmas, the shoppers are everywhere.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks.
I turn, and he’s leaning against a shelf, a somber expression on his face.
It’s a surprise, that somberness, as if he cares, and I swallow. I pick up a book and hold it. “Do you like sappy stories about young girls who get their hearts broken?”
Anger flashes in his eyes. “He hurt you.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Hearts don’t forget.”
“You don’t even know what happened or who he is.”
“I know enough.”
I set that comment aside for a moment. “You’ve had your heart broken?”
He comes closer. “I tend to keep it locked away.” He touches a strand of my hair, curling it around his finger. “Women leave me eventually. Can’t say I blame them.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want marriage and kids, and I’m up front. I just want to play football until I’m done.”
“And after?”
“I like the nonprofit idea. It’s a way to give back. Plus, I have a yacht. I take it out every February after football is over. Ever been to the Amalfi Coast?”
“I’ve never left the States.” I’ve vacationed with Cece and Brogan in California, but my heart is always in New York.
“Wanna go?”
I scoff. “I’ll start packing today. How many bathing suits should I bring?”
He laughs, then stops, his lids lowering. “You’d look great in a bikini, a black one. I’d show you every island in the Mediterranean. We’ll go to Sorrento, see the cliffs, the fishing villages. We’ll go to dinner at a place with a view of the water and coastline. You’ll never want to leave.”
A wan smile crosses my face. “No family for you, huh?”
He glances away. “It’s complicated, but since I was twentysomething, I knew it wasn’t part of my goals.”
“You’re honest about what you want. Most men aren’t.”
“Are you honest?” His finger traces my neck, and my breath quickens.
I moisten my lips as my nerves jump. “Not all the time. I have secrets.”
“Little Miss Dark.”
Our eyes hold, and electricity zaps down my spine.
He is everything I shouldn’t want, but . . .
I close the distance between us. My hands move up his chest and curl around his neck. My fingers tangle in his hair. “Here’s a secret for you.”
“Yeah?”
“I knew you came to this place. I’ve seen you here several times. You bumped into me once. You were wearing preppy shorts, a blue collared shirt, and boat shoes. I bet you were on the way to your yacht for the summer. There was a movie star with you or some pop singer. She couldn’t stop giggling when I dropped my muffin. I found you—and her—annoying. Don’t get excited about it. I never followed you here.”
“If there was a way to go back in time, I’d dump her and take you with me.” His fingers trace down my spine, then cup my ass. I brush my hips against the tent in his joggers, and he shudders. “Finally. Baby. Been wanting you to touch me.”
Memories assail my senses: how he needed me that night at Decadence, the loss of control when we fucked, how he let it all out, his shouts, the wild look in his eyes. He was a storm of insatiable need. And I felt our communion, reveled in it.
We had something that I’d never experienced.
As he kisses my neck, a battle is in my head as I war with what I should do.
“You undo me, Princess . . .”
My body gives in, and I press a kiss against his neck, my body melting. I whisper in his ear. “I’ve seen you in Café Lazzo. Always with beautiful women.”
His lips brush my cheek, then trail down my neck. “I don’t recall their names. All I want is you, Francesca.” A hand tugs my blouse out of my skirt; then his fingers graze the lace of my bra. “Jesus,” he rasps as I arch into his hands. “Your tits are perfect.”
And bigger.
His hands cup my jaw tenderly. “Let me kiss you.”
My hands slip under his workout shirt as we lock gazes. My no-kissing rule is to protect myself from getting attached to the men I have sex with. The number of men I’ve kissed on the lips can be counted on one hand. “No.”
His lashes flutter. “Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes,” he murmurs as his lips kiss my collarbone.
I gasp as heat pools deep inside me, my core tightening and fluttering. He pulls my skirt up to my waist as I inch up his shirt, then tug it over his head.
My breath hitches. I’d forgotten what a work of art his body is—hard, chiseled muscles; the beautiful color of his skin; the pink nipples; the delicious V that dips down to his waistband. I lick his nipple, and he shivers.
“Princess, if you do that, we’re gonna fuck right here.” He pulls me up and sets me on the window ledge. His fingers dance over my panties, tracing down the center of my core.
“I haven’t been able to get you out of my head,” he murmurs, his gaze hooded. “You don’t show up for walks.”
My head falls back against the glass as his finger moves the fabric of my underwear and dips inside me. He comes back out to circle my clit.
“I want to know why we met. Why you drive me crazy . . .” He slips another finger inside me, and I groan. “Yeah, that. I love the sounds you make, sweetheart. Let me tell you some secrets. I went to Notre Dame. My parents were a piece of work, and I couldn’t wait to get away from them. I majored in history, then got drafted to the Pythons.”
My hand reaches under the elastic of his pants. I take his cock and caress it with my palm, pumping him to the rhythm of his fingers. “I can find that out on the internet.”
“I have superugly feet. Downright scary.” He presses a kiss to the cream lace of my bra. His teeth bite one nipple, then the other. Shocks ricochet over my skin.
I gasp. “I’ve seen your feet. That’s an accurate assessment.”
He pulls down the cups of my bra, pushes my breasts together, and rubs his scruff over them.
“Cece gave me your cell,” he mumbles, the reverberation of his voice against my skin delicious. “I saw her in the lobby today. She said, ‘The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself.’ Is that odd behavior?”
My fingers tangle in his hair, and my voice is breathless. “Normal. So that was you earlier? Texting me?”
He grins against my skin as he glances up, and the genuineness of it takes my breath. I’ve only seen his real smile a few times. “Yep. And you can’t be mad at me. She offered it.”
“I’m going to kill her slowly.” I run my fingers over the sharp angles of his jawline. “Maybe you’re the real stalker . . .”
My words trail off as his finger slides back inside of me. He pumps slow and steady, his thumb circling my nub. I bite my lip to hold in my groan.
“Does that feel good?”
I nod.
“You wanna come?”
“Yes.”
He strokes, exploring the dips and valleys as my breath quickens.
“So responsive . . .” His eyes glitter down at me. “So wet.”
He sucks a nipple into his mouth. My hips thrust to meet him, aching to reach the pinnacle, to grab hold of ultimate pleasure.
“Have you been finger banged in public?”
When I nod, his eyes burn with jealousy. That glint only sends me a little further under his spell.
“I want to see you in my bed. I want to fuck you. I want you to suck me off.” His voice rumbles against my skin, and goose bumps dance over me.
My fingers dig into his arms as he draws circles on my clit, getting closer and closer, and when he finally hits one place, I stiffen. My breath hitches as I come, my core grasping around him. It feels so good, so perfect.
He kisses my cheek. “I want to see your face over candlelight. I want to take you to dinner.”
Oh. I suck in a breath and drop my gaze from his.
He tugs my face and holds my eyes. “If I can’t kiss you, you’re going to look at me when I fuck you.”
I shiver as his fingers delve back inside me.
“We might get caught,” I manage to say.
“Isn’t that part of the fun?”
I hear the clink of glasses downstairs, the low murmur of patrons on the floor below us. “Yes.”
I ease my hands back inside his joggers. He’s long and thick, a slight curve near the tip that I recall always hit the perfect spot when he was inside me. I stroke his mushroom-shaped tip to his root, my fingers brushing over his balls. I find the precum and caress his knob, touching the underside of his tip. His chest expands, his pupils dilating as he moves his hips in sync.
“Talk to me,” he demands. “Secrets.”
“I went to the New York School of the Arts. I woke up wet this morning thinking about you. I woke up wet for weeks after the club. You were the best fuck. I looked for you. I stopped at construction sites. I peered into shop windows.”
He bites his bottom lip, his teeth tugging hard. “Go on.”
“Your dick tastes like salt and sea. I could swallow you in one gulp.”
His lashes flutter. “Let’s forget this place. Come home with me.” His throat bobs. “Now.”
“I wish you could rip my clothes off. I wish you could get on your knees and lick me where I want.”
Sweat mists his face as he leans into me. “My place . . .”
I trace the plump outline of his lips. “Here.”
He groans as he tugs my hair and places his lips on my skin. “You’re killing me, Princess.” With a skill that suggests he’s done this a million times, he eases me down, drags my underwear down my legs, and then hoists me back up in his arms and sets me on the ledge. My heart flutters as wetness drips down my legs.
I hear the crinkle of a wrapper; then I watch as he slides the condom on. My arms wrap around his neck as he picks me back up. “Look at me.”
I do, and he thrusts inside of me. My body welcomes his thick girth like a lost lover, warm and willing.
His hands cup my ass as he swivels his hips and sets a slow, methodical pace.
I moan from deep in my throat, trying to suppress the guttural sound. I’ve been with lots of men, but he’s a master at fucking.
My back pushes against the cold glass of the window, and I wonder if anyone on the street sees us. If someone comes around the corner, they’ll see me with my shirt and skirt in disarray, my legs tangled around his, the pump of his naked ass. I don’t care right now if they do—my brain is lost, my body is lost, all is lost. Just this. Just this. And it’s so damn good.
We fuck quietly, gasps held back as his forearms strain and pop.
We fuck slow, savoring the glide of his cock.
We fuck.
And fuck.
And fuck.
Hard. Slow. Hard. Slow.
It’s as if we’re working out our aggression, our crazy need, while inside I know this can’t mean anything. He doesn’t want kids; he’s not a commitment guy. I’m his, right now, and that’s okay, but men like him . . . a month from now, it’ll be someone new for him. He has a yacht. He dates models, movie stars, and singers. I’m just . . . me. Whatever. Who cares right now?
He says my name, and our breaths mingle, our lips a hair’s breadth apart as we stare each other down.
He moves my knees up as his hands hold my legs. He dips his head to my neck as tingles of heat boil in my spine. He fucks me with purpose, a hot, desperate look on his face. I feel the burn in my spine. It’s coming fast, too fast, when I want to savor it. My nails dig into his skin as I inhale his scent, tasting the spice, his pheromone that drives me crazy.
I lock eyes with him as I circle myself.
He murmurs my name . . .
It’s the trigger I need.
Little quakes of pleasure multiply and build until they spring free. I spasm, my walls squeezing him.
He’s talking, saying something, his body hardening, his hands bruising my hips. His body jolts, and he stiffens as he goes over the edge, his breath coming in short bursts of air. His chest leans into me for several moments; then his hands card through my hair with a gentleness I didn’t expect.
Moments later, he tips my face up to his and gazes at my lips. He kisses his finger, then touches it to my mouth. “You. Are. Fucking. Hot.”
My legs are weak as he stands back and slowly untangles us. I ease shaky legs to the floor.
He removes the condom and ties it off while I grab my panties and tuck my shirt back in my skirt. I toss him his shirt, and he slips it on, then adjusts his joggers.
“Want to grab some lunch?” he says, watching me as I reapply my lipstick.
Do I want lunch?
What else do you say after fucking in a public place?
“I have to go.”
“Where? I’ll come with. I’m free most of the day.” He uses the window reflection to brush his hair back off his face. It’s sexy as hell, and when he turns to look at me, a long exhale comes from my chest. Unease crawls over me, this urge to tell him that I can’t see him because I’m having his baby and he doesn’t want one.
My hands fist. I want to have lunch with him, to get to know him better . . .
“I, um, have another client this afternoon.” Truth.
He frowns as he searches my face, then sticks his hands in his joggers and fidgets. “I got the email from Darden. Congrats on the position. You’ve got a powerful man backing you. Impressive. He must care a lot about you.”
“It’s not like that, you know. We’re only friends. We just click.”
A half smile crosses his face. “I wasn’t implying anything.”
Good. I nod.
“If you come to my place, I’ll show you my art.” He bats his lashes at me, and I can’t help the smile it brings to my face.
I take my satchel off the windowsill. “That sounds fun, but some other time.”
He narrows his gaze as he puts his hands on his hips. “You’re brushing me off. Unbelievable.”
I sigh. “We both got what we wanted. Don’t make this awkward—”
“I’m not awkward. In fact, I’m pretty fucking confident that was the best fuck you’ve had since Decadence,” he growls.
“Tuck. This—”
His jaw twitches. “Yeah, whatever, this was great. Awesome, really. Thanks for the hookup.”
I walk toward him and stop at his side as the chemistry we share tugs at me.
I have a plan. Save money, have a baby, keep living my life. Without Tuck knowing.
I swallow. I should be dashing out of here as if the hounds of hell are at my feet—so what’s keeping me from walking away?
“I had you looked into,” he mutters, his gaze on the window. “I want to be honest. It’s what I would have done to anyone based on how we met. I’ve had women I’ve dated who’ve tried to sell stories of me.”
I gasp. “You investigated me?”
He shakes his head. “Just listen. The worst was a stripper, Lollipop.”
Frowning, I nod. “I recall the cops came and arrested someone who attacked you.”
He sighs. “Yeah. Maybe I was nice to her—I don’t know—but she got fixated on me. She sent emails, letters, even posted images of me going into places on her socials. Me in the supermarket, at dinner, at the stadium. She tried to get into my mom’s facility. It went on for months. Then she tried to stab me.” He rubs his jaw. “You’d think I could have handled the stress, but it hurt my trust in people. It made me think maybe I was naive when it comes to judging others. It’s funny because the homeless people, they don’t care who I am. They’re some of the kindest people I’ve ever met.” He exhales. “So, anyway, that’s why I had you investigated.”
“Your experience must have been horrible.” I swallow, my head tumbling. My hands clench. “So what did you discover about me?”
“I know about Brogan—and that he works at Decadence.”
I inhale sharply. Tuck met with the owners of Decadence and got Prince Rolex kicked out . . .
My words come in a rush. “Brogan had nothing to do with us. He only got me and Cece a guest pass. He never knows who’s coming in until that night, when he’s given an envelope of names and guests. Don’t you dare get him fired.”
He turns to me. “I know he doesn’t know who’s coming in. I checked. When you’ve been through what I have, you check and recheck.”
Fear ripples over me. I have some secrets I don’t want him to know. “What else did you find out?”
He glances away. “Cece is an escort.”
“Ah, you got the whole story, huh? What will you do with this information?”
“Nothing, Francesca. I’m sorry I had to do it. I’m sorry I needed it to make myself feel better.” His face softens. “You were abandoned as a baby.”
Unbidden, tears pool in my eyes.
“I know you were sent back to a group home at sixteen because of Levi. He should have been prosecuted, but his family brushed your relationship with him under the rug, and CPS let them. You were attacked by another resident at the home; it’s how you got the scar on your hip. You were arrested for weed at twenty, but it was dismissed. You dated various men, briefly, then ended up in a relationship with Edward, a trust fund idiot with zero ambition. You worked at East Coast Ink & Gallery but got fired because the manager wanted to humiliate you a little more. You came to Decadence on your wedding day—which just happened to be my birthday. It was a coincidence.”
My chest rises. “You had no right! Was all of that necessary?”
“Put yourself in my shoes, Francesca.” He cups my cheeks, his thumb wiping at a tear that escaped. “This is me apologizing. I’m sorry I had to do that.”
“How long have you known all that?”
He pauses. “A couple of weeks.”
“On our walks?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“So you were risking it then, huh?”
“Because I wanted to be around you. Don’t be angry. When you’re who I am, it’s not unreasonable to look into people.” His voice lowers as he touches my shoulder, a soft caress. “Let’s put this behind us. Tell me I’m not the only one who wants this . . .”
My throat tightens as I ease away from him. It’s less about the invasion of privacy and more about my personal secrets. I have to keep us shallow. It’s the only way.
“Francesca—”
“I’ll see you around,” I manage to say, then push past him, down the stairs, and out the door.
