The Dance (31 page)

Waggling my eyebrows, I teased. “Exactly what kind of business of yours is she arranging?”

“You really want to know?”

Shit, he’s actually going to answer my question?

“Dying.” The word fell out of my mouth before I realized it.

His expression was serious as his blue-gray eyes held me in place. “I pay her to have sex with me.”

Everything dropped—my mouth, my heart, my stomach. I stared wide-eyed at him. From what I’d witnessed at the rehab, Hart didn’t want for female attention. I didn’t understand why he paid for something that any number of women would gladly give him free of charge.

He didn’t look away or say another word. He was waiting for me to make the next move. Hart’s honesty opened a floodgate of questions. But did I want to go further down this rabbit hole?

“Why?”

Damn my curiosity!

“Uncomplicated, unattached, and unemotional.”

“Wow, that’s a sad way to have a relationship.”

“It’s not a relationship.”

I couldn’t tell if he was just spouting the information like he would to anyone else or he wanted to make sure I was clear about the arrangement.

“Semantics,” I said.

“I don’t do relationships.”

I didn’t try to hide my eye roll. “What does that even mean? You don’t do relationships. You just haven’t found anyone you wanted to do it with.”

Cocking an eyebrow Hart said, “Oh, I’ve found a lot of anyones to
do
it with.”

The direction of this conversation had blindsided me.

I huffed. “Not allowing yourself to fall in love with another person is a very empty existence.”

“Bullshit. My existence is quite full, thank you. Besides, no woman wants damaged goods.”

I shifted in my seat. “I didn’t mean . . . you’re the strongest and most confident person I know. It’s obvious you don’t let anything hold you back. And as far as women are concerned . . . don’t you see the blushing cheeks and the smiles they give you?” My tone turned more teasing. “And the giggles at your flirty comments that are sophomoric at best.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a master flirts-man.” His expression remained serious but I detected a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You fell in love and look where it got you . . . divorced before the age of thirty.” His words were biting but his tone wasn’t harsh.

Squaring my shoulders, I sat up straight. “It doesn’t mean I stopped believing in true love.”

His expression softened a bit. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you marry him? Why didn’t you go to culinary school? Why aren’t you a chef or running your own catering business?”

“Why are you being such a dick?”

“I’m not trying to be a dick.”

“So it’s a natural talent?”

His entire face lit up with enjoyment. “You obviously have a passion for creating edible art. Yet you’ve spent the last ten years not following it. That to me is an empty existence.”

Touché.

I loved how our conversations flowed seamlessly from fun to serious and back without missing a beat. If I’d had a similar conversation with Will it would have ended in an argument. Will’s tone was always condescending and dismissive. He never really cared what I had to say on any subject. Always talking at me instead of with me. Not only did Hart talk with me, he listened and paid attention. He was honest, forthright, and interested in my opinion.

Taking a cue from my silence, Hart leaned forward, gathering up the grilled cheese aftermath. “It’s getting late. I need to get you in bed.”

With wide eyes, my head jerked in his direction. “What?”

He headed into the kitchen and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. “You need to go sleep off the rest of your whiskey haze.”

I scooted to the edge of the sofa. “I’m feeling okay. I think it’s pretty much out of my system.”

He moved toward me. “Come on, I’ll show you my bedroom.”

“I’m fine on the sofa.”

“Bryson. My bedroom. Now.” He made a sharp turn.

A warm buzz spread to all my key areas. There was definitely something different when Hart spouted out an order. I felt secure and cared for, like he was putting me at the top of his priority list.

“Hart . . .”

He hovered at the end of the hallway. “Haven’t you learned by now? There’s no need to argue. I always win. Now get your sweet little ass up and follow me.”

Swallowing hard, I stood on shaky legs, grabbed my purse, and followed him down the hall.

Hart’s room was more elegant than I imagined it would be. Not that I had been fantasizing about his bedroom. The walls were a darker gray than the rest of the house. His king-size bed sat front and center on the long wall covered in a light gray comforter with a silver striped design. All the furniture was sleek and black. He rolled over to the dresser and grabbed his pajamas before snatching a pillow from the bed.

“Hart, I wish you’d let me sleep on the sofa.”

“It’d be a little crowded with the two of us out there. If you need me, I’ll be right outside the door.”

He was right, there was no need to argue.

“Thank you, again, for everything,” I said.

He moved toward the door and turned to face me. “Goodnight, Bryson.”

“Goodnight, Hart.”

As I stood in the middle of the room a strange sense of peace and contentment washed over me, knowing I’d start the next day seeing him.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Despite the great care I received last night, the loud pounding was incessant. Ignoring my throbbing temples, I pulled the comforter over my head, attempting to sink back into oblivious sleep.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

“Bryson, are you awake?”

I shot straight up, the covers tumbling and pooling at my hips. Even with the vice around my head tightening, the smooth deep rasp of Hart’s voice first thing in the morning gave me chills.

Tossing off the comforter, I swung my legs across the bed and let my feet drop. My hands landed on either side of my hips, gripping the mattress as I let my feet get used to the floor beneath. Once I felt confident in my leg’s ability to hold me up, I pushed off from the bed and stood. Other than my aching head it appeared the rest of me was no worse for wear.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I headed toward the door and cracked it open. A familiar flutter in my stomach took over when I lay eyes on Hart’s sexy half face.

“Come in at your own risk,” I grumbled, pushing the door wide open.

Hart had already showered and dressed. He was in a pair of black sweat pants, a white and blue basketball jersey with Steelers stretched across his chest, and Nikes. His hair was still damp and slicked back off his face. Apparently, his scuff was a constant presence in his life. He had it even when we were in school. I remembered being mesmerized by the contrast of his baby face being covered with the manly beard. For a second I wondered what a clean-shaven Hart would look like but quickly realized he wouldn’t look like himself without his trademark.

“I come bearing gifts.” He moved farther into the room holding a mug of coffee in his right hand.

His muscles rippled beneath his skin with each push of the wheel. As he rolled past me, I got a good look at the tattoos on his left arm. I was curious to know what relevance they had in his life.

Turning toward me, he stared for a couple of seconds before clearing his throat and speaking. “How ya feeling this morning?”

“Jury’s still out.” I took the coffee and climbed back in bed.

I sipped and caught Hart staring, his Adam’s apple slowly making its way down his neck.

He was checking out my ass.

I took another sip, enjoying the hypnotic effect my ass had on him for . . .

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three Mississippi.

Four Mississippi.

“So what else you got for me?”

Hart snapped out of his daze at the sound of my voice. “Excuse me?”

“You said gifts with an s.”

He tilted his chin up in recognition and held up a blueberry Pop Tart.

“Once you get a couple of cooking lessons under your belt you’re gonna make an actual tart your bitch.”

He moved in closer, handing me the cellophane-covered chemically enhanced pastry. “I thought I was doing that already.”

I was in no mood to start the day with an Amber reference. Narrowing my eyes, I snatched my breakfast out of his hand, tore into the paper, and bit off a chunk. I ran my tongue across my bottom lip, licking off the crumbs. When lazy tingles spread over my body, I knew Hart’s eyes were on me.

I inhaled a deep breath. “So what’s with the get up?”

He swallowed hard as his gaze met mine. “I have a game in an hour.”

Staying put, I took another bite of Pop Tart.

More staring accompanied by comfortable silence.

Like a bolt of lightning zapping me in the head, I suddenly clued in that he was trying to usher me along in the nicest way possible. I held the half-eaten pastry between my lips, kicked off the covers, and jumped out of bed.

Handing off my mug to Hart, I dashed around the room, grabbing my sweater and purse.

“I’m an idiot. You told me last night you had plans,” I mumbled out the corner of my mouth.

Whipping my head back and forth, I scanned the room for my jeans and boots as I swallowed what was left of my breakfast. “Any idea where my jeans ended up?”

When I got no response, I glanced over at Hart staring at me
again.

I ran my hand over my face, praying that nothing was hanging or dangling. “Is something wrong?”

Slowly shaking his head, Hart said, “No, nothing’s wrong.” He paused. “You look really pretty in the morning.”

As inconspicuously as possible, I brought my knees together and squeezed.

He shot his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll see you out there.”

“Good deal.” I sighed.

Hart was almost out the door when I remembered the mystery of my jeans had not been solved. “Um . . . my jeans?”

“In the dryer,” he yelled, as he left the room, never looking back.

Since my jeans were still drying, I had some time to do a quick freshen up. The master bath was even larger than the one from last night with similar décor. My gaze roamed as I set my purse and sweater beside the sink. It looked like a regular bathroom with only a few exceptions to accommodate the wheelchair. The tub/shower combo had a door allowing Hart to roll right into it. Everything was lower—towel racks, mirror, and shelves. There was no cabinet under the sink and brushed metal grip bars were strategically placed to aid in mobility.

I turned on the faucet and let the water warm up. As I filled my cupped hands with warm water, my thoughts drifted back to last night. It felt so natural and comfortable with Hart. When the conversation turned serious it didn’t derail into an argument. He gave up his night with the guys to take care of me. And then this morning . . . the look in his eyes . . . I wanted to believe that look was reserved for only me. I splashed the handful of water in my face and shook off the daydreaming.

After putting on my bra and sweater, I ran the brush through my hair and gathered it up into a high ponytail using the spare scrunchy I always kept in my purse. Poking my head in the bedroom, I saw no sign of Hart or my jeans.

With more time to kill, I went ahead and folded Hart’s shirt and boxers. The psychotic single white female part of me wanted to take them home. But I suppressed the urge and placed them on the top of his dresser. I then sat on the side of the bed and pulled on my beige wool socks. Then I made the bed. Then I sat on the bed, fingering the owl pendant around my neck while my foot wiggled back and forth. I thought about dusting but the room was spotless.

The longer I waited for my clothes the more anxious I got for some reason. Maybe because for the first time in my life I was half naked in a man’s bedroom. A man that I was attracted to. A man I didn’t want to say goodbye to. Unable to sit still any longer, I hopped up and walked around the room, admiring the artwork created by Hart’s mother.