The Reality of You (16 page)

His stare became
unrelenting until I finally said, “Good evening, Mr. Jordon.”

He smiled and relief
swept through me. It appeared he hadn’t heard my conversation. I took a deep
breath and a sip of wine. So what if he was an heir to some ridiculous fortune?
The knowledge really didn’t change anything. I became determined to remain
myself around him. Well, my new callous self.

Callous. Callous. Callous.

He took a drink of
wine then set the glass down. “I’d like to apologize for not picking you up. My
work day lasted longer than I had predicted.”

I forced a shrug. “I
understand.”

“How was the train
ride?” Reese asked, reaching into the huge fridge as I stepped up to the
island.

“All right. A little
long,” I admitted. Internally, I took a deep, calming breath. This weekend was
just one long date. That was all.

He set a tray on the
island counter. “You should have let Paul pick you up in the city.”

“That seems a little
much to ask him.”

“It’s his job,” he
said in a matter-of-fact tone. He pulled plastic wrap off the tray, revealing
an assortment of cheeses, meats, olives, marinated vegetables, and breads.
“Other than the wine cellar, there’s not much here as far as food. Do you mind
a cold dinner?”

“No. As long as
there’s wine, who needs food?” I asked in a playful tone, reaching for the open
bottle and refilling my glass. I was here to enjoy myself and him. I wasn’t
going to overthink this.

His gleam at me was
dry. “And I believed rum was your drink of choice.”

“Naw. Beer. That was
drinking like the locals.”

“Well, I’m not one
for cooking either. Tomorrow night, a local chef will be preparing our dinner.
I thought we could go simple tonight.”

“Either? Are you
saying I can’t cook?” I asked in an offended tone.

He gave me a
mock-surprised look before reaching into a cupboard. “Why would I imply such a
thing? I was utterly impressed with your culinary skills.”

I tilted my head,
trying to appear deep in thought. “I’ve been thinking of opening my own
restaurant. You should invest.”

“Now
that
would be quite the investment.” He
set out two plates and silverware on the island counter.

“Why am I sensing
sarcasm in your tone?”

“Oh, I don’t know…”
He drummed his fingers on the counter as if in contemplation “Maybe because you
can get boxed macaroni and cheese at any supermarket?”

“True, but they
don’t add bacon and jalapenos.”

 
“Yes, there is that. Superbly ingenious.” He
gestured for me to sit at the rounded end of the island counter.

Who said superbly?

I set my glass down
and sat on the stool. “So what illustrious prep school did you go to?”

Sitting, he shook
his head slightly. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“I find it…rather
unique that parents would send their kids away for high school.”
 

“My parents died
when I was twelve. My grandparents sent me to prep school.”

My hand went to my
mouth. For several long seconds, I could merely stare at him in shock. I wanted
to slap myself. So much for blasé. So much for callous. So much for my dumb ass
refusing to learn anything about him.

At last, I removed
my hand and buried it in my lap. “I’m very, very sorry to hear about your
parents. How awful for you as a boy. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I stared
down at my empty plate, horrified at myself and truly sorry for him.

“Hey,” he said,
lifting my chin with the tips of his fingers. “It’s okay. How were you to
know?” He dropped his hand and shrugged. “It was a long time ago. An airplane
accident. My father was the pilot. I’ve had years to adjust to the loss.”

“Still,” I said,
glancing at the cork on the counter and wishing I could plug my wayward mouth.
“It was awful for me to bring it up. Completely insensitive.”

Reese shook his
head. “You didn’t know, and though I’ll always miss them, it happened a long
time ago. It’s simply part of my past now.” When I didn’t reply—I was keeping
my mouth shut—he went back to the original topic. “But I did enjoy going away
to school. My grandparents were busy, and boarding school felt like living with
a huge extended family. Although I tended to be a quiet kid, I was always
surrounded by people.”

 
Reeling from his admission, I slowly said, “I
never imagined it that way. I went to good old public school. But
you
the quiet guy?”

He speared a variety
of items from the tray and put some on each of our plates. “Maybe pensive would
describe my teenage self better.”

“Like brooding?” I
asked, a bit of sarcasm entering my tone.

“Like
contemplative,” he said wryly.

While my mind
wouldn’t let go of the fact his parents had passed away when he was a young
boy, we stayed on the topic of high school as we ate. The fun parts. The bad
parts. The okay parts. I, of course, played soccer. He played lacrosse and was
on the rowing team. I carried a decent GPA at approximately a 3.2 through most
of high school. He was on the President’s list, which apparently meant a 4.0. My
summers were spent hanging out at home or babysitting to earn money. He spent
his summers sailing on the East Coast with friends. Our pasts could not be any
more different. Fun for me had been a night out bowling, while he had been on a
yacht.

I pushed our
differences aside. They didn’t really count much for a fling.

After we’d finished
half the tray and polished off the bottle of wine, Reese headed to the cellar—I
imagined a real one, all stone and cavernous-like, stocked to the gills—for
another bottle of wine. I re-covered the tray and put our dishes in the sink. I
tried to stay focused on being callous while I cleaned up. But thinking of him
as a parentless boy made it hard to think of him callously.

When he returned, I
was leaning on the counter and staring out the window into the dark.

“Penny for your
thoughts?” he asked, setting the bottle on the island.

I almost blurted out
something like,
As if
you
need a penny!
Instead, I lamely said,
“Just imagining the ocean out there in the dark.”

“We can take a run
along the beach tomorrow morning if you’d like.” He pulled the cork from the
wine, his eyes roaming over my jean-clad legs.

“That would be
nice,” I said in a forced absent tone. His was starting to freak me out. I
needed to stay callous, but this polite Reese with an undercurrent of
sensuality threw me off.

“After breakfast in
bed?” he added with a gleam in his eyes.

My mouth went dry at
that.

After setting the
open bottle down, he walked—more like stalked—around the island toward me.
Without breaking our gazes, he settled his hands on the counter on each side of
me, locking me in his armless embrace.
 

My blood pressure
skyrocketed to the moon.

“Nervous?” he asked
from a slight smirk.

Hell yes!
I cocked a brow.

With a grin curving
his mouth, he leaned down, kissing me hot and quick. “That was for the missed
goodbye on Monday,” he murmured near my lips then kissed me again—this time,
long and deep. My hands curled in his T-shirt as his tongue stroked mine, but
he kept his hands on the counter. Things were suddenly moving too fast for me
to comprehend.

When he broke the
kiss, I said breathlessly, “And that?”

“An apology for not
picking you up.”

He kissed me again,
and brainwaves evaporated. Sensations over took me—his mouth on mine, the tantalizing
swirl of his tongue, and the hardness of his chest. My fingers dug into the
soft, worn cotton, trying to get closer.

He leaned back to
stare at me. “Still nervous?”

“Does that turn you
on or something?” I snapped, my hands fisting in his shirt.

He leaned forward,
resting his hands on my waist and his forehead on mine, and like a goalie the
first time under the net, the urge to flee pounded in my veins. It wasn’t the
sensual pull in his gaze, rather the tug on my heart at the sight of his warm,
melting, hazel eyes.

“I think it might,”
he said huskily. His hands drifted higher, his palms brushing my ribs.

My pulse pounded as
he stared at me. Okay, I was extremely nervous. I’d aspired to be blasé and
sophisticated about sex with him, but I’d been caught off guard and couldn’t
get myself back into that mental state with his hands on me—if I’d ever truly
been there. And since Kara wasn’t here, there was no chance for interruption.

His hands slid even
higher, right under my breasts, his thumbs brushing the bottom of my bra. My
heart about exploded from my chest.

“Shy now?” he asked.

“Ah, no,” I said,
the damn words coming out shaky.

He released a
chuckle centimeters from my lips.

My breath hitched as
his lips neared, but they simply brushed the skin of my chin. Those lips
followed the line of my neck. Between his teeth and tongue and scruff along his
jaw, he teased and scraped and warmed my skin. I shivered amid all of the heat
in the room. His mouth paused at the hollow of my collarbones, breathing
against my skin and making it tingle. His thumbs brushed higher, caressing
under the curve of my breasts.

I felt lightheaded.
And it wasn’t from two glasses of wine.

A loud buzz broke
into my world of growing lust.

As the buzz rumbled
again, Reese stepped away, mumbling, “Damn.”

I almost searched
the kitchen for a sign of Kara as Reese swiped up his phone from the island
counter. His expression soured as he read the message on the screen. While
reading, his teeth clenched to the point that I imagined he was holding in a
number of expletives.

“Damn her,” he said
under his breath. Irritation lined his face, but as his gaze met mine, his
expression smoothed. “I need to deal with this. I’ll be as quick as possible
though,” he said, setting his phone down then reaching for the wine bottle.

Disoriented from his
kissing and wondering whom
she
was—surely not a girlfriend since Kara had been adamant that Reese did not do
girlfriends—I watched him fill my wine glass.

He pushed the wine
glass into my hand. “Relax by the fire. I shouldn’t be more than a few
minutes.” He jerked his phone from the counter and stalked out of the kitchen.

Feeling like I’d
ridden a roller coaster here instead of a train, I made my way to the couch in
front of the fire. My mind was a tumble of confusion laced with lust, while
Reese, as always, remained committed to his work—unless the
she
was something entirely different.

Not that it
mattered.

Callous. Callous. Callous,
I reminded myself. Lust was just lust.
I sipped my wine and viewed the fire, keeping the mantra in my muddled head.
But soon, the passing minutes that turned into over a half hour and the
combination of three glasses of wine along with the memory of Reese’s lips on
mine had my eyes closing and my imagination going.

We
were by the fire. On the rug. Reese kissed me slow and hot.
Yeah, after reality, I could finally imagine his lips on mine. Yet each time he
went to lift or remove my sweater, the fantasy paused. He’d slide his lips
along my cheek or deliver me a warm, wet kiss behind my ear, but my dang
clothes remained intact. His did too. Though I tried to force the image of me
yanking off his shirt several times, it stayed on. I slunk deeper into the
couch and earnestly tried to get my imagination to remove his shirt.

Over and over and
over again.

Chapter 18

Escaping
a terrifying dream in which I ran after Reese, who found out about Kara having
set Puerto Rico up, in an endless lobby similar to the one at our work, I woke in
a puddle of drool that had started to dry. The side of my face was stuck—drool
turned glue—and my mouth had dried to nasty, scrape-able fuzz. Confused as to
why I was on a couch and feeling dejected from the awful dream, I wrenched the
side of my face from the leather and sat back, dragging the blanket over my
legs and trying to recall how I’d gotten here.

The dark fireplace
brought back last evening’s memories. Dinner, wine, and Reese kissing me. His
phone buzzing. Then me lost in my imagination.

The bright light
from the next room clued me in on the time.

Morning.

Shit!

My hand smacked my
forehead. Seven months of watching him and I fell asleep on the first night we
were alone. Between the wine, the excitement, and getting up over an hour early
yesterday to beat Kara out of the apartment, I’d been whipped, but sleep
instead of Reese?

I was such a loser.
I could have stayed home and played Friday night games online. I wanted to
punch myself in the forehead instead of a smack.

Hard.

“Good morning, sunshine,”
Reese said, leaning in the doorway between this room and the kitchen. His hair
appeared damp, and he looked delectable in another pair of old jeans and a worn
T-shirt.

I dropped my hand in
my lap and blurted, “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

He smiled slow and
sexy, apparently liking that I had wanted him to wake me. “I tried a couple of
shoulder shakes. You were out. Didn’t even flutter an eyelid when I took off
your shoes. I contemplated carrying you upstairs but decided you evidently
needed some sleep, so I left you on the couch.”

“Oh,” I said lamely.
My hand curled in my lap so I didn’t smack my forehead again.

“I brought your
suitcase down. It’s in the bathroom off the kitchen. I’m brewing coffee and
getting some breakfast together. Thought we’d eat, take a tour, and then go for
a run.”

“Okay. Yeah, that
sounds good.” Ugh, I was so angry with myself that I wanted to scream.

I threw off the
blanket, pushed off the couch, and quickly and carefully—since he seemed to
turn me into an uncoordinated slug—stumbled past him while he watched me with
hooded eyes.
 

The sight in the
mirror had me groaning. My hair was a snarled mess, day-old makeup was smeared
black under my eyes, and yes, dried drool was crusted on my cheek. I took a
quick shower, but since we were going for a run, it was more to wake up. I
brushed the living crap out of my teeth, put my hair in a ponytail, dabbed on
some makeup, and put on a sweatshirt and running pants. Good thing, I’d thrown
them in the suitcase. To be honest, I’d thrown a bit of everything in the
suitcase because I hadn’t been sure what I’d need.

After a deep breath,
I entered the kitchen. Reese was pouring coffee from the maker next to the
sink, and the island was already set with plates, a tray of fruit, and a tower
of toast.

I stared at the
tower. “You like toast, huh?”

“Not only is it easy
to make, it’s one of the tastiest things in this world.” He strode past me,
giving my ponytail a light tug. “My go-to food. Sometimes I eat it for dinner.”

A laugh escaped me
at his quoting me from our dinner date. “Well, toast
is
good, but it doesn’t come close to buffalo chicken dip.”

He set a two coffee
cups next to the plates. “That’s debatable.”

I slipped onto a
stool. “Don’t tell me you were on the debate team in that fancy school too.”

He slid next to me,
his thigh slowly sweeping the length of mine, and I got a whiff of his cologne,
which had my fingers curling around the edge of the counter, imagining what I’d
missed last night.

“Certainly I was,”
he said, nabbing two pieces of toast from the tower. “Loved getting points for
arguing.”

I took a huge gulp
of needed caffeine. “And I suppose you were exceedingly good with all those
fancy words of yours.”

“Captain by junior
year,” he said before biting into his toast.

I shook my head
slightly. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”

He became
contemplative, his winged eyebrows meeting above the perfect line of his nose.
“Well, I already admitted I’m not much of a cook. And you’d most definitely
beat me at the limbo. Pretty sure I can’t rock a stick like you.”

An unladylike snort
escaped me.

He grabbed the bowl
of fruit, reaching across me so the scent of his clean hair drifted near my
nose, and his shoulder brushed my arm. He dropped a spoonful of fruit on my plate
then smirked.

“But I can rock
other things.” His gaze was a sexual gleam.

Okay, enough. The
innuendos, the touching—both had to stop before I attacked him. I quickly
changed the course of conversation by asking, “Did your business finally
conclude last evening while I slept?”

His expression
turned hard as he grasped his coffee cup and glared across the kitchen. “For
the most part.”

That change didn’t
go well. I tried another angle. “So do you work with a lot of charities?”

His face smoothed,
and he told me about different charities he worked with in the city while we
finished breakfast. It was obvious as he talked about each that he truly cared
about
 
each charity. And it was good to
know that he didn’t horde all of his billions. It made the whole heir thing a
tad more acceptable.

Finished with
breakfast, he asked me if I’d like a tour.

“Yes, a tour is
probably needed or I might get lost in your
cottage
.” The last word dripped with sarcasm.

“It did start as a
cottage.” Reese leaned on the counter, appearing rather manly and rich and
comfortable in his surroundings. “My great-great-grandfather built it.”

“With his own
hands?”

“You could say that.
He was the ninth of ten children. He grew up in a two-room house.”

“Guess you could,” I
said, standing.

“This is the
kitchen,” he said, gesturing around the room like an ass. He took a few steps
and I followed him to the room with dark leather couches where I’d slept. He
motioned around the room. “The…” He paused, apparently trying to think of a
name for the room.

“The family room?” I
supplied.

Smirking slightly,
he nodded.

“No TV?” I asked,
stepping onto the patterned, faded throw rug I assumed was an antique and truly
examining the room in the morning light. The walls were a rich wood, the
furniture leather and dark, and the stone fireplace mammoth.

He shook his head.
“Except for the theater room and some updates to the kitchen, I’ve kept the
house the same.” With a hand at the small of my back, his palm like a caress,
he led me to the next room.

He showed me the
sunroom—where I’d called Kara—the library, the theater room, and other rooms
filled with sitting areas facing windows that looked over the ocean. I stopped
at several points, taking in the long expanse of green dotted with newly
sprouted trees that led to the beach then the rolling water. And each time we
stopped, one of his hands was on me—at the small of my back, on my waist, to a
gentle touch on my shoulder. The slow heat of his soft caresses were building
up a lustful tension that bubbled within me and threatened to explode—as in
I-might-tackle-him-and-rip-off-his-pants explode.

He also showed me
several more ‘sitting rooms’ and a dining room with a huge table that sat
twenty. At one point, I asked him if he ever used the house as the board for a
game of Clue. Shaking his head, he laughed. Between his pointing out different
things, like an old radio from the ‘40s that still worked and his constant
touching, the shock of realizing how ridiculously rich he was wore off. A bit.
And it was refreshingly obvious during the tour that he felt proud of his
heritage.

In the music room—I
really would have done the Clue thing here as a kid—he pointed out a
phonograph—an early record player, he explained.

I pointed to the
grand piano in the corner. “Do you play?”

His regard lingered
on the gorgeous music instrument. “No. Not anymore.”

Questions burned on
my tongue. Before I could ask any, he led me to another room. We continued the
tour, going back through the kitchen and heading up the grand curved staircase
in the front entrance.

Along the hallway,
we passed several bedrooms elegantly decorated in muted tones and with large
windows facing the ocean or the huge expanse of the front yard. We peeked in
each and Reese simply said, “Another bedroom,” his hand on my back, his fingers
like a brand pushing me down the hall and around the corner. He seemed to be in
a rush or preoccupied, which left me slightly nervous and caused the air to
crack with a tangible sexual tension.

At the end of the
hall, he pushed open a closed door and gestured for me to enter.

I gave him a
questioning look. We hadn’t entered any of the other rooms.

A slow, sensual grin
curved his lips. “My room.”