Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (8 page)

“
What?!
Please tell me you didn’t buy tickets.”

“Focus!” She snaps a finger in front of my face. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“How can I focus with visions of ancient sausages dancing through my head like… like…”

“Sugarplums on Christmas Eve?” Lila laughs.

“I hate you.”

“Noted.” She doesn’t bat an eye. “But your surprise tonight is a good one. I promise.”

“Are there old-man penises involved?”

“Definitely not.”

“Thank god.”

“Just one perfect, well-proportioned, twenty-something penis.”

I choke on my champagne.

Lila claps me on the back. “Breathe, tiger.”

“What— Did you say—Penis—” I gulp to clear my airway. “
What
?”

“I may or may not have snagged you a date.”

I stare at her, mouth gaping. She promised —
promised!
— she’d never force me into another set-up after the disaster that was Captain Kirk.

“I may or may not kill you,” I hiss, advancing on her. “I would literally rather ride a camel bare-assed across Black Rock desert to Burning Man, get lost along the way, and have to drink my own
pee
than go on another date you’ve set up for me.”

“Chill!” Her eyes dance again. “This is a good one. I didn’t even find him on the internet.”

“That’s
so
comforting.” My glare intensifies and my voice drops to a harsh whisper. “It’s not Duncan, is it?”

“Would that be so bad?”

I fight the urge to throttle her.

“Jeeze, you’re high-strung today.” She rolls her eyes. “No, it’s not Duncan. He’s away on business.”

“Thank god for small favors.”

She shoots me a look. “You should be thanking
me
, not god. Very few friends would go to the trouble of setting you up — thankless task that it is. If I were a lesser woman, my feelings would be hurt.”

“Okay, wait….” I throw out a finger and squint my eyes at her. “Attempting to give a fuck…. Still attempting to give a fuck… one more time….” My eyes snap fully open. “Nope, sorry. No fucks given.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Seriously, Lila, I am
not
spending the night with some mouth-breathing cretin who thinks the use of dinner napkins is optional and monologues for several hours about his undying love for WWE fights.”

“I prefer low-brow barbarian,” a smooth male voice cuts in from my left. “Though, I
will
answer to mouth-breathing cretin, if necessary.”

Did the first caterpillar to ever change into

a butterfly just totally freak the hell out?

Phoebe West, pondering evolution.

My gaze flies in his direction. I feel my face reddening like a tomato on speed as I take in the man standing less than a foot away.

Coppery-gold hair, just a tad overgrown, falling over a set of greenish-blue eyes that are lasered-in on my face and, at the moment, twinkling with humor. A wry smile plays out on a set of seriously sexy, full lips — lips that my mortified brain is only now realizing, have produced words.

Words with an accent.

An
Irish
accent.

Holy frack. The sound alone makes my ovaries dance a double jig — two little sexual step-dancers, suddenly all too excited to meet my date who, I must admit, looks nothing like a mouth-breathing cretin. In fact, he looks like Jamie Frasier from
Outlander
— which, without the separation of a television screen, is nearly enough to make me stop breathing.

His eyebrows waggle in playful question, and I realize I’ve completely zoned out.

“Um,” I squeak intelligently.

Lila’s laughing — I can hear her cackling away on my right — but I don’t move my eyes from the man invading my space.

He leans closer and I feel my mouth go dry. Other parts of my body are not quite so arid.

Like my sweaty palms. And the uncharted territory between my le—

“Sometimes,” he whispers conspiratorially, cutting off a dangerous train of thought. “My dates even call me Cormack. Though, only when I monologue about wrestling. In my experience, girls
love
a lengthy discussion of muscle men in spandex.”

He’s teasing me.

My mind reels for an appropriately witty retort, but I can’t seem to come up with anything. Not when he’s staring at me with those
eyes
. Not quite green, not quite blue, altogether too focused on me. I search desperately for something — anything — to say, and finally settle on his name.

“Cormack,” I echo, brilliant as ever.

His eyes glimmer with humor. Extending a hand into the space between us, he grins in what I can only describe as a devilish manner.

“And you must be Phoebe.”

My stomach does a Celtic treble reel when he murmurs my name, his accent elongating the vowels.

Yeh must be Phey-bee.

Am I drooling? I think I might be drooling.

With as much composure as I can muster, I slide my hand into his. The skin of his palm is warm and slightly callused; his thumb strokes across my knuckles with feather-light sensuality — just once, but it’s enough to send the butterflies into another tizzy. I take a deep breath and order myself to pull it together.

“Phoebe West,” I confirm, craning my neck in an attempt at a flirty head tilt. It always seems to work for Lila. Judging by Cormack’s raised eyebrows, I look more along the lines of a car-crash victim with whiplash.

Pretending not to hear the feminine snorts of amusement coming from my (former) best friend, I straighten my head to normal angles and suppress a mortified grimace.

My mortification quickly fades when Cormack lifts my hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the fragile skin there.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Phoebe.” A grin tugs at his lips. “Even if it’s not a pleasure you share.”

A pleasure to make your acquaintance…

Who talks like that?

Apparently sinfully attractive Irishmen with lips that were made for nibbling on—

Focus!

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, before,” I say, tugging my hand from his. He lets it go after a tiny hesitation, as though he doesn’t quite want to break contact yet. I clear my throat. “I just wasn’t expecting…”

I shrug, as though I can’t find the words. I can find them, all right, I just don’t want to say any of them out loud.

I wasn’t expecting
to get set-up with a man so hot he’d make a nun question her vows. 

“Ahh, I see.” He nods in understanding. “Your friend Lila told me you’d agreed to meet me. I didn’t mean to catch you off guard.” 

“It’s not you. Really. It’s just…” I can feel Lila glaring at me with such hostility, you’d think I ate all the mint chip ice cream and left the empty carton in the freezer. I try not to squirm. “These things never go very well, in my experience.”

His lips twist and he leans in so close, I smell his aftershave — crisp, clean, minty.  “Do you have a lot of it, then?”

“What?”

“Experience,” he whispers, chucking under his breath and staring at me like I’m vastly entertaining. Or, maybe like I’m a car accident — something so disastrous, he simply can’t pull his eyes away.

“Um,” I squeak again.

He laughs — rich, throaty, full-bodied — and the sound pools in my stomach like warm honey. 

“I’ve no desire to ruin your night, Phoebe. I’ll leave you to your friends.” His lips twist again. “Though, I must say, I don’t think I’ve ever been rejected by such a beautiful woman.”

Damn, he’s good. My mouth gapes.

“Goodbye,” he adds softly. Keeping those intent eyes locked on mine, he bows his head before turning on a heel to leave.

My eyes fly from his retreating back to Lila, who’s glaring daggers at me and gesturing wildly at Cormack.

Go after him, idiot!
she screams mutely. Then, she mouths either,
I will flay you alive!
or
I’d like some good pie
. (Hard to say, for sure.)

Regardless, I did agree to follow her schemes to get over Nate — even if they lead me straight into hell. And a night with a sexy Irishman doesn’t exactly sound like
torture
. So, I throw back my shoulders, brace myself, and call, “Cormack! Wait.”

His grin is huge when he spins back around to face me.

I can do this,
I tell myself as he crosses back to my side, gently takes my hand, and leads me toward the closest piece of art.
Just because I’m on a date with a man so good looking he actually induces a stutter… and Nate is here somewhere lurking in the shadows… and I’ve already begun to perspire in my
de la Renta
… and Lila will kill me if I mess this up… and it’s the biggest night of Gemma’s art career… and there are a thousand paparazzi parked outside, chomping at the bit for a scandal…

Absolutely
none
of that means something will go horribly wrong and make this the most mortifying night of my existence
.

Right?

God, I’m so totally fucked.

***

“What is it supposed to be?”

“I think it’s an eggplant.” I squint my eyes at the canvas in question, not judging Cormack at all for his confusion.  Modern art is always somewhat of a mystery — I think that’s part of the appeal. The more confounding the piece, the higher the price. “Or… maybe it’s a squash?”

Cormack chuckles. “I’ve never been exceedingly fond of vegetables.”

Padraic remains silent, which isn’t exactly a surprise. So far, the hulking redhead has said a grand total of one word — his
name — in the twenty minutes we’ve been circulating the gallery space, trying to decode swirls of color in the frames on the walls.

“Come on, guys. It’s definitely a penis,” Lila chimes in, stepping up beside me. “You should buy it, Phee. It’d look great, hanging above your bed.”

“I’m all stocked up on phallic artwork, to be honest.”

She leans close, her lips practically grazing my ear, and drops her voice to a whisper. “I know you keep about a thousand bodice-ripping romance novels under your bed, but — lusty pirates aside — I don’t know if I’d call those phallic
artwork
.”

Thankfully, her voice is low enough that the men can’t hear. Ignoring her, I jab an elbow into her ribs as I turn to face Cormack, all smiles. “Let’s go find Gemma. I have to congratulate her.”

Lila’s laughter chases us as we walk away. We’re silent for a moment, weaving through the dense crowd, but he keeps a light touch on my lower back. Gentle, but possessive. It sends a guilty shiver through me, and I resist the desire to scan the corners of the room with my eyes. When I came in, there were two security guards stationed at the front doors, dressed in black from head to toe.

Neither of them were Nate.

Is he even here?

Is he watching from the shadows?

Does he see the stranger’s hand on the small of my back?

Does he care?

I shiver again, for a different reason entirely.

“You’ve been friends a long time.” Cormack’s voice cuts through my mental ramblings and, for a second, I think he’s read my mind. 

“What?”

He glances at me, lips twisting in amusement. “You and Lila. You’ve been friends a long time.”

Oh.
Lila
. Right.

“Since we were little,” I confirm. “She’s the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“Just one terribly annoying big brother,” I say, fondness creeping into my tone. “You’re lucky he’s out of the country — he’s an old hand at scaring away my dates.”

The few that I’ve ever had,
I add internally.

Cormack stops mid-stride and turns to glance down into my eyes. When he speaks, his voice is slow, thick, sweet — like melted chocolate. “I don’t scare very easily, Phoebe.”

Phey-bee.

Swoon
.

I don’t say anything — what exactly does a girl say to something like that? — so he just places his hand on my back and starts walking again.

Calling Cormack O’Dair
charming
is like calling a contestant on The Bachelor
dramatic
. The word falls pathetically short of reality. 

With just one devilish grin, he could get a Royal Guardsman to blush redder than his uniform.

With only the sparkle in his blue-green eyes, he could talk the pants off a priest. (Is that sacrilegious? Oops.)

Point is, between his mega-bright smiles and quick-witted comments and, dear
god,
that accent… I’m feeling a shade out of my depth. Which is perhaps why I didn’t immediately realize the wait staff have been supplying me with glass after glass of champagne since the moment my date arrived, or that I’ve been sipping them at an alarming pace, just so my mouth has something to do besides gawk or grunt unintelligibly in his direction.

The first glass works through my system like a pleasant anesthetic, loosening my joints and making my steps a little more languorous as I glide through the gallery on Cormack’s arm.

By the second glass, I’m really
feeling
the art, in a way I probably — definitely — wouldn’t be, without the aid of alcohol. ‘Cause, I mean, it’s not
just
a $6,000 painting of a white paper cup on canvas. You know? That cup — it’s
empty
. Lying on its side. Which is deeply symbolic of…of… something. I think.

Don’t snort bubbles out your nose. Don’t snort bubbles out your nose. Don’t snort bubbles out your nose.

Now, by glass number three, everything around me has adopted a kind of fuzzy, golden aura. Blurred at the edges. Mellow. Warm. 

That handful of stale Cheez-its I ate earlier wasn’t the most substantial dinner I’ve ever had…

Blessedly, Cormack hasn’t seemed to notice that my brain is sloshing around inside my skull like a pickled egg. He’s too busy charming the pants off everyone we talk to.

I can’t decide if it’s good or bad that I’m not wearing pants and, thus, cannot be charmed out of them.

(Probably bad.)

In any case, as we maneuver through the crowd looking for Gemma and Chase, we’re stopped at least six times to chat with various family friends and some of my father’s business partners. Several women ask — with a fair amount of shock in their tones — who my date is. I grit my teeth and pretend it doesn’t bother me that they treat a deviation from my perpetual single-hood with such delighted dismay. The other women we come across are too busy sultrily eyeing Cormack behind their martini glasses to be bitchy. Their husbands aren’t much better — they either ask after my father’s whereabouts, let their gazes linger too long on my cleavage, or say nothing at all.

Cumulatively, I worry their antics will make my date run for the hills.

He doesn’t. In fact, he’s so good at working the crowd and moving us along through countless tedious encounters, I may have to consider bringing him along to every social event for the rest of my life. Hell, I may have to marry the guy for perks like these.

I don’t need sex, love, or commitment. Just deflect the monotonous, socialite small talk away from me.