“What did you get instead?”
“Clothes. Hair stuff. A Barbie Dreamhouse.” I scowl. “My mom knew damn well I never liked Barbies. But that’s what she wanted me to be. That’s how you and I almost met once, actually. Did you know?” I can tell from his face that he doesn’t, and so I go on. “You judged a pageant in Dallas, and I was supposed to be in it. But I’d gotten sick that morning and had to back out.” I’d actually swallowed an entire bottle of ipecac syrup. I’d vomited all over my mother’s expensive Oriental rug, which I’d considered a perk. And the violent stomach cramps were more than worth the day of absolute freedom.
“I remember that pageant,” he says. “I had the feeling I was missing something special.”
I think he’s teasing me, of course, but there’s such a serious expression on his face when he says the words that I’m actually confused. Because there’s certainly no reason he would have missed me. Then again, the moment I saw him at Evelyn’s party, I felt like I was missing an entire chunk of my life.
Déjà vu, I think. So freaking weird.
The truth is that Damien Stark has wormed his way into my blood. And while that feels good up to a point, the overall effect is something far too dangerous.
Gently, I tug my hand free of his under the pretense of going to the door to check the hours. “Closed today, of course. It’s Christmas. But maybe I’ll come back tomorrow and get it. Then again, I probably won’t. It’s not the same buying it for yourself.”
“Which is why I’ve never gotten him,” he says, pointing to a stuffed teddy bear. It’s the handcrafted kind, with soft fur and jointed arms and legs. It’s wearing a little vest and there’s a red kerchief peeking out of a pocket.
“Adorable. A new member of your board of directors?”
“Not a bad idea,” he says. “But no. Pure sentiment. I had one just like him as a kid. Before I started playing tennis professionally. At some point my dad threw him out. I only realized once we started to travel for tournaments and I wanted to take Bob with me.”
“Bob?” I grin. “Bob the bear.”
“Hey, I was about seven. Give a guy a break.” He takes my hand again, and I don’t object as I fall in step beside him. And over the next few blocks the conversation deepens. He talks about the stress of playing tennis so young. He even talks about the gossip that surrounds him, though he doesn’t give me any real details. But he acknowledges the rumors that a girlfriend died under suspicious circumstances. And the speculation that perhaps his coach’s death was murder, not suicide. I reciprocate, telling him about how lonely I was after my sister died, and how my mother always pushed me into a pageant life that I really didn’t want.
It’s only the tip of the iceberg, and we both know it. We have secrets, he and I. But right at this moment, it’s nice to know that we’re not the only ones whose past weighs them down.
When I realize that the sun is about to set, I regretfully tell him that I need to go home.
He steps closer to me, his eyes full of heat and need. “Come home with me,” he says, and those four simple words shift my mood again. Because if I go home with him, it’s for one purpose. And I will panic again, just like I did in the theater.
I want it. I want him. But I don’t want the tears and the shame and the regret.
Slowly—sadly—I shake my head. “I just need to go. Please, Damien. Don’t push.”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then he nods slowly. “I won’t push, but I will tell you this, because you need to know where I’m coming from. I don’t know what it is you’re scared of, but I do know that I will always protect you.”
“Dami—”
He presses a finger to my lips, quieting me.
“Always,” he repeats. “No matter what. No strings attached. But here’s the bigger truth. I want you, Nikki. I want you naked and wet and willing beneath me. I want you to bend to me, to melt for me.”
I tug away from him, then look down at the sidewalk. “I can’t. I’m dating someone. It’s…it’s getting serious.”
“I believe you. But let me ask you this. Should it be serious?”
Slowly, I nod. “He knows me.” My words are a whisper. “He knows my secrets.”
Damien tucks a finger under my chin and lifts my head to face him. “Maybe he does. But I know your heart.”
I shake my head. “You can’t possibly.”
“It’s crazy, I’ll admit. But when I look at you, I see something I didn’t even know that I’d lost. But now that I recognize it, I don’t think I can live without it. Without you. You feel it, too, Nikki. I know that you do.”
I shake my head, even though it’s a horrible, terrible lie.
He sighs, then nods and holds up his hand. A few moments later, the limo pulls up to the curb, and Damien opens the door for me. “Your ride,” he says. “But think about it, okay? And think most about this—what exactly are you afraid of?”
I blink, the question shocking me. Because the truth is that when you get right down to the heart of it, I don’t know what I’m afraid of except losing him.
And that fear, so unexpected—so damned inappropriate—is what really terrifies me.
Chapter 8
“Are you ever going to tell me what’s up with you?” Jamie demands.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch trying to get the code right for a mobile restaurant app that is giving me fits. I frown at the screen, then transfer the frown up to Jamie. “There’s nothing up with me,” I say. “I’m just working. Who wouldn’t be in a pissy mood working between Christmas and New Year?”