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“Ms. Mitchell, are you suggesting there’s a method to my madness?” He smiles and throws more popcorn at the screen and I flinch in reflex, which just makes him smile more.
“I’m surprised you didn’t call me Mrs. Gibbes,” I tease him.
“I will one day,” he says.
“So arrogant,” I shake my head at him. He’s irresistible when he’s in these moods, which are more like his daily personality now. They’re not just flashes of the man I’d only get to see sneak peeks of from time to time.
“Nope, confident. It’s inevitable, Mallory. Told you that in Bahrain.” He grins from ear to ear chewing his popcorn. He’s quite pleased with himself tonight.
Stupid sexy asshole.
“Watch the movie,” I roll my eyes at him and bite my cheek to keep from smiling.
Going back to IT—and trying to focus on the movie, not Lennox who’s making a show of licking his fingers—all the kids from The Losers Club are in the street. Ben says he thought they wanted to get out of this town, too. And Beverly, arguably the best character, the girl bullied over rumors of promiscuity, argues, “I want to run toward something, not away.”
I need to write Mr. Stephen King a thank you note.
Thirty Three
Lennox
Most of the house is done now. Just some small finishing touches left to finish. I had hoped Mallory would be home by the time it was ready to furnish so she could decorate it however she wants. I’d just have helmets and trophies scattered about if left to my own devices. I’ll start feeling her out to get hints on furniture. I’d rather be over-prepared.
She didn’t answer my call this morning. Maybe she was asleep or out with her friends or her brother. Or working with Maxwell Cooper. Whatever she’s doing, I trust her. Hopefully, she’ll call tonight, or better yet, FaceTime me so I can see her beautiful smile. She smiles at me again, these days.
I need to get this new interior door I stained finished and hung and then head into town to ship out today’s package to Mallory: a stuffed Loch Ness monster, a book about hunting Nessie, and some brochures for tours I promise to take her on when she comes home. I’m pretty sure they’ll deport me from Scotland for participating in that tourist bullshit, but she’s been teasing me about bloody Nessie for six months. So a-Nessie-hunting we will go. When she comes home.
And she will.
I have the rest of my life to keep this up, to earn her trust back and prove I’m not an asshole or a monster. That I’ll never hurt her again. Patience has never been a strong suit and every day I have to stop myself from flying to New York and dragging her home, but it has to be her choice. When she comes back to me, wherever in the world that is, I want all of her with me. Not just pieces because she’s afraid to give me everything. I can’t live with her holding herself back from me. Every day is a workout to be the man she wants to come home to, one day.
A green light is flashing on the far wall of the garage and I walk over to investigate. Ah, just the wall charger blinking to say she’s full up. I hate this bloody Tesla. I have no idea how to work on it, there’s nothing to tinker with. It’s not natural, though I’ll admit that Marvin Gaye Mode is pretty cool. The bloody thing starts playing love songs while a fireplace video crackles on the huge computer screen. Ridiculous. But it’s safe, it parks itself, can drive itself, and has all kinds of heads-up alert systems to prevent bad drivers from doing bad things. I’ve only driven it a little to set it up for her. I want it to still have the new car smell when she gets home.
Turns out, I didn’t need to cool it on buying the supercars, but instead I bought Mallory a Tesla. My contract with Celeritas is pretty much null and void now after the world of shit they’re in. Administrators are saying the whole company will be sold off, hopefully intact to a new team who can take over. Pretty much all of the executive staff was let go after HR documents came out about all the sleazy things Digby had been up to, harassing staff, inappropriate touching, and unwanted advances.
What a prick.
Authorities finally caught up with him, he failed all the drug tests, like all of them. He’ll never drive again. Last I heard he was on house arrest in Monaco. I told Jack I don’t want to hear the salacious gossip anymore, though. Don’t ever put me in the same room as DuPont and expect me to not bury him in a shallow grave for what he put Mallory through, but that shit is otherwise done. Over.
Moving on to better things.
The power drill drives in the last screw of the new door hinge when a god awful noise sneaks into the garage. Sounds like down the road someone is grinding the shit out of the gears of their transmission. The clutch is slipping and sputtering, metal is rubbing together, gears being ground down to shavings. Christ, it makes my blood run cold. I wonder if Mrs. MacDonald, the mail lady, is having trouble with the post truck.
I set the drill down and walk out of the garage, down the gravel drive and toward the street. When my drive gate comes into view, there’s a small red car coming up the drive. No idea who this is, paparazzi or fans have never shown up here. It’s too bloody remote for the paps to warrant making 50 pounds on a boring photo of grass and trees, and the locals have always respected my privacy and played stupid when anyone asks how to find my house.
But, this car isn’t slowing down as it nears the gate. No, it keeps its ambling speed with no signs of stopping. I pick up a jog and when I’m about ten yards away, the car runs right into the damn gate. The engine sputters out and the car lurches forward in one final death throe as the clutch is let out. “What the fuck?” I yell and jog faster.
The car door opens as I reach the gate.
Mallory.
Her head pops out of the car, gorgeous chestnut hair with bits of honey woven throughout catching the sun. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry! It’s a stick shift! That’s all the rental place…”
Those are all the words she can get out before my lips meet hers and silence her complaints of the rental car. Both of my hands on her head, my fingers in her hair, I bring my head down to hers and she stands on her toes to meet me in the middle.
Soft, full lips and a hint of cinnamon meet my tongue, dancing, probing, communicating so many words of desperation, relief, adoration. She makes a tiny moan and her body softens into mine, her hands around my neck pulling me into her more. Fuck, the noises she makes, the little moans and noises, the way her body goes limp and she gives herself to me—it undoes me.
She pushes her body into mine and every muscle comes alive and she reminds my body of what she felt like pressed up against me. Our mouths still frantic at one another, I start to move her out of the open door of the car and press her against the rear door so I can feel more of her, harder up against me, I need to feel everything.
