Wilde Magic (Wilde Women Book 3) (19 page)

He’d been silent way too long for her liking. Charlie shifted in the leather seat, her bottom lip throbbing from the force of her teeth chewing on the puffy ridge of flesh.

Studying his profile, she saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. He was killing her. She always had a hard time around other people’s energy when the vibes she picked up were somber and unhappy. Wanting to make it better for everyone was a big part of who she was. If a magical genie ever gave her three wishes, the first one would be to give her the ability to kiss the whole wide world and make it all better.

Nana sometimes says that her youngest granddaughter got an extra helping of heart. The whole family pretty much agreed. That was her. Charlize the wise and big hearted. Not a bad thing to be at all, but seriously. Sometimes all that empathy and the desire to fix every broken being was a real burden. Like now. More than anything she wanted to help Ty. Something inside him called to her. Something she couldn’t ignore if she tried.

They were headed in the direction of his apartment so at least she knew he wasn’t going to pull up to the curb at her place and boot her from the car. That alone gave her hope that he was really going to open up and let her see inside.

And then something occurred to her—a thought she voiced aloud just to see what he’d say.

“Is this your car?”

He didn’t look at her; there was too much traffic for that. And he chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound. “Fucking better be if I’m driving, huh?”

Okay. That came out wrong. She sat there a thought for a minute.

“What I mean is, did you pick it out? You know. Did the words, I want a blue Ferrari Spider come out of your mouth?”

She turned and watched while he considered her question.

“Uh, well no. The team makes sure I’m driving something flash.” He rolled a shoulder. The grit in his voice was quite apparent. “Appearances.”

Was that a sneer she heard?

“The Maserati is my personal car if that’s what you’re asking. This? Part of the image.”

Charlie wasn’t exactly surprised by this reveal. Actually, it was as she suspected but now wasn’t the moment to reveal she thought him a fraud. Cal Tyler was no thrill seeking vroom vroom jockey.

Maybe when he explained, she’d understand better why he wore this particular mask. She’d need to know if there was any hope of getting him past the problems holding him back.

“Do you mind if I have a drink?” Cal registered her look of surprise. He rarely imbibed, but right now he needed one. “It’s still early,” he assured her. “I’ll be able to drive you home.”

’‘tessa tossed her bag onto a table and reached up with both hands to fluff her hair. It was an odd habit, one that he’d noticed she did quite a lot. Unfortunately, when her arms went up, so did the hemline of her short dress. Cal nearly hiccupped a loud gasp when most of her thighs were revealed.

A drink. Stat. And a big one. “Can I get you anything?”

She hurried to the bar cart and examined the choices. “What are you having?”

“Vodka martini. Dirty. Three olives.”

“That sounds yum. Can I watch you make them? Is this one of those shaken or stirred things? I think you should shake them. Makes the drink sexier, don’t you think?”

She rattled off questions and comments in a free-form ramble. Her natural enthusiasm almost helped him find a smile.

“Have you ever had a martini? They can be lethal.”

She snickered. “Really? Stout in London. Sherry from Spain. Wine by the barrel in Italy and France. I think I can handle the drink of Mother Russia. One of my art school friends grew up near Moscow and insisted we chomp on pickles whenever the Stoli came out.” She went “blech” and stuck out her tongue. “I think olives will be more my style.”

Well, okay then. Two dirty martinis, shaken, not stirred, coming up.

As he prepared the drinks, Cal watched her wander the room. Dragging her fingers, he thought about the way she approached life with tactile curiosity. Now that he really thought about it, she touched practically everything. Even him. Flashes in his mind replayed the way her hands soothed his pains. ‘tessa holding his face so he couldn’t look away. Shit. The clapping games and the goofy fingerplays she dropped into almost every situation.

While stabbing a cocktail pick into the olives, his thoughts wandered far from the moment. He bet her hands would be heaven on his body. Specifically his dick. She’d take her time with soft, exploratory touches and knowing her, she’d be thorough about it too. Would she tease the tip with a fingertip? He’d like that. His dick gripped in one of her delicate hands, the fat head exposed and her thumb stroking the underside. Then, a droplet of fluid that she’d dip a fingertip into. Swirling it in gentle circles on his sensitive flesh …

“Ermygawd.” She exclaimed in a husky growl. “These shoes have to go.”

Flopping onto the sofa, she was all legs and arms in the billowy dress and for the briefest moment, his conscience grumbled. Here he was entertaining some pretty dirty thoughts about a girl who was probably too damn young for him. Not that he was old. In years, that is. If he had to guess, he’d put ‘tessa in the mid twenty category. Uh, almost.

Snatching up the martini glasses he sauntered slowly toward her, aware of the dull ache in his back. The sharp stinging agony was gone, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Not stupid enough to consider the alcohol a crutch, he was glad nonetheless for the drink in his hand. Sometimes a martini was the best medicine if only because it silenced some of the noise in his head.

Watching as she slid the sexy shoes off her feet, his mouth twitched with laughter. ‘tessa was undeniably genuine and completely unlike any of the women he’d been with. And by been with he meant fucked.

“I’m crushed Baroness,” he teased. “Those shoes had a starring role in a fantasy I was concocting for later tonight.”

She laughed as a flush crept up her neck and onto her face. “Oh, bite me. I love a great pair of shoes as much as the next girl but let’s be honest, okay? They’re torture devices, plain and simple. I prefer being barefoot.”

He handed off her drink and put his on the coffee table before joining her on the sofa. “What about socks? Do socks count?”

Her dramatic gasp cracked him right the hell up. “Socks? Sacrilege! Foot prisons, that’s all they are.”

Foot prisons. Man, she was full of ‘em.

Turning in his direction, she tucked her feet under her ass and relaxed against the end of the sofa. Her body language let him know he had her undivided attention. The thought was immensely satisfying.

Holding her glass up, she asked, “Do we toast or just fall face first into the drink?”

He didn’t have a chance to answer before a shocked and delighted gasp brought him up short.

“Ty!” she exclaimed. “Oh my God. Is that a dragonfly on the cocktail pick?”

Huh? A what? He looked at the martini pick holding the three olives sticking from their drinks. Ohhh, right. The dragonfly picks.

“Yeah,” he replied. “They’re cool, huh? Handmade. Found them in a craft bazaar and had to have ‘em. The beads are pretty, aren’t they?”

She had this astonished expression on her face that intrigued him. Why? Chuckling, he asked, “Why? What’d you expect? Toothpicks with checkered flags?”

“Oh, Ty,” she muttered. He easily detected the sound of heavy emotion in her voice. “I love them.”

Raising eyes sparkling with something he couldn’t describe, she gushed excitedly, “The dragonfly is my spirit animal.”

“Your spirit animal,” he repeated. She looked at him like having a self-declared spirit animal was an everyday and therefore perfectly normal and reasonable thing. “You’re serious.”

Nodding, her eyes going wide she said, “Completely.”

The conversation was supposed to be about him but he couldn’t care less. He was fascinated by the hippie flower child. Hearing her views about the most mundane of things would enchant him no matter the subject matter.

“I want to hear all about this spirit animal ‘tessa but first, the martini. That initial sip when it’s still ice cold is the best.”

She twirled the cocktail pick through the clear liquid and winked. “I can already tell you the olives will be my favorite part.” Dropping the pick onto a napkin, she looked at him expectantly. Oh right. He should say something. Maybe a toast.

“Let’s drink to the one thing that wouldn’t go good with peanut butter.” Lifting his glass, he said, “Vodka martini. Dirty. Shaken.”

She giggled and dryly murmured, “Well said.”

That first sip really was the best. As the icy liquid hit his lips and slid across his tongue, Cal enjoyed the smooth cocktail with its olive brine back kick.

“Mmm. Tastes like a snow drift,” she purred. “I like it! Do we olive now?”

She didn’t wait to hear his answer, quickly reaching for the dragonfly pick and putting it to her mouth. There was nothing out of the ordinary about what she was doing, but his mind forgot to read that particular memo. He watched transfixed as her mouth opened and she bared her teeth, plucking an olive off the pick with obvious delight. He didn’t shudder, but some sort of seismic shift rattled his fucking cage big time. The thought of her using those teeth on his body overtook his imagination.

Calm the mother fuck down,
his common sense yelled from the sidelines.

Slowly savoring a plump, briny olive he asked, “So explain the dragonfly thing.”

“Okay,” she quipped. “But don’t think my silly rambling will let you off the hook. Yolo is on my bête noire list so …”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. No crystal ball. Explain myself. We’ll get there, babe.” Tilting his head in a complimentary bow, he gave her a ladies first wave and said, “Let the silly rambling begin.”

It wasn’t a huge sofa so she was close enough to reach across the empty space between them and smack him on the knee. There it was again. That tactile thing.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” she scolded.

Cal laughed easily. “Oh fuck ‘tessa. That ship sailed long ago. Right about the time you said you were the Baroness of Wild. A wild child you are not!”

He enjoyed her mocking laugh and the charming eye roll. “Oh my God, Ty. You don’t even know how funny that is. Wild child. Ha!”

Yeah, well—he meant it. Modern day hippie? Yes. Flower child? Absolutely. But wild child? Fuck to the no.

He took another sip and put his glass down. Relaxed and enjoying this time with her, he slouched a bit and rested his head on the arm he folded on the back of the sofa. He’d removed his suit jacket but was still sporting the vest. With his free hand, he loosened his tie and undid the top buttons on his shirt. Slamming his feet onto the coffee table, he crossed ‘em at the ankles and grinned at her. “Go for it. I’m all ears.”

O
NCE AGAIN CHARLIE FOUND HERSELF
drowning in the rough surf Ty’s overwhelming masculinity churned up. When his feet hit the table with a heavy thud, she pulled it together before she went under for a third time and made a total and complete fool of herself.

Oh, she wasn’t a full twit. A partial twit where he was concerned, yes. But she also knew he was just killing time with her. Grown up men like Cal Tyler only amused themselves with naïve younglings such as herself.