Fix It Up Read online

That wasn't possible.

  I didn't wish for him to want me.

  That would be irrational.

  We barely got along.

  I mean, we currently were.

  But this was a rarity.

  Normally, we were at each other's throats.

  And it would be idiotic to want a man to feel sparks when they touch you when you could barely tolerate them most of the time.

  But that was perhaps being too rational.

  There really wasn't anything rational about attraction, was there? It was all chemicals, all random firings in the brain.

  It was why you sometimes feel nothing for the uber hot guy from the gym, but got all hot and bothered over the odd, only moderately attractive guy with unkempt hair and glasses from the coffeeshop.

  It was just an animal impulse.

  Something primitive, encoded in the DNA.

  My body wanted his, whether that made sense or not.

  But just because my body wanted it didn't mean I wanted it.

  Right?

  "Wow," I exhaled as we moved into the lobby of the hotel, having been spaced out for multiple blocks.

  "She said you would like it," he agreed, stopping beside me as I took it in.

  "Just me?" I asked, eyes moving over the cedar-wrapped beams across the ceiling, the matching gleaming hardwood floors, things that were perfectly up his alley. As was the giant seamless check-in desk with shiplap walls behind. The rest was me though with the cream couches but light blue accent chairs, the textured walls in an off-white, the giant and unique mason jar chandelier.

  "Us. She said we would both love it."

  "She gets us," I agreed, suddenly feeling his gaze on me, making me turn to find him watching me, dark eyes almost penetrative.

  "She does," he agreed with a nod, tone somewhat guarded. "You ready to check in, or do you need to go and eye-fuck the carpet too?" he asked, jerking his chin toward a seating area at the side that did have an amazing carpet.

  "We can check in," I said, looking forward, not liking his tone, but not disliking it enough to say anything about it.

  Then we did, getting our keycards, being trailed by a bellman who insisted on carrying our bags into the elevator, down the hall, then to our room.

  The room spoke more to Warren's style than mine, brown and tan carpet, brown curtains, brown loveseat, brown accent wall behind the bed, white sheets, and a brown runner across the bed.

  "Check out the bathroom," Warren said, having moved in ahead of me. "More your speed."

  I glanced inward, finding walls that were this odd in-between brown and purple shade that I had never seen before, had no name for, but was instantly in love with. There was a floating white vanity, a deep white soaking tub, and an all-glass shower enclosure. Propped up against an empty wall was a ladder bookshelf with brown wood and white shelves, overflowing with rolled fluffy towels.

  Maybe I could indulge in a bath.

  It would certainly calm me down, get me in the mood to get all dolled up to go out on the town.

  "Got a balcony too," Warren called, making me move back out, finding him looking out the sliding door outside.

  It was then I realized something else.

  One bed.

  Sure, we had slept in the same bed before.

  But it somehow felt different now.

  Because of the kiss, sure.

  Because of the confusing period of time following, the loneliness, the fights.

  Because of the way my body seemed hellbent on reacting to him in ways it shouldn't have.

  I wondered if it would be odd to call down to the front desk for about six extra pillows. The barrier wall might have been juvenile, but things felt almost... risky without it.

  As silly as that was.

  "You taking a bath?"

  "Ah, yeah," I agreed, taking my bag when he extended it to me, thankful for an excuse to get a little space. From him. From the bed. From the things that him and that bed could mean. And the way my body heated at just that thought alone.

  "I'll see you in a few hours. Try not to get the blood everywhere." I must have had a taken aback look, because he smirked. "From the sacrifice to the beauty gods," he explained, making me smile before I locked myself in the bathroom and ran my tub.

  I felt acutely aware as I reached for the hem of my shirt of the fact that Warren was simply one door away from me, feeling almost irrationally exposed as I stripped out of my clothes, like he could see through the wall.

  And that idea, yeah, it wasn't helping the overly sensitive state of my body.

  The water felt too hot on my already warmed skin, felt way too erotic as it enveloped me, too sensual as it lapped up over my hardened nipples, tweaking them further until they were almost painful, until the glide of a drop as it moved down my chest made my legs clamp tight together, trying to calm the chaos I felt there.

  In the other room, I could hear Warren's boots drop down on the floor, could hear the bed give way slightly as he moved on it. I could see him in my mind, resting on his back, arm cocked up, hand behind his neck, making his strong chest look like it was fighting the confines of his t-shirt material.

  I hoped - in a small, silly way - that he was thinking of me. Much like I was thinking of him.

  Maybe like I was picturing him in the bed, he was imagining me in the tub.

  Would that thought set his body ablaze like it did mine? Did he find it impossible to force the thoughts away, to focus on other things? Was he seeing me naked, body aching for touch? Did it make his long for it as well?

  I wasn't aware I was even thinking of it as my hand slid up my own ribs, cupping my soft breast, fingers sliding over the nipple, making my breath catch as my eyes closed, thinking of his hands - those huge, work-rough hands - instead of my own, letting the image, letting my touch, drive me upward as my hands worked my nipples for a long moment before one moved a path down my belly, the muscles the fingertips grazed over tensing.

  My legs fell open, giving up all pretense at self-control. There was nothing left but the need burning inside me, the tightened coil in my lower belly, turned so taut it felt ready to spring at the lightest of touches.

  Which was what I gave myself, shamelessly imagining Warren's fingers tracing between my lips, pulsing teasingly against my opening without pressing inside, moving up at the last possible second to work my clit in slow, thorough circles until my breathing got hitched and frantic, until my body stiffened, back arching, free hand pressing hard against the bath wall, holding myself still as the pleasure built, became overwhelming, unstoppable, uncontrollable.

  I remembered at the last possible second to bite into my lip, hissing out my orgasm as my leg kicked out, sloshing water up and over the edge of the tub.

  I came down quickly, reality something that could really take the thrill out of a good orgasm as I shot up, reaching for the towels I had grabbed for myself, dropping them down on the floor to sponge up the water I had spilled. I drained the tub, hastily drying myself, trying not to think about it. To harp on it. To wonder if it all meant something.

  There could be time for that later.

  Or never.

  Never would work for me too.

  Besides, you didn't need to analyze every self-care session. No one knew it happened to judge you on it. And sometimes you just needed it so you could simply think straight for a change.

  And straight thinking was what I needed tonight, I decided as I carefully dried my hair, applied makeup that I rarely wore, slathered on some expensive lotion that smelled like vanilla ice cream, then slipped into a black dress, the kind that fit like a second skin, making me suddenly wish I hadn't eaten quite so much on the street this afternoon. But what was done was done. Whatever was leftover of my food baby would just have to be embraced since this was the only acceptable thing I had to wear to a fancy dinner.

  Sliding my feet into heels that I was no master at, but usually managed not to make a fool of myself in, I took a deep breath, looking
at my reflection.

  It would be silly to say that I didn't recognize myself. Of course I did. I was just me. But different as well. My eyes popped with mascara and some subtle liner. My lips were bright red, giving me a glamorous look that I never would usually think I was capable of possessing. My hair, so often - almost always if I were honest - twisted into a careless messy bun looked longer than I remembered, falling in sleek sheets to my shoulders, waving slightly because my hair refused ever to stay completely straight. My body, usually made shorter thanks to the choppy cuts of jean shorts and a tee or tank, looked leaner and longer in a well-fitting dress. My legs, short by any standard looked almost model-like with the heels to give them the illusion of length.

  As I looked at my reflection, I couldn't seem to help the thought that came to me.

  I wonder what Warren will think?

  I wasn't supposed to care.

  Just for show.

  Just for the show.

  But I was beginning to find it impossible to deny the truth anymore. I wondered, in fact, how long I had been doing so, lying to myself, pretending, avoiding, denying the truth.

  I had feelings for Warren.

  Absurd? Sort of.

  But true nonetheless.

  Maybe it wasn't even that unexpected.

  We were both strong personalities, both passionate, skillful, interested in many of the same things. We worked, ate, slept, lived together for weeks, getting to know the rhythms of each other's days, what foods we liked, or hated, what shows or activities we found joy in, what things annoyed or excited us.

  And, well, there was chemistry.

  That kiss was all the proof you could need of that.

  It was one for the books.

  Literally.

  It needed to be immortalized in a book sometime, so everyone could experience it in a way, could know what it was like for a man to grab you and kiss you like he meant it, to break through all the bullshit and show you what had been hiding there, to show you something about yourself that you had somehow managed to overlook.

  Ugh.

  I needed not to be thinking those thoughts.

  Because solid orgasm and all, my body was already getting ideas again.

  I shook off the thoughts, grabbed my phone, and headed out into the room, stopping short at seeing Warren standing looking out the sliding doors, the lights of the city bright as they always were, his strong back blocking a huge chunk of it.

  He had gotten ready while I had monopolized the bathroom. His usual well-loved jeans, boots, and tee were gone, replaced by black slacks and a slate gray dress shirt that fit so well it had to have been tailored to do so.

  I must have made a noise.

  Lord knows my body was having all kinds of non-verbal reactions to the sight, so it wouldn't have been all that unusual if some kind of whimpering sound escaped me, drawing attention to the fact that I was standing there, the carpet having silenced the click of my heels, allowing me a blissful moment to take him in before he turned and noticed me as well.

  "Christ," he hissed, shaking his head a little like he wasn't sure he was actually seeing what he was, a thirsty man in the desert being tricked by a mirage of a waterfall.

  His eyes moved over me, taking in every small change - the hair, makeup, the tightness of the dress that showed off a figure I generally didn't dress to accentuate, my bare legs, the heels my feet were slipped into.

  Every inch felt heated under his inspection, like there was a physical touch attached to the gaze, making a shiver somehow course through me, goosebumps rising up on my skin.

  "It was worth it."

  "Excuse me?" I asked, sure I misheard him.

  "The blood sacrifice," he told me, his lips curving up, but it seemed forced, not meeting his eyes, barely even lighting up his face.

  "You clean up nice too," I told him because it was true. "Should we take a picture in the room before heading out?" I asked, feeling awkward as he kept looking at me. "I think a mirror selfie is pretty standard in this sort of situation."

  He said nothing as he followed me into the bathroom, as I unlocked my phone and flipped the camera.

  He said nothing as his arm slid across my lower belly, so low that it was pressing down on the triangle above my sex as he slid behind me, crushing my back to his front, resting his head on the side of mine as I couldn't seem to do anything but stand there with my arm aloft with the cell phone, watching our reflections as my body seemed to short circuit there was so much going on within it.

  "We're gonna miss our reservation," he told me, voice soft, his breath making my hair dance slightly.

  "Right," I agreed, moving my thumb over to the capture button.

  And the second it hovered there, his lips pressed into the side of my head.

  I clicked the button because my hand spazzed, not because I meant to, too surprised to claim that much control over my actions.

  But the second he heard the shutter, he yanked away from me, leaving me almost unsteady on my heels, making my hand slam down on the sink vanity for a second, something he luckily missed because his back was to me as he left the room.

  I needed to get a hold of myself.

  If I was going to survive this night when he was - obviously - going to keep touching me, smiling at me like he meant it, maybe even kissing me, saying things that my mind and body could easily confuse.

  But it wasn't for me.

  It was for show.

  It meant nothing.

  Not for him.

  Though, if I were being honest, it did mean something.

  To me.

  And that, yeah, that was going to be a problem, wasn't it?

  NINE

  Brinley

  The Grill was straight out of nineteen-fifties grandeur. We walked into a darkness much like outside, everything painted deep browns with hints of gold accents. The large square bar was illuminated from the floor, casting a giant magnolia blossom tree in beautiful low light. Hanging down over the array of liquor bottles from the ceiling was a massive piece of ceiling art the scale of which I had never seen before. At least not in person. There were thousands of hanging bronze rods that from far away, you couldn't tell what they were, they almost looked thin, flimsy, delicate, like it was almost raining down.

  We were led that way to have a drink to wait for our table.

  "Do you see this?" I asked, head turned up, not caring if I was gawking, if it didn't make me look as fancy as everyone else casually seated around.

  "Yeah, I see it," he agreed.

  "No one else is looking," I told him, shaking my head. "I hope I never lose the wonder of admiring beautiful things," I added.

  "Me either," he agreed. But when I looked, his eyes weren't up; they were on me.

  There was no denying the fluttering feeling inside as I thought maybe, just maybe, I wasn't misinterpreting it, that he was talking about me.

  "What can I get for you tonight?" the tall male waiter in an almost over-the-top white coat, white shirt, and black bowtie asked, standing before us.

  We ordered, waiting in silence for them to be made. My drink - bright red in a martini glass - was barely slid toward me before I felt Warren's hand snag the end of my chair, dragging me closer until my side brushed to his. His arm slid around my lower back, slipping into the hipbone at the other side. Way, way too close to somewhere I desperately needed to feel him. Yet also way too far. His arm tightened, pulling me closer, his face moving in, lips almost brushing my ear.

  "Don't look, but across the bar on the corner. That's Rachel's man," he told me as my head ducked, my cheeks heating because the way his breath moved over my ear made a shiver course through me, something I knew he had to have felt.

  "How do you know?" I asked, wishing my voice wasn't so breathless.

  "He's got a damn camera lens on the back of his phone that has been zeroed in on us since we sat down."

  I didn't chance a look. I couldn't even think past the realization that I could feel h
is body heat through my dress.

  His fingers shifted suddenly, sliding slightly upward.

  "Don't," I pleaded, head falling down on his shoulder as another shiver worked through me.

  "Why not?" he asked, his fingers pausing, staying planted on my ribs.

  "You know why," I told his shoulder, trying to take a deep breath.

  "Drink your drink, Brin," he told me, voice soft, pulling away a few inches.

  Pride a bit decimated, I stiffened, turning forward, reaching for my drink. My eyes slid across the bar to see the man Warren had been talking about, his eyes on his phone, so it didn't look like he was stalking us, but that camera lens was absolutely set in our direction.

  I had barely taken two sips before we were called up to our table. As I stood, Warren's hand pressed into my lower back to guide me, making me actually have to focus on walking, so I didn't fall on my face.

  We spent a few minutes looking over the menus before we were stuck staring at each other. "We should probably be talking," I said, nervously sipping my drink, hoping it would help steady my nerves. Thank God we had a table between us. My poor body was just not ready to handle all the touching.

  "He's not getting a table," Warren supplied, having the better view of the bar. "But, yeah, talking would be good. What do you want to talk about?"

  I felt my shoulder shrug, asking him to tell me more about the farm. He wasn't a man for whom conversation generally came easily. But something about the memories associated with his childhood home - and the lands surrounding it - made the words flow easily from his lips. He became alive as he shared them too. His eyes, so commonly guarded, opened up, brightened, danced as he told me about trying to catch chickens in the woods when they wandered too far, actually reaching across the table to show me a scar on his finger where one had gotten a hold of him while he tried to carry it back home.

  He didn't pull his hand back, though.

  No.

  He rested it over mine.

  This, this I could handle.

  It wasn't too distracting.

  And he would have to surrender it back to me as soon as the food arrived.

  "Would you give it up?"