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It’s embarrassing to desperately want a man who doesn’t want anything to do with you.
But I can’t make it stop, even if I know I’ll be sleeping alone tonight.
Somehow I’m not surprised that August owns waterfront property in one of the most expensive cities in the country.
I am surprised, though, when he pulls to a stop outside a surprisingly modest house.
It’s definitely not small, but it’s also not a hulking, opulent billionaire castle like I’d expect.
Instead, his house is far out on the water, with a narrow bridge of weathered planks leading over Puget Sound to a big single-story ranch-like home of connected octagonal shapes. They’re surrounded by sweeping decks that offer glimpses inside through enormous windows.
It’s all shades of moody grey, peaceful as mist, right down to the sloping roof of slate tiles. The faint hints of dark-amber ambient light that seep past bamboo blinds cast their light over the wood and slate, coloring them like paint on a canvas.
“Wow! Not what I expected,” I whisper. “I thought you’d own a home with a bajillion rooms or at least a utilitarian condo thing. All sleek glass and titanium everywhere.”
“I want a home, woman, not another office.” The G80 goes quiet as August pulls up a small concealed private drive through the curbside bank of grass that looks down on a small slope of sand coursing out to the waves. “I wanted somewhere I can still hear my own thoughts and the waves under my feet.”
I cast him a startled glance.
It’s not like him to admit something intimate so openly, but then tonight feels like it’s changed so many things. I offer him a small smile.
“Hope I can see the sunrise from the guest room,” I tease.
“You can,” he answers. “I chose the bedroom facing west. I have no use for sunrise unless I’m on a trip, nursing jet lag.”
“August Marshall. Was that a joke?”
He says it so stuffily I know he’s teasing, and I laugh, reaching over to poke his arm.
“C’mon. Give me the grand tour so I can steal your guest room and sleep off this wine.”
“I thought you said you weren’t drunk?”
“I’m not! But I am buzzy. Very buzzy.”
He fixes me with a skeptical look. “Will I have to carry you inside?”
“You cad!” I gasp, fluttering a hand playfully to my chest. “Why, Rhett, you’re being positively scandalous!”
August rolls his eyes with an exaggerated sigh.
“That’s it.” He pushes the driver’s door open pretty forcefully before getting out, slamming the door, and stalking around the rear of the car.
I blink, twisting to watch him through the windows.
What is he—
My door jerks open.
His body presses against mine in a sharp sizzle as he leans across me and unsnaps my seat belt. His arms fold around me, trapping me before I can catch a single startled, heart-tripping breath.
Then he picks me up against his chest and lifts me out of the car with a strength so undeniable it makes me feel like I’m nothing next to the powerhouse of granite muscles locked around me.
“You, Miss O’Hara-Lark,” he says tightly, turning away from the car before kicking the door shut with his heel, “are clearly more drunk than you dare let on.”
Oh God.
He’s doing terrible things to me as I’m being held and carried this way, enveloped in his heat and smoldering power. Especially with that dark scowl on his face as he glares toward his house and marches across the half-buried planks embedded in the sand. They lead to the little boardwalk stretching out over the waves to his home.
