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There’s a quote I read once: “I’m just a good girl with bad habits.”
That’s me. I’m that good girl and making a fool of myself with my stepbrother is my bad habit.
After contemplating tucking tail and licking my wounds on an early return flight home, I decide against that cowardly action. I’m going to talk to Eric again tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll wallow in self pity via room service and champagne, when I usually don’t drink. Of course, champagne is the drink of celebration and I’m far from celebrating, but I’m improvising and turning it into a pity party drink.
Pity works well for me.
I’ll wallow, work it out of my system, and wake up fighting again.
And it’s a hell of a pity party, considering I’ve been dumped by the hottest man I’ve ever known not once, but twice. He’s too good at goodbye. I’m too good at wanting him. I have let one night with that man affect me in lingering ways that make no sense.
I sit down on the love seat in the corner of the room and fill my glass, since I ordered a champagne dinner before I decided that was a bad idea, and right after pulling on sweats and a tee; because I’m feeling really, really sexy tonight after Eric barely gave me a blink. Once my bubbly is in my glass and I’m sipping, I think about how Eric affects me. That man makes me feel everything, and I don’t even know what that means. I’m just aware in every physical and emotional way when he’s in the room and no one else has done that to me. I’ve tried to make it happen. I’ve dated. I’ve dated attractive, powerful, sexy men who did absolutely nothing for me. It’s ridiculous. I was with Eric one night and we didn’t even have real sex.
The doorbell rings, and yes, there’s a doorbell because that’s just how they roll around here, I guess. I down my champagne and stand up, the buzz of two glasses hitting me rather suddenly. Clearly, I should have waited for my food before I indulged in the champagne. After all, what have I eaten today? Not much. Some cashews, I think. Does Starbucks count as a meal?
I cross the room and open the door, only to suck in a stunned breath to find Eric standing there. His jacket and tie gone, sleeves rolled up, his brightly colored ink that was once up and down one arm now on both. I stare at that ink, intrigued by the random designs—a timepiece, a skull, numbers—lots of numbers and the heat of his stare has me snapping my gaze back to his face, those blue eyes fixing me in a piercing stare.
I can’t breathe. Why do I react like this to this man? “I thought you were room service.”
Those gorgeous lips of his quirk. “I can be.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
I don’t even have time to process him moving, and he’s right here in front of me, his hands on my waist, sending a rush of heat all over my body as he walks me inside the room. The door slams behind him, and suddenly we’re so very alone. “Why wouldn’t I say things like that, princess? We have unfinished business. I know you feel it, too.”
My hand flattens on his chest and his heart thunders beneath my palms, and that tells a story. He’s not as cold as I’d felt he was when I left his office. He’s just as present as I am in this reunion, just as affected by us being together again, but I don’t fool myself into thinking this means anything real, anything lasting. His desire where I’m concerned is all about anger and conquest of the enemy he believes me to be. I can feel it to my core and I don’t like it. I don’t want it. I twist away from him and with a rapid pace, place the coffee table between me and him.
“How did you find me?” I demand.
“I’m resourceful,” he says, his voice pure silk. “If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t want me, now would you?” He glances at my champagne. “Celebrating?”
“Wallowing in failure,” I say because it’s true and I prefer every truth I can embrace, plus I’m buzzing. Buzzing makes the world sing with words, in my case, probably too many. “And I can’t seem to drink anything else.”
“I could help you expand your tastes.”
There is innuendo in those words that has me snapping back at him. “But you won’t be around to expand my tastes, now will you?”
“That depends on you.”
“What does that mean? Because if sleeping with you is a negotiation strategy, I don’t want to sleep with you.”
He moves then, so quickly, he’s around the table in front of me, and I have nowhere to go. He’s close, but not touching me, so close I can smell that earthy scent of him again. He picks up the bottle, reads the label and fills my glass before drinking, his mouth now where my mouth was only minutes before. His eyes twinkle with mischief and suggestion as he says, “It’s good,” and then adds, “for champagne.” He sets the glass down. “And yes, I want to fuck you. No, it’s not a negotiation. Fucking you and getting fucked by the Kingston family are not synonymous, even if that’s your intent.”
“I didn’t come here to fuck you, Eric,” I snap, and now I’m angry. “I came for help. Just leave, okay? I told you, forget I was here.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Not until you finish what you started?” I challenge.
“We aren’t done with each other. I think we both know that.”
“We’ve been done for six years.”
“If we were done, I wouldn’t be here right now. You’re the only reason I’m here.”
I cut my gaze, and I’m back living that night I met him, standing on that stage, staring out at the audience and looking for him. “Harper,” he says softly, and when his voice was hard moments before, it’s gentle now.
I force my gaze to his. “I went back to the cottage, hoping you hadn’t really left.”
