Dirty Secrets Page 2

  The question isn’t really necessary. I’ve got a pretty good idea where Brie’s going with this. But some vain part of me wants her to say it. Wants the satisfaction of knowing all my hard work in the weight room has paid off. But even more, of knowing that she’s seeing me, really seeing me, like I’ve been seeing her all these years.

  “You’ve looked at yourself, right? I mean, you must have a mirror somewhere in this mausoleum.” She turns her attention from the photos on my shelves to the books, her question obviously rhetorical since she clearly doesn’t expect an answer. Not that it matters, because I already have mine. She’s seeing me, all right.

  Which, I suddenly realize, makes it all the more imperative that I get her and all her crap the hell out of here, stat. Yeah, it’s gratifying knowing she likes what she sees. But it’ll be even harder to resist jumping her bones now that I know the attraction isn’t one-sided.

  “Have you read all of these?” She runs a finger down the shelf, reciting the titles as she goes. “The Great Gatsby, A Moveable Feast, How to Win Friends and Influence People. That’s some pretty heavy stuff.”

  That’s right, part of me wants to scream. Brains and brawn, baby. The perfect package.

  But the other part—the smart part—says it’s time to stop screwing around and get down to business. The business being growing a pair and telling Brie she has to go.

  “Why me?” I ask. “You’ve never lacked for friends. You must have someone else you can crash with.”

  “All my friends are struggling actors, like me. Which means they’ve already got a roommate or two. Or if not, their apartments are the size of postage stamps, and I’d be sleeping on an uncomfortable pull-out couch.” Her gaze flits around my cavernous condo. “Seems kind of silly when you’ve got—what, two extra bedrooms?”

  “Three,” I mumble. Seems excessive, I know. I bought this place with the idea of settling down some day. Wife. Two point five kids. A couple of cats—I don’t care what anyone says, they’re way less maintenance than dogs. The whole deal, save the picket fence. I know some people think bringing up kids in the Big Apple is a recipe for disaster. But I can’t think of any better place than Manhattan to raise a family. Great schools. Plenty of parks to run and play. Top-notch entertainment and a wide variety of cultural activities.

  I’ve already got the cats—Mirri and Ajani, after characters in the role-playing game Jake and I were obsessed with as kids. Two of the laziest felines on the planet, but they’re good company most of the time.

  And I thought I’d found the first part of the equation—a wife—in Giselle. We dated for almost two years before she moved in with me. That lasted all of two months. Turns out no matter how long you’ve been in a relationship with someone, it doesn’t always prepare you to share living space with them.

  Even if that living space has three spare bedrooms and just as many baths.

  Brie’s talking again, and I realize that thanks to my mental sojourn, I have no idea what she’s saying. From the death glare she gives me, I can tell she realizes it, too. I swear, this girl could wilt a cactus with that look.

  “You haven’t heard one word I’ve said, have you?”

  I flop down onto the couch, prop my feet up on the coffee table—something I never do—and grab my phone from the cushion next to me and start scrolling, feigning indifference to her. “I assume you were doing your best to convince me to let you stay. Which isn’t happening.”

  She shoots me another death glare, and I can almost feel my balls shrinking. “You’re seriously going to toss me out on the street?”

  I shrug and keep scrolling. “You can always go back to your brother.”

  “That’s a big hell to the no.” She shudders and sits sideways in one of my overstuffed chairs, her long legs, in skin tight jeans, dangling seductively over the arm. She hesitates a moment, running a hand through her dark curls, and when she starts speaking again, her tone is different. Desperate. “Please, Connor. You’re my only hope. Don’t make me go back there.”

  “Points for the Star Wars reference. But it can’t be that bad at Jake’s.”

  “It’s worse. You’ve been around them. You know what they’re like. All sickly sweet. And all over each other. It’s nausea inducing. Now imagine that 24/7. And when I say 24/7, I’m talking day and night. Emphasis on the night, if you know what I mean.”

  I do. And okay, she’s got a point. Jake and Ainsley are pretty sickening sometimes. Make that most of the time. I sympathize with her situation. But that doesn’t change the fact that she can’t stay here. Not if I want to keep my hands off her. And my friendship with Jake.

  “I promise, you’ll barely know I’m here.” She’s flat out begging now, her hands pressed together like she’s praying. “I start shooting a new Netflix series next week. My schedule’s going to be crazy. I’ll basically be using this place as a crash pad to shower and sleep.”

  Great. Now I’m picturing her in the shower. And damn, it’s a pretty picture. She’s naked, naturally, eyes closed, her head thrown back as the water cascades over her perfect breasts and down to—

  Nope. Not going there. I will myself to focus on something else. Like her Netflix deal. That’s safe territory.

  “Jake told me you booked a series. Based on the Mortal Misfits comics, right? That’s huge. Congrats.”

  “It’s a recurring role with the potential to become a series regular in season two if we get picked up,” she says, excitement lightening her hazel eyes from reddish brown to golden amber. “So it’s important that I be at the top of my game. Which I won’t be if my brother and his fiancée are keeping me up all night. Or if I’m sleeping one someone’s sofa.”

  She swings her legs over the arm of the chair and sits up, fixing those amber eyes on me. “Please, Connor. This job could be my big break. And it’s only until I find a place of my own. Or a half-way acceptable roommate.”

  Shit. How am I supposed to say no to that? This is her career she’s talking about. The one she’s wanted since she was Little Red Riding Hood in the third grade class play. I’d have to be a first-rate asshole to let her walk out that door and risk messing that up.

  And I’m not. So I guess I’m going to have a new roomie for a few weeks.

  But she doesn’t know that yet. She takes my silence for indecision and launches back into her pitch, ticking off the reasons I should say yes to her proposal on her fingers as she goes. “Not only will I hardly be here, when I am I’ll be quiet as those Blue Man Group guys. I don’t mind cleaning, and I’m a pretty decent cook. I promise not to cramp your style if you want to, uh, entertain at night, if you get my drift. And it’s not like I expect to stay here for free. I’ll pay you—”

  I toss my phone back on the cushion next to me and stand. I doubt I’ll be having any nighttime visitors anytime in the near future. Especially not ones of the female persuasion. Not when the female I really want—but absolutely cannot have—in my bed is sleeping just down the hall.

  Besides, Giselle’s barely moved out. In fact, she texted me this morning about picking up some stuff she left behind. Seeing her name on the screen left me feeling a little raw. The last thing I need is to get involved with someone else right now. “We can work out the details later.”

  A broad smile breaks across her face and she jumps up from her chair. I try not to notice the way the sudden movement makes her breasts jiggle in her tight T-shirt. Is she even wearing a bra? “Does that mean I can stay?”

  “I can’t very well kick you to the curb and have you jeopardize your career, can I? I don’t want that on my conscience.”

  “Oh my God, thank you so much.”

  With a squeal, she launches herself at me, and my arms instinctively go around her. I’m immediately reminded why this is a bad idea. She fits perfectly against me, her head coming just under my chin, my already stiffening dick nestled against her thigh.
I can smell her shampoo—sort of minty and summery at the same time—and it’s driving me fucking crazy.

  Yeah, this is going to be even harder than I thought. Way harder.

  I give myself a second to savor the sensation, then step back, releasing her. “I’ve got to get to the club. I’ll call the doorman to help you bring your stuff in. And I’ll get you a key made while I’m out.”

  “Thanks.” She stands on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. The innocent gesture turns me on more than an hour-long make-out sesh. “You won’t regret this. I swear.”

  She bounds off in the direction of the door, leaving me shaking my head as I watch her sexy ass sashay away.

  Won’t regret this?

  Hell, I already do.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Connor

  I’M IN MY office all of five minutes, sitting at my desk booting up my computer, when Jake strolls in, looking like his dog died. Note that I said his dog, not his parents’ dog. He and his fiancée, Ainsley, met when Brie hired her to help take care of Roscoe, their parents’ gigantic, slobbery Irish wolfhound, while the elder Lawsons were on a world cruise. They’ve been back for months, but Roscoe’s still living with Jake—and now Ainsley.

  I’m half convinced the whole thing was an elaborate set-up. Mrs. Lawson has wanted grandbabies for ages, and Jake, as the eldest child, would be the most the logical target for her motherly machinations. I wouldn’t put it past her to get a dog for the sole purpose of foisting it off on Jake in the hopes that it would help him meet the right woman. I mean, dogs are supposed to be chick magnets, right?

  Jake slumps into one of my guest chairs, a piece of paper clutched in one hand and a cardboard cup with a familiar green logo in the other.

  “You’re in early.” I’m the morning person. Jake usually strolls around noon, especially now that he’s got Ainsley keeping him busy at home, but that’s okay with me. He’s at the Top Shelf until the wee hours most nights, long after I’m tucked in bed. The set-up works for us. Jake the pretty-boy front man, mixing and mingling with the customers on the floor of the club and keeping everyone happy. Me quietly toiling away in the background, crunching numbers and making sure we stay profitable.

  He doesn’t say anything, just scowls at me over the rim of his cup.

  My stomach goes instantly into freefall. Shit. Does he know about me and Brie?

  Wait, that sounds wrong. There is no me and Brie. And there won’t be, no matter what my damned dick says. There’s me, and there’s Brie, and there’s my more-than-enough-room-for-two-people apartment, where we just happen to be platonically cohabiting for the time being. Still, I was hoping I’d get the chance to explain all that to Jake before he jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  “Who pissed in your coffee?” I ask, playing it cool and crossing my fingers he’s still in the dark about my new roommate. “Is there a problem with the renovations?”

  We’re in the process of adding more VIP seating and a state-of-the-art screening room where we can live stream concerts and show first-run movies. Jake’s taken point on dealing with the contractors. Is it wrong that I’m half hoping another delay or overrun is the reason for his shitty mood?

  He waves the piece of paper in his hand. “Brie moved out. She left a note and was gone before Ainsley and I woke up this morning.”

  Okay, so no overruns. I didn’t think my stomach could fall any further. But it does. “Did she say where she went?”

  “No.” Jake glares at the note, like he’s trying to intimidate it into giving up his sister’s location.

  A little bit of the air creeps back into my lungs. “I’d think you’d be glad. Now you and Ainsley can do whatever the hell it is you guys do when you’re alone. Walk around naked. Netflix and chill. Pee with the door open.”

  That gets a slight smile out of him, but it disappears as quickly as it came. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s great to have the place to ourselves. But I’m worried about Brie. You know how she can be. She’s not exactly the most responsible person on the planet.”

  My skin tingles with the irrational need to defend her. “Brie’s a big girl. She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

  “Really? Then why didn’t she bother to tell my parents where she’s at? I made the mistake of calling them, thinking they’d know where she was. And now they’re freaking out.”

  “Give her a break,” I hedge, still not ready to admit she’s staying with me. If she hasn’t told them yet, I’m not sure she’d want me to. “It’s only been a few hours. She’s probably waiting until she’s settled in.”

  His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out of his back pocket to check the screen. “That’s my mom. Again. Brie’s not responding to her texts or calls, so yours truly is left holding the bag. As usual. She wants to call the cops. She’s convinced Brie’s dead in a ditch somewhere. Or floating in the Hudson.”

  “She watches way too much of those true crime shows,” I mumble.

  “I told her to lay off the Forensic Files. I swear, she sees serial killers around every corner. She’s driving me crazy.”

  His phone buzzes again, proving his point. He reads the message, sighs, and stuffs the phone back in his pocket, rising from his chair. “I’ve got to go deal with this before she tries to get the FBI involved.”

  “Wait.” This may be a huge mistake, but I can’t let him—and his parents—suffer any longer. “I know where Brie is.”

  His brows draw together into a dark, confused line. “You do?”

  I briefly debate standing and crossing to him but decide to stay seated behind my desk. I’m not exactly sure how he’s going to react to what I’m about to tell him, and having a thousand-pound hunk of mahogany between us suddenly seems like a good idea. “She’s at my place.”

  His confused frown deepens and he drops back down into my guest chair. “Your place?”

  I can’t tell whether he’s pissed or relieved.

  “She showed up this morning with all her stuff stacked in the hall outside my door. I couldn’t very well turn her away. It’s only temporary,” I add hastily. “Until she finds another place.”

  The bastard takes what seems like forever to answer, sipping his coffee like he’s the fucking king of England and our friendship isn’t hanging in the balance. The entire time my heart’s pounding so loud I swear he must be able to hear it across the desk.

  “Thanks,” he says, finally. “I owe you one.”

  My heart rate slows down a hair. “So, you’re okay with her moving in with me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like she’s your type. Or you’re hers.”

  Now it’s my turn to scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs. “You know Brie. She’s reckless. Impulsive. She usually goes for the dangerous, live-in-the-moment, bad-boy type. And you’re not exactly Mr. Spontaneous. Hell, you color code your underwear drawer.”

  “I do not.” Any more. Of course, my closet is still organized by hue.

  “You know what I mean. You and Brie are nothing alike. It’s not like I’m worried you’ll be getting jiggy with it.”

  I want to argue with him. But that would be a huge red flag. Plus, a huge part of me is afraid he’s right. Brie and I are polar opposites, personality wise. She’s shiny and sparkly, built for the spotlight. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. That’s another reason I haven’t acted on my obvious physical attraction. As if her being my best friend’s sister wasn’t enough.

  “Getting jiggy with it? What are you, thirteen?”

  “Truth be told, I’m glad she’s at your place. At least there I know she’ll be safe.” He stands, pulling his phone out of his pocket again. “I’d better let me parents know. And read my sister the riot act for scaring the hell out of them. And me.”

  The second he’s gone, I grab my cell and call Brie. The least I can
do is tip her off about the shit storm that’s coming her way.

  I don’t have her cell number yet—I make a mental note to exchange digits with her now that we’re roommates—so I try my land line. Yeah, I’m one of the ten people in the five boroughs who still has a land line. What can I say? I like to err on the side of caution. You never know when you might need a backup.

  Fuck. Jake is right. I am so not Brie’s type.

  I’m still mulling that depressing thought over when she picks up the phone, breathless.

  “Hello?”

  One word. That’s all it takes for my body to respond. But it’s not my fault. Or my dick’s fault. It’s her voice. So fucking sexy. She sounds husky and breathy, like she’s been running around unpacking boxes—which she probably has.

  Great. Now I’m picturing her all sweaty, stray strands of hair clinging to her cheeks and her damp T-shirt hugging her curves.

  I brush off that mental image and adjust my fly. “Hey, Brie. It’s Connor.”

  “Oh, thank God. I wasn’t sure if I should answer the phone or not. Didn’t want to scare away any potential conquests.”

  “Conquests?”

  “Yeah. You know. Women.”

  Right. This girl is totally not thinking of me as a fuck buddy if she’s ready to be my wingman. Or wingwoman.

  That’s enough to deflate my dick. I grab a pen from my desk blotter and start clicking away, a nervous habit I picked up in high school and haven’t been able to shake completely.

  “How’s the moving going?” I ask, hoping that starting off with an innocuous question will soften the blow of telling her that her family is on the warpath.

  “Slow, but good. Ernie helped me move my stuff into one of the spare bedrooms.”

  “Ernie?”

  “Your doorman. He’s the sweetest guy. Did you know he was in Saigon when it fell? He was a Marine, stationed at the U.S. Embassy. He met his wife there, helped evacuate her and other Vietnamese before the NVA took control of the city.”