She released my grip and one dark eyebrow flew upward. Shit, she’s sexy.
“That’s it? Just Cav?”
“Ain’t that enough for you?” I kept my tone cocky on purpose.
Her smile was quick and brilliant, the kind I felt below the belt. She turned my question around on me. “Is anything ever enough for a guy like you?”
She was sassy, a spitfire, and I wanted more of her, even if a guy like me had no business anywhere near her. I couldn’t stop myself.
“I have a feeling you’d be more than enough, baby girl.”
Her laugh, one I’d overheard so many times lately, rang out between us. She put her whole body into it. Held nothing back. I had to wonder if she’d be like that when I got her under me.
When? Fuck, I was screwed.
And yet I couldn’t stop the image of me picking her up and fucking her against the wall from invading my brain. These pussy law school guys—her kind—couldn’t fuck her like a real man. My work uniform wasn’t going to hide the bulge in my pants for long. I needed to think about something else. Anything else.
The smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth when the laughter quieted wasn’t helping the situation.
“How many girls have you used that line on, smooth talker?”
I lifted my coffee to my mouth and took a drink, managing not to choke this time. “I don’t need lines. Hell, I don’t even need to make an offer.”
She followed my lead and raised her cup as well. The move made me wonder how easily she’d follow my lead in other areas.
“You’re cocky as hell, but for some reason, I actually like it. But I don’t dive right into bed with a guy. I deserve to be wooed first.”
This time I did choke on my coffee again. “Wooed?”
Greer nodded. “Yeah, that’s just the kind of girl I am, and lucky you—I’m giving you a shot at it.”
Greer was every bit as cocky as me, even if she didn’t realize it. I wasn’t prepared to woo her then. But I am now.
That ad she posted wasn’t as out of character for Greer Karas as the shocked world might imagine. It might have been a little bolder than her plopping down at my table in the coffee shop that day, but it was still the ballsy Greer I remembered.
I glance out the window at the flyover states below. A couple more hours, and I’ll have the chance to reintroduce myself.
No. Fucking. Way.
Can you photoshop real life? Because that’s the only way I can possibly be seeing through my peephole what I’m seeing right now.
Cavanaugh Westman. In the flesh. Outside my door.
The knock stopped me mid-shuffle on the way to my coffeemaker. So that makes me an uncaffeinated, makeup-less, messy-bunned, legging-wearing couch surfer who hasn’t showered in the two days I’ve spent holed up in my apartment.
He can’t see me like this.
I’ve had so many fantasies of how it will go when I finally came face-to-face with Cav again. I’ll be wearing something sexy, yet classy. Perfect hair, makeup, eyebrows. I’ll adopt a casually disinterested mien. He’ll be devastated when he realizes what he missed out on by standing me up that night and disappearing without a word.
There’s no way in hell I’m answering that door. Cav Westman can sit out in my hallway all day. Not opening it.
But Cav reads my mind, the bastard.
“Open the door, baby girl. Your message came through loud and clear with that ad.”
A barely audible gasp escapes my lungs.
“That’s right, I know you’re standing there. So, open the door, Greer.”
His deep, gravelly voice stirs memories I thought I wiped out of my brain. Apparently not.
I rush to the couch to grab my phone. I need to text Banner. Need to freak out with her and schedule an emergency spa day so I can be all the things I need to be before facing him again.
My thoughts come to a screeching halt. I do not need to impress Cav Westman. He’s nothing to me. And I can prove it right now by opening the door. He’ll see exactly how much I don’t care about his opinion.
Before I can change my mind, or look down at my shirt to make sure I’m not sporting any stains from yesterday’s coffee, I reach for the dead bolts and unlock them before I twist the doorknob and tug.
As soon as the door is open, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Through the peephole, he was marginally distorted. On the billboards and movie posters plastered to the sides of buses in the city, he looked like a total stranger. But Cav in the flesh?
Devastating.
I lose my grip on the door and it swings open.
How does he not look older? No new lines bracket his mouth or crease the corners of his eyes. Instead, a new scar curves along his jaw, giving him a sexier, more dangerous look. His shoulders are impossibly broader, making his hips seem even narrower.
His hazel eyes flash as he takes me in—at least they haven’t changed. Today they’re more tawny gold than gray or green. Guessing what color they would be was part of the game I played with myself before. His dark brown hair is sexy and disheveled, longer than the buzz cut he had before, but everything else is the same. Worn jeans, a plain T-shirt, and scuffed boots. Strong, bold features that many a man would find impossible to carry off, but are the reason millions of women would line up to have Cavanaugh Westman’s babies.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, reminding myself that I no longer have some naive fantasy of being the one for Cav.
His gaze returns to my face, and I know his inspection of me can’t be nearly as flattering as mine of him.
I’m waiting for him to say something . . . anything. Like an apology or an explanation for disappearing three years ago, but instead I get something completely different.