Something Reckless
Page 36
Her eyes go wide, terrified. “You think I should?”
“No. Not really. It would hurt everyone involved, but if you can’t live with her working with Connor, you do have the choice.”
“I can live with it,” she says, but she sounds less like she’s sure and more like she’s trying to convince herself. She studies me for a minute. “Are you really taking her to the fundraiser?”
I shrug as if I’m not a giant tangle of emotions around everything that involves Liz. “It crossed my mind.”
“Take her,” she says, surprising me.
“Seriously?”
“Woo her. Distract her. Fuck her for all I care, but keep her away from Connor.”
“She’s not going to mess with Connor. You’re married now. It’s not like before, when you two were having troubles.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and sets her jaw. “Are you going to help me get through this or not?”
I sigh. Della needs reassurance and I need a girlfriend to improve my image. Maybe the solution is just that simple. “Yeah. I’ll help.”
Chapter Seven
Liz
Sam visits campaign headquarters again on Friday morning, and again he gives me that look—like I don’t belong and he’d really prefer I wasn’t here.
I watch him in my peripheral vision as he chats with his dad over coffee, but I try not to stare. I try to pretend that we don’t have a history, that he doesn’t hate me, and that there’s no way he’s the man who’s been talking dirty to me online, but I’m not that good an actress, and when he’s on his way out the door I can’t handle it.
I hop out of my seat, grab him, and pull him into the supply closet. Then I feel stupid because it’s dark in here and I can’t even see his face.
“I really want this job,” I blurt.
“Okay.”
Not only is it dark in here, the space is smaller than I anticipated, and every time I inhale, my chest brushes against his. I can smell his soap and his aftershave. I close my eyes and give myself to the count of three to revel in the things the smell does to my insides—very, very good things—then I do my best to plead my case. “I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable or if you hate me or . . . whatever. But this is the first time I’ve had a job I was this excited about. I love it. Please don’t ruin this for me.”
“You’re worried I’m going to tell my father what happened between you and Connor? You think I’d do that to my sister?”
“I never meant to hurt her,” I whisper. “I care about Della, even if she won’t talk to me anymore, and you know I care about Connor—not that way, but he’s a friend, and—”
“Shut up, Liz.” His voice is deep, and the husky tone in his command slingshots me back in time to our nights together, his hands on me, his rough voice whispering commands in my ear.
Obeying, I bite my lip to keep myself from saying more. There’s a time to argue in your own defense, and there’s a time to cut your losses.
Sam’s hands settle on my shoulders then slowly, oh-so slowly, he sweeps his fingertips down my arms and to my waist.
I swallow. Hard. Because right about now, a little make-out session with Sam—in a dark supply room or anywhere—sounds so damn good. It would be a poor decision. Been there, done that, got the heartache to prove it. But damn if I don’t want it anyway.
That last time I had sex? Actual going-all-the-way sex, not that drunken blow job that happened with Connor last summer? No, the last time I had actual sex was good. Great. O-mazing (which is like amazing, but with more orgasms). I found bruises the next day—hickies on the side of my breast and my inner thigh. What self-respecting grown man leaves hickies on a woman? But Sam isn’t self-respecting. He’s just Sam. And he’s damn good in bed and knows it. We hooked up for the first time two years ago and then again at Cally’s wedding last October, even though I’d told myself sleeping with him was a poor decision.
Maybe poor decisions are underrated.
He’s barely touching me, his fingertips resting on my hips, but I want to sway toward him. Hell, I want to rub against him like a cat.
“Rowdy?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have a date to your sister’s wedding?”
“No.”
“Wanna be mine?”
I actually gasp, a horrifyingly desperate little sound. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Wh . . . why?”
He chuckles softly and then I feel his lips on the shell of my ear. “Maybe I’m fond of what happens when we find ourselves at weddings together. Will you be my date?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Good. See you there.”
Then there’s a click, and I squint as light pours into the storage closet and Sam heads for the street.
“See you there,” I whisper, but he’s already gone.
* * *
Headquarters is rocking with activity today, and I’ve been so busy since Sam left this morning, I’ve barely had time to think about what happened in the supply closet. We have a load of new volunteers who need training, and everyone is in high gear preparing for the fundraising gala next week.
“It’s not that we don’t appreciate your offer to sing Christmas carols throughout dinner,” I tell Mrs. Patrinsky. “It’s just that Mr. Bradshaw already arranged for a string quartet.”
“No. Not really. It would hurt everyone involved, but if you can’t live with her working with Connor, you do have the choice.”
“I can live with it,” she says, but she sounds less like she’s sure and more like she’s trying to convince herself. She studies me for a minute. “Are you really taking her to the fundraiser?”
I shrug as if I’m not a giant tangle of emotions around everything that involves Liz. “It crossed my mind.”
“Take her,” she says, surprising me.
“Seriously?”
“Woo her. Distract her. Fuck her for all I care, but keep her away from Connor.”
“She’s not going to mess with Connor. You’re married now. It’s not like before, when you two were having troubles.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and sets her jaw. “Are you going to help me get through this or not?”
I sigh. Della needs reassurance and I need a girlfriend to improve my image. Maybe the solution is just that simple. “Yeah. I’ll help.”
Chapter Seven
Liz
Sam visits campaign headquarters again on Friday morning, and again he gives me that look—like I don’t belong and he’d really prefer I wasn’t here.
I watch him in my peripheral vision as he chats with his dad over coffee, but I try not to stare. I try to pretend that we don’t have a history, that he doesn’t hate me, and that there’s no way he’s the man who’s been talking dirty to me online, but I’m not that good an actress, and when he’s on his way out the door I can’t handle it.
I hop out of my seat, grab him, and pull him into the supply closet. Then I feel stupid because it’s dark in here and I can’t even see his face.
“I really want this job,” I blurt.
“Okay.”
Not only is it dark in here, the space is smaller than I anticipated, and every time I inhale, my chest brushes against his. I can smell his soap and his aftershave. I close my eyes and give myself to the count of three to revel in the things the smell does to my insides—very, very good things—then I do my best to plead my case. “I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable or if you hate me or . . . whatever. But this is the first time I’ve had a job I was this excited about. I love it. Please don’t ruin this for me.”
“You’re worried I’m going to tell my father what happened between you and Connor? You think I’d do that to my sister?”
“I never meant to hurt her,” I whisper. “I care about Della, even if she won’t talk to me anymore, and you know I care about Connor—not that way, but he’s a friend, and—”
“Shut up, Liz.” His voice is deep, and the husky tone in his command slingshots me back in time to our nights together, his hands on me, his rough voice whispering commands in my ear.
Obeying, I bite my lip to keep myself from saying more. There’s a time to argue in your own defense, and there’s a time to cut your losses.
Sam’s hands settle on my shoulders then slowly, oh-so slowly, he sweeps his fingertips down my arms and to my waist.
I swallow. Hard. Because right about now, a little make-out session with Sam—in a dark supply room or anywhere—sounds so damn good. It would be a poor decision. Been there, done that, got the heartache to prove it. But damn if I don’t want it anyway.
That last time I had sex? Actual going-all-the-way sex, not that drunken blow job that happened with Connor last summer? No, the last time I had actual sex was good. Great. O-mazing (which is like amazing, but with more orgasms). I found bruises the next day—hickies on the side of my breast and my inner thigh. What self-respecting grown man leaves hickies on a woman? But Sam isn’t self-respecting. He’s just Sam. And he’s damn good in bed and knows it. We hooked up for the first time two years ago and then again at Cally’s wedding last October, even though I’d told myself sleeping with him was a poor decision.
Maybe poor decisions are underrated.
He’s barely touching me, his fingertips resting on my hips, but I want to sway toward him. Hell, I want to rub against him like a cat.
“Rowdy?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have a date to your sister’s wedding?”
“No.”
“Wanna be mine?”
I actually gasp, a horrifyingly desperate little sound. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Wh . . . why?”
He chuckles softly and then I feel his lips on the shell of my ear. “Maybe I’m fond of what happens when we find ourselves at weddings together. Will you be my date?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Good. See you there.”
Then there’s a click, and I squint as light pours into the storage closet and Sam heads for the street.
“See you there,” I whisper, but he’s already gone.
* * *
Headquarters is rocking with activity today, and I’ve been so busy since Sam left this morning, I’ve barely had time to think about what happened in the supply closet. We have a load of new volunteers who need training, and everyone is in high gear preparing for the fundraising gala next week.
“It’s not that we don’t appreciate your offer to sing Christmas carols throughout dinner,” I tell Mrs. Patrinsky. “It’s just that Mr. Bradshaw already arranged for a string quartet.”
