Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (20 page)

This
makes him smile?
Seriously
?

I wipe my dripping nose and pray that this is all a dream. With Parker here, everything feels alarmingly like middle school all over again. 

***

Later that night, I clean the kitchen while the boys talk, their voices hushed low. Every now and then, Parker will glance over at me with concern in his eyes, so I know they’re talking about me.

I do my best to ignore them.

My hair, still wet from a shower, is up in a towel. I’m finally back in my own clothes, looking sleek and sophisticated in a pair of ultra-slim black chinos, a fitted Gucci blouse, and coral Brain Atwood heels. I tell myself if I dress normal, I’ll feel normal.

For some reason, I’m not half as comfortable in the designer getup as I was in Nate’s simple black t-shirt.

I took my time beneath the water, examining the damage to my body. There’s a burn on the back of my neck, where my necklace was yanked off. My raw wrists, knees, and elbows are starting to scab over, though it’ll be a few days before they’re back to full working order. For the most part, my body looks totally fine.

My face is another story.

A dark bruise blooms from my right eye socket all the way to the hairline by my temple. It’s an ugly blue-black color — mottled red at the edges where my blood vessels burst. In the coming days, I expect it’ll run the full gamut of colors, from purple to green to yellow, before finally fading away.

How delightful.

Stomach rumbling, I raid Nate’s fridge in search of dinner. He’s got plenty of standard boy-fare — more beer, some leftover pizza, two uncooked steaks, seventeen thousand different kids of hot sauce — but I’m also pleasantly surprised to find chicken breasts, milk, cheese, and even —
gasp
— vegetables.

I grab the chicken, a lemon, and fresh parsley from the fridge, then root around his cabinets for the rest of my ingredients. Twenty minutes later, I’ve got water heating on the back burner and a simple chicken piccata — without capers because A. Nate didn’t have them and B.
Ew
, capers — sizzling in a skillet up front. I lower the heat, add another dash of chicken broth, and toss in a handful of chopped parsley for flavor. A peek into the back pot shows the water has reached a rolling boil — I dump in a generous handful of pasta.

Unless there’s been a drastic change in the boys’ eating habits, I’m guessing every morsel of this meal will be devoured in less than twenty minutes.

I don’t bother calling them. The aroma of dinner does that for me.

They both wander over and lean against the counter, drawn like bloodhounds to a fresh kill. When I turn to look at them, they’re both eyeing my skillet with hungry gazes.

“Whatcha cooking there, sis?” Parker asks, fingers darting out to nab a piece of chicken from the pan.

I smack his hand with my spatula before he makes contact.

“Hey!” He glares at me and pulls back his walloped fingers.

“It’ll be done in five minutes, grabby.” I glare back at him. “This is not a free for all.”

“I just wanted to taste test it. Check it for poisons.” He grins like a scolded child who isn’t particularly sorry. “I was protecting your life.”

“Uh huh.” I roll my eyes. When they come to rest on Nate, he ducks his head quickly.

Not quick enough that I don’t notice the telltale movement of his jaw, though.

“Nathaniel Xavier Knox — did you steal a piece of my chicken?” I hiss.

He shakes his head. “Absolutely not,” he says, voice muffled by the chicken still in his mouth.

I throw a dishtowel at him. “Get out of my kitchen! The both of you!”

Nate’s head comes up and my breath catches at the look on his face. There’s a playful light in his eyes that I’ve missed, these past few years — missed so much it sends an ache of longing shooting through my chest. When he leans a few inches closer, mouth twitching in amusement, and asks, “Oh?
Your
kitchen?” it’s all I can do to remain upright.

I fight a blush. “For the next ten minutes, yes. It’s mine. I’m claiming it.”

Something changes in his eyes when I say that. Something so intense I’m too scared to define it, so I turn back to the stove and stir the pasta.

“Parker, come taste this,” I order, fishing a strand of spaghetti out of the water and handing it to him. “Done?”

He chews for a few seconds, swallows, then nods. “Yep.”

“Are you just saying that because you’re hungry?”

His grin twitches wider. “Thirty more seconds. Then it’ll be done.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Admit it, though.” He slings an arm around my shoulders. “You’ve missed the hell outta me.”

I smile. I’ll never admit it…

But he’s absolutely right.

There’s a time and a place for stiletto heels.

Always and on my feet.

Phoebe West, justifying her fashion choices.

“Damn, Sweet P. That was incredible. I could be convinced to move back to the States, if you’d promise to cook for me every night.” Parker pushes back his barstool, hands on his stomach. He’s had two helpings and practically licked his plate clean.

“If you want to keep those washboard abs, you better not,” Nate says, shoving another bite of chicken into his mouth and letting out a small sound of pleasure.

I swirl pasta strands around the tines of my fork so I have something to do other than watch Nate’s mouth move.

God, I even think he’s hot while chewing.

There is something seriously wrong with me.

“Believe me, this isn’t an every day occurrence. I don’t cook very often.” I hop off my stool, grab Parker’s empty plate, and stack it on top of my own. When Boo barks at me, I shoot him a look. “No chicken piccata for you, demon-dog. Eat your kibble.”

He glares at me before going back to his food bowl.

“That was seriously the best meal I’ve had in about ten years.” Parker belches.

“Cute.” I roll my eyes at him as I move to the sink.

“It’s a sign of appreciation,” he says, totally shameless. “Gotta hit the head. Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone, kids.” 

“I think we’ll manage,” I call after him as he disappears into the bathroom. Less than a minute after I hear the door close, I feel Nate’s presence at my side. I hope he can’t see my hands shaking beneath the stream of water as I rinse the plate clean.

“If you can cook like this, why does your pantry contain nothing but snack foods and cobwebs?” he asks quietly. 

I don’t look at him. My voice is equally quiet when I say, “Not much point, cooking some elaborate meal when there’s no one to share it with.”

There’s a sharp intake of air. A lengthy pause. Then, “Maybe—”

I don’t get to hear what he’s going to say because at that moment, the bathroom door swings open and Parker strides back into the room.

“Man, I’m beat,” he announces, flopping down on the couch. “Jet lag is killer.”

I turn to arch an eyebrow at him. “Imagine if you actually had a job to get to tomorrow, rather than freedom to just sleep the day away!”

He makes a disgusted face. “Why would I want to imagine that? That sounds terrible.”

I snort and finish washing the dishes, passing each one to Nate when it’s clean. He accepts them wordlessly, dries them with a dishtowel, and puts them back in the cabinet. For a few unspoken moments, we’re totally in sync.

Weird
.

“I was going to catch a cab down to the harbor and sleep on my boat, but I’m not gonna make it. I’m crashing on your couch, man.” Parker stretches his long frame across the sofa cushions, eyes already closed. “You guys can fight to the death over the bed. Just keep it down, will ya?”

“Parker—”

“Shhh.” He turns onto his side, facing away from us. “Tell me tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Night, Sweet P.”

Approximately two seconds later, his breathing slows into the rhythmic patterns of sleep… leaving Nate and me staring at each other in horror, looking anywhere but at the bed we will now be sharing ten feet from my big brother — the same big brother who would probably have a heart attack if he ever suspected his best friend had his hands on his little sister’s boobs mere hours earlier.

Well. This isn’t awkward at all.

***

I toss.

He turns.

I huff.

He sighs.

Boo glares at both of us from the end of the bed.

Needless to say, none of us is getting any sleep. (Besides Parker, who is snoring away happily on the couch.)

I don’t think my eyes have stayed closed for more than five consecutive seconds in the forty-five minutes since climbing beneath the sheets. I changed for bed while Nate took Boo out for a quick walk. If he noticed I chose to sleep in one of his t-shirts again instead of the skimpy nighty Lila packed for me — in a painfully transparent move to help me get laid — he didn’t mention it.

I toss again and hear him grumble under his breath from the other side of the pillow barrier between us.

Something happens, when you lie next to someone in the darkness. Both awake, both afraid to look at each other or brush limbs beneath the blankets. The air grows thicker with every moment that passes. After an hour, the weight of our silence is so heavy, I can barely pull a breath into my lungs.

I’m about to slide onto the hard, cold floor and sleep there rather than endure another second of this, when I feel the mattress shift. My head turns in time to see Nate sit up, climb out of bed, and walk around to my side. I stare up at him in confusion, clutching the sheets to my chest like I’m five years old and he’s the monster in my bedroom closet, come to destroy me.

His mouth twitches and he holds out one hand.

“Come on.”

The words are so low, I almost miss them.

“What?”

He sighs deeply, grabs my hand, and pulls me out of bed. Boo glances up, seems to contemplate following us, then decides against it, cuddling deeper into the blankets.

So loyal, my demon-dog.

“Hey!” I hiss quietly at Nate’s back as he tugs me across the loft, past Parker’s sleeping form, toward the doorway. “Where are you taking me?”

He doesn’t answer. He just twines his fingers tighter with mine as he leads me out the front door of his apartment into a low-lit hallway, tows me toward a service elevator, and slides open the gate so we can clamber inside. There are only three buttons on the panel —
1
,
2
, and
B
. He hits
B
and the elevator rattles into motion a few seconds later.

“Hello?” I yank at my hand, trying to get free, but he’s latched on tight. “I’m barefoot. Braless. My butt is barely concealed by these boy-short undies. And I would really not enjoy meeting your neighbors while practically naked.”

“No neighbors.” Nate’s eyes flicker down to my chest as if to confirm I am, in fact, braless, then move slowly down my body. “I own the whole building.”

I cross my arms over the girls, feeling my heartbeat pick up speed as his eyes slide down to linger on my bare legs.

He owns the building? The
whole
building?

Does that mean we can hook up in this elevator?

Eeek! Danger!

I push the thoughts away and take a step back, so I’m pressed against the wall as far from him as humanly possible. His eyes never leave me as we descend.

It’s easily the longest thirty seconds of my life. 

“Well.” I swallow, searching for composure.  “Where the hell are we going? It’s, like, one in the morning. I could be sleeping right now.”

Not.

He runs his free hand through his hair, expelling a harsh breath. When his eyes lift to mine, I see frustration in their depths. “Neither of us is going to get any sleep, and you know it.”

My mouth opens, closes, opens again. I can’t really protest — he’s right.

“So you’re taking me where, exactly?” I adopt a haughty expression. “You hit
B
— is that basement? Batcave? Bottomless pit into which you will throw my lifeless body?”

“You’ll see.”

I roll my eyes. “Could you be any more cryptic?”

“Probably.” His eyes crinkle. “If I tried.”

“You’re annoying,” I inform him.

Annoyingly good-looking.

Annoyingly funny, in your own smart-ass way.

Annoyingly charming, when you look at me like that.

“Uh huh,” he says, like he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said.

“I don’t like you.”

“Boo likes me.” He shrugs, as though that makes everything balance out.

“He likes anyone who takes him for midnight walkies,” I say, lying through my teeth.

Boo barely likes anyone. Even me.

Yet, for some ungodly reason, he’s taken a shining to Nate.

“Uh huh,” Nate says again.
Damn
. He knows I’m full of shit. “Whatever you say, West.”

Wherever we’re going, I know one thing: I’m totally screwed. 

***

On the ride down here, I made jokes about the basement level of his building being a Batcave — turns out, I wasn’t that far off. In addition to a stockpile of weaponry and electronics in a massive locker on the far wall, there’s a sparring area with a punching bag and mats, and an honest-to-god shooting range set up on the other side of the space. It looks like a bowling alley with four separate lanes, except instead of pins there are hanging paper targets at the end of each strip. 

“Do you live above Knox Investigations?” I ask after a few seconds of looking around with wide eyes.

His gaze cuts to me and he nods sharply.

“Sleep on the second floor…. Batcave in the basement….” I tilt my head. “What’s on one?”

“Control room,” he says succinctly. The stubborn set of his jaw tells me I’ll get no more out of him on the subject.

“What are we doing down here?”

His arms cross over his chest, making his muscles bulge. “I’m going to teach you how to protect yourself.”

“What?” My heart beats too fast as I eye the sparring matts, picturing me and Nate rolling around there, hands all over each other as he teaches me his moves.

In my fantasy version of this scenario, we may or may not be naked. And his
moves
have very little to do with the rules of jiu-jitsu.

Danger!

Realizing I’ve been lost in my lusty thoughts, I force myself to tune back in.

“…just a few basic defensive techniques,” Nate is saying. “How to break out of an attacker’s hold, how to use your stature to your advantage, things like that.”

“My
stature
?” My eyes narrow. “Was that a dig at my height? I’ll have you know, I may be petite but I’m agile. Must I remind you of my karate chop skills?” I drop into a crouch, hand-blades extended. “Ninja, remember?” 

His lips twitch and he shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweat pants, tugging them further down his hips so a slice of taut flesh appears beneath the hem of his tight black t-shirt. I catch a flash of tan skin and dark hair before I force myself to look away.

Oh boy.

“Yeah, comforting as that is….” He suppresses a laugh. “You’re tiny. You’re never going to overpower a full grown man.” His eyes narrow. “But that won’t matter if you know how to outmaneuver them.”

I stare at him for a long moment, saying nothing.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet,” he points out, after a minute passes in silence. “I expected more objecting. A temper tantrum. Some whining. A little foot-stomping.”

Well!

“I don’t have temper tantrums,” I mutter. “And I only have one question.”

His eyes are crinkly and warm. “Yeah? What’s that?”

I take a step toward him, eyes never shifting from his face. “Just to be clear… you’re going to teach me defensive techniques.”

He nods, looking at me like I have a few screws loose.

“And to teach me these moves… we’re going to be on those mats.” I gesture at the sparring area.

He nods again, but awareness is creeping into his eyes.

I step closer and drop my voice to a sultry whisper. “Just you and me.”

His mouth parts a little as he watches me move toward him. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little more ragged than usual.

Serves him right, after that temper-tantrum comment.

“You and me, on the mats. Your hands on my body, guiding me into different positions.” My words are breathy as I take the final step, until I’m practically pressed against his chest. I’m barely holding my laughter in check. “Are you going to show me some things I’ve never done before, Nate?”

He swallows, body vibrating with tension as he stares at my mouth. “Fuck.” His eyes drift heavenward, seeking guidance.

I trace a fingertip down his chest — just one, tiny graze — and his entire body rocks back like I’ve punched him in the gut.

“Come on,” I whisper, feeling devious. “Teach me.”

He groans and takes a step away, breathing harder than Gemma at yoga class. Which is really saying something.

“Fuck it.” He grabs my hand and pulls me from the mats, toward the shooting range. “We’ll start with guns instead.”

I laugh.

***

Before I know it, he’s strapped me into a vest, handed me a set of glasses and soundproof earmuffs, and shown me the basics. Now, thirty minutes and one too-brief crash course later, I’m standing at the end of a gun lane with my eyes on a distant target and my hands locked tight around a sleek black handgun.