Moore To Love (26 page)

“I TRIED GETTING IN TOUCH
with you, but you never returned my calls. I really wanted to see you.” Hudson’s sharp features and perfectly-styled hair do not match the vulnerable tone of his deep voice. His dark eyes measure me, only me, with a fondness I wish I could reciprocate. It’s not that I’m not insanely attracted to Hudson or that I didn’t enjoy our . . . time . . . together. He’s gorgeous. Stunning, even. More so than I remembered. But to my left, in his friend’s car, probably wondering who the hell this strange man is, I have all I’ve ever wanted in a man.

Backing away from his towering stature, a pang of guilt stings me from the inside out. I’ve never been on this side of things. I’ve always been the reject
ed
, not the reject
er
. This blows donkey balls. “Hudson, this really isn’t a good time.” I cringe as the words leave my mouth, lingering in the air with an aftershock akin to a slap in the face. I feel like such an ass. An insensitive ass, at that. He came all this way and I
have
been avoiding him, but for good reason. I thought our fun together was over. I never imagined he’d want more.

An uncomfortable moment of realization flashes before us, as Hudson becomes aware of Lane waiting in the car. “Who’s that?” he asks with the malice of a jealous boyfriend.

Cool your jets, bro. When did one roll in the hay become reasonable proof of ownership? Thumbing in the direction of the very patient man in the driver’s seat of the Honda, I respond a little more tersely than I’d like. “
That
is Lane. My boyfriend.” The word comes out like profanity. Considering it’s the first time I’ve ever spoken it in relation to Lane, it’s a letdown. Not how I envisioned it. This better not be an omen.

Hudson lets out a deep sigh and his rigid posture slackens. Guess I’m not the only one feeling a bit defeated. “Shit. I had no idea, Leni. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for?” Why’s he apologizing? This is
my
mess. A simple response to one of his texts would’ve freed me of this whole crappy situation.

“Well, this is kind of awkward, no?” He smirks, pointing to Lane with a cagy glint in his eyes. He leans closer and whispers. “The guy you cheated on your boyfriend with shows up unannounced, at your apartment, while he’s here, no less. I really didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“Oh! No, no, no. It’s not like that at all,” I start to explain myself, waving my hands and shaking my head. Before I can set things straight and let Hudson know that I don’t have a cheating bone in my larger than life body, Lane exits the Honda.

“Everything all right, here?” I’m not sure what finally prompts Lane to come out of the car, but my guess is curiosity. Hudson’s proximity, his body language, the hushed conversation. This isn’t exactly painting a pretty picture.

Hudson becomes a tight-lipped coward, leaving all the ’splaining to me. I can’t exactly blame him.

Lane makes his way around to the two of us, honing in on Hudson. He doesn’t ask again, but I sense a “what’s going on here” coming on, so I apprehensively think fast.

“Lane this is Hudson. Hudson this is Lane. My boyfriend.” This time the word has a tender ring to it. I grab Lane’s hand and squeeze it tight, hoping to infuse my genuine feelings for him through osmosis.

His fingers tighten around mine and his gait stiffens. “Nice to meet you?” It’s a question, rather than a sincere statement, but Lane extends his free hand to shake Hudson’s nonetheless.

“Ditto.” Hudson reacts with a snappy punch and then his eyes dart to mine. “I guess I’ll be going now. I was just passing by and thought I’d visit my, um . . . friend.” He’s careful with his words but not his tone. It’s riddled with artificiality. I stop myself from kicking him right in the shin.

After a moment of deliberation, Lane bends to place a quick kiss on my cheek and then gives Hudson a sideways grin. “I’d ask your
friend
to come up, but you and I have lots of catching up to do.”

Is friend a new dirty word? Whatever. Who cares? Lane is claiming what’s his and Hudson knows his role. “No worries. I’m on my way to Stone Street to . . . meet someone.” I don’t miss the sharp arch in Hudson’s thick brow and the mention of the place he and I hooked up.
Bastard.

After an amicable goodbye, Hudson nods in Lane’s direction. Before he walks off exuding the same sexy confidence that drew me to him in the first place, he ends our little debacle by saying, “It was good to see you, Leni, and nice to meet you, Lane. Be good.”

I look over my shoulder as he strides away, scowling at his final words.
Be good?
“I’m better than good, thank you very much. In fact, I’m grand!”

I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until Lane’s arm is draped around my shoulder. “Total mood killer, huh?”

He can say that again, but I’ll be damned if I’m about to let my ex-one-night-stand put a damper on getting busy with my new boyfriend. “Only if you allow it to be.”

Lane shakes his head and dips in for a sweet kiss. “Just go on up. John should be here any second. I’ll bring your bags, too.”

For a moment I worry he’ll fly the coop just to avoid talking about Hudson. “You are coming up, right?”

Lane chuckles, pulling his jacket closed when a gust of chilly fall air breezes by. “I promised you, didn’t I?”

With my bottom lip between my teeth I look up at him through half mast lids, tilting my head.

He taps my ass, ushering me to the door. “Go on. My promise holds.”

I prance up the steps and put the key in the lock. The door swings open, welcoming me with the familiar scent of home. I glance over my shoulder to check on Lane one last time, and I’m not sure if it’s just me or the melancholy moonlight, but I can sense apprehension beneath those drawn in dimples.

Lane’s friend takes a little longer than expected, but I use it to my advantage by washing up and slipping into something super sexy.

Leni Moore has never done lingerie, but after the swimsuit shock heard ’round the world—okay, heard ’round
some
of Miami—I found my inner sex goddess. And dayum do I like her. She’s a feisty thing I wish I had met a long time ago.

Putting on the finishing touches of my get-up, I adjust the lace trimmed thigh highs and smooth my hands over the silky nylon. What I see in the mirror surprises me. Not because the image is a teensy bit slimmer than before, or because I’m wearing something straight out of a
Hips and Curves
magazine. No, what I see is a girl—a
woman
—who after years of body image issues has finally come to terms with her curves. Don’t get me wrong, Lane’s affections are responsible in part, but with all the pep-talking and ego-boosting, oh, and let’s not forget the Joel Osteen messages, I actually don’t hate what I see. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I’m digging it. Junk in the trunk and all.

“Hello?” Lane’s singsong entrance into the apartment startles me out of my mirror miracle.

I dip my hands into my bra to plump the girls one more time—as if any part of me needs further plumping—and position myself on the bed. Again, I’ve never done this before. The sexy seductress act. But I have my eye on the prize and with the boost of confidence inspired by Lane’s promise, I look and feel every bit the part.

“In here, babe.” I realize how cliché it sounds, so I giggle. All humor, however, is erased from the moment when Lane enters the bedroom.

“Wow.” His words match his stupefied expression. Call it what you may, but putting that look on any man’s face is damn near spectacular.
Hashtag: winning!

Enjoying the angst filled silence, I curl my finger in invitation for Lane to join me.

In one fell swoop, my dashing stallion kicks off his shoes, peels off his socks, and practically nosedives onto the bed. His body hovers over mine as he takes me in. All of me. I should feel vulnerable under his gaze—he’s perfect and I’m far from it—but I don’t. I feel worshiped. That glorious insight sends a rush of shivers over my exposed body.

“Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.” His words are lyrics to an unsung song I’ve always wished to hear. I savor his appreciation of my body, committing this moment to memory.

Lane’s kisses pepper my neck; his hot tongue licks my collarbone and teases my skin. I anchor my fingers in his hair, thrust my hips against his, and moan out his name, “Oh, Lane.”

Instead of inciting him to push further, he stops. My skin misses his lips as soon as they’re gone. “What’s the matter?”

Lane rolls off of me and rests his head on the pillow beside mine.

The room is silent save for my panting, and I’m pretty sure the butterflies in my belly have become ravenous beasts, ready to gnaw away at my anxiousness.

“Old boyfriend?” he asks, catching me off guard. I don’t register the meaning of his question right away.

Then it hits me that he’s curious about Hudson. I shimmy closer to him, turning on my side. With one hand propped under my head, I rest the other on his chest. There is no reason under the sun that Hudson’s name should come up in the throes of passion with Lane, but honesty is the best policy, so I’ll let him have it so we can get back to the main event. “No, because I don’t have any old boyfriends. Unless you consider that one from college, who really was never my boyfriend.”

Lane closes his eyes and keeps them shut for a long beat. When he opens them, he stares straight up at my popcorn ceiling. “Then, what was all that tension down there?”

Chocolate fudge! Seriously? I felt zero tension. Maybe a tiny wave of awkwardness, but that’s all she wrote on that. “There’s nothing to worry about, Lane. I promise.”

Lane says nothing, but disbelief is written all over his face. That alone sinks my battleship.

I’m not sure why this is an issue. There’s really nothing to tell; no lies to weave. And let’s remember . . . these are seriously foreign waters for me. I’ve never been in a real relationship, let alone had to defend myself against a jealous boyfriend, a one-night stand, or
any
kind of man for that matter. I don’t know what’s going on of late, but I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore and . . . Auntie Em, I wanna go home!

I pull him closer and try to make eye contact. “He’s no one, Lane. We hooked up
once
a while back and that’s all you need to know.” I blurt it out, ripping off the Band-Aid. Maybe I sound a tad frustrated, but that’s only because this whole Hudson thing is a non-issue. And I am most certainly frustrated. One minute we’re rounding home plate and the next I’m being called out at third.

“How long ago?”

I contain my eye roll and answer him honestly. “A few weeks ago. Before you.” There. More truth. But it doesn’t have the effect I was hoping for.

Wilted and motionless, Lane looks like a deflated balloon. He’s one second away from petering out in a whirl of air-leaking shrills around the room. He doesn’t, of course, but I almost wish he would do
some
thing because his quietness worries me.

“I’m laying it all out here, Lane. I have nothing to hide. Can you please say something?”

He shoots up into a sitting position and says the last thing I want him to say. I’ve been rejected more times than I can count. I should be used to it. But for some reason the five words that spill from Lane’s mouth rip open every old wound and pour salt all over them.

“I think I should go.”