Tell Me a Secret (The Story Series Book 4) (5 page)

The conversation flowed easily into a second drink, and I forced myself to look elsewhere on his face. Like his nose, which was a little big. Like Caleb’s. And his mouth, which was full and…sensual?

Strange, I’d never noticed
that
before. He licked his bottom lip, and I felt a frisson of arousal amidst the murkiness in my gut. Must be the gin. I hadn’t eaten, so maybe it was hunger and not arousal. I looked around the bar for a menu and didn’t find one.

“Why did you want to stay in the family business?” I stood near my chair, now a little unsteady on my feet because of the liquor. I was genuinely curious about Colin. I’d never really asked about his life in the years I’d known him. “You could have taken your skills in so many different directions. Stockbroker, financial analyst, lawyer…”

He shrugged. “Caleb talked me into it and I felt the obligation of family.”

That was all he needed to say to get me to stop asking questions. We drank in silence, and then he piped up.

“And you? Why did you want to be a bookseller? Wait, I know. You told me once. Because you love to read and because of the closing of the store from your childhood in Lakeland.”

“You remember!” I pointed in his direction, thrilled. “I’m shocked. I didn’t think you were listening when I told you.”

“I always listen to you, Emma. Even when you don’t think I am.”

This made me smile.

He glanced at his hands. “But here’s the real question. I would have pegged your writing for something more serious, something more…I don’t know. Literary. You certainly have the talent for it, from the stuff I’ve read of yours. I actually read your steampunk romance novel, and it was quite good. Not my usual choice of reading—”

“Of course. I know how you love a good William F. Buckley biography. And that was kind of a backhanded compliment, no?”

He tilted his head and a little smile played on his lips, which made me wonder if he was toying with me. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“You basically said I was too good of a writer to be in the romance genre. As if romance writers on the whole were less talented.” I took a sip of my drink and swallowed. I pushed my bottom lip out and pretended to be offended.

He laughed. “Yours was excellent nonetheless. And I am truly in awe of your ideas, that you can think up any stories at all. I couldn’t do it. Seriously. I have no imagination.”

Indeed, he looked so serious that I grinned at him. “I’m sure you do have an imagination.”

He could’ve taken my quip as flirtation, but for some reason, didn’t. “Why do you write romance?”

I twisted my mouth in uncertainty. I hadn’t known he’d actually read more than a paragraph or two of my writing and assumed he’d only done so to make fun of me.

“Because I believe in it,” I said softly, looking into my drink.

“Believe in what?”

I looked up into his pale blue eyes. For the first time, I noticed how they sparkled just so, or maybe it was the flickering candle votives along the bar inspiring the effect. Okay, after knowing him for three years, I was just now beginning to realize why women were attracted to him. When he turned his charm on, it was powerful. Hypnotizing.

I shivered and grinned.

“I believe in the happily-ever-after, no matter how unrealistic. I want to think rakes can become honorable men, that insta-lust can turn into forever love, and cynical women can somehow be made innocent again through the power of love.”

Colin’s mouth lifted on both sides now, and then he chuckled, which made my heart sink a little from the callousness of the tone. “But that’s not real life. Not realistic at all.”

I shrugged. “I know it’s not realistic. But when people read it, they believe in the magic for a little while. And it’s why I write it. So I can believe. Or why I wrote it once upon a time, anyway.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think you’ll write romance again?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. I haven’t written in months. I’d been writing a journal to Caleb but…” I allowed my voice to trail, and I tipped my glass to my lips, taking an ice cube in my mouth.

“Hmm.” He motioned to the bartender, probably asking for the check. Crunching the ice, I took it as a cue to use the bathroom, and once inside, I leaned against the door and rolled my eyes. I was definitely on my way to being drunk. Three drinks had been my limit before I was pregnant. Now that I hadn’t imbibed at all in nine months, I was on the verge of being hammered after two.

I should go back to my room and sleep. Pray I wouldn’t get a hangover.
I had an early flight and was anxious to see my daughter.

And yet, I didn’t want to hole up in my hotel room. The Miami breeze felt too good and so did my light head. I was enjoying talking to Colin. We were relating as two adults, not two grief-stricken zombies.

I reapplied my lipstick and smiled at myself in the mirror.

Live in the moment.

For once.

W
hen I returned
, I laughed when I saw what was in front of us on the bar. “What’s that? Another drink?”

“Whiskey.”

My eyes widened. “Whiskey? Wow. It’s been years since I’ve drank whiskey.”

“Just sip it. It’s very smooth,” he said in a low voice. So I did. Liquid fire burned my throat, and I took a second sip. The fire turned into a glowing river and warmth flooded my whole body.

“Okay, one more question about romance novels.”

I laughed and wondered why my voice sounded especially sparkling this evening when it hadn’t in months. “Okay, but only one.”

“Why are all men in romance novels so arrogant and alpha? Why are they sarcastic?”

“You mean, like you?” I teased. “And that’s two questions. Maybe three.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “No. I’m not arrogant. And my conversational style is subtly ironic. I’m never sarcastic.”

“I’d say you were more in the pointless-but-pleasing conversational category,” I tossed back.

He grinned. Goodness, his teeth were so white and his grin was adorable. I’d never really noticed how stunning until that moment.

“To answer your question, men in romance novels are alpha because it’s what most women want to read about. They want to read about a man taking charge.” I smirked, confident of my abilities to assess gender roles even when drunk. I’d spent the day at the book fair talking about my favorite subjects—sex and erotica and gender roles—and wanted to continue.

He scratched his chin and regarded me with a sideways glance. “Really? Even with feminism? It doesn’t seem like that’s what women always want. Sometimes they seem like they want control over everything.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” I pushed a finger softly into his taut chest, aware I had stepped a few inches closer to him, just enough so I could smell his mandarin-and-cedar-scented cologne. Tonight it wrapped around me in little tendrils and I inhaled deep. Odd he was still wearing the brand I’d bought him more than a year ago for Christmas.

“Colin, women want control over certain things. Their careers, their futures, their bodies.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that. But what do they want
men
to have control of?”

I smiled coyly. “They want a man to take control in the bedroom. They want men to abide by proper gender roles when it comes to sex. Well, most women do. Many women. And they enjoy reading about a man who will do just that. We like to read about men being
men
behind closed doors.”

“Many women,” he murmured, his eyes flickering downward to my mouth. I licked my lips and couldn’t help but smile. His eyes seemed dangerously blue. “Take charge how? Seems like a conundrum, since women also want control. Explain this to me. Maybe I’ve been wrong about women all along.”

I doubted it, not with his track record, but I played along. “For instance, a kiss. Women want the man to be in charge and kiss them. Take them. No asking, no begging, no waffling. Women want a decisive man, one who knows exactly what he desires and what his partner wants.”

Our eyes met. The seconds that followed were pregnant with possibilities, and I think I stopped breathing. With an amused smile, Colin swiftly cupped my face and leaned in, pressing his mouth to mine. His lips were warm and dominant, and a burst of adrenaline surged through my body.

I was stunned. But I kissed him back, and familiar, long-buried feelings tore through me.

Need. Desire. Want.

We kissed deep and slow, and he bit my bottom lip gently. Then he pulled back and looked me in the eyes. “Like that?” he whispered.

I nodded, mesmerized. “Exactly like that.”

He stepped back and took a sip of his drink. I guzzled mine, my mind reeling. Holy shit, I’d just kissed my husband’s brother. In a bar, in public. A tidal wave of guilt washed over me. Then, another, less honorable feeling.

I craved more.

“That was really bad,” I whispered, biting my bottom lip.

“Was it?”

I looked up. My mouth trembled when I stared at his. “I’m…you’re…”

He put a finger to my lips, and I glanced away, to the bar, then back at him.

“Shh. We’ve both gone through a lot. Maybe we need this.” His deep voice sounded so much like my husband’s, but with a touch of rawness, of pain. It both repelled me and sent a flood of molten desire into parts of my body that had been dormant for months.

Glancing at him, knowing he was staring at me, I rationalized with my drunk self. Bargained and cajoled.

The worst had already happened: my husband, my soul twin, was gone. Either dead or had chosen not to return to me. How much more horrible could it get? If I made out with Colin, standing there so tall and handsome, what harm would it do? It wasn’t like I was cheating. Not exactly, anyway. I couldn’t cheat on a husband who was absent. Or gone. Or worse.

I was a single mother left with…well, I didn’t know what. But from the signals my body was giving off after the kiss, I wasn’t dead yet. And the warmth of Colin’s mouth was soothing, erotic, and seemingly right…for tonight. Or maybe it was wrong and I was confused. And a little drunk.

I didn’t know and didn’t care. All I wanted was to think of myself and my desires, instead of all the problems swirling in my life.

I turned to Colin and mentally dumped all sense and reason into nearby Biscayne Bay. The warm wind kicked up and made me feel invincible.

“Kiss me again,” I demanded.

“Gladly,” he murmured and did. I grabbed fistfuls of his linen shirt and pulled him toward me, wanting so much more. His lips were slow and erotic, and I didn’t hesitate to slip my tongue toward his.

In my drunk, thrilled state, I did not care one bit about making out with my brother-in-law at a swank bar. I didn’t give a crap we were two adults twirling tongues and breathing hard while a half-dozen people tried not to stare.

Not one fuck was given. Not by me and obviously not by Colin.

“You’re stunning,” he murmured, stroking my face with his palms. “I’ve thought about you since—”

“Stop. I don’t want to know.” Colin had seen naked photos of me on Caleb’s phone. He’d also seen me in bed for days, enormously pregnant and sweaty. Hell, he’d seen me right after I gave birth. I didn’t care to know which of those turned him on or which of them didn’t.

“I’m not your usual type, let’s just leave it at that,” I said, running my hands down his chest. Just the motion made me wobble, and he steadied me by corseting my ribcage with his big hands. My, he was broad and his muscles felt hard under the linen. I squeezed his biceps and panted a little.

Maybe I made a little
mmm
noise out loud.

Possibly I licked my lips lasciviously.

Yes, I probably shot him a seductive, smoldering glance on top of everything.

He chuckled when I batted my eyelashes. “Like what you see?”

I laughed hard. It was all so cheesy and predictable, but drunkenly funny, too. By this time I was sitting on the bar stool, which put me at about his same height. Standing had become too onerous.

“Emma, you’re better than my usual type. Look at you, with those huge, dark eyes. And your cheekbones.” He traced my face and looked more caring than I’d ever thought possible. “Your face is so beautiful. Your jawline…sexy.” He kissed the hollow between my jaw and neck and my whole body lit up.

I shrugged while waves of intoxicated desire crashed over me. I was a thirty-six-year-old new mom with a belly pooch and some stretch marks. A woman whose hormones were raging as hard as a teenage boy’s.

“Stop. Don’t shrug and be sarcastic. It’s true. You’re stunning.”

I rolled my eyes. I was certain he’d said this to other women. Maybe I’d even heard him say it at one of my parties. “Don’t bullshit me. You can save the speech. Just kiss me more.”

He chuckled and leaned in, pausing an inch from my mouth so we were breathing each other’s air. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he whispered.

“And you’re fucking drunk,” I whispered back, his compliment shredding my thoughts.

He laughed. “So are you.”

“Whatever. Why aren’t you kissing me?”

He did, and he gripped my jaw with one hand, turning my head and claiming my mouth with a taut, scorching kiss. My tongue flicked against his, into his mouth, tasting the whiskey and the taboo of it all. Was it my impaired imagination, or did he kiss like his brother? The thought made me unsteady. Or maybe it was the liquor that made me unsteady.

I won’t lie. Part of my brain told me to stop. Another part urged me to trail a line of kisses toward his ear.

Softly, I tugged at his lobe. I broke away. “I’ve dreamed about you,” I blurted.

His eyebrows shot up, and I recognized a look of genuine surprise. “You have?”

I nodded, suddenly self-conscious as he ran his hand up my calf and under my long skirt. I felt him twirl his finger around my knee and knew he’d found a patch of stubble. I wondered if he’d seen my armpits and I giggled.

“Tell me about your dreams.” He put both his hands up my skirt now, caressing my calves and knees. I closed my eyes, reveling in how crazy-good it felt to be touched so sensually.

My body was screaming to be plundered like this. I pondered whether to tell him I’d watched him shower at the lake house. No, I wasn’t drunk enough to admit being a voyeur.

“The dreams were like my books,” I said slowly, distracted because his thumbs had reached my inner thighs. The night was turning illicit, fast. Was this what I truly wanted?

“Oh. Those kinds of dreams.” He grinned and took his hands out of my skirt.

“Yes. Those kinds.”

He kissed me again, deep and with an insistent tongue. “Was I good? Did I satisfy you?”

I held my breath and looked into his eyes. “I always wake up before that crucial moment.”

“Maybe tonight we can fix that.”

I laughed and nervously turned to my whiskey, drinking the rest in one gulp. He did the same and then kissed me on the cheek. That little, intimate gesture was somehow more shocking than his demanding kisses.

“I’ll be right back.” He pointed at the bathrooms, and I blew out a breath as he walked away.

The bartender wandered to me and smirked. “Another round?”

“Yes,” I said firmly, mustering as much dignity as I could. “And a glass of ice, too.”

More whiskey was a horrible idea, but maybe if I drank more, I’d figure out what I truly wanted. I texted a bubbly note to Sarah.

Having a drink with Colin!
Going to bed soon, hope everything with the baby is going well.

Sarah texted right back.
She’s asleep. Have fun, but not too much fun. Talk tomorrow, xo.

I heaved a sigh and considered whether Sarah suspected I might hook up with Colin. At the thought, I nearly toppled off the barstool. When the whiskey came I sipped, then took an ice cube and popped it in my mouth. Colin appeared and put his hand on my back.

“More whiskey, darlin’?” Colin affected a slight Southern twang, so different from his pretentious baritone, and tonight, it was panty-dissolving.

I nodded and turned to him with a steamy look, the ice cube in my mouth. I took his face in my hands and then kissed him, pushing the cube into his mouth and feeling naughty. We passed it back and forth with our tongues until it melted. I tried not to drool unbecomingly.

He groaned and grabbed a handful of my hair. Kind of like Caleb would have done.

“You,” he growled, his eyes flickering under half-lids.

We drank and kissed, and kissed and drank some more. We laughed stupidly at nothing. There were fewer people at the bar, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the bartender had made himself scarce by ducking to the far end, out of earshot of our antics. At one point Colin’s big hand found my breast and squeezed.

“God, these are perfect. Are they real?”

“Of course! Jesus.” I snorted and cackled. He didn’t normally speak so crassly, and that’s when I knew he was drunker than I’d ever seen him.

Our laughter stilled, and he had an intense look in his eyes while he ran a thumb over my nipple. Electricity raced through me. It had been so long since I’d been looked at with lust, much less kissed or touched. With each swipe of his thumb, I felt like I was disintegrating from the heat he inspired.

His hypnotizing eyes fixed on me. Or maybe he was just trying to focus because he was so intoxicated. Regardless, his stare made heat spread down my face, neck, and beyond.

“Emma, let’s go up to the room and lie down together. Please?”

I shook my head in an exaggerated manner and waggled my finger. “If I go up to the room, you know what will happen.”

“I don’t think so, because I’m too drunk.”

“It might not happen tonight, but it will in the morning.” I lurched forward to murmur into his ear, trying to remember if I’d used these words in an erotica scene in one of my books. “I’ll wake up and I’ll climb on top of you. I’ll want to fuck you awake.”

He growled, then cupped my face roughly, kissing me hard. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Did you just growl at me?” I teased.

“Mmhmm.” Then he pulled away, a plea in his eyes. “Please? I’m really drunk. Let’s go up. Let’s just sleep together. Promise.”

I nodded, suddenly too overwhelmed and tired to banter or debate the issue. Sleeping next to someone seemed like an excellent idea. Sleeping in someone’s arms sounded like heaven after nine awful months alone.

Even if the someone was my husband’s brother. Maybe especially wonderful if the someone was familiar, like my husband’s brother. Someone who I’d obviously been subconsciously lusting after, now that I thought about it while in my drunken state.

As we wove our way to the elevator, he slung his arm around my shoulder like we’d been down this path together a hundred times before. Once inside the elevator, he kissed me ravenously, pressing me against the wall with an unnecessary but completely welcome urgency.

“Fuck,” I said, my chest heaving. He laughed darkly.

I barely recalled getting out of the elevator. The strange, rust-and-sunflower-yellow pattern of the hall carpet hypnotized me as I tried to walk. At his door, he fumbled for the key and I propped myself along a wall to keep from tumbling over. Once the door was open, he pulled me into the suite. With a toss of my purse on the floor, I paused at a small table, resting my hands on the marble top. I closed my eyes and tried to steady the whirling room.