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He’d been hurting, but he hadn’t wanted her comfort. He hadn’t wanted anything from her, in fa
ct became even more distant the years after Amanda’s death. But only with her, not with anyone else. If she couldn’t read him so well she’d have been hurt by him singling her out. Deep down inside there was a good reason he kept his distance from her, and she knew it had to do with how he felt about her. He needed her more than he realized. He wanted her more than he was willing to admit. And all her talk about fixing him up with someone else was merely a way to cast off suspicion about her intent toward Brett. Her family didn’t know that she already had the perfect woman for him in mind.
Her.
“I’m not going to do anything Brett doesn’t want me to do, Aidan. I’m not a child any longer and I wish you’d stop treating me like one. Now if you’ll both excuse me, I need to finish up some work before my meeting—emphasis on meeting not date—with Brett.”
After a few more moments of conversation, Shannon and Aidan both left. Kaitlyn turned her chair and stared out the window at the French Quarter below. No matter what time of year, it was always busy. The sidewalks were filled with lovers linked arm in arm, sharing a secret kiss or ducking into a secluded doorway for something a little more passionate. An ache settled itself in the pit of her stomach, refusing to go away.
She’d been feeling that ache a lot more lately.
Loneliness wrapped itself around her, despite her best efforts to remain upbeat about her life.
She didn’t need anyone. Her career as events coordinator kept her plenty busy. Occasionally she dated, but mostly kept those to one or two casual evenings out to a movie or dinner. Relationships just weren’t her thing. She’d tried it a couple times, both ending in disaster. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for sex and romance.
Her mother strongly believed in destiny, in fate leading you to the one you loved. Though Logan, Aidan and Shannon had fought against it, all three of them had found their soulmates. Kaitlyn knew her destiny, was as sure of it as she knew her magic would never fail her. But lately she’d begun to wonder if maybe she wasn’t barking up the wrong tree.
She’d been a virginal but oh-so curious seventeen the first time—the only time—he’d kissed her. At four years older, he was her brother’s best friend and her very first crush. He’d told her she was too young for him, but she’d seen the raw need in his eyes when he looked at her; had felt his thick, hard erection straining against his jeans when he molded her body to his and kissed her in a way that left her breathless and wet with desire.
God, she remembered that night like it was yesterday, not ten years ago. No fog of passing years clouded her visions of her first kiss. It was still clear as a full moon night. The way he smelled, the way his muscles strained under her roaming hands, the way his breathing grew harsh and heavy when he tore his mouth away to look at her. His gaze had flamed hot with arousal, speaking to her of needs he couldn’t form into words. She hadn’t needed words, even then. He couldn’t hide that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
Then he’d pushed her away and told her to find a nice high-school boy to love. That he was too old for her. That he wasn’t the right guy for her.
She hadn’t wanted anyone else. She’d wanted Brett. But then he’d met Amanda. Within a year they’d married and began to build lives together. The hurt had been unbearable. She’d felt betrayed, as if she’d expected him to wait a few more years until she’d grown up. Convinced her feelings had been one-sided, she’d decided to just be his friend. Though her feelings had never abated, had never lessened, even though she’d tried to move on.
Even after Amanda died she hadn’t approached him, adhering to Aidan’s wishes that he be left alone. Other than the occasional social function she hadn’t seen much of him. And he never brought another woman to any of those functions.
Now, six years later, not much had changed. He still pushed her away and she was still crazy about him.
But she wouldn’t give up. They were meant to be together and she could be as relentless as him if she wanted to be. In fact, she’d start tonight. Somehow she’d figure out a way to break through his shell. He needed to paint. He needed to start living again. And he needed to open his eyes and realize she’d been waiting too damn long for him to take what she offered.
Chapter Two
Brett paced the outside of Storm Rise, realizing he had arrived too damn early. How pathetic was that? Not only was his concentration blown all to hell after Kaitlyn’s visit, but his mind targeted their next meeting like it was the only thing on his agenda. He scrubbed his hand over his face, muttering to himself about what a fool he was.
You want her. You don’t want her. Make up your fucking mind, asshole!
“You look like you could use a drink.”
His head shot up at the sound of her voice, his pulse racing and his heart hammering. Shit. So much for self-control. “Hey.”
She arched a brow. “Hey yourself. I’m surprised to see you here. Thought for sure you’d blow me off again.”
He nearly groaned at the word “blow” spilling from her lips. For God’s sake, was he twelve years old?
His cock apparently thought so.
“Funny. Let’s go in.”
Now if he could just convince his determined dick to ignore the female in front of him, he might just make it through dinner. Trying to find a neutral topic, he looked to her and asked, “Hungry?”
“Ravenous.”
Resisting the urge to groan at her choice of words, he motioned her through the doorway of the restaurant, signaling the hostess that they were ready to be seated.
Storm Rise sat on the top floor of the Rising Storm hotel. Three hundred sixty degree views of New Orleans from the floor to ceiling windows meant there wasn’t a bad seat in the house. The restaurant was dark and romantic, with soft gray carpet and a dark blue ceiling painted with silver lightning bolts. It was like walking outside in a storm. Water trickled throughout the restaurant through a carefully constructed rock stream that wound around sets of tables.
The hostess sat them at an intimate little corner, a table for two lit only by a small candle centered on the white tablecloth. The rock stream separated them from the rest of the patrons. Total privacy, chairs side by side instead of across from each other.
Great. Just great.
“How about some wine?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Just iced tea for me, thanks. You order what you like.”
“I’ll have that, too,” she said, then opened her menu. “I’m starving.”
So was he, but not for food. Did she have to smell so damn good? Like some sweet wildflower scent he couldn’t quite put his finger on. No wonder he always kept his distance. It was self-preservation. Being around her was torture and made his balls ache.
He really needed to find a woman who didn’t want a relationship and then get laid forty or fifty times. Maybe that would shake his constant fantasies about spreading Kaitlyn out on the table and feasting on her pussy for dinner.
“I brought the banquet list with me,” she said as she closed her menu and slipped it to the side.
Finally. Something work-related to take his mind off licking the cream from Kaitlyn’s cunt. His cock lurched against his pants despite his desperate attempts to tame his burgeoning hard-on. “Let’s go over it.”
After ordering their meals, they spent a half hour talking about the fundraiser. Kaitlyn had a great eye for detail, like an artist constructing a painting. From flowers to food placement to strategies for the auction, she had every single event mapped out, assuring the fundraiser would be a success.
Good thing, too, because his mind wasn’t on the fundraiser. It was on the little bracelet she wore on her slender wrist. A chain of tiny golden bells that made a soft tinkling sound whenever she moved. He studied her long fingers, imagining them wrapped around his cock and stroking it from base to tip. When she shifted and crossed her legs, he leaned back and caught a quick glimpse of shapely calves. Her skirt rode up and offered him a tempting look at her thighs.
He wanted to b
ury his head between those thighs, tickle the insides with his hair while he licked her pussy until she screamed his name. By the time dinner came, his shaft was throbbing and fully erect. Thankfully the restaurant had decent-sized napkins to cover his hard-on.
“Brett, are you listening to me?”
Hell no, he wasn’t listening. He was too busy concentrating on the twenty different ways he could fuck her and still not have enough of her. He knew this had been a mistake. He should have never agreed to chair the fundraiser once it was determined the Rising Storm would host it. His mood went south in a hurry. “I heard every word you said. Sorry I didn’t comment with high praise. Didn’t know you needed to hear that.”
Her half-smile just made her look sexier, bringing out the flecks of emerald green in her golden eyes. “Am I boring you?”
Fuck. She was supposed to get pissed off at him for his callous comments, not cast him a half-lidded look that made his balls tighten.
“No. I just have a lot on my mind.”
“Okay, so if you heard everything I said, what’s the answer to the last question I asked?”
Hell if he knew. “Run it by me again.”
She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Artwork.”
Here it comes.
“You need to offer something of yours at the auction.”
He knew it, he could see it in the calculating gleam in her eyes. “I said no once already, Kait. I don’t paint anymore.”
Undaunted, she continued. “Do you know what kind of draw we’d get if you added just one piece of your work? When was the last time you sold a painting of something that you created?”
Too many years to remember. He had a few stored away at the gallery, but he wasn’t about to drag those out. The reminders of the mistakes he’d made were too harsh. He didn’t deserve to paint again. It filled him with life, with excitement and a sense of purpose. He didn’t want to feel that good about himself anymore. Not that he let anyone know that. He knew the routine. Positive mental attitude. And that’s what he showed on the outside, at least to most people. He used the gallery and its hectic pace as an excuse for not painting. “Kait, I’m warning you. Drop the subject now.”
