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“Anywhere but here.”
I wave goodbye as he drags me out of the apartment and into the elevator. No sooner have the doors closed than his lips are on mine, hungry and tasting. Devouring and consuming.
“Whoa.” I grab his sweater to steady myself.
“Been wanting to do that since you walked through the door,” he whispers, nibbling down my neck.
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s becoming a habit with you.” He pulls me out of the elevator and toward his car.
Since our wedding disaster summons came at the same time, he called and said that he’d get me. I didn’t realize how idiotic it was to agree until now.
“Well, make sure you don’t do it tomorrow. That would be embarrassing.”
“Tomorrow?”
“The shoot?”
His eyes flick to me. “Shoot? What? Oh—”
“Balfour Swimwear,” I say, spelling it out for him. “I’m one of the models testing.”
“When are you going in?”
“Twelve. I’m working tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh, fucking hell,” he groans, pulling into the parking lot of a bar downtown. Before I can ask what he’s doing, he explains. “That means you’re one of the first. I’m going to be shooting girls all day with a fucking hard-on after you.”
“As long as it’s for me.” I give him a pointed look and get out of the car.
“Hey,” he growls, pulling me against him when he catches up with me. “You better believe it’s for you, baby girl. And I’ll need you to get rid of it after.”
I reach between us and squeeze him lightly. “Looks like tomorrow isn’t your problem right now.”
He grabs my hand and tugs me toward the bar, his gaze heated. “If you behave yourself in here, I might just let you suck it later.”
“Might?” I raise my eyebrows and follow him into the bar. Not like I have a choice. He’s taking me in whether I want to or not.
And I’m trying not to freak about the one hundred thousand million lines this situation is jumping over.
“Trust me,” he mouths, getting the attention of the bartender.
Dammit. I hate that he can read me so well.
He puts two drinks in front of us—white wine for me and a beer for him. “Let’s talk.”
“About what? The weather? Isn’t that a Brit’s favorite topic?”
His lips curve into a wry smile. “Hardy-fucking-har. For the record, Seattle’s weather is about as shit as London’s.”
I grin.
“No, smartarse. I mean talk in general. You know, like people do.”
I draw a line between us on the table. He gets my meaning and instantly rubs it out with his finger. Dick.
“I want to know how you and Day ended up best friends. You are nothing alike.”
