Chapter 12
12
Shane
I check my watch like I haven’t been checking it every couple of minutes already.
Why am I nervous?
I don’t take Cat as the type who rushes out the door at five but more the kind of person who gives everyone the time they need with her. Leaning against the back of my car, I’m willing to wait however long it takes.
Thirty-seven minutes.
The doors slide open, and she walks out in her white coat, black pants, and a white shirt. I shouldn’t have thoughts of her in that coat while fucking her, but the mind works in pretty obvious ways when I find someone attractive, and fuck me, I haven’t stopped thinking about her.
“Need a ride?”
She glances over, a smile blooming across the delicate features of her face as soon as she sees me. The way she practically floats on air as she hurries over has me feeling like I’m king of the world. And she’s not even my girl.
Though that’s also crossed my mind a few times lately.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, just shy of jumping into my arms. I would have caught her. “When did you get back?”
I want to reach out. The temptation to help her cover the distance she left between us is strong. I don’t, but I wonder if I’ll kick myself for not doing it later. Cognizant of the bruising and welt on my head, I keep the right side tilted away from her and thumb behind me as if it relates to the story in any shape or form. “Two hours or so ago.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, and her pretty eyes widen. Tucking hair that’s fallen loose from the ponytail she’s wearing, she then tilts her head. “And you came straight here?” Her eyes shift to the car, then her head wobbles. “I mean,” she says, shrugging, “after you went home.”
“Yeah. I went home first, though I’m regretting that now.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of how happy you were when you thought I hadn’t. I wouldn’t have, but I needed my car to get here.”
The apples of her cheeks pink, and the corners of her eyes soften just looking at me. “You don’t owe me anything, Shane. You’ve done more than your share already.”
“My share of what?”
“Favors. I owe you more than one.”
“No, you don’t. We’re in this together, remember?”
“Yeah.” She shifts, dipping her gaze between us. Shoving my hands in my front pockets, I take her in subtly. Or I thought I had until she laughs, looking away from me.
When she looks back, she asks, “Were you checking me out?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth opens as if no man tells her the truth—she’s fucking sexy. “Oh, um . . .” A shake of her head appears to remind her of what she was saying. “Anyway . . .”
“Are you done for the day?”
Shifting her bag as if the load is too heavy to bear for much longer, she holds it in front of her. I reach out, slipping my hand next to hers, my roughness against her softness. Neither of us moves, the connection making my heart thunder in my chest so loudly I wonder if she can hear it. I’d forgotten what this felt like while on tour. The way the simplest things with her—sandwiches at the beach, joking like old friends do, the thrill of spending time with someone who makes you feel alive again—are magnified to make life exciting.
“Shane!”
I’m startled from falling into her soulful eyes any deeper. “What?”
Releasing the bag, she reaches for my forehead. Oh, that. “What happened?”
“A run-in with a fist. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“That definitely sounds like something to worry about.” With the tips of her fingers gently running over the bruised area, she lifts on her toes and looks me in the eyes. Or tries to. She’s still a few inches short of her goal. “Yeeps.”
“Yeeps? That’s a new one.”
She laughs, but it’s light under the circumstances. “Have you iced the area?”
“More than I wanted.”
Still studying the wound, she hums. “That’s good.” And then she looks at me, and asks, “Do you have a concussion?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m still concussed.”
When she drops onto her heels, the worry in her medically trained eyes has me wondering if I fucked up. “You should be at home resting.”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to rest.”
“When did it happen?”
“Saturday.”
“You’re past the watch and worry stage, for the most part.” Her gentle touch stroking my skin has me leaning closer to her. Her fingertips give comfort, and her concern for me makes me feel. It makes me feel something I haven’t in a long time—cared for. Discomfort quickly shades the good, and I lean back again. “I’m fine.”
I’m given a tight smile and a nod of reassurance. “You’ll be okay, but you need to get home and rest. How long are you in LA?”
“Other than the shows, all I’ve been doing is resting. I was hoping you were free not to rest tonight.”
“Like all night?” Her pink lips part into a smile again. “Free to do what?”
I thought about this woman every day I was away from her, so I’ll take any time she spares me. “How about dinner?”
The smile falters, but her eyes never leave mine. “Are you asking me on a date, Shane?”
“No.” I’m a fucking liar.
“Oh. That’s right.”
“What’s right?”
She taps a finger to her head as if it’s all coming back to her. “You’re not a relationship guy.”
Why’d I say that shit? Nothing like having your words used against you. “When I said that?—”
“You don’t have to hide who you are with me. We’re friends. That’s a good place to be and probably best for us,” she says, sounding committed to the idea. Taking her bag from me, she then steps back. “If you’re up for dinner, we can discuss my research on the divorce situation.”
The tides turned quickly in my favor, but I’d forgotten about the divorcing her part. I don’t like the taste of it, much less the sound of the words. I still won’t say no. “Where should we go?”
“Based on your current condition, how about my place? I don’t live too far from here. Beats sitting in traffic.”
I hadn’t thought about her place, her living somewhere, since I’ve only seen her here and a few other public locations. But now I can’t wait to see where she lives. “Sure does.”
She starts walking backward, I assume to her car. “Do you like Chinese food?”
“Love it.”
“I’ll text my address.” She stops, strands blowing across her face, looking more beautiful in the sunshine than I’ve ever seen her. “It’s not fancy, okay? Just a little apartment.”
Like a gut punch, the shame hits hard. Is that what she thinks of me, that I would judge her by where she lives? Or is she lowering my expectations? Either way, I feel like shit that she felt the need to even say it. “I’m not judging, Cat.”
“I’m only preparing you. There aren’t the fancy accoutrements you’re used to. No incredible views except of the parking lot. No great living spaces. We’ll be cramped, especially you, big guy.” Big guy? Why does that sound so seductive coming from her mouth?
She turns her back but throws me a wave in the air, walking to her car. I watch to make sure she gets in safely before returning to the Ferrari.
The address pops up in a text, and I map it out to meet her there. Deep down, I can’t wait to see where she calls home. I bet it smells like her—the sweet vanilla mixed with a citrus twist. She reminds me of summers at the beach and some of my best days. I can only imagine being surrounded by her belongings and seeing what she chooses to display. Is she messy at home and only put together for work? What’s in her fridge?
I’ve never been more fascinated by a woman, and I can’t wait to snoop.
Half an hour later, I pull into a spot next to her and park. As soon as I open my door, she warns, “It’s messy.”
Girl speak for it’s clean enough to eat off the floors, but I left a mug in the sink. “I swear I’m not judging you, Cat.”
Pointing toward the apartment in front of us, she says, “This is me.”
I don’t like it. First floor? Really? For safety reasons alone, she should be on the second or third. The higher, the better.
She fumbles through her keys until she finds the right one. Dusting her feet off on the “You had me at meow” mat, she unlocks the door. I’m already having so many thoughts that will never leave my mouth.
Swinging the door open, she leans against it, and says, “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I step in slowly, taking in the size—not much bigger than a shoebox full of the necessities, low ceilings, a dark green couch, and the artwork that hangs above it. I’m ushered in with tender pressure on my back to make way for the door to close. Her touching me has me doing the opposite, staying right where I am to feel her warmth for as long as I can.
She drops her bag beside the door and then tosses her white coat in a hamper on the other side before leaning against it.
I turn back to take in the overflowing wooden bookcase by the sliding glass door where books are stacked high of varying heights. “You have your own library.”
“I need to cull them soon. I don’t have the room since I didn’t get the house.” The house . . . I still feel shitty for being a part, even unknowingly, of the reason she didn’t get it.
The sound of the bolt latching has me turning back. “You going to murder me or keep me as your sex toy?”
A look of horror knits her brows together. “What?”
“Bad joke about the lock.” That doesn’t seem to ease her expression. “Forget it.” I move in front of the painting, crossing my arms over my chest, and follow the colorful lines up and down, and then across to the black streak. “I like the painting.”
“I did it to save money since I had this big blank wall. It turned out better than I expected.”
“You painted this?”
“I did. Immodesty is a sin, but I’m damn proud of that painting.”
Staring at her, I’m captivated by this beauty. “I’m impressed.”
“Thanks.” She comes to stand next to me on the far side of the coffee table.
With our attention focused on the painting again, I say, “It would look great at my place.”
She doesn’t say anything. We just stand there in the silence together.
My phone buzzing in my pocket makes me want to crush it for ruining this, and there’s no way in fucking hell I’m checking it with her around. Fortunately, it stops before I force it.
She looks at me and asks, “Want the rest of the tour?”
“Do I get the VIP treatment?”
“Of course.” She’s laughing but detours away from the kitchen and leads me straight into the bedroom. “And this is?—”
“Where the magic happens?” I stop in the doorway, taking in the space and then her right along with it. The lights are out, and she doesn’t bother to turn them on, leaving the evening sun to sneak between the trees outside and the open blinds.
She sits on the end of the mattress, and says, “I was going to say this is where I sleep.”
Nodding, I move inside, feeling more comfortable than I should in her bedroom. “Ah, that makes more sense.”
“What do you mean by more sense?” She seems to know the answer already by how she rolls her eyes. Falling back with her arms wide, she releases a long breath as if she can finally breathe after the long day. “Am I ever going to live Maggie’s comments down?”
Doing what I shouldn’t, I sit next to her on the bed . . . in the dimly lit room . . . wanting so much to lie next to her. I find myself breathing easier too. The day of traveling has weighed down on me and made me drowsy. The head injury doesn’t help.
The calming colors of the bedding and walls, the scent of her swirling in the air, the beat of her heart and mine mingling between us.
She hooks a finger in one of my back belt loops, and a gentle pull has me lying down next to her. I turn to find her eyes already finding mine, my breath deepening, hers wading through the shallows. The tips of her fingers run lightly over the injury, and she shifts, coming toward me.
My lips part when hers do. I caress her cheek, my gaze locked onto her mouth. And then she kisses me on the forehead. It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever felt. Her breaths are jagged, and her eyes shift away. With one hand on the bed, the other rests on her chest as if she’s keeping her heart inside.
Sitting up, she catches her breath, and without looking back, she whispers, “We should order food.”
When I sit up next to her, my heart still beats hard, but now my chest feels tight. I try swallowing down the mistake I just made and stand to leave the room. “Sounds good.”