No Perfect Princess (13 page)

I stabbed a finger up. “That’s it!”

“The pool hall?”

“No,
no
. That’s it. That’s
him. Unnnh
. How much clearer do I need to be? Michael.
Michael
, Andre. As in Pearson?”

“Mr. Pearson’s house.” A smile took over his voice, deep and sure. I met his eyes in the rearview, daring him to try it again. “Right away. Of course.”

I slumped over onto the seat. “Hey, and Andre? Sweetie?”

“Yes?”

“Wake me up when we get there if I fall asleep, ‘kay?” A huge hiccup escaped before I could help it.

A baritone chuckle filled the car. “You
sure
you’re tired of champagne?”

“Fuck off.” Another laugh from the front. I felt too good to retaliate anymore. Oh God, the leather felt nice against my cheek. Smooth. Cool. Peaceful. The car rocked as we accelerated onto the freeway, bearing south toward La Jolla.

*

“And, we’re here.”

“Mmmfff?” I mumbled to the voice crashing into my lovely little nap. And dammit, I meant
little
. Hadn’t I only just shut my eyes? How had we gotten anywhere in three seconds?

“Miss Margaux?” Andre tugged open the back door and leaned in, gently nudging my shoulder. “Ma’am?” He grunted. “Goddammit. I don’t get paid enough for this.”

I hitched my head up. “I heard that, asshole.” After rising fully back up, I moaned. Clutched my head. Somebody seriously needed to take the world off the spin setting.

“How much did you really have?”

The twinge of concern in his voice made me pry my eyes open. He was a good guy. Handsome too, in a Momoa-meets-God kind of way. His dark dreads were pulled back with a satin tie that matched his elegant suit. “Enough,” I finally mumbled. “I think the bartender at the reception wanted some action.”

“No shit.” Irony had become an art form for him. He picked up a business card from the car’s floor. “Gave you his card too? With numbers, Instagram
and
Snapchat?”

“How should I know? I gave it to one of the teeny boppers.” I peered at the card. “Didn’t I?”

“The who?”

“The little girls,” I snapped. “The giggly gaggle.” That, of course, made
me
giggle. “That’ll give those wenches something to think about on Monday in study hall instead of my boy—”

I sliced myself short in the nick of time.

You don’t use words like “boyfriend”, darling.
Ever.
In any universe that’s been conceived. Words like that are for women who know the right things to do with them.

I’d have known that if a thousand champagne bubbles weren’t still vying for control of my bloodstream.

Minor road bump. Time to focus on the current situation. Standing—well, swaying—outside my not-boyfriend’s bungalow, in the very late hours of the night, in a bridesmaid’s dress—ready to do
what,
exactly? Wait.
Yes
. It all came back to me. I was here to kick his ass for the dance floor double whammy earlier. Caginess and condescension, just what I’d needed—
not
—especially tonight. I’d all but confined myself to a nunnery because of him for six damn months, and then he treated me like that at my own brother’s wedding? Not that he knew (or ever
would
know) about that last part, or that it should’ve mattered at all. He’d been a douche. Margaux Asher didn’t put up with douches. It was about time he heard that straight from Ms. Asher’s lips. Right here, right now.

I pressed the yellow button next to his front door.

Bing-bong-bong.

I snickered. “Really?” Pushed again.

Bing-bong-bong
.

Well, twice was
more
than enough for that. But not enough to get him to open.

Pound, pound, pound
.

I rubbed my aching fist while tapping my foot. Not even the sight of my sparkly Jimmy Choos eased my temper now. “That’s right, Pearson,” I muttered. “I’m pissed off and I’m not going away. Answer the damn door and take what’s coming to you.”

The entryway light flicked on, inviting moths to join the one-girl party I was having on his doorstep. The deadbolt clicked back then the door swung open.

“Lerner, you dickwad. No means no, okay? I already told you—”

He’d definitely not been expecting to see me. And while I had the jump on this whole situation, it totally didn’t prepare me for seeing
him
. Not like this.

“What…the…”

I couldn’t
not
look at him. The dilemma was, where to look first? His tuxedo was gone. Like,
gone.
The only shred of clothing covering
any
part of the man were blood-red boxer briefs that appeared as if custom-tailored for his rock-hard hips—and other parts—by Ralph Lauren himself.

Thank you, Jesus, for Ralph fucking Lauren.

“Margaux?”

“You expecting Pizza Hut?”
Because I got nothing for you except the Jell-O in my knees.

“What’re you—”

“You have an old man doorbell.”

“Huh?”

“Your doorbell. It belongs to an old man. You should change it.”

He canted one eyebrow. Shit, I loved that look, even when he wasn’t standing in front of me in his underwear, letting me stare my fill of a body that was better than my wildest imaginings.

Wildest.

Muscles. He had muscles everywhere. Rippled, sculpted, beautiful, godlike. And they were covered in tattoos.
Tattoos.
Sure, I knew about the exotic aqua seascape wrapped around his right bicep, but never realized it continued up over his shoulder then turned into shooting stars down his right pec, guiding one’s vision across the ridges of his abs, to where a flock of seagulls in silhouette were gathered. Around both his wrists were double bands of indigo, making me long to grab his hands simply for the pleasure of tracing them. Christ, even his wrists had muscles. How had I never noticed that before? I’d rubbed against him like a kitty in heat plenty of times, and always thought I had a good understanding of the lay of the land, but it never prepared me for the feast my eyes were treated to now.

Shivers. And
not
from the misty night air.

Wow. From irate to aroused in ten seconds. That had to be a record. With Michael, it didn’t surprise me. The man made me break rules I didn’t know I had.

And still, all I could do was stare—though my fingertips tingled to life, screaming at me for a bigger piece of the action.

Soon.

It was all I could hope for.

Soon.

I pushed my way in. No sense letting the neighbors in on the miracle living right night door to them. He was my little secret and I planned on keeping it that way—at least for right now.

I closed the door behind me. Fiddled with sliding the lock home again. It took me a few tries. Number one, I was still good and toasted. Number two, no way was I taking my eyes off Michael.

He crossed to the couch, grabbed a T-shirt off the back of the sofa, and rolled it up to sling it on—right before I ripped it away.

“Oh,
hell
no. Not after letting me see all this, mister. It’s a crime to destroy natural wonders, Mr. P. The universe would never forgive me.”

I expected him to laugh. His reaction swung the opposite way, his eyes glowing intense with copper and gold, his chest rising and falling along with the cadence of mine.

“What are you doing here, Margaux?”

He was still tense. I’d probably be too, if not for the wholly illegal number of my blood alcohol level. Liquid courage was a perfect wingman for my inhibitions tonight. Well, what remained of them.

“God
damn
. The rest of your ink, Michael…it’s mesmerizing.”

“You came here to talk about my tattoos?”

Left, right. Left, right. I shook my head in its fullest range of motion though managed to keep every inch of him in focus.
That
was how beautiful he was. How captivating. How completely, mouth-wateringly, perfect.

Full sentences, on the other hand, were proving a bit of a challenge. “No. Not—not really. But as long as we’re covering said—said subject,”—I made the universal “twirl around” motion with my finger—“is there more? On the back? Need to see, pretty please.”

He gusted out a long sigh but obliged with heavy steps. I was almost tempted to stop him, unsure I could take a back view, after all. I’d always had a thing for asses. His was pure perfection, even in a pair of pants. Covered only by the briefs, forming the “dot” on an exclamation point of inked dark blue circles running the length of his spine, it was—

“Holy. Shit.”

He pivoted back around, finally splitting his lips into a cocky grin. “Just scoping out the ink, huh?”

I’d always scoffed at women who talked about men turning them to putty before sex. On
one
hand, I could count the number of men who’d done it to me
after
the nasty, let alone before—

Until now.

“Michael.” Miss Eloquent. That was me tonight. But maybe we just needed to forget “talking”. I took a step toward him—

Only to be held back by his upstretched hands. “Is that wise, sugar? You hit the bar pretty hard after I left, hmmm?” His face darkened as if he remembered a pot roast burning in the oven or something. “But Andre drove you here, right?” When I didn’t respond except by wringing his shirt harder, he prodded, “You going to tie-dye that or give it back?”

I clutched the cotton to my chest. Blurted out, “Yes. Of course Andre drove me.”

He exhaled. “Good. That’s good. It would kill me if anything ever happened to you.”

My head fell to the side. It was the default when my bullshit meter hit red. And while the center of my chest and the pit of my belly wanted to believe him, my mind wasn’t even in the station for that train. “Seriously?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“After you spoke to me at the reception like I’d become something the cat dragged in, before leaving without so much as a goodbye?”

His gaze narrowed. “Would you have heard it if I said one? You were approaching double digits on the champagne chugs by the time I looked back, princess.”

Seethe.

“You were an
ass
, Pearson. If I drowned my rage in a little bubbly, it was none of your business.”

He folded arms over the bulging planes of his chest. “I received
that
point. Loud and clear.”

“Did you want to see anyone else’s point?
Have
you wanted to, for six damn months?” I wadded the shirt and hurled it at him. “Yeah. Forgive the hell out of me for not buying the ‘it would kill me if you died’ line.”

He let the shirt fall. Whooshed out a heavy sigh. “You don’t make anything easy, do you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Did you—are you—saying this is
my
fault?” I barked a bitter laugh. “Wow. This keeps getting better and better.”

He was quiet for a long moment—which unnerved me more than the laser stare. “Did you really come all the way here to fight with me some more?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Or to be honest, what to think. I
couldn’t
think. Not when he was here again—
here again
! So close and so chiseled and so gorgeous, and I was so awed and so flustered and so plastered. “You know what?” I finally rasped. “You’re right.” I put my flat palms up in supplication. “No, you really are. What the
hell
was I thinking?”

It was a legitimate question. I didn’t want to answer it, either. I spun on my heel, pissed at myself and at him and at the world—

Only to feel the world spinning as he caught me by the elbow, yanking me back toward him. Against him.

I crashed back into the wall of his chest at full speed. We should’ve careened back onto the couch but he locked his knees, absorbing me
and
the impact.

“Whoa!” I grabbed his arm, now braced solidly around my waist.

“Margaux,” he growled into my ear.
God,
that sound. Serrating me with strength. Protecting me with raw power. “I won’t let you fall. Ever.”

For a moment, I sagged against him some more. Perhaps I wanted to put the theory to the test right away.
Right.
Anything for a diversion from the truth I really acknowledged—that he wasn’t just referring to what would’ve been our physical fall to the sofa.

Oh
hell,
how I longed to give in to it, surrender to
him
, if only for a little bit. Yearned to let my senses take over instead of shoving them away, like I always did. Ached to experience the chaos that had struck so many times today alone, churning inside every time I laid eyes on him. Such chaos… It’d threatened to topple me during the wedding itself, as soon as I saw him again, so regal and beautiful in his tuxedo. Then again, in more catty form, when I’d watched him dancing with those girls before I cut in. Then melting into heat, a bloom of wonder and warmth, when he gripped my hips with such command to guide our steps on the dance floor.

My head swam with the intensity of each and every memory. The ache of each and every longing…