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“What’s that?” An uneasy feeling twists in my stomach. The word “but” doesn’t sound good.
“The New York Post’s gossip page. Something I try to avoid,” he says in a dismissive tone, but I freeze in place, afraid of the fallout for me.
“What if my brother sees it? He’ll be on the next plane here to fetch me home.”
“Don’t worry. No one knows who you are unless I tell them, and I won’t.” I say a little prayer that I turned my head in time to avoid a direct shot of my face.
There isn’t a driver or car at the curb waiting for us. Instead, Barclay hails a cab and we climb inside. He tells the cab driver the address and sits back in his seat.
“You’re too far away.” He wraps his arm around me and pulls me across the seat to his side.
A small voice, probably my mother’s, warns me to put on my seatbelt, but I ignore it. I’ve never felt safer in my life than in his arms. Besides, he smells divine.
I close my eyes, then breathe in and out, and the most contented feeling washes over me. “Where are we going?”
“We’re headed to PH-D to meet my friend, Lucas.”
“Maggie, my best friend who plans on coming to New York City, keeps talking about this club. She put it on our top ten list of bars to hit once we land here permanently. She knows more about nightlife than me.” I pause and glance up at Barclay.
Our faces are inches apart, and our lips are even closer. What I wouldn’t give to have him kiss me. He stares at my mouth, his eyes ravenous, and licks his lips, then looks away. I deflate, but try to recover … by talking. Thank you, hot male induced anxiety.
“Anyway, she told me the rope lines to get in places like this are nuts and bouncers get to pick and choose who enters.”
“No rope lines or bouncers for us. We’ll be taking the service elevator upstairs. Standard VIP stuff. I hope this isn’t a disappointment.” A corner of his mouth tips up. He’s cockier than I thought.
“Are you kidding? Maggie’s going to turn green when I tell her this.”
“How long are you planning on staying here, in the city?” Barclay asks, and if that isn’t the two-thousand-dollar question—which is likely how much money I’ll need to stay longer. I don’t think seven days is going to be enough time to get a job, especially since I’m working from ground zero.
“Thanks to you and the emails you gave me, I have a couple interviews next week, but my flight back to Alabama leaves on Wednesday afternoon.”
“That’s great.” He rubs his chin and sighs. “But you’ll need more time. Listen. Stay an extra week on me. Well … not on me, exactly,” Barclay mutters the last part, appearing flustered.
“You’re way too kind, and have already done more than enough to help me,” I say, declining. I can’t take him up on this offer. Well … not for the hotel at least, though the other “on me” part has definite possibilities. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Just know the offer stands if you need it.”
“Thank you,” I say, and wonder if I should ignore my silly pride and say yes. But my first interview is Monday, so waiting to see how things go is the better option, and my pride stays intact—for now.
“Tell me about this brother of yours.”
“Miles.” I sigh. I don’t even know where to begin. Overprotective doesn’t even scratch the surface with him. “He’s my big brother, and also about your height and build, but with blond hair and a police badge.”
“He’s a police officer?” Barclay stiffens, and it’s not in a good way. Ugh. Here we go.
“Yes. My father’s the sheriff of Monroeville too.” I lay all the badges on the table.
“Okay,” he says, running his hand through his dark locks. “This explains a lot.”
“As in my lack of experience with men,” I add before I can stop myself. But we might as well lay the fact that I’ve never been laid on the table too—especially if he wants what I want: me in his bed.
The cab comes to a stop before he can respond, saving me from further self-induced humiliation. I glance out the window as he pays. The sidewalk’s jammed with scores of young people. It looks like a stiletto factory.
Barclay defies the laws of nature as I watch his large frame ease out of the cab. It’s more like he floats on the surface. Me? It takes a couple pushes to scoot to the door. He holds out his hand when I peek my head out.
“Let’s go,” he says, but it sounds like a grumble of regret.
I place my hand in his, but the look in his eyes makes worry rise up inside me. It reminds me of yesterday on the sidewalk, like he’s back to the tug of war between walking away from me or being the one who cashes in my V-card.
