A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (34 page)

He’s silent. “Do
you
want me to meet your mum? You don’t sound very sure.” There’s a wisp of disappointment in his voice.

“Of course I do, but . . . well, my mother—she’s going to be difficult. I just know it, so it’s up to you. I don’t want you to feel pressure or be uncomfortable or—”

He laughs. “I’ve had live television interviews with some really intrusive questions, and I’ve done fine. I think I can hold my own. Actually, I think it’ll be fun.”

“‘Fun’? Yeah. Loads. But there’s no pressure—”

“You’ve already said that.” He laughs again. “I’m fine with however your mum is. She’s your mum, and you turned out well enough, I think. She must have had a hand in that, so she can’t be all that bad. Is there a date in mind?”

“Um, yeah. It’s for my birthday.”

“Your birthday? Fuck. When is your birthday? I can’t believe I don’t know this.”

“Not for a while—September sixteenth, and—I don’t know when your birthday is either.”

“Seventeenth of May.”

“Why didn’t we—” And it dawns on me that we were apart then. My heart sinks. “I completely missed your birthday. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. So yours—”

“You’ll be in the middle of filming two movies, so I’m sure there’s no way you’ll have time—”

“Actually, this one’s wrapping up sooner than expected, so the double-duty won’t be as bad as I thought. By mid-September, I’ll only be doing Sushman’s movie. It’s going to be a quick shoot, too, I think, so yeah, I’m sure I can make it. I’ll make it work, regardless . . . but I hope we can see each other before then. I
need
to see you before then.”

“I need to see you, too. I’ll fly to you, since you’ll be so busy, but when you come here for my birthday we can celebrate yours, too—even though it’s late. Really, really late. Would that be okay?”
God, I feel terrible for missing it.

“It’s fine, Claire, and I’ll make sure I’m there. Let’s talk tomorrow about when I’ll see your face again, okay?”

“Okay. I miss you, Dan.”

“I miss you, too. Good luck with your meetings. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Chapter Eight

The weeks trounce on, and seeing Dan proves especially difficult when he’s filming both movies. Twice I fly to L.A. for long weekends, and even though he’s wrapped up most of the time and I barely spend time with him, I find that just being at his house, waiting for him to come in at all hours is oddly satisfying. He crawls between the sheets with me in the middle of the night, and without a word, we make love. Nonetheless, I’m still counting down to my birthday weekend, when he’ll be filming just the Sushman movie, and his schedule and his mind frees up.

At long last, my birthday weekend arrives! Bridget blasts the music in the living room, while we primp in our respective bedrooms for the night ahead. Tomorrow’s my official birthday, but Dan and, hopefully, Colin are coming in tonight to celebrate.

Birthdays have never meant much to me. Childhood birthdays were fine, but it’s the adult birthdays that always make me squirm. It’s not the attention I get on my birthday; it’s the expectations that often come along with it. Now that I think about it, it started when I began dating Mark. It seemed that every holiday and birthday was laced with an underlying pressure about my future—will this be
the
Christmas? Will your birthday be
the
day? And every birthday and holiday when the magical question wasn’t popped, I’d get sympathetic faces that said, “Better luck next time.” It makes my skin crawl to think proposals and marriage should trump all memories and moments, as if there’s nothing to celebrate if not that.

But this birthday is different than all the others. Not just because I’m turning thirty—thirty!—but this year, I’m just happy. Really happy. And there aren’t rumblings or pressures of marriage or rings or babies. It’ll finally be a birthday to simply enjoy with my best friends and my guy—the man who makes me tingly from my highlighted hair to my painted toenails.

There are no real expectations this time, well, except for my family meeting Dan. Oh, who am I kidding? There are expectations galore, and tomorrow my mom will undoubtedly remind me about the mysterious clock hung high in the sky, ticking away my final few years of potential motherhood, and most likely make sweet, English Dan want to run for his life. Nothing good ever comes from the clash between good and evil. At least not in my life.

Sigh.

But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, I’m squeezing in all the love and fun and laughter to actually enjoy my birthday.

I bop around my room to the music, sliding on Bridget’s leather pants and a low-cut top and jacket, and I’m bursting at the thought that Dan will be in my bed tonight—here in good ol’ New York City! The last time he slept here was right before The Investigators, a.k.a. Camille and Bridget, found out that he and I were dating and interrogated me. Several months ago, yes, but it seems more like a lifetime. I was someone else back then—on my way to being me, but not there quite yet. I slip on heels, feeling pretty damn content, and what a liberating feeling it is!

Hands grab my waist and whirl me around. “Dan!” I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on tight. He lifts me up and spins me around. A little dizzy, we fall onto the bed, laughing.
God, he smells amazing.

He kisses me. “Happy Birthday, my love.” Dan’s million-dollar smile has me breathless yet again. I can barely speak. I’m not sure if it’s his looks or the way he makes me feel that always turns me into an oxygen-deprived pile of goo. I’m thinking it’s probably both. I scramble on top of him and kiss him hard. When I finally pull up, I say, “I didn’t even hear you come in! And you’re early!”

“I like surprising you, remember?”

“Yes, I do.” Our lips and tongues spend the next few minutes getting reacquainted. I pull back again. “How was your flight? Did Colin come?”

“I don’t think I could have stopped Colin. Camille scares the shit out of me, but him? I think he enjoys being the gimp to her domme.”

I laugh. “God, I missed you!”

He starts tugging at my top and undoing my buttons and zippers. “And I’m going to remind you once again that there will be no puking this weekend. I forbid it.”

“Ugh, I know. That was awful. Didn’t puke last time I saw you though, so it’s looking up.”

“I know something else looking up.” He winks at me.

“Oh? Show me.”

He comes at my pants again. “It’s been almost a month since I saw you last, so—”

“Don’t be upset if you only hit the ten minute mark?” I smile.

“At this point, I’m aiming for five.”

“Low expectations are healthy expectations,” I say with a giggle before we begin to kiss, which is all-too-quickly interrupted by Bridget yelling from the kitchen.

“I’m tired of living in a house of sluts! Especially when I’m hungry! Get out and feed me dinner and cake, you sluts!”

“Ahh, Bridget. God, I’ve missed her.” Dan laughs, and we get up because she is relentless.

With The House of Sluts finally ready to leave, we walk downstairs and outside where I’m surprised to see a large, blacked-out SUV, waiting. “What’s this?” I ask. Ever the gentleman, Dan opens the door for all of us. I’m beaming and shaking my head at him.

Just as I’m about to hop in, he stops me and says, “Surprises, remember?”

I can’t believe my luck with this amazing man. We pile in and pull away. Our destination: a Japanese restaurant where we eat and drink way too much. 

“You’re an idiot, Colin. Aside from
Grease,
you have terrible taste in movies. I mean,
The Lord of the Rings
is one of the greatest films of all time,” Bridget says between hiccup-y sips of her fifth drink.

“No way. Didn’t like it a bit. Fucking Frodo. By the end of the series, I was aching for Gollum to push Frodo into the fire.”

Dan jumps in. “And he doesn’t like
Forrest Gump
either. What kind of person doesn’t like that film?”

With eyes wide, Bridget whispers, “A monster.”

Colin shakes his head. “His mum kissed his little arse, and all he wanted to do was shag that hot blonde girl. And he wrote that fucking mountain of letters, but she didn’t read one, the selfish bitch, and he still wanted to marry her. Worst of all, she only came around when she was totally fucked up and dying. What the hell kind of rubbish is that?”

“You’re heartless!” Camille says, smacking his arm. “Those letters were amazing.”

“Amazing? What guy writes letters, a ton of them by the way, to a girl who doesn’t write back once? Not once. Girl is lucky he sent her even one.”

I cut in. “Love letters are a lost art, Colin! It’s one sure way to get to a girl’s heart—a nice, old-fashioned love letter. No one writes them anymore, now it’s all about texting, which is so impersonal—”

“Good thing she just texts naked pics,” Dan says, laughing.

“I do not!” I swat at him while he dodges me.

“Eh, who has time for love letters? I say talk a little, sure, but then let’s get down to business, you know? Bridget, you know what I mean, right?” Colin says. We all turn our heads to Bridget, Queen Slut, who raises an eyebrow-with-an-attitude. Camille smacks Colin on the shoulder.

“At least
I
know how to get down to business,” Bridget says.

“You’d better watch yourself, mate, or you may have to find yourself a soft gutter to sleep in tonight.” Dan laughs and elbows Colin.

Colin’s face drops as he turns to Camille. “Oh, come on, you know I’m only joking.”

Camille’s pursed lips are front and center. “You’ll need a love letter for admission back into the apartment tonight.” Camille smiles, but it’s not really a smile.
Uh oh.
Bridget and I giggle.

“How am I going to do that?”

Camille crosses her arms all salty. “It’s either that or a monologue professing your undying love for us.”

“Come on!” Colin shakes his head in defeat.

“How about we go dancing?” Dan asks, changing the subject and trying to save his friend.

“You want to go dancing?” I ask, surprised.

“This is your birthday, and I know
you
do. I’ve got it all arranged if you want to go.”

“What?”

“What?” he asks, reflecting my confusion with his mock-confusion. “Come on.” He stands, smiling, and holds a hand out to me. “Let’s go.”

We head over to a dance club after dinner, and even though I shouldn’t be, given the way things have been going, I’m surprised. He’s never mentioned going dancing tonight—or even liking it—yet he’s planned this.
Wow.
I go with the flow as we enter through a private door, and we’re led to a secluded area with bodyguards blocking us. I lean over to Dan as we sip drinks and say, “So I guess these guys are here in case we feel like rumbling or something.”

“Well, you and your friends
are
troublemakers. Just look at poor Colin. Camille might hurt him. He needs protection.”

I laugh. “Camille’s not going to send him packing.”

“You know that, I know that, Camille knows that . . . but Colin? Don’t think he knows that. He’s sweating.”

“And he’s writing on a napkin.”

“A love letter?” Dan and I crack up. Colin shoves it inside his pocket before Camille and Bridget come back from the bathroom.

“You ready to dance?” Bridget says, swaying ever so slightly.

“Yes!” I stand and turn back to Dan. “Aren’t you coming?”

He grins. “I’d better stay here with sad Colin.”

Before I can say anything more, Bridget grabs my hand and hauls me onto the dance floor. I hear Camille giggling right behind me.

I have no idea how long we’re out there, but eventually we come back to where Dan and Colin are sitting and talking. I scoot next to Dan and kiss his cheek. He slides his arm across my shoulders.

“You having fun?”

“Yes. Thanks for bringing us here.”

“Of course. It’s your birthday.”

I throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you for making this the best birthday,” I whisper. “And you know how I want the night to end, I hope.” I pull back and throw him a playful smirk.

It’s comical how fast he stands to ask if everyone’s ready to go. With most of us tipsy at best, we leave and climb into the same blacked-out SUV from earlier. 

Camille turns to Colin. “Well, where’s my letter for admission.” Damn, she’s good, even when she’s buzzed.

“C’mon, Camille.” Colin pleads with puppy eyes. Camille shakes her head, unimpressed.   

“Fine. I’ll give you your letter when we get back.”

“You really wrote me a letter?”

He winks and smiles proudly. “Yes, and remember, you promised to let me in if I wrote you a love letter.”

“Mm-hmm.” Camille rolls her eyes.

Once we’re out of the SUV and standing on the sidewalk, I get out my apartment key while Bridget punches in the lobby door’s code.

“All right. Give it to me.” Camille holds out her hand, wiggling her fingers.

“Ooh, I love when you talk dirty to me.” Colin laughs. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the napkin from earlier. I’m dying to know what he could have written.

She smooths it out with a huff, but I know she’s impressed that he managed something. She takes a moment to read it, then swats at him.

“What’s it say?” Bridget asks while she opens the lobby door.

“You suck, Colin,” Camille says, stomping ahead of us as we enter the building. We climb the stairs and enter the apartment. “Here.” Camille tosses the balled up napkin at me.

“Read it out loud,” Bridget asks.

I catch and open it. “A love letter.”

“What?” Bridget asks.

“That’s what it says, ‘a love letter.’”

Colin cracks up, smacking his leg.

“Mate, did you really write that?” Dan reads over my shoulder and laughs.

“Real romantic, Romeo,” Camille says, striding into her room. Colin scurries after her.

Bridget heads to the fridge, and Dan and I into my bedroom. Dan shuts the door behind us. “He’s in trouble.”

“Nah, she liked it.”

“How can you tell? She stormed off,” Dan says.

“She’s bluffing. She loved it and will absolutely torture him tonight.” I giggle, kicking off my shoes. When I turn around, Dan’s hands are fast around my waist, his lips on mine, and we begin to end the night exactly as I hoped.

With the door closing out the world, lips kiss, hands caress, and hips grind. His hands slip around and down and in me, casting his erotic black magic. I’m spellbound in moments. It’s always this way, and I have no idea how it always happens. I expected my desire for him to fade over time like it usually does in relationships, but no, it only seems to grow stronger and deeper every time I see him.

I cannot pull him closer, but I try anyway. Teeth graze and tongues play hide-and-seek.  His readiness is a heat-seeking missile and X marks my warm, wet, and ready spot.

I’m grabbing at his belt, his button, his zipper—they’re all in my way! I tug at his shirt as he tugs on mine. We pause a moment to rip off the rest ourselves—there’s a desperate need of skin-to-skin contact. Our eyes meet amidst the flurry of clothes, and the devilish grin on his face must match mine because once were bare, it’s a wild frenzy of hands and mouths. Dan tosses me onto the bed, crawls on top, and gives me the finest birthday gift again and again and again.
Happy birthday to meeeeeee….

Afterward, we flop onto our backs, catching our breaths. I marvel at the peace in my heart and mind. Peace—a rare commodity in my restless brain. Stretching and shifting, we turn toward one another, and his smile lights me up. Every single time I feel so lucky to be on the receiving end of it. Me—lucky, lucky me. I stroke his cheek and run my fingers through his hair. “This was hands-down the best birthday. Thank you.”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes. “Your birthday isn’t over yet, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Nope. I didn’t give you your present yet.” He sits up.

“But you just gave me the finest fifteen minutes, ever.”

He stops and turns to me, smirking. “Listen, it’s important we don’t overexert your heart at your advanced age. I mean, thirty—the year of the pacemaker.” He shimmies on his boxer-briefs and reaches into his bag for something, while I throw on a T-shirt. He takes out a very thin, rectangular gift, and I’m wondering what kind of gift certificate this must be. Manicure? Massage? I give him a quizzical look. He smiles playfully in return. “It’s not a cane.” He laughs, and for a second I’m hypnotized by his rippled abs flexing from laughter, not to mention his hair is a sexy, wild mess.
Good God.

I rip my eyes away and begin unwrapping the present. “Wow. I guess you really like using tape, huh?”

“Love it. The more tape the better, I always say.”

“Is that your personal motto?”

“Absolutely.”

“I love . . . that you . . . wrapped . . . it . . . so well,” I say, struggling with the layers of tape. “Very . . . sweet.” I finally get it loose. I peek up at him—he’s biting his lip and raises an eyebrow at me. I shake my head at him, because, frankly, he’s just too pretty.

“Go on,” he says, impatiently.

Being careful not to rip whatever’s inside, I finally manage to unearth an envelope containing a single piece of paper folded in thirds. When I unfold it, I see New York University letterhead. I read the letter—skimming it really—to find he’s taken care of my university fees for a year. I’m overwhelmed, staring at it in disbelief.

“Do you not like it?”

I look up at him and fling my arms around him again—seems to be all I’m doing tonight. “Thank you,” I repeat in his ear.

Finally, he pulls back to look at me. “Are you okay?”

“Of course! I’m more than okay. You’re just so . . .”
Beautiful. Amazing. Awesome. Hot.
“Thoughtful.”

He grins. “I was worried it was too practical.”

“It’s perfect—and tonight, too—just everything—you coming here and planning the whole night . . .” My hearts sinks. “And now tomorrow I have to torture you by bringing you to my family’s house.”