by Shayla Black
But as soon as I tilt my head and take in the troubled furrows across his brow, I know I won’t be able to help myself. “What?” I ask again. “Certain rules are what, Adan? What do you mean?”
He figure-eights his head, his clever way of threading between a nod and a shake. “It simply means I want to spend some time with you, Kate.” He glances over, with his outstretched hand already leading the way. He yanks both back to himself with a weird grimace before declaring, “Not as boss and COO. Not even as ‘Adan and Abettin’’ and ‘Straight-A Kate’ from Westview, okay?” His recall of our old nicknames has us indulging a fast mutual grin. “I just feel like—”
“You feel like what?” Yeah, it’s becoming a bad habit now. But I refuse to berate myself for it. I sense that Adan’s arrived at a similar decision, since he reaches over and clutches my hand without hesitation now.
“Honest-to-fuck truth?” he says. “I’ve felt like the reunion was a hell of an opportunity to reconnect with you, and it was an idiot move to let it slide by.”
I roll out a small giggle. “Oh, come on. As I recall, wasn’t there a tequila tasting or something going on in the bar that night?”
“And remember what I mentioned about an idiot move?” As we laugh together again, he squeezes my fingers tighter. “But now this…tonight…” he goes on. “I think the universe has cut me a really great break. Or is ringing with a huge wakeup call. Maybe both. I mean, if you’d walked through the arena a second before or a second after…”
“Then we would’ve seen each other at the office tomorrow.” And here’s the commentary I don’t feel bad about. “Straight-A Kate” is in fine form with her voice of logic, and right now I think we both need it. “I’d likely still be the one tapped for giving you the facilities tour, and—”
“We would have both been on our best, professional behavior,” Adan interjects. “And I never would have had the chance to be driving you out to Sausalito, on a gorgeous night like this.” He lifts our clasped hands in a playful “jingling” motion. “Beautiful evening, beautiful woman. I’m a lucky man indeed.”
At once, and against all my screaming inner intentions, I tense up. It’s not that I’ve never thought of being in this situation with Adan Tyler before. It’s that I’ve thought of it too many times. No. Not just thought. I’ve dreamed about it. Written at least a hundred mental scripts about it. Which is hilarious, really—because now I have no idea what to do or say. How to feel or be…
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Kate.”
And there’s what my tension gets me. A damn apology from the man.
“Uhhh…why?” I counter at once.
“Because I might as well be falling out of the rafters at you again,” he mutters. “And bowling you over like a goddamned battering ram.”
I’m able to relax enough for a light chuckle. “You were a little bit nicer than a battering ram,” I soothe.
“And you’re being kind,” he responds. “But honestly, it’s not my intention to go Brett Buckhorn on you here.”
So much for my polite bells of laughter. Before I can help it, a full guffaw bursts from me. As I pause to get in air, I’m snort-laughing. “Oh God,” I finally manage, hating myself for making him look like a turtle in a hailstorm. “Oh my God,” I repeat, hoping my croak conveys my pure shock. “Oh, Adan. Ohhh, Adan Tyler, is that truly what you think? That I’d even contemplate you in the same realm as him?”
He shakes his head and fidgets his lips. Holy shit, does the man have any idea what all his extracurricular mouth activity is doing to my ability—or lack of it—to focus on the real subject we’ve broached here? “Okay, so I’m not in his realm,” he finally concedes. “So is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Are you joking?” I rejoin. “Tell me you’re joking.” We’ve made it into the outskirts of Sausalito, meaning he can view my full, confused lip bite while we idle at a stop sign. “Oh, come on. This is the easy question, dude. Brett was my direct report who worked me like a slave-minion at the office and then tried to get away with the same stuff outside the office. You are the hot hunk from high school who always made my days by even speaking to me and turned a freak power outage into one of the best afternoons of my life.” And as soon as it’s out of my mouth, I hunch my shoulders toward the door. “And Christ wept into San Francisco Bay, that was way too much information for a friendly jaunt into Sausalito for dinner and catching up.”
“Hmmm.”
As soon as he lets out the low sound, I already know he’s done that classic Adan bounce-back thing. Only trouble is, I’m not sure if he’s done so with the power of contemplation, aspiration, or both. And if it’s both, what the hell do I do here? What the hell can I do? Unless he has a handful of leering buddies waiting at the restaurant to check me out, he’s not Brett Buckhorn—but that makes him no less off-limits. Craving him, in every illicit way possible, makes it no less wrong to envision having him. Yes, even now. Especially now.
“Sorry,” he reiterates—only this time, the “remorse” is clearly a wry take on the word. “I’m not sure I heard your entire statement correctly. Could you repeat it, please?” As he accelerates once more, he flashes an entrancing wink along with his half grin. “All right, maybe just the important stuff. That part about you and me and one of the best afternoons of your life?”
Quickly, I un-hunch my posture. Impale him with a snickering girl growl.
Just as swiftly, he dissolves into a cocky snicker.
But now, I’m ready for him. I land a whack across his bicep that fills the car with its better-than-a-movie thwack. He ends up laughing harder while rearing back in a mock pout.
“Where the hell did you get that left hook, girl?”
“Hook?” I rebut. “I barely tapped you!”
“Tell that to my arm.”
“Hmmph.” As we head north on Bridgeway, I prop my elbow on the window ledge and gaze out over the gentle swells of the bay. It’s a nondescript excuse to hide the impish grin that this boy—this man—has plastered across my lips. “You’re getting soft in your old age, buddy.”
“And you’re getting more beautiful in yours, Katherine Casey.”
There he goes again.
Katherine.
Only this time, I want him to say it again. Just like that. Over and over and over again.
Holy. Shit.
I’m in such big trouble.
5
An hour and a half later, full of mussels, lobster, tiramisu, and Cabernet from Scoma’s, we’ve strolled past a lot of the waterfront boutiques, as well as the iconic pair of elephant-shaped light statues, and entered the little triangular-shaped park at the heart of Sausalito. I’m surprised that Viña Del Mar isn’t more crowded since it’s still early, but there’s a distinct chill in the air as the bay mist thickens.
The other couples lingering around the park’s large circular fountain, which was rescued from demolition after the 1915 Pan-Pacific Expo, have started huddling together to ward off the cold. I cave to a tiny thrill when Adan takes inspiration from them, tucking me close by slipping an arm around my shoulders and then guiding me to encircle his waist. In the doing, he doesn’t break cadence once in the story he’s relaying. Despite the little—all right, not so little—lurch of my heart rate, I’m glad for the fact. Because his current little tale is damn good.
Still, I nail the guy with a decent double take at his newest revelation. “Okay, so hold up. Are you seriously saying that Flame Fawcett, Extreme Sports reporter of the ages, stopped in the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard and flashed every inch of her bare chest to you? And she wasn’t drunk, high, or trying to get in your pants?”
He chuckles and waggles his brows. “Not shitting you. It was somewhere between Caesar’s and the Mirage. A bunch of the guys from the circuit were joking around about what show to go see, and someone cracked a line about preferring the one with the skimpiest costumes. Not exactly the brightest thing to say, but he’d been drinking for hours and Flame has ne
ver made it a secret that she likes girls as much as guys, so…”
“He thought he was fairly safe about the comment,” I fill in.
He hitches up a brow. “What’s really safe when you’re partying with a reporter?”
“Fair point,” I accede. “So that got her upset enough to give you all an eyeful?”
Adan cocks his head back. “Upset?” he rejoins. “Oh hell no. She was self-promoting. She wanted to be his VIP show for the night.” He smirks while I gasp out a laugh, and then amends, “To be fair, Van is hung like a horse and has a rep for being a god in the sheets. He can also do the best full pipe loop out of any rider I’ve seen.”
I take my turn to rear back. Just for fun, I add an exaggerated gape. “Whaaat?” I exclaim. “A monster in the sack and he does full pipe loops? Where do I sign up to show him my boobs?”
My chuckling punctuation isn’t resonated by Adan. Not even by half a snicker. I cut my tease short, but it’s well past the cutoff for preventing his tight glower and ruler-straight scowl.
Shit, shit, shit.
Yeah, it’s the second time in as many hours my brain has resonated the rally cry—only this time, it’s not for any of the good reasons. “Uhhh…hey,” I finally sputter at the hunk-turned-ogre who’s now clamping more than comforting my shoulder. “Kidding here? Adan? Dude? Buddy?”
I’m ready to go for the jugular and invoke his old nickname, just to shake him loose from whatever storm cloud has taken over him, when he renders me totally speechless—
By clutching me closer and kissing me.
Really thoroughly.
Oh so deeply.
Beyond passionately.
Make that brutally.
And ohhh God, how I enjoy it. Every lip-mashed, tongue-tangled, groan-inducing second of it. And every one of the seconds after it, when he at last drags his tongue out of my throat and releases my mouth from his conquering crush—at least by a few inches. But not more than that. He’s still close enough to share all the air my lungs are pumping. To ensure I still inhale him with every one of them, smelling his spicy soap, his leather jacket, his all-man musk. Holy crap, can he smell me in the same way? With one full inhalation, will he be able to tell how wet I am? How thoroughly my pussy craves him? How he makes me long to be sprawled out on a bunch of beanbags again with him…listening to his naughty words in my ear and spreading my thighs for his exploring touch?
If he does, he gives me no outward indication. I’m still staring into his shadow-dark gaze and wondering what words are brewing beneath the new twist across his luscious lips.
“If you’re baring yourself for anyone in the near future, it’s going to be for me.”
Those are nothing close to the words I anticipated.
But holy wow, they’re so much better.
“I—ermmm—don’t know what to—” I have to interrupt myself, catching my breath and rewiring my thoughts. That’s definitely a squall still dominating the man’s features, but I was wrong about the total reason behind it. At least I think so… “Adan? Wh-What are you trying to tell m—”
And just like that, I’m moaning again. Because he’s kissing me again. Longer, harder, and lustier than the first time. Ohhh, so much lust…and fire…and fever…
All right, so I really wasn’t mistaken. That energy across his face, now coursing like live electricity through his whole body, is honest-to-crap desire. A craving at least equal to mine. Freaking wow; Adan Tyler really wants me as badly as I do him. Not just a second of my bared chest either. Not if my instincts are still tracking correctly and following the meaning of his trailing hand down my back…into the dip of my waist…and then over the curve of my hip…
“Holy Christ, Kate.” His grate in my ear is as rough as his stubble against my cheek. “Do you know what I’m trying to tell you now?”
I turn my face toward his, initiating a kiss for myself this time. But I keep the contact at PG level, since I’m not sure how many more of his tonsillectomies I can take before I start looking for bushes to drag him into. Not a great plan, on several levels. One, his wandering grip has already garnered us a few saucy snickers from passersby. Two, the ferry is beep-beep-beeping its way into the dock, meaning a new surge of humanity is about to hit the park.
Then there’s number three.
The glaring fact I’m trying like hell to ignore.
That I’m the girl who exposed Up-To-Eleven’s executive-level creepazoid predator, now sucking face with the company’s biggest investor like my life depends on it. That he’s putting the same gusto into the effort. That if there’s even one person around here right now who recognizes Adan and whips out their phone in time to watch his palm roam across my ass, we’ll both be more than the talk of Twitter before midnight. I’ll walk into work tomorrow to find a pink slip on my desk. He’ll be branded as the X Games bad boy caught with the COO who cried wolf on the perv-who-really-wasn’t. And though none of that’s the case—the reason Adan and Sketch even met was because of Adan’s willingness to testify with personal anecdotes about Brett and his unchecked abuse—trial by media is a scary and powerful reality.
A truth that clearly stabs Adan the same moment it gouges into me.
He jolts away like I’ve spontaneously combusted. Fitting borrow on the image, since my bloodstream is still the River Styx and my sex is a kiln that could turn glass into sand. But just when I’ve filled my lungs a few good times and coaxed my pulse somewhere in the neighborhood of normal, the damn hunk revs me all over again, cupping one hand around the back of my neck.
“Sorry,” he husks at last, backing it up by squeezing my nape a little harder. “Really. I’m sorry, Kate.”
I lift my head. I bite into my lower lip once more, but release it the second before confessing, “I’m fairly certain I’m not.” Against every instinct of self-preservation in my body, I wrap a hand around his outstretched bicep. It’s like gripping one of the stones on the rock wall back at work. “Which should be alarming me way more than it is, I know…but ever since you went wrecking ball on me in the arena tonight, I’m pretty sure I wanted you to do the same thing again. Just like that, as a matter of… What?”
I switch up the final word due to his purposeful, piercing stare. He’s either really bewildered or has adopted a new form of pissed-off that I’m not familiar with.
“Adan?” I prompt. “What is it?”
And just like that, his expression smooths. Why the phenomenon surprises me this time, I have no idea. At least it ensures I’m listening as he murmurs, “Let’s get something clear, Katherine Casey. I’m not sorry for kissing you. I am sorry it took me eleven years to finally do it again, and to do it right.” His features torque tight for a couple seconds. “Okay, that’s not totally true. If I were doing it really right, we’d be somewhere that you pull a full Flame Fawcett on me. And then I could worship your gorgeous breasts with my mouth and tell you how many times I’ve thought about them since that afternoon we got stuck in the library…”
“Okay, buddy.” I use my hold to give him an I-call-bullshit shake. “You didn’t even see my chest that day.”
“Uh…duh,” he rejoins. “Which has officially gone down as the largest mistake of my high school life. And for that matter, of last year.”
I drop my intention to bring up how he spent our sophomore summer making up his English Lit grade because of cutting class to practice for the regional skateboarding championships, but the last part of his declaration has me blink-blinking at him in abject shock. “Wait. What?” I blurt. “Last year?”
“At the reunion?” He dips his gaze in, avidly raking it across my face. “You do remember that little shindig, right? The event where I kept trying to spend time with you? Maybe even get you alone somewhere?” He sees my new blink-blink and raises it by a harsh chuff. “You think I brought out the frog guts jokes and the Disco Days wig for my health, lady?”
I stop blinking and start frowning. “But everyone loves that wig.”
�
��You love that wig, girl.” He leans closer, his mirth dissolving beneath the force of some invisible need. But not intangible. I feel it too. It’s the same magnetism we experienced in the library, only different. Stronger. Hotter. Better. “I fished through a hundred boxes in my mom’s garage to find that wig for the party…for you, Kate.”
“And you brought it.” A tiny laugh pushes its way up my suddenly tight throat. “And you wore it. For even more than one song.”
“And shortly after that, you ghosted me.”
And now I know why he didn’t add his laugh onto mine.
“Uh, excuse me? I did what?”
At first, he just keeps examining my face. I feel like he’s purposely channeling Coach Shreffler, waiting to bust me for chewing gum in the gym. “Okay.” He nods, apparently satisfied I’m not hoarding a wad of Bazooka in my cheek. “So you really didn’t do it on purpose.”
I pop my eyes wide. Despite his syntax, a few threads of accusation lace his tone. Finally I spit back, “On purpose? Ghosting? You?” I whip my gaze around, almost wondering if anyone else is hearing this. What he’s saying here… The guy might as well be alleging the sky is about to fall and the bay is becoming a whole vat of Pinot. But that’s a goal for another day. Right now, I have to unravel this stunner he’s levelling at me. “Back up the bicycle, mister. Are you seriously telling me that you thought I jetted on you at the reunion?”
He returns my perplexed glare with an equal bewilderment game of his own. “You want to tell me why I shouldn’t have?” He slides his hand free from me and pushes it through his hair. The move actually makes him look—holy crap—unnerved. “We took pictures together. Ate some hotel mystery meat together. Danced together.”
“I still haven’t forgotten the wig, dude.”
My jibe hits his nervousness like a thumbtack tossed at a cement block. “We were talking. Reconnecting,” he persists. “It was great. It was…fuck, it was magic.”
I pull my hand free from his neck too. But with mine, I wrap my fingers around the top of his knee. “Yeah,” I rasp. “It really was.”