Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (2 page)

But I’ve tried everything
else
.

Heated glances. Cold shoulders.

Sidelong-looks. Full-frontal stares.

Ignoring him. Adoring him.

And you know what?

Not a damn bit of it worked.

It doesn’t matter what I do — Nate still treats me with the same aloof disinterest he always has, since the day I hit puberty.

In a few days, I’ll be twenty-four, which means I’ve been in love with Nate for more than a decade. And not once in all that time has he shown me so much as a flicker of reciprocal interest. Hell, he doesn’t even check out my boobs — which are now very real, thank you very much — if I walk around in a bikini when he comes to visit Parker in Nantucket. And it’s not like there’s nothing to look at — I’m a generous C-cup, for god’s sake. (Frankly, I think the universe realized it owed me, after the pool-stuffing incident, and bequeathed me with a really stellar set of ta-tas to even the score.)

But, it was with a heavy heart and some seriously neglected lady parts that, two months ago, I decided to toss in the towel for good. I’m not usually a quitter, but it seemed there was no choice other than to lock my heart away in an impenetrable steel box inside my chest and move on — to new men, who actually noticed I was alive and worthy of love. Or, at the very least, a little below-the-belt action. After all, a girl can only wait so long.  

So, I did something seemingly harmless.

I accepted a date to a stuffy dinner gala with a wealthy, eligible bachelor named Brett from one of Boston’s most prominent families. With dark hair and ice blue eyes, he looked a tad like Ian Somerhalder, which was about his only redeeming quality because most of the time, he gave off seriously creepy vibes. Not that it mattered — I wasn’t interested in him. I just thought, after years listening to Lila barrage me with advice about
The Top 10 Successful Ways to Make a Man Jealous
and
12 Irrefutable Strategies to Forget That Rat Bastard
, I should finally give it a go. One last-ditch attempt to catch Nate’s attention, before my ovaries dried up from lack of use. I figured it couldn’t hurt, right?

I just never in my wildest dreams imagined it would actually
work
…

Wait,
that’s
what that song is about?

Phoebe West, after listening a little closer to

the lyrics of Madonna’s “Like A Prayer.”

Two months earlier…

I set my clutch purse down on the counter with a heavy sigh.

It’s been a weird night, to say the least.

That’s not much of a surprise, though. Blind dates are probably always weird, even when they aren’t at boring business galas full of somnolent speeches and really gross arugula salads, with only a semi-lecherous date to keep you company. 

Not that I’d know. My dating experience is limited to watching ten-year-old reruns of
FRIENDS
on Netflix, while Boo — the only man in my life with whom I don’t share DNA — snores gently by my side. (Don’t get too excited. Boo is a pure white mini Pomeranian with so much sass, he could intimidate a Great Dane.)

He doesn’t even lift his head from the gray sectional cushion where he’s sprawled when I cross through the low-lit kitchen into the adjacent living room. The space is dark, but I easily make out the outline of his tiny furry chest, rising and falling with each snore. There’s a puddle of doggie drool forming on the $300 chenille throw beneath his slackened jowls, growing larger with each rattling exhale.

For such a small dog, he makes quite the racket.

I brush the bangs out of my hazel eyes and run fingers through my dark brown hair, hoping it might soothe my headache as I plant one high-heeled foot on the edge of the coffee table and begin to undo the straps of my Louboutin.

I seriously can’t believe I wasted shoes this hot on a night this lame. Not to mention this dress. The long, flowing white Vera Wang, with its paper-thin straps and subtle embroidery, was made for a night with Prince Charming. It’s practically a crime that I wasted it on
my
dud of a date — Brett spent the vast majority of our evening distracted, more preoccupied with family drama than wooing me. Adding insult to injury, he didn’t even bother to kiss me goodnight when he dropped me at my front door.

Lame.

As soon as the skyscraper-high heels are off, I sink my feet into the plush carpet and hum in contentment as feeling tingles back into my pinched toes. I know beauty is pain and all that jazz, but you’d think spending upwards of two grand on a pair of pumps would ensure, as a minimum requirement, that you don’t feel like a victim of Chinese foot-binding by the end of the night.

Speaking of Chinese…

I know for a fact there’s a carton of takeout lurking somewhere at the back of my fridge.

Immediately, I turn and head for the kitchen, fully intending to gorge myself on days-old lo mein, despite the fact that it’s past midnight and my yoga instructor would sincerely disapprove. (Whatever.
She
wasn’t the one forced to choke down that wholly unsatisfying dinner of salad, steamed broccoli, and organic free-range chicken.)

I’m halfway across the living room, face pinched in concentration as I try to estimate the approximate shelf life of crab rangoon, when my eyes catch up to my brain and I register the sight before me. All thoughts of midnight snackage fly from my head. My stomach, only seconds ago rumbling with hunger and anticipation, clenches hard and turns to stone as my feet slam to a standstill.

For a minute, I just stand there in total silence, staring at the man silhouetted in the archway of my kitchen, his muscular frame backlit by the low light and his face in full shadow.

A man I don’t recognize.

A man I most definitely did
not
invite into my home.

Holy frack, this isn’t good. 

My frantic gaze sweeps the intruder in disbelief as he takes a step closer to me.

It’s then that I scream.
Loudly
. A real, honest-to-god, banshee-like wail.

I mean, I didn’t even know my voice could hit an octave that high. I’d be impressed with myself, if I weren’t nearly peeing my pants in unabashed, girly terror.

The scream shatters the midnight quiet, instantly waking Boo from his slumber. Not to be left out, he promptly begins barking his little head off, leaping from the couch to stand guard at my feet, as though he, in all his five pound glory — at least a pound of which is pure fur — has the intimidation tactics of a Pit Bull, rather than a Pomeranian.

His whole body lifts into the air with the force of each bark.

Yip-jump, yip-jump, yip-jump.

Very intimidating to the man about to rob, rape, or kill me, I’m
sure
.

I’m still screaming — and quickly backpedaling away because,
hello
, there’s a strange man in my house — when I register that he’s
big
.

Not just tall, but muscular. Even in the dark I can see the outline of his shoulders, the triangular slope of his torso narrowing to a V at his hips. For a split second, I wonder if his face is equally well proportioned.

Good lord.

I’ve started questioning the hotness of home invaders. I really need to get laid.

A low curse vibrates from the man’s mouth, but I barely hear it over the sound of my own screams as I back away. When I see him take another step toward me, my indiscernible babbles of panic turn into words.

“Stay away! Don’t come any closer!”

Hands held out in front of me, heart in my throat, I try not to freak out as he takes yet another stride in my direction.

“Take whatever you want, just don’t hurt—
Eeeek!
”

My words are cut off as my feet catch on my discarded high heels, knocking me off balance. I feel myself start to trip backwards, head over feet, and I know I’m going to crack my head on the coffee table on my way down, which is probably going to dent the oak and
definitely
going to knock me unconscious. Or trigger some kind of cerebral hemorrhage, from which I’ll bleed out and die. Alone, with only Boo to witness my passing into the afterlife, as this man steals my valuables to sell on Boston’s black market.

Death by table.

God, I hope Parker doesn’t include that in my obituary.

Time seems to slide into slow motion as I fall through the air, arms windmilling, helpless to stop my descent. My eyes slam closed as my face contorts into a wince, already anticipating the pain of impact. Any second now, my skull will crack against that table and my fragile life will flicker and die faster than a candle in the wind.

Hey, maybe Sir Elton will write a song about me…

Great. I’m going to die, and my last thought is of a sassy gay man. If that isn’t a testament to the pathetic nature of my love life, I’m not sure what is.

I’m so preoccupied with my impending doom, it takes me a minute to realize I’m still alive.

The impact I was so sure would steal my breath simply… never came.

In fact, even my descent has halted.

I’m hovering mid air, locked in what feels like a set of steel bands.

Except they aren’t steel bands.

They’re
arms.

Really freaking muscular arms.

Arms that, if I weren’t a click away from death, I’d have to admit feel really good wrapped around me.

My eyes are still pressed closed, but I hear the distinct sound of a low, pissed-off male voice muttering close to my ear.

“Fucking Christ, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Recognition jolts into me harder than a punch to the gut. Every muscle in my body freezes like liquid nitrogen has been shot through my veins. My heart actually stutters inside my chest, its equilibrium totally and completely thrown off by the proximity of this man who, abruptly, I know is not an intruder.

I’d know that voice anywhere.

I’ve heard it in countless replayed memories, in hundreds of unspoken fantasies, in endless unfulfilled dreams.

Nathaniel Jackass Knox
.

(His middle name is actually Xavier. Whatever.)

Nate
.

The man who’s been steadfastly ignoring my existence for the past ten years as he traveled around the world doing dangerous things for even more dangerous people. The man I only very recently decided I was completely, certifiably, one hundred percent
over
being obsessed with.

Last I heard, he was in the Middle East, doing some kind of private security gig for a Saudi prince.

And now, he’s
here
.

In my brownstone.

Holding me in his arms.

Saving me from certain death-by-coffee-table.

Holy frack.

***

My lids snap open and take in the face mere centimeters from mine.

Sharp, angular cheekbones.

Broad, chiseled jawline.

Alert, assessing eyes.

His dark beauty steals what little breath is left in my lungs as I stare up at him, reveling in the fact that, after all these years, I’m
finally
in his arms — my soft girlie parts pressed firmly against the hard plane of his body, the scent of his skin invading my senses. He smells like leather and smoke and the sharp, coppery tang of metal. Or blood.

Maybe that’s just my imagination.

He’s still muttering under his breath though, in all honesty, it’s hard to hear him over Boo’s ceaseless barking.

“…falling over her own feet.” He shakes his head, as if deeply pained. “…off herself on a goddamned coffee table…those damn
come-fuck-me
heels…”

My spine stiffens as his hushed words register. “What did you just say?”

His eyes lock on mine, infuriating me all the more when I see how empty of emotion they are. Just two dark pools, staring back at me.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” His arms tighten reflexively as the words slip out, revealing his anger — a small breach in that impeccable control he usually exhibits around me. I’d normally be stunned at any show of emotion, but right now I’m too pissed to do anything but narrow my eyes at him and glare. Which is hard because, well… did I mention that his face is about three inches from mine, and I can feel every contour of his muscular body hard against my front?

“Those fucking heels are a deathtrap.” His voice is low, vibrating with sheer intensity, but that’s nothing new. Nate always sounds like he’s got one finger in an electrical socket— his every atom charged with tense, elemental energy that buzzes off his skin. His arms tighten around me again, as though he’s having a difficult time bottling up his anger. “Don’t know why you insist on parading around in them.”

I blink. Hard. “
Excuse me?!”

His dark eyes flash with something I can’t name. “Think you heard me. Shoes like that do one thing — they
break
. Hearts or ankles, well, that depends on the woman.” His eyes flicker over my face and I get the sense whatever he sees, he finds lacking. “Guessing you’re the ankles variety, West.” 

For a moment my mouth gapes, torn between shock that Nate has even
noticed
my penchant for designer footwear, and rage that he thinks, after years of barely meeting my eyes during the few mandatory social situations that have forced us together since we both became adults, I’d give a flying frack about his opinion on my fashion choices.

Boo is still running in circles around us, trying to get in on the action. Silently, I give him full permission to bite Nate’s calves.

It’d serve the Louboutin-hating jackass right.

My eyes narrow further. “I’m a grown woman! I’ll wear whatever goddamn shoes I want!”

“You used to wear flats,” he grunts out, his gaze still locked on mine. “Yeah, they were always covered in glitter and sparkly polka dots and shit, but at least you could run in them if you had to.”

I blink, shocked once again.

He remembers the shoes I wore in middle school?

Entirely too stunned to process
that
little tidbit of information, I instead search for the deep well of hurt and rage I’ve been harboring for the past decade. If I let it fill me up like acid bubbling from the depths of my soul, maybe it’ll incinerate the butterflies that have begun to swarm in my stomach. Maybe, if I’m burning with anger, I won’t notice how good it feels to be in his arms, my lips inches from his, those dark eyes finally focused on me with every ounce of his attention.

How many times have I dreamed of his hands on the bare skin at my back, of his nose so close it practically bumps mine with each muttered word?

Even after he joined the military and got all scary and damaged and distant, I still wanted him to hold me like this, so I could see the demons in his eyes up close… and so maybe, just maybe, he’d see
me
in return for once.