Stripped Down (10 page)

I took a deep breath. “No. Thank you, Mia.” I swallowed hard, an unfamiliar, grateful lump of emotion solidly fixing itself into my throat. “Honestly. Thank you.”

She pulled a small card out of her purse and put it into my hand. “This is my business card. I don’t have anything with my personal cell, but I rarely answer that because I’m awful. So...” She shrugged. “Call me, okay? I mean it.”

“I will.” I clutched her card in the palm of my hand. “Thank you.”

Then I slipped out of the room, down the hall, and into the dressing room, where I safely tucked her card into my purse, zipped it up, and put one last coat of mascara on for luck.

Time to act as cheap as I looked.

The banging at my front door violently yanked me out of my impromptu nap on the sofa. Apparently, I’d fallen asleep halfway through reruns of
Gilmore Girls
, but that didn’t matter much when my very locked front door sounded like it was about to dance right off its hinges.

“I’m coming!” I yelled, stumbling off the sofa and, of course, falling in my haste. A grunt escaped me as I landed on my hands and my knees before I used the coffee table as leverage and got up. The knocking intensified.

Jesus Christ. This had to be those insistent door-to-door religious people I usually played angry barking dog videos at to scare them off, whatever they were called. Like Jesus could save my soul or my dignity at this point.

“I said
I’m coming
!” I snapped and twisted the key with more vigor than I’d intended. I yanked the door open so harshly that it banged, and my foul mood got worse when I found myself looking into indigo-blue eyes.

Dear fucking god, he looked hot.

He was wearing a tight, white T-shirt that hugged his upper body like a second skin. His sweatpants hung low on his hips as all of his pants tended to do, and in his right hand, he brandished a familiar sheet of paper.

“What the fuck is this?” Beck’s jaw ticked as he waved it toward me. “Cassie. Fucking answer me.”

I stared at it. “What does it look like?”

“A blatant refusal to sign the fucking papers.”

“Ha!” I snatched the sheet out his hand and pointed to my words. “I’m not signing unless you have or we do it together.”

“Why? You’re more desperate than I am to get them signed. You can’t do it fucking quick enough. Then, when they’re presented to you, you give me this shit!” He takes the sheet right back and throws it to the floor between us.

A door slams a couple of houses down.

“I’m not having this discussion here.” I shoved the door and turned, but he stepped forward, blocking me, and stormed into the house after me. “Leave. Now.”

He slammed the door. “Why? So you can avoid it more?”

I spun on my toes and glared at him. “Yes. Yes, okay? Is that what you want me to say? That I’m avoiding this utter fuck-up of a situation? Because I am. But so are you. Otherwise, you’d have signed the goddamn thing before you left it for me.”

He faltered for a moment. “I had work to do. I didn’t have time.”

“Bullshit, Beckett! Bull. Shit!” I jabbed my finger through the air toward him. “I’m not signing shit until you do it in front of me or give me papers with your signature on. Is that clear? I’ve already told you I’m not one of your fucking floozies. Signed papers or nothing.”

He paused, and when his gaze collided with mine, it was cold. Ice cold—and as dark as a cloudy midnight. A shiver ran down my spine at it, never mind the chill the air took on. “You say it like I don’t want to sign them. Like there’s a reason I want us to make this fake marriage real.”

This stings
. But he was right. Why would he want to? I knew I brought nothing. I knew I was nothing like the kind of woman he probably imagined he’d marry.

“You’re right.” My voice was deathly quiet, and it was steadier than I’d thought it’d be when the words came out. My heart was thumping painfully against my ribs, my stomach coiling in self-disgust, but my back was ramrod straight, every ounce of dignity I had left poured into keeping myself upright to stare him down.

And stare him down, I did.

I would not give in or cower from his words.

“You’re right,” I repeated, pulling my shoulders back. “You have no reason not to sign them, which is why I’m so surprised you haven’t. Don’t think I’m not aware that I’m not the kind of woman you envision yourself marrying.”

“You’re not.” He didn’t say it coldly—just honestly. Not that it stopped the sting that kept reverberating through me.

I nodded once and then said, “Get out of my house.”

He stopped as if he were taken aback by my demand. “Get out?”

“What else do you want me to say? You’ve come here demanding a reason for my not signing the papers, I gave it, and then you agreed, insultingly, that I’m not the woman you’d marry.”

“Insultingly? You think that was insulting, Cassie?” He half sneered.

I paused, my hand halfway through my hair. Anger bubbled inside me. “Actually, no. No, it wasn’t insulting. It was a damn compliment. Because you know what?” I took enough steps toward him that, this time when I pointed at him, my fingertip jabbed his chest. “I might not have everything you value in a woman. I might come with baggage, but she’s fucking priceless baggage. I might strip to get by, but it’s because I have something you don’t understand: commitment. I’d whore myself five times a night, every night, if it meant I could give my daughter everything she needs and more. I’d give my damn life if it meant she could have the best chances in life, but I know it wouldn’t. I’d rather struggle and have her remember the times we shared a bed because it was too cold to sleep alone. I’d rather remember the times I put her to bed and we both wore our robes to read eight books instead of watch TV because I couldn’t pay the cable bill. I’d rather we both remember the times we emptied our piggy banks and scraped together our change just so we could buy reduced-price chicken for dinner—for three days, if we were good and froze some.” I inhaled deeply. “So, yeah. I’m not what you value in a woman, Beckett Cruz, because I bet I’m so much fucking more. So, next time you wanna be a pain in my ass, bring the fucking divorce papers with you so I have half a chance at getting rid of you. Until then, get the
hell
out of my house.”

I had no idea where that outburst of honesty had come from, and honestly, I didn’t much care. He needed a fucking reality check.

His eyes bored into mine. His expression was unreadable. If there were ever such a thing as a poker face, I was looking at it. There was no possible way to gauge his emotions just by looking at him. The only giveaway to his annoyance was the tense way he held himself, like a tightly wound coil ready to spring open and unleash hell upon me.

I waited for it. I knew he’d have an answer just as long-winded as mine. I knew he’d come back and tell me why all of those things were nothing like he wanted, nothing he could ever imagine wanted, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I wasn’t. I cared that I was more real than the vapid creatures he usually associated himself with.

If that meant I wasn’t good enough, then I liked not being good enough.

Except it didn’t come. The attack I was expecting never surfaced.

Because he took three solid steps toward me, grabbed my hand, pulled me against him, and then, with one hand clamped around the back of my neck, kissed me.

No.

He
kissed
me. Like there was no air left and kissing me was the only way to stay alive. Like he was sinking into an ocean and I was the only thing keeping his head above water. Like everything was wrong and I was the only thing to make it right.

He kissed me like the world was ending around us and I was the memory he wanted to die with.

He kissed me so hard and so deep and so desperately that my head spun and my stomach flipped and my body tingled with delight. My fingers dug into his upper arms as I held on for what felt like dear life as our lips touched and our tongues danced together in perfect synchronicity.

There was nothing except for him.

This arrogant asshole of a man who had no place kissing me but I couldn’t push away.

Who I didn’t want to push away.

I hated myself, but I wanted more.

I wanted our clothes tangled in a pile on the floor. I wanted his mouth all over my body, his fingertips branding my skin, his name escaping my lips. I wanted to feel the sweet heat of sweat as it slicked our bodies and hear him whisper dirty things in my ear. I wanted to taste the desperation of release on his tongue.

But I couldn’t. Because it was wrong.

Bad. Dangerous. At its worst, forbidden.

He was forbidden.

I couldn’t have him.

I was damned if I didn’t want him.

Then again, I was damned if I did.

And I did.

I was fucked, no matter how you looked at it.

I wanted my boss.

My accidental husband.

Shit.

B
eckett broke the kiss, but he didn’t pull away. He took a deep, shaky breath and touched his nose to my forehead. The warmth of his exhale as he let go of it fluttered across my face, and I closed my eyes as the softness of his touch tingled across my skin.

I was still gripping his arms, still holding on like I’d fall if I didn’t. He had to have noticed, but he didn’t say a word. Silence surrounded us, wrapping us in a warm blanket, while we stood in the middle of my hall, neither of us moving except for the rise and fall of our chests.

It was as if we were breathing in synchronicity too. Like each of my exhales matched his and his inhales were identical to mine.

I didn’t know what to do.

What did I say? Did I try to make him leave again? Did I step back and see what he’d do? Did I just stand there, doing nothing, and wait for him to do something?

This was a clusterfuck of epic proportions. What the hell was I supposed to do? I wasn’t supposed to want him, yet my body was being a traitorous bitch and wanted him for me.

More specifically, my pussy wanted him.

It was treason of the clitoral kind.

Fuck. My. Clitoris. Honestly, you’d think a vibrator was enough for her.

I swallowed as his hand at my neck twitched. “Beckett...”

“You’re right,” he rasped out, dipping his head so the tips of our noses brushed. His forehead pressed against mine, but when I opened my eyes, all I saw were his soft, pink lips and how they moved when he spoke. “You’re nothing like the kind of woman I ever thought I’d marry, and that’s probably why you’re so fuckin’ fascinating, Cassie. You might be the strongest person I know, and I don’t even fucking well know you.” He pulled back, sliding his hand around to cup my jaw. He ran his thumb along the curve of it, his gaze locked on mine. “That’s why I needed you to sign the papers. Not because you’re not good enough for me, but because, from what I do know of you, I know you deserve better than an arrogant, careless asshole like me.”

My tongue darted out to wet my lower lip. “You’re not an arrogant, careless asshole.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, you are sometimes,” I acquiesced. “But that still doesn’t make sense why I need to sign them first. Just do it.”

“Exactly. Just do it, yeah, Cassie? Just sign them so I have to.”

“That makes no sense. We both have to.” I stepped back from him and narrowed my eyes. “Why won’t you? I don’t want you. You don’t want me. It’s simple.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He spoke quietly, in a deep, low voice, and each word felt as though it bounced off the walls and danced across my skin with promise in each step. “I do want you. And you want me. You’re just better at fighting it than I am.”

I swallowed. Hard. I did that a lot around him.

Was that a euphemism?

I wasn’t a swallower. But he could make me one.

Good. Fucking. God. Where was this coming from? My clitoris needed to be put on trial for treason against my common sense.

“I don’t understand,” were the words that escaped my mouth.

“Let me help you.” He brushed his thumb over my cheek and tilted my head back.

Our eyes met.

“You can’t. Not right now.” I glanced at the clock. “I have to get CiCi from school and—shit, I’m late!”