Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
TORI
A touch shouldn’t be able to do this.
His hands press warmly through my shirt, burning against my skin, the sensation sizzling all over me as I try to tell myself this is exactly what I wanted—a casual hookup with a man who makes me wet with excitement.
When he tells me I’m perfect, though, suddenly, it’s like I need to hit the brakes. I care too much. Well, not care . Come on, Tori. Be honest. Okay. I care. It means something, this dashing doctor telling me I’m irresistible. The meaning amplifies when he glides his hand around to the small of my back, inching toward my ass.
I squeeze my legs together as my sex aches, my clit throbbing like I’m going to, you know, right here, without him even touching me. I can’t let somebody have this much power over me. Am I overthinking it? Probably.
My hand tightens against his chest. His muscles press against me like they’re going to snap my fingernails.
“You’re not going to tell me you don’t want this.” His voice is a husky drawl.
“Don’t talk like you can read my mind,” I snap.
“I don’t need to read your mind when I can read your body.”
He pulls me closer. I gasp, then shut my mouth. This is all becoming very ‘swept off my feet,’ and I can’t let that happen.
“I’m not going to sleep with you on this beach, smart guy.”
He leans down. As we stare into each other’s eyes, suddenly, Valentine’s Day doesn’t seem so silly. His lips brush close to mine, a tempting taste, but the feeling of powerlessness stops me again. He can’t be in charge.
I’ll be left a crumpled mess like Mom. Struggling to make sense of what happened, crippled with emotional whiplash.
I push myself away while I still can before the heat reaches a tipping point. In my head, Cleo is watching me judgmentally, annoyed that I wouldn’t just give myself to him.
My body feels pretty bothered by it, too. My heart is pounding hard; my inner thighs are aching, my lips tingling like some primal part of me is anticipating the kiss.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispers, taking my hands as I create some distance between us.
“I’m sure I’m not much more beautiful than your last girl.”
A tremble moves through his hulking body. For a tiny moment, I’m terrified—not that I think he’s going to hurt me. It’s how protective and intense he becomes. I want more of it. Badly.
I need to be careful.
“There wasn’t a last girl ,” he snaps.
I smile and laugh. See? Keeping it casual is back on the menu. “You don’t really expect me to believe that.”
I let go of one of his hands, and turn, intent on walking again. He pauses for a moment, my right hand in his, like he’s not going to let me. Like instead, he’ll pull me toward him, crush our bodies together, and let me feel those hulking muscles again.
Stubbornly, I pull away and walk on, ignoring my desires. Why? Cleo challenges in my head. Just throw yourself at him!
“Do you?” I go on. “You can’t expect me to believe you’re some chaste monk who stays away from women.”
“I’ve been waiting for the right woman.” He looks at me meaningfully when I turn to look at him.
“So you believe in soulmates?” I put a heavy dose of sarcasm into my voice.
“Maybe not soulmates. But I believe in true love. Even if I’ve spent too damn long lying to myself and everybody around me about it, it might make me a fool for still believing in it, but I do.”
We stop near the lapping waves, the sound of the bars muted by distance.
His eyes are suddenly serious, starlight reflected in them. There’s something about his penetrating look that’s very not casual.
“Why does it make you a fool?” I ask.
“It’s depressing. I don’t want to ruin the mood.”
I grin. “Touché.” It’s what I said about my poems. “But you want to tell me, so tell me.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Do I, Tori? You think you can read this stranger so easily, huh?”
He’s trying to make this into something it’s not, something it can never be. “It’s not that deep,” I tell him.
“Strange thing for a poet to say. Perhaps you’re just a woman of contradictions.”
“I want to know,” I admit. “Because suddenly, you looked…”
“Go on,” he whispers.
It’s like he knows I don’t want to say this, any of it, veer too close to anything real, and voice something I’ve pushed away my whole life. “Like you’re ready to take out your rage on the world. Like you’re almost done hoping. Like you didn’t believe…”
I stop just in time. I was going to say, Didn’t believe in happily ever afters before tonight. What. The. Heck. Is. Wrong. With. Me?
He smooths a hand through his glistening silver hair. It causes the fabric of his shirt to tighten on his biceps, his sculpted body so utterly tempting. “I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this but screw it. You should know what you’re getting into.”
I want to tell him that I’m not getting into anything. But I can’t force the words—the lie.
“I had a long-term girlfriend once. I thought we had a good relationship and the same goals. I was working my way through medical school, determined to make my way in the world instead of working for the family company my parents left behind. I guess she wanted more, so she left me for my brother, and they had a kid together after. They both died in a car accident two years ago, leaving Elliot an orphan.”
He speaks mechanically, with no hint of heartache. It must be a defense mechanism. Annoyingly, I find myself wanting to peel back his layers to get to the pain beneath.
“Whoa,” I mutter.
“It’s heavy,” he says, nodding. “Too heavy for a night like this.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean—no, thanks for telling me. But…”
What am I doing ?
The poet in me cracks through to the surface as I grip his shoulders and pull myself close. The heat of our bodies collides and triggers another wave of hunger.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Alex. Nobody deserves to go through that. What happened to their kid?”
“He lives with me now,” Alex replies, his voice trembling. “I do my best, but it’s difficult. I work so often.”
“But you did the right thing despite the betrayal,” I say earnestly.
“I wasn’t going to take it out on the kid. He deserves a life.”
“You’re a good person.”
Oh, jeez. My voice shudders, and a sob threatens to take over. I’m thinking of my dad, his death, and the pain of growing up without a parent. Being close to him makes me want to spill it all out.
“Tori?” he whispers.
“It’s nothing.”
“You can tell me,” he says, his tone eager to hear me out. Eager to get to know me.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
How did we get to this serious place? Is that just who we are?
“I should go,” I tell him, afraid to let him in even more than I inadvertently already have. “It’s late.”
“Let me call you a cab?—”
“I’ll get an Uber. Don’t worry about it.”
I turn away, meaning to run down the beach, my blood rushing in my ears. The panic is all too real.
Is this what it’s been like for Mom all those times, the quick connection, her mind filling with impossible dreams? I won’t make the same mistake of throwing myself into it. I have to remember that bad endings are far more common than happy ones.
He catches my arm and turns me to face him. I gasp as he turns feral and pulls me close.
His lips press against mine with a passion I’ve never felt or imagined. He sinks his hands into my hips as though he’s been waiting his entire life for me, as though no one else could ever compare—like I’m genuinely as perfect as he claims.
He grips my ass, our bodies so close I can feel his solid length pressing against my belly. He feels huge and starving for us to take this further. Our mouths open, and our tongues clash with more desperation than I even understand.
I pull back, intent on running away. “I’m sorry. I have to g?—”
Before I can say go , he growls and kisses me again. The sound he makes is so freaking tempting. It’s like he’s never been with a more beautiful woman than me. I didn’t know it was possible for me to feel this wanted.
Our kiss grows more urgent. He stumbles forward like he’s trying to take this to the sand. Part of me wants it, to fall, to let go, to open my legs and feel his solid thickness grind through my pants.
“Alex,” I snap. “I’m going.”
His eyes refocus. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. For a moment, I want him to.
Then he lets me go, letting out a shaky breath. “I need to see you again,” he says, panting.
What he needs to do is chill. So do I.
“Text me,” I snap, turning away, walking fast, almost sprinting, part of me wanting him to catch up.
At home, I find Mom passed out on the couch. Her cell phone is propped against a half-empty glass of wine, the screen open on Tinder. She was swiping until she fell asleep.
I step into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.
That got heated way too fast. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to. I wouldn’t have been able to stop him otherwise. His touch was instantly addictive. And the look in his eyes was like he thought he owned me.
I can’t let myself feel this much. If my people-watching has taught me anything, it’s that men like Alex are too good to be true.
Lying in bed, I search his hospital, getting his full name. Alex Whitmore.
I then search ‘Whitmore crash’, finding nothing. I search ‘Whitmore crash, son, Elliot,’ and still… there’s nothing. I grind my teeth. Do I really think he’d lie about something like that?
I don’t know him, so I have to assume yes. Men have lied to Mom about worse things to get her into bed.
Why can’t I find anything about it online?
I close my eyes, walking through his mentality. He sees a woman he wants at a bar. He texts her, trying to figure out if he’s going to get anywhere with her. Then, when they meet, he sees she’s poetic and emotional, even if she’s trying to hide it. He seizes on that with a sob story.
He got heavy toward the end, almost like he wasn’t going to stop. Sure, I didn’t want him to, but that’s not the point. I’m not going to let myself be tricked.
I spend the next thirty minutes searching the internet, scouring for any mention of the crash, using every search term I can think of. Nothing.
Next, I go to the hospital’s blog page. I’m torturing myself, but I don’t care. I need a way to switch off this feeling that’s growing too quickly and stubbornly inside me.
The media page shows countless snaps of Alex at fundraisers, standing with women who look like models. In a few of them, have a hand on his arm, or he’s got his arm looped around their waist.
I’m not jealous. That’s not what this is about.
It’s just interesting, isn’t it, that he’d act like he had nothing to do with women, neglected to mention all these hotties?
Finally, I go to his social media pages, cycling through the public posts and photos. There’s not a kid in sight.
Other people might think I’m jumping to conclusions, but Mom’s most recent boyfriend told her his ex-wife and children lived on the East Coast, used her for months, then finally dropped a bombshell, leaving her a shattered mess all over again.
Right now, Alex could be with another of his women, maybe even laughing about it as they talk about all that true love crap. Don’t call me paranoid. It’s entirely possible.
But if somebody’s going to get hurt here, it sure as heck isn’t me.
Finally, I fall asleep, my dreams a tangled mess of the kiss, the closeness, and the possible lies.
Mom is brewing coffee when I walk into the kitchen the next morning. “You have a good night?” she asks.
“Uh, sort of,” I mutter.
“Sort of?”
I’ve already decided I’m not going to tell Cleo and Lily about my suspicions. Cleo would say that it doesn’t matter. All I should be worrying about is sleeping with Alex anyway. Lily would be disgusted at the idea that somebody would lie about something like that.
Mom pours me a mug of coffee. Things can get tense between us at times, but we’re still all each other has.
“It’s nothing, really,” I mutter. “It doesn’t even matter. But I sort of kissed a guy last night.”
Mom looks younger than her age when she smiles, which is exactly what she does when I tell her this. “How do you sort of kiss a guy?”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, we actually kissed.”
“That’s great, Tori,” she says, beaming.
“Is it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Mom, how are you still so optimistic about romance and love and all that crap after everything? I mean, it was just yesterday you split up wi?—”
She raises a hand. “I refuse to talk about him .”
“Well, I may be in a similar situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“This guy, he’s older, he’s hot, he’s… interesting.”
“So far, so good,” she says.
“But last night, he got super intense. Said he’s been looking for the right woman—looked at me as though I was the lucky girl. Then he told me about how his ex cheated on him with his brother, and how they died in a car crash, and now he takes care of their kid.”
“How awful,” Mom whispers.
“But I can’t find any record of it online. I’ve used his surname with the word ‘crash.’ Surely, that’d be enough? Plus, online, there are loads of photos of him with other women. So, what happened to not being interested in romance anymore? Plus, on his socials, there’s not a single snap of his nephew. Surely, if he were taking care of him, there would be.”
Mom frowns, her eyes glimmering.
“What?” I snap.
“Is this what I’ve done to you?”
“Mom, please, don’t make this about you.”
“Why would you assume he’s lying?” she questions.
“Men lie. It’s what they do.”
“Not all men,” she insists.
“Mom.”
I feel bad about raising my voice, but this is just ridiculous. How many times does she need to experience the same thing to get the point?
“How many boyfriends have you had since Dad passed away?”
“A few,” she says.
“Seven. How many of those have turned out to be liars? Five . Those aren’t exactly great odds, are they?”
“I thought you weren’t looking for a relationship, anyway,” Mom says, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve always said love isn’t for you.”
“It isn’t,” I say defensively.
“So why do you care if he lied or not? Why do you care if he’s in photos with other women? If you don’t want him, it shouldn’t matter.”
She’s got me there. I’ve got no good answer to that one.
My phone vibrates. It’s a text from the demanding doctor himself.
Alex: Good morning, beautiful.