Chapter Seven #2
I tried to argue, but she rolled right over me. “Let me tell you something, Edie. You’re not the kind of girl who melts for a pretty face. You like projects. You like puzzles. You like people you can’t figure out.”
“Are you saying I’m a masochist?”
“I’m saying you don’t have to fix him to love him.” She let that hang in the air for a second. “He ever hurts you, you call me. I’ll break his knees. But until then, just…let yourself want something for once.”
I stared at the roses, at the mist rising from the damp beds. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You can,” Gram said. “You’re a Blake. We don’t do half-measures.”
I smiled. “That’s how you ended up with four ex-husbands.”
“And I don’t regret a single one. Except maybe Steve. Or was it Larry?” She clicked her tongue. “Anyway. I like this for you. I like you being happy, even if it scares you.”
It did scare me. It scared me more than anything.
Gram must have heard it in my silence, because her voice softened again. “You’re going to be okay, kid. And if you’re not, you’ll at least have a good story for my funeral.”
I blinked tears out of my eyes. “Not funny, Gram.”
“I know,” she said. “But you smiled. I could hear it.”
We were quiet for a moment. I could hear the gardeners below, the faint drone of a leaf blower, the gentle thump of my own heart.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Don’t thank me yet. Go get him, tiger. Or let him get you, whichever comes first.”
I laughed. It felt good. It felt real. “I’ll try.”
“You better. Love you.” She hung up before I could say goodbye.
I set the phone down and stared out over the tree-covered mountains in the distance. Outside, the roses glowed pink and gold, sunlight breaking through the clouds for the first time all day.
But I had things to do and places to be. But first, I needed something to put in my angry stomach, so I made my way to the kitchen, only to be cornered by Maribel.
“Oh, honey, could you be a dear and run to the wine cellar for me?” She pressed a note into my hands. “They’re well marked. You’d be my saving grace.”
I should have been suspicious, but I wasn’t.
Nope, I just walked right into the pantry, then to the door to the cellar.
Unlike the movies I’d seen, this cellar was well lit. The cool pressed to my warm cheeks and I inhaled deeply the scent of wood and chill, all the while trying to keep from thinking about the boss. Or Gram. Or anything, really.
The cellar was bigger than my first apartment as I scanned the space. Racks of bottles stretched from floor to ceiling, labels written in a dozen languages and all of them at least a decade out of my price range.
Then I caught sight of him.
Perched on a wooden crate was Leo, the one person I thought I’d been lucky enough to escape for a day.
He grinned. “Well, hello. You want me to carry, or just supervise?” With a sweep of his arm, he gestured at the wine.
I eyed him, annoyed already. “You’re volunteering to work? Who are you and what have you done with Leo?”
He slid off the crate, planting both feet. “Maybe I just wanted company. Or maybe I wanted to see if the new girl can tell a Barolo from a pinot.”
“Is that a test, or a threat?”
He moved closer, close enough that I could see the shadows under his eyes. “Depends. You want it to be a threat?”
He said it playfully, but I caught the edge in his voice. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been on the receiving end of a nuclear-grade glare from Gareth, and today he was dialed up to eleven. I scanned the racks, searching for wine in hopes he’d get the point.
He didn’t.
So I pushed back.
“You’re not the first person to hit on me in a wine cellar, you know,” I said, keeping it light.
He leaned in, hand braced on the rack above my head as I turned to face him in surprise. “But am I the best looking?”
I hesitated. Then shook my head. He stepped back, his eyes narrowing slightly before he let out a laugh. “Sassy little lady, huh.”
I stepped to the side, but he followed.
“You ever get tired of it?” he asked suddenly. “The games?”
I blinked, my brows scrunching together in a way I knew would give me wrinkles if I didn’t stop it. “Which games?”
“His games. The boss. Always watching, always pulling strings. You ever wish he’d just say what he wants?”
I was thrown. Leo wasn’t supposed to talk about Gareth.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I lied.
Leo chuckled, a low, knowing sound. “Yeah, you do. You’re smart. You know he’s obsessed.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “He’s not obsessed. He’s-”
“He is,” Leo said, cutting me off. “He’s just not allowed to show it. That’s why he hates me. Because I can. And because there’s something between us.”
There was a beat. I couldn’t move. The cold of the cellar pressed in from all sides, but I felt sweat bead at the back of my neck. I didn’t want this. But I didn’t want to start drama and get fired, either. The contract was clear, and I was tiptoeing a line I didn’t know how to escape.
“Are you going to kiss me?” I said, voice too high.
He didn’t smile. “Do you want me to?”
And suddenly I was thinking about Gareth.
About his hands, the heat of his body, the way he’d held me like I was the only thing that could keep him afloat.
I thought about the kiss in the ballroom, the way my knees had turned to water, and I realized that no matter how close Leo got, he would always make me feel uneasy.
I took a breath. “No.”
Leo nodded, as if he’d expected it. “Good answer,” he said. He stepped back, giving me space. “He’s not a bad guy, you know. Just a little broken.”
“We’re all a little broken,” I said.
He shrugged. “Some more than others.”
I moved around, gathering the bottles under Leo’s watchful eye.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I hope you get what you want.”
With a glance his direction, I hoped for a hint at the punchline, but he was already gone.
I carried the wine back to the kitchen, my arms numb and my mind buzzing with questions. If Gareth was obsessed, what did that make me?
Crazy. That’s what it made me. I set the bottles down, thanked Maribel, and escaped to my room, heart hammering.
I didn’t want to play games anymore. I just wanted to leave.
But I’m not the kind of woman who gives up.
I didn’t leave my room again except to answer a knock at the door.
I opened it to Gareth, who gave me a once over.
“I assume you’re sick.” He bent down and picked up the handles of a beautiful silver tray loaded with comfort foods, soup, crackers, a can of sprite and one of ginger ale, toast, and jam.
He carried it to my bed and set it down, then turned to face me again as I peeked out in the hallway looking for inquisitive eyes before closing my door and turning to him. There was a crinkle at the corners of his eyes, but no smile. “I already checked,” he said.
I nodded, making my way to my bed and perching on the edge. “Thank you,” I said, but my voice caught. Clearing my throat, I tried again, stronger and louder this time. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “Being sick is miserable.” There was a warmth in his eyes that had my heart thudding painfully. His hands flexed as he adjusted the sleeves he’d rolled up to his forearms. Forearms that had me practically drooling.
I couldn’t come clean now and just tell him I was avoiding him, but I was pretty sure he knew.
“Well, I’ll go now. Is there anything else you need?” His gaze met mine and my lips tingled, remembering his kiss. Some part of me wanted him to just lower me to the bed and have his way with me, a thought that sent swirling heat through my core.
There was no way I could speak with the sparks popping off within me, so I shook my head.
He hesitated, his gaze lowering to my lips as my heart began to thunder and my hands shook. Was he going to kiss me again? God, I wanted him to so bad. Instead, he stood up to his full height, nodded my direction, and left my room. Only when the quiet click of the door reached my ears did I exhale.
The food smelled wonderful, but I wasn’t hungry for a meal. I was hungry for one man. The one I couldn’t have.
So I set the tray by the door, feeling bad for wasting it, but knowing if I ate, none of it would stay down. Maybe I was really getting sick, after all. Instead, I went to bed, hoping to sleep away the hot, needy desire that boiled in my belly.
So I tossed. Turned. Kicked off the blankets and felt too cold.
Covered up and felt too hot. And my brain?
Working against me as always. Moments replayed over and over in my mind.
How he’d caught me when I fell up the stairs, the way he held me as we slow-danced, the feel of his lips on mine.
Oh, and a phone call with my grandmother that somehow made me feel both empowered and like I’d lost my darn mind.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Gareth. About the heat in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his steady hands touched me, not afraid to break me, not so hard to hurt me.
His touch was just right. I tried to will it away, tell myself it was just proximity, boredom, a classic case of working-too-close-with-your-CEO syndrome – something I’d never suffered before but sounded plausible.
But my body wouldn’t listen. Every inch of me was tuned to his frequency.
I stared at the wolf above my bed and wondered which one I was supposed to be. The prey, or the predator?
A breeze slipped through the open balcony door, raising goosebumps along my arms. I could still smell him, faint but real.
The woody smell of my grandma’s cedar chest, a hint of hard liquor, and topped off with something mouthwatering.
I closed my eyes and let the day replay itself, scene by scene, the way he’d looked at me, the way he’d said my name in that low voice, the kind and unexpected gesture of him bringing me dinner. ..
It started as a daydream, just a harmless distraction. I let myself imagine what it would feel like if he knocked on my door, right now, no warning, all self-control burned away.
He’d stand at the threshold, shoulders squared, hands fisted at his sides. He wouldn’t speak. He never did, not at first. He’d just look at me, as if daring me to turn him away.
I’d say his name, soft, unsure, and he’d step forward, closing the distance in three long strides.
The first kiss would be brutal, all hunger and need, the kind of kiss you remembered in your muscles for weeks after. He’d pin me to the wall, hands everywhere, and for once in my life I wouldn’t flinch or make a joke to break the tension. I’d just let him have me. I’d want him to.
My hand slid under the sheet, almost by accident, but not really. My fingers skimmed down the soft skin of my stomach, tickling me, over the curve of my hip, to the ache that had been building all day. Heck, it had been building, I think, since the moment I met Gareth Wolfe.
I gasped at the sensation as I touched the throbbing bundle of nerves that I wanted him to touch. I traced slow circles, imagining it was his hand instead. Bigger, rougher, shaking with the effort of holding back.
He’d push my shirt up, breath hot at my neck, and bite, hard, not enough to bruise but enough to make me gasp.
He’d murmur my name against my skin, over and over, as if it was the only word he’d ever learned.
I squeezed my legs together, back arching.
My nipples were already tight, sensitive, aching for something more than the brush of cotton.
Bringing my free hand back up, I cupped my breast, thumb circling the tip until I couldn’t stand it. I thought of him seeing me like this; laid out, helpless, wanting. I thought of the way his eyes would go dark, the way his voice would drop even lower, the way he’d take control and never let go.
The fantasy grew more real by the second, as if he was actually here.
In it, he’d pin my wrists above my head and use his knee to shove my thighs apart, forcing me open, forcing me to admit how badly I wanted it, wanted him.
There’d be no room for games or doubts or second-guessing - just need, sharp and desperate, all the way down.
My fingers were slick, slow at first, teasing, letting the pressure build with every imagined growl, every imagined command. “Don’t stop,” he’d say, and I wouldn’t. “Let me watch,” and I would, even though the thought made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I was close, so close, and in my mind he was right there, his breath on my cheek, his hands holding mine above my head. “You’re mine,” he’d say, and I’d believe it, because it was true.
Pressure built and built and built, but it was the memory of his lips on mine that shoved me over the edge.
I came with his name half-formed in my mouth, hips jerking against my own hand, pulse pounding so hard I thought it might tear something loose inside me.
The orgasm was long, blinding, relentless.
A full-body detonation that left me limp, boneless, and a little bit ashamed.
I lay there, panting, heart hammering, sheets damp and clinging to my skin.
The fantasy faded, leaving only the throb of my own wanting and the sharp, unmistakable certainty that I was completely, hopelessly ruined for anyone else.
Not only that, but the ache wasn’t gone, just calmed for the moment.
Pressing my head back on the pillow, I stared at the ceiling until my eyes stung, then dragged the pillow over my face to muffle the next sound. It wasn’t a sob, or a laugh, or even a curse word.
It was his name.
I whispered it once, just to see how it felt. “Gareth.”
It tasted like sin and surrender, and I knew, in that moment, that I would do anything to have the real thing.
Even if it ruined my damn life.