Chapter 12
twelve
WEST
Eden walks into the kitchen five minutes later, barely able to look me in the eye. To be fair, I’m not sure I could return her gaze even if I wanted to.
Every time I close my eyes I picture her hands around that vibrator. And yeah, I imagine it’s my cock.
I need to get laid. Or take a very cold shower.
“Wine?” I ask her, determined to make this a pleasant evening after my talk with Parker. Despite the thickness in the air between us.
“Water please,” she says, sitting down on one of the thick leather chairs. “Can I help?”
“I’ve got it.” I pass her a glass of water, then lay out the plates with the pad thai for us both.
“Tofu for you, shrimp for me,” I tell her.
“You remembered.” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. God, they’re pretty lips. Soft too. Jesus, man, concentrate.
“That you’re a vegetarian? Of course.”
“Thank you.” She actually smiles at me. It hits me in the chest. Just what an ass I’ve been. How I’m the one who made this whole situation more difficult for us both.
“You’re welcome.”
“And there was me thinking you keep your heart in a climate controlled vault,” she says. Yep, she’s thawing. And I like it way too much.
“I only keep it there on Thursdays.”
“And the other days?” she asks, like she’s delighted I’m being an idiot with her.
“On other days I go full asshole.”
She grins and it hits me like a sucker punch.
I pick up my chopsticks and lift the noodles. “I arranged something for you in the morning,” I tell her. “You’ll get the full resort induction experience. Thought you might want to see what I’ve got planned before you decide I’m the devil.”
She blinks, surprised. “I get to come to work with you tomorrow?”
I nod. “Yeah. I offered you a job after all.”
“I think we both know that it’s not a real job,” she says.
I look her dead in the eye. “I’ll listen to any suggestions you have. I can’t make any promises. We have a tight budget and schedule. But I like this place and I want to treat the land as carefully as I can.”
Eden rests her chopsticks on her plate, tipping her head to look at me, like she’s trying to read my intentions. Good luck with that. I’ve been a closed book for years. Not that anybody’s tried reading me that hard.
“Okay.” She nods. “I’d like that.”
“Good.”
Because I’m on a roll, and she actually looks comfortable for once, I move to the next topic in my book of easy-going conversations.
“Why is it so important to you?” I ask, my voice low. “The environment, the protests, the petitions. Why put yourself through all of it?”
Eden pauses, her expression shifting. Then she pushes a hand through her hair. It’s messy, sun-streaked, and still damp at the ends from her earlier shower.
“Because the future matters,” she says simply.
“Because one day I might have kids. And they’ll have kids.
And they all deserve clean air. Clean water.
Forests to run in and oceans that aren’t full of plastic.
Temperatures that aren’t hotter than hell.
They deserve the kind of childhood I got, with grass under their feet and bees in the garden and stars you can actually see at night. ”
Her voice doesn’t rise this time. It wraps around me like something warm I didn’t know I needed.
I can’t look away from her lips. Or the way her fingers twist together, as if she’s trying to hold all that passion inside yet failing beautifully.
“And let’s not forget the other inhabitants of this world,” she continues. “Animals haven’t contributed to global warming, but they’re sure as hell paying the price for it.
A sudden memory rushes into my brain. Of me at the age of seven or eight, with my nanny. It was some kid’s birthday at my private school and the party was at the L.A. Zoo.
He had a cake shaped like a tiger. Jesus, it’s weird the things the brain keeps.
Leona, who’d been more like a parent to me than my mother and father, even though she was paid to take care of me, had hated the place. I remember her standing in front of the elephant enclosure, her face tight, her arms folded.
“They don’t belong here,” she’d muttered under her breath. “None of them do.”
At the time, I didn’t get it. I just wanted another slice of cake.
But now, listening to Eden talk about displaced animals and habitats ruined in the name of progress it makes me think Leona would have liked her.
Eden looks at me for a beat too long, her brow furrowing.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m waiting for your witty-yet-sarcastic comeback.”
I lift a brow, pushing the past away. “I’ve decided to give the sarcasm a night off.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s not buying it, but she lets it go.
“You okay?” she asks, quieter now, like she can sense I can’t quite stop the memories.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m absolutely fine.”
It’s a lie, but only a small one. A manageable one.
She watches me for another moment, then says, “Do you ever think about the future? What it will be like?”
I raise a brow. “That’s a loaded question for a guy who can barely think about tomorrow.”
She laughs, soft and surprised, and it warms something in my chest.
“I mean it. Do you ever wonder what kind of world you’re leaving behind?”
I look at her. The flushed cheeks from the heat of the food, the way her curls are frizzing from the island humidity, the earnest set of her mouth.
And for a second, I forget every reason I’m supposed to keep her at a distance.
“Don’t you want children?” she asks, before she lifts another chopstick full of pad thai into her mouth.
“Jesus,” I mutter, reaching for my water. “Did I miss the part where this dinner turned into a fertility consultation?”
She grins, utterly unbothered. “You’re my husband. If we were actually doing this properly, we’d likely be arguing about baby names by now,” she says, like it didn’t just make me think of how babies are made.
She slides a piece of tofu into her mouth, her eyes fluttering shut for a split second like that mush could actually taste good.
I mean, it probably does. Martin’s a genius. But if she was anybody else I’d bet money she’s doing it on purpose now.
Her shirt slips off her shoulder as she shifts in her chair, her bare skin brushing the leather.
“Can you imagine?” I mutter, mostly to distract myself. “We’d have day long arguments about names because you’d want to call the poor kid Solar Flare or Compostella Moonbeam.”
Her mouth twitches. “Don’t be silly. Compostella is clearly a middle name.”
The laugh rumbles up in my chest, escaping before I even realize it’s coming. Her amused eyes lock with mine.
“This is nice,” she murmurs, like she really means it.
The weird thing is, she’s right. The good food, the smiles, the way she’s looking at me. In another life it’d be something I’d want.
Parker and Hudson have it. This deep, visceral connection with someone. Even Asher, the emotionally constipated bastard, isn’t afraid to show his emotions when Francie is around.
They all go home after a long day in the office, sit down at the table, and really talk with the person they love.
And instead of going home I go out and party, or spend the night cleaning up a rich client’s problems.
There’s a reason for that, the little voice in my head reminds me.
And I see it, the image of her. Her body lifeless. Fuck.
I take a deep breath, but luckily Eden finishes her food, letting out a little sigh of satisfaction.
My own plate’s still half full. I don’t feel hungry anymore. “Aren’t you going to eat more?” she asks, sounding concerned.
I shake my head. “I’m watching my weight.” Another lie, but at least it makes her smile again.
Standing, she takes our plates, carrying them to the sink, putting the remaining noodles down the garbage disposal. I follow her, trying to help, but she bats me away.
“You cooked… well you picked it up at least. Same thing.” Her hips sway as she turns to the dishwasher, barefoot and bossy, her legs so damn smooth it makes my fingers ache to touch her.
She wipes her hands on a towel and comes to stand in front of me. I can smell the sweet floral notes of her shower gel. And then, without the slightest hesitation, she steps into me and wraps her arms around my neck.
Giving me a hug I didn’t know I wanted. Needed, even. I breathe her in, and tighten my arms around her like a man who’s forgotten how to be comforted.
She stays there for a few long, perfect seconds. Then she steps back with a smile, completely unaware that I’m rock hard for her.
“Night, West,” she murmurs, before she turns around, and I watch her leave the room, her shorts barely covering the tops of her thighs.
And I stand there, hard as granite, reminding myself why it would be a very, very bad idea to follow her upstairs.
EDEN
I stand back from my bed, staring at the clothes I’ve laid out for tomorrow. Khaki pants, a black tank, and a little cropped jacket that screams ‘corporate but relaxed’. Probably not what West’s investors would love, but I’m not trying to impress anybody.
Except him. Maybe a little.
Then I realize he never told me what time we’d be leaving in the morning. I don’t want to sleep through it this time. I’ll set five alarms if I have to – and let’s face it, I’ll probably have to.
I pad down the hallway, bare feet silent on the floorboards, the hem of my soft pajama shorts brushing the tops of my thighs. The house is deadly quiet, save for the soft rush of water from behind his bedroom door.
He’s still up. That’s good.
Maybe he’s getting ready for bed, or answering some late-night emergency call from one of his A-list clients. Either way, I remind myself not to get on his bad side. We’re at a détente. Let’s keep it that way.
I raise my hand to knock on his door, but that’s when I hear it.
A low, guttural moan, followed by the soft rhythm of water hitting tile.
I freeze, my mouth suddenly dry. Because it’s not just a moan. It’s his moan. Thick and rough, like a man on the edge.
Maybe it’s because I’m feeling connected to him. Or because he stumbled upon me earlier in exactly the same situation. Whatever it is, I push the door open.
His bedroom is dim, the lights low and golden. It smells like cedar and clean laundry and him. I only hesitate a second before I step inside.
“West?” I call softly, stepping into his room.
But there’s no reply. Just the sound of the water against tile and something… more.
Dirtier.
My entire body flushes.
The bathroom door’s half open, with steam curling through the gap. The light inside is soft and golden.
I know I shouldn’t look. I know that.
But then I hear another low groan, deeper this time. Closer to breaking. And my feet just… move. I inch forward until I can see through the steamed-up glass.
And there he is. The right side of his back is angled toward me. He has one hand braced against the wall. His head tilted back. I can just see his profile in the steam. His other hand is wrapped around himself, stroking with long, firm pulls that make my stomach twist in the most delicious way.
He looks like something from a dream. A dirty kind of dream that would leave me hot and clammy.
His body is all muscle and tension, water sliding down his chest, his jaw tight, his abs flexing with every stroke.
I can’t look away. And God help me, I don’t want to.
My thighs press together, the ache building fast, like my body is trying to match his rhythm.
And then, right when I think it can’t get any more intense, he starts to come. His head tipped back, his back arching, and my legs are so weak I think I’m about to fall.
My body clenches as he releases, his chest rising, his throat working around a curse I can’t quite hear.
And then I realize, he’s going to turn around any minute now. He can’t see me here, he can’t.
I step back, panicked, stumbling on his carpet like I’ve already been caught, and turn blindly, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug, only managing to steady myself on the dresser in the last moment.
That’s when I see it. A photo in the silver frame. It wasn’t there the other day.
It’s of a woman I don’t recognized. Beautiful, dark haired, her smile wide and warm.
And I feel so stupid. Because for one foolish second I thought he was thinking about me as he touched himself. But of course he wasn’t.
I don’t know who this woman is. A lover from L.A.? Something more? He wouldn’t have a random hook-ups photo on his dresser. Which means whoever she is, she matters to him.
And I don’t.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. For a moment, just a moment, I thought he might be thinking about me. I thought… oh god, I need to stop thinking.
I escape as quietly as possible out of his bedroom, promising myself I’ll never, ever do this again. And when we go into work together tomorrow, I’ll smile, I’ll simper, I’ll play the part he’s so clearly written for me.
The wife that’s so temporary he still has another woman’s photograph on his dresser.