Текст книги "The Singles"

Автор книги: Emily Snow

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

Chapter 6

“Hope you like Mexican food.” Oliver’s smooth voice flowed over me, adding a few more butterflies to the ones already flitting erratically around my stomach. He worked the lids off the takeout containers and began piling two disposable plates with food.

Despite my nervousness, I inhaled deeply; the aroma of chicken tacos and rice was tantalizing enough to draw a sigh from me. “It smells incredible.”

“So do you.”

His eyes locked with mine, and I couldn’t bring myself to look away—Oliver Manning was hypnotic. He’d probably been hearing that his entire life from women and gossip columnists, yet he completely owned what he was. What he could do to a woman with the slightest jerk of his mouth.

What he could do to me.

“You look terrified,” he drawled.

I carved my hand through my hair, noticing the way his eyes carefully traced my movements. “Why do you say that?”

Setting my plate in front of me, he angled his head to one side. “You haven’t moved an inch since you sat down.”

I reached forward and grabbed a fork from the center of the table and removed it from its plastic wrapping. “That was about nine inches,” I declared, and he let out a low chuckle of amusement.

When his full lips parted, I was almost certain he was going to follow up with something absolutely naughty, but then he asked, “Thirsty?”

I nodded, observing him from beneath my lashes—finding it impossible to tear my gaze from his toned body as he strode to the refrigerator. Even the most unassuming task, like getting a drink, seemed ridiculously sexy when Oliver was performing it, and my pulse felt like it was going to race right out of my skin. I pretended to be more interested in sifting my fork through the rice on my plate, but it was obvious he knew I was watching.

I could tell from his enormous grin when he faced me.

Satisfaction drenching his husky voice, he told me, “I’ve got water, Coke, Dos Equis, and Oktoberfest.”

I cleared my throat. “Water, please?”

He returned to the table with a bottle of San Pellegrino and an Oktoberfest, which he placed beside his plate. Standing next to my seat, he twisted the top off my water before leaning over me. His face was close to mine. So close our noses skimmed. So damn close his mouth would claim mine if I moved even the slightest bit. And, dammit, I wanted to move.

Oliver Manning serving me—me—was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

“What?” I croaked.

“You. You’re beautiful,” he mused aloud, and I shivered when I felt his hands on mine. Breathing became a thing of the past as he wrapped my fingers one by one around the cold green bottle of water. “And you still look terrified out of your beautiful mind,” he added before standing straight.

The early afternoon sun filtered through the partially open blinds, and when it touched his tall, bronzed body and golden brown hair, I felt every muscle in my body contract—from my neck, to my core, to my toes, which had curled inside my shoes.

Yeah, he was gorgeous.

“Are you going to challenge me to move again?”

He lowered his chin, considering my questioning expression, and then at how close his belt was to my mouth, and a wicked look burst across his face. Despite the fact I’d inadvertently given him sexual innuendo gold, his next words were surprisingly tame. “Tell me something about you.”

“What do you want to know?” I managed a laugh. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Everything.” He sat down, and his long leg brushed up against mine, but neither of us rushed to break contact.  There was something a little intoxicating about the way the material of his charcoal tailored pants felt against my bare leg. “I want to know everything about you.”

Dear body, I thought pleadingly, please, please don’t betray me right now. I took a sip of water in hopes it would help the hoarseness forming in the back of my throat. “I’m twenty-five,” I said.

Which was a lie. Lizzie was twenty-five, but my twenty-fourth birthday wasn’t until the beginning of November—the day after Halloween. Although I already knew Oliver’s thirtieth birthday was in December, after I popped a piece of chicken in my mouth and finished chewing it, I coyly asked, “What about you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

He gestured his hand for me to keep going. I’d gone over my story more times than I could count, but my chest hurt at the thought of reciting it to Oliver. Almost as soon as I let the thought of wanting him to know the real me wriggle its way into my mind, I shook my head dismissively.

“I’m woefully boring.”

“You’re lying.”

“Hmm?” I crossed my legs, bumping his in the process, and I immediately noticed the movement of his Adam’s apple. Good. It was about time I wiggled one step ahead of him and got to him instead.

“Is it hard?”

“Of course it isn’t. I come from a politically independent family in Oregon. I have one brother, one sister. My mother is a stay-at-home mom and my father—” I struggled to keep my breath from catching.

My father is dead, and in the last couple years of his life, you saw him more than I did. Both of my parents are gone, and here I am lying to you about everything from my family, to where I’m from, to what my damn age is.

“My dad retired a couple years back,” I finally said, the lie sounding flawless. “What about your dad? What about you?”

“What? You haven’t read about him in Forbes?” he teased, and when I shook my head he laughed. “Honestly, you wouldn’t find him there. My dad is surprisingly simple. I guess you could say I am, too.”

“Simple?” I repeated. I’d already figured out that simple didn’t exist when it came to Oliver Manning, but I wanted to hear what he had to say. “How so?”

He gestured his hands to his office and looked around the oversized room. “This place—the company—my dad was never into it. My grandfather always says that the sense of family duty skipped a generation.” He was silent as he focused on his meal and I did the same, occasionally peeking up at him, until he finally rested his elbows on the table and said, “He lives with his wife and my half-brothers near Red Rock Canyon.”

I immediately recognized the community Oliver was referring to—it wasn’t one that was here in Los Angeles, but in Vegas. A luxurious, exclusive neighborhood filled with lush yards and multi-million dollar homes. The opposite side of town—the opposite lifestyle—from when I had lived there.

“The Ridges is a beautiful area,” I said without thinking, instantly regretting the words the second they fell out of my mouth. Damn. Maybe he hadn’t noticed. Maybe ...

Lowering his chin, his blue eyes stripped away my layers, and I squirmed beneath his stare. “You’re familiar with Vegas?”

“It’s not that far away from here,” I reminded him, silently cursing myself for being so stupid to let my guard down, even momentarily. Tracing my tongue over my lips, I crossed my legs under the table, my knee bumping against his in the process. “Besides, I stayed with a host family who lived in The Ridges during a summer camp several years ago.”

The truth was I had gone out on several dates with an executive who lived by himself in the community. He’d been one of the good ones—kind and respectful—and had immediately stopped contact when he got married early this year.

“A summer camp?” Oliver questioned, and I nodded. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over his square jawline, moving it back and forth like he was carefully considering what to say next. “Let me guess, you were a cheerleader in high school,” he said suddenly, and I threw my head back and laughed.

“Wrong.”

“Tennis?”

“I’m not going to say I don’t pick up a racket every now and then for exercise, but I didn’t play in high school. I was very non-athletic.”

I felt his eyes drink in the sight of every bit of my body that was visible. “You were—”

“On the social studies academic team,” I told him, my revelation surprising even myself, because it was one hundred percent the honest truth. When my mother and I had moved to Vegas, I’d wanted something to keep busy for those nights when she was away or working on a late shoot—something that involved interacting with other people. With the sports season already in progress, I set my sights on the academic teams. “Thanks to my slight obsession with my mother’s romance books, I was a whiz when it came to history. Go ahead, ask me anything about King Henry VIII and his wives.”

“Gave up on The Tudors a few episodes in,” he admitted, and I stared at him in mock horror. Holding up his hands defensively, his face stretched into a grin. “I’m more of a Justified and Game of Thrones type of guy.”

“I was about to call out your blasphemy, but then you made up for it with the other shows. You should watch Vikings next. My best friend and I are obsessed with that one.” I turned the cold bottle of San Pellegrino to my mouth, shivering at the resulting chill that coursed through me from drinking too quickly. “By the way ... what was your next guess?”

“Debate team,” he replied. “Seems like you like to argue.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

His expression went dark for the briefest moment before returning to its usual state of cockiness. “Hell, no. I had a stutter for a long time that drove my mother up the fucking wall. Therapy got rid of it—Margaret wouldn’t let me stop until it was unnoticeable, and she reminded me of that every day—but I was still gun-shy about public speaking when I started high school.” He shrugged indifferently, but pressure squeezed my ribs at the thought of Margaret making her own child feel inadequate. “My stepfather got me involved with sports.”

“Did you”—I cleared my throat, trying not to let emotion get the best of me at the mention of my father—“did you like your stepdad?”

“He was rarely around, but I liked him more than my mother.” When I didn’t respond, he lowered his voice to a murmur and asked me, “You think it’s wrong of me to say that, don’t you?”

“It just makes me a little sad.” It made me hurt for both of us, though I could never admit that to him.

I felt his fingers on my chin, and I braced myself for the deluge of emotions I knew would shake me when he forced my eyes to his. “Don’t feel bad for me,” he said, before dropping his hand from my face and grabbing his empty beer bottle.

From my research about him, I already knew he’d played three seasons of Ivy League college basketball before a compound fracture ended his sports career. As if to demonstrate, and take my mind off the fact he’d given more of himself than he probably wished to offer, he sunk the bottle into the trashcan across the room.

“Show off,” I laughed.

He raised a thick eyebrow. “I haven’t even started, beautiful,” he promised, and anticipation sliced through me. Every intelligent fiber in my body was yelling for me to get up and leave now before it was too late, but I recklessly brushed it off.  “So what brought you to L.A.?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” When his lip quirked, I leaned closer and said, “I wanted to be around fashion.”

“And you picked my mother.” His broad shoulders vibrated as laughter ran through him. “Not that I’m complaining, but why the hell did you do that?” he demanded incredulously as he got up and grabbed a second beer.

“Must be nice to drink and work,” I said lightheartedly, changing the subject when he returned to the table, and the dark lashes I’d coveted that morning in the HR department came together as he narrowed his eyes.

“I hit a sore spot. I’ll have to remember that, but I’ll play along. There’s a difference between refreshment and getting wasted. Still, I’d be happy to give you a job here. Maybe then you’d be compelled to answer my emails.”

“What?”

“You haven’t answered my emails.” He emphasized his words, not as pronounced as Margaret would, but still enough to irk me.

“I’ve answered everything you sent.”

“I’ve sent you a few since last week.” Unhooking the buttons on his shirt cuffs, he rolled his sleeves up. My attention dropped to the forearm closest to me. I traced my eyes over the strong, muscular lines of his flesh to a tattoo that peeked out from the crisp white shirt, and I wanted to know what it was. “You didn’t receive them?”

Hesitantly, I dragged my gaze from his arm to his eyes. “The only things I’ve received are the flowers. Thank you, by the way, they were beautiful.”

“So no emails at all?”

Squeezing my eyebrows together, I shook my head. “No,” I repeated.

His expression was unreadable for a moment, and as we sat in silence, with the energy crackling between us, I reminded myself of my goal. My dad. To find out if there was more to his death than what I’d believed in the first place. And Margaret was the key to all that.

I wasn’t here to moon all over my former stepbrother—a man who was better known for his good looks and dating habits than his career.

And still, I didn’t want to get up from the table. Didn’t want to leave his office. Not yet, at least.

“Margaret,” he finally said. He took a bite of his chicken taco and washed it down with a swig of his beer before offering me an explanation. “I’ll have Easton get rid of any firewalls keeping me from you.”

“She blocked you from messaging me?”

“Don’t look so surprised. But, as I said, I’ll have it taken care of.”

I downed a forkful of rice and dabbed at my mouth with a napkin. “Is it that easy? Or does this happen so much, it’s rote now?”

He scoffed. “You’re not back on Isadora, are you?” Before I could deny it, he held up his hand. “Let me put your suspicions to rest one more time. There is nothing between Isadora and myself. She is my friend, she is also married, and if there’s one type of woman I don’t fuck with, it’s the married ones.”

“I—”

“You want to know why I’ve been pursuing you? You’re not married. You’re not in a relationship. Right now, you’re looking at me like you want to rip my shirt off. I’m pursuing you because I’m intrigued with you. And you—you’re intrigued by me.”

“You arrogant son-of-a-bitch. You don’t know any of that about me,” I seethed and started to get up.

He shook his head. “Put your ass back in that seat, Lizzie.” When I thinned my brown eyes into tight slits, he immediately accepted my challenge, glaring back at me until I slowly sank down. “You’re deflecting. I’m right, and you’re immediate reaction is to call me”—he cleared his throat almost dramatically—“an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.”

“You’re not going to deny it?”

“That I’m cocky? Never. And I’m happy to demonstrate,” he said, and a tremor raced through my body. “Are you going to deny wanting me?”

“Yes,” I countered. “I don’t want you.”

“You’re even sexier when you lie.”

“I. Don’t. Want—” My heart slammed in my chest the second he rose to his feet, the table rocking because of the abrupt motion. I automatically stood and took a hasty step back, but that didn’t stop him from stalking over to me. He halted my retreat. One of his large hands pressed firmly against the small of my back, and the other framed my face.

His touch—oh God, his touch was pure electricity.

“What is it you don’t want, Lizzie?” he questioned, the rough pad of his thumb stroking from my high cheekbone to the corner of my mouth, where it moved to trace carefully over my lips. “Go on, lie to me, beautiful.”

I could lie to him all day—the fact I was even standing here with him touching my face, my body, was because of a lie—but if I couldn’t share myself, I could at least share the truth of what I was feeling.

“I don’t want to lose my job,” I corrected, focusing my eyes downward under his intense scrutiny.

“That’s better,” he growled. “Tell me you don’t want to be around me because of your job, or my mother, but don’t lie about wanting me.”

I skimmed my hands up his chest and leaned away from him. “It was very unwise of me to stay today.”

“But you did.” When I didn’t respond, he continued, “I don’t want to dance around the subject, so I’m going to get this out there: The way you looked at me the first time our eyes touched—like you could have fucked me right then and there and not given a damn who saw us—that look has haunted me ever since. Even if it’s only for one night, I plan on getting your beautiful body naked and beneath me. That’s the only way I’ll be able to get you out of my head.”

He wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t dance around the subject. And he was utterly serious—I could feel his heart rate pick up beneath my palm touching his chest.

“I—”

“Are you scared of me?” he demanded.

“A little.” My breathing became a harsh tremble as he stroked the delicate column of my throat, and I dug my fingers into the front of his shirt. “A lot.”

“You shouldn’t be.” He withdrew his arm from my back, pulling his other hand from my throat reluctantly. “There are no strings with me, Lizzie. But for now ... let’s just eat. If I keep touching you, I won’t be able to stop.”

But when lunch was over and I headed back to Emerson & Taylor, feeling dizzy from being in Oliver’s presence for so long, I told myself just how wrong he was when he told me there were no strings when it came to him.

“Which is why I need to hurry the hell up and find some answers,” I told myself firmly, making a beeline for Margaret’s office with an empty USB drive grasped firmly in the palm of my hand. Hopefully, Pen would be able to find something that would help us because the longer I stayed around these people—the more I let myself get involved with Oliver—the more tangled this mess became.

*

When I presented Pen with the USB drive, she asked me to bear with her until Monday, but she gave me the bad news a day early. Margaret’s desktop was squeaky clean. “Nothing?” Because she’d dragged me with her to a twenty-four hour gym that was around the corner from my apartment, I spoke in a hushed voice. “Nothing at all?”

“She must keep all her dirty shit on her laptop. Unless you count her searches for herself, and some socialite Oliver apparently used to date, her office computer is freakishly empty.”

I tore my eyes away from the Walking Dead marathon playing on the tiny screen above my elliptical, creasing my brows together as I faced her. “Oh? Which woman?”

“Your attempt at sounding nonchalant sucks so hard,” she said dryly as she pushed a damp strand of dark hair off her forehead. “But, since it might be important—Finley Scott.” The name didn’t ring a bell, and I grabbed my phone from its spot inside the machine’s cup holder. “Ugh, just screw the man already. You’re seconds away from falling on your face just so you can look up his ex-girlfriend. That’s kind of sad, sweetie.”

I narrowed my dark eyes into a glare as my fingers tapped across the smooth keypad. “He’s my—” My words caught in the back of my throat as several images of Finley Scott popped up on my screen. With her chin-length, shiny mahogany hair, startling hazel eyes, and Yoga body, she was hot. Outrageously hot. But what the hell did I expect when it came to Oliver?

“If you were about to give me that stepbrother crap, I’m going to knock you off that damn machine myself,” Pen stated hotly, rubbing her towel over her face before tossing it over her shoulder. “I’m more related to you than he is.”

I returned my phone back to the tiny compartment on the elliptical, adjusted the incline, and pumped my legs even harder than before. “So now what?”

“You want my opinion on Oliver?”

“I’m talking about his mom,” I said between clenched teeth.

“Ahh.” I couldn’t miss the grin that moved across her face. “I’m going to work on getting into her laptop, but in the meantime, you need to figure out how to get into her house.”

“Great,” I whispered under my breath.

Pen turned to me abruptly. “You can do this. You’re her personal assistant, so she’s bound to send you there for something eventually. Figure out a way to speed that up.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“Don’t worry, if there’s anything to figure out, we’ll get it.”

“And if there’s not?” I asked miserably. Though I hated to admit it to Pen, there had been many times where I doubted myself for coming to L.A.

“Well, at least it got you out of Vegas for a while. You can’t tell me you haven’t enjoyed taking ... a break.” She was quiet for a moment, and then she said so softly I could barely hear her over the hum of the exercise machines, “August is helping me get a copy of your father’s will.”

I squeezed my eyes closed and hated that the mention of my dad’s last will and testament automatically brought to mind the conversation I’d had with Margaret’s lawyer seven years ago. “I’ve seen it before.”

“But you don’t have a copy of your own,” she reminded me. “And now you have me. I’m not about to let some lawyer scare me into backing down.”

Opening my eyes, I laughed because it was the only thing I could do not to burst into tears. “No, you’re bypassing lawyers and a paperwork trail so you can look at it.”

Pen lifted her shoulders, making an unconcerned face when her eyes dropped to her sweaty skin. “Yeah, well, there’s that too.”