Chapter 12
Keira
After what seems like twenty-four hours of blissful and uninterrupted sleep, I’m a new woman. I drink coffee to perk up, but this morning, I’m bouncing off the walls.
“Want another muffin?” Rhys lifts the basket.
I’m famished. “I’ll have another almond poppy seed one, please.”
“More coffee?”
“One cup is never enough.”
He gets up and heads to the counter.
I can’t believe my jetlagged body wasn’t even able to stay awake for dinner.
After Rhys played chauffeur all day, I ditched him for a pillow and the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in.
And the dreams… I dreamed I was being kissed all over by my hunk of hotness roommate. It was so vivid, I woke up wet.
Rhys is back in no time with a tray.
He drops a latte bowl in front of me.
“Thank you,” I say, impressed. “This is so French.”
“I prefer my first coffee of the day to swim in a pool of steamed milk, topped with a mound of froth,” Rhys says. “One cup won’t do, hence the latte bowl. Not to mention, those French are pretty smart.” He winks.
I swear that’s the sexiest wink ever.
He sits down across from me at the kitchen table and grabs a bowl of coffee and a plate containing two muffins. He’s already had a blender of healthy peach and spinach flavored smoothie. Then again, we had a rigorous workout this morning. That was exhausting.
I sat by the pool timing his laps while he did the actual workout. I did clap and cheer when he beat his previous record. That required as much energy as not ogling him in his sexy swim trunks. I admire the man’s dedication. He was at it like a champ.
While he took a shower, I took care of breakfast. Thanks to his housekeeper and personal chef who keep his fridge and freezer full, it was a matter of warming up homemade muffins, pulling out fruits, and a couple jars of overnight oats.
It’s good to be rich.
He takes a sip of coffee. “Do you remember how to ride?”
“I assume you’re not talking about a bicycle?”
He rolls his eyes.
Rhys worships motorcycles. It’s nothing unusual for someone living in California, but he takes it to another level.
“You can ride one of my bikes, and we can drive up to Malibu,” he says.
I frown. “I haven’t been on a bike in a while. Not to mention, I don’t have any gear, and you always frowned upon riding without being suited up.”
“You remember,” he says, rewarding me with a huge smile.
“I remember everything my amazing teacher taught me.”
Growing up, I had to do everything my brother and his best friend did. For my sixteenth birthday, Rhys got me lessons to learn how to ride a motorcycle. The lessons were great, but I much preferred when he was my teacher. Still, that present was a defining moment. I felt so grown up.
“Good girl. Noah’s bike is in remote storage. He didn’t want to leave his car or bike while he was renting the house. He left his gear and yours in my garage.”
Shock and surprise hit me at once. “He kept my gear?”
“He didn’t want to get rid of it.”
“Now I’m riddled with guilt.” I wince.
When I turned eighteen, Rhys and Noah bought me my own bike and gear. A year later, I sold the bike to move to London with my best friend. I still remember the crushing look of disappointment on my brother’s face. I suffered from tunnel vision at the time, so I didn’t have the luxury to care.
Rhys reaches for my hand across the table.
I close my eyes, relishing the contact.
“Stop beating yourself up. You were going after your dream.”
“And look where it landed me,” I say.
He holds my gaze.
“Hey, I said stop beating yourself up. You want to go for that ride or not?”
I answer with a one-shoulder shrug. “Okay.”
“That’s it? That’s all I get?”
I’m confused by his reaction. “What am I missing?”
“Yesterday, you were on my ass to do something fun.” A highly inappropriate visual flashes in front of my eyes. “Show me a little enthusiasm, woman.”
“Jeez, you’re a tough audience, Hartford.” I roll my eyes.
“Riding up the coast of Malibu straddling the finest piece of machinery money can buy is living the dream. It doesn’t get any more fun than that, Cocoa Puffs.”
“Dimples. Call me, dimples,” I say with my best James Bond impression.
“You kill me,” he says with a laugh. “So, we’re doing this?”
“Ride, baby ride.” I punch my fist in the air.
“That’s more like it. If you’re uncomfortable riding on your own, you’ll ride behind me.”
“Sounds good.”
He looks out the window. “Since the sun isn’t beating down, threatening to melt the asphalt, this should make for a comfortable ride.”
It’s a rare gray Sunday, but I’m sure the sky will clear up in no time. This is Los Angeles after all.
“Let’s make a day of it,” he says.
As if I’ll say no to riding behind Rhys with my arms wrapped around his body, absorbing his warmth with my chest pressed against his back.
“God, this view… even under the blanket of gray sky, it’s unbelievable.” I place a hand on my forehead and get on my tiptoes to soak in the beauty Mother Nature bestowed upon us Californians.
“It never gets old,” Rhys says.
“No, it doesn’t.”
We’re standing on the top of the world.
Okay, I’m exaggerating a little bit.
The ride from Manhattan Beach was stop and go.
After an hour straddling a bike, Rhys needed a break to stretch his long legs.
I was dying to use the bathroom. We stopped by King of the Sea for lunch.
Fish and chip shops are a dime a dozen in London, but none of those eateries come close to this place.
It’s a quiet, quaint restaurant perched in a small alcove in the hills with a view to kill.
After a lip-smacking lunch, we stopped by O’Dwyer’s Fine Ice Creams for dessert. Armed with a small cooler bag filled with ice packs and pints of ice cream, we decided to stop at one of the many rest stops along the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu to enjoy our sugary treats.
I turn to face Rhys. “I can’t believe I was able to live without this for three long years.”
“It’s good to be back?”
Say what you may about this state or this city, but good luck finding anything as breathtaking as this million-dollar view stretching as far as the eye can see anywhere else in the country.
“It’s fucking good to be back.”
“Good.” He offers a warm smile. “I’m ready for dessert. Let’s go sit on the blanket.”
There are people hanging out, but they’re far enough away to give us some semblance of privacy.
“You’ve thought of everything,” I say. I remove my armored motorcycle jacket and lower myself until I’m sitting on my knees.
He takes a seat next to me. “Do you come here often with…”—I hesitate, pulling my lower lip between my teeth—“your girlfriends.” I swallow the lump in my throat and avert my gaze.
“You have the balls to ask the question, but not enough bravado to look me in the eyes when you do?”
I’m sure my face is as red as a tomato when I muster up the courage to meet his gaze.
“Do you?” My question comes out sounding like a croak.
He arches an eyebrow. “What’s up with this new fascination with my love-life, Cocoa Puffs?”
“You’re right. Ice cream first,” I say with a grin.
“You can be such a brat, Keira.” He shakes his head.
“You still love me, though.”
He holds my gaze, and I shiver.
I can’t read his expression.
I’ve teased him like this a million times in the past, but for some reason this feels different.
“You’re lucky I’ve known you since you were in diapers,” he says.
Not quite the answer I was hoping for.
He unzips the cooler bag and pulls out three pints and two plastic spoons.
I got the Euro Praline Kick. It’s the perfect blend of roasted hazelnut ice cream, Gianduja chocolate sprinkles, and French Valrhona Caramelia Pearls.
Rhys opted for the Malted Crunch––dark Belgian chocolate sprinkles and crunchy malted milk balls.
We also got a must have––Nothing Boring About It, dubbed the best vanilla ice cream ever.
I dig into my ice cream and shove a heaping spoonful into my mouth.
I close my eyes on a moan.
“This is insane,” I say. “Here, you absolutely have to taste this.”
Without thinking, I scoop up a spoonful, lean over and force-feed Rhys.
His blues eyes are staring right at me as he wraps his mouth around the spoon. The sight is so sensual, my pussy throbs.
Dear God.
He unlatches his lips from the spoon, swallows the ice cream down and licks his lips. “Want some of mine?” His offer comes out in a low voice.
I nod because anything that might come out of my mouth would betray me.
He feeds me a spoonful of his rich chocolate ice cream. I swear to God, it’s the most sensuous thing in the whole world.
The connection between us is so strong. Electrifying, even.
“To answer your earlier question, I don’t have girlfriends,” he says out of the blue.
And… the moment is gone.
Shit.
“The next thing you’re going to tell me is you’re as celibate as a monk,” I say.
“I never said I was celibate. I said, I don’t have girlfriends.”
I force down my jealousy. “Why not?”
“When I was in high school, most girls wouldn’t give me the time of day.
I was under Noah’s protection, aka the football star’s dumb sidekick who struggled to read because of his dyslexia.
I’m not complaining because it allowed me to focus on what was important––becoming the best rapper on the planet.
Once I signed a contract with a bona fide record company and I had a big fat advance lining my pocket, Dana came back into the picture—”
“Dana Mickelson?” I frown. “According to Noah, the pretty blonde every guy wanted in high school mocked your learning disability like so many idiots did, but he couldn’t punch her in the face because she was a girl and my brother doesn’t raise a hand to women.”
“Yeah, that Dana.”
His blue eyes turn stormy.
What did the cunt do?
“When I tumbled and my career was dropping faster than an elephant out of the sky, Dana was gone. She was done with me because I couldn’t buy her things anymore.”