He leans back and looks down at me. I’m not sure why, but I snap my lips shut.
And he notices.
Dammit!
I see disappointment flicker across his face. And, perversely, that pleases me.
“Maybe next time then,” he says with a wink. Clearing his throat, he steps back and looks to his left. “Ladies,” he says, nodding to the other girls, girls who are paying him zero attention as they watch Jason tease Shawna with his now-bare upper body. He looks back at me and, in a decidedly Southern way, says, “Ma’am.”
He nods once then turns, opens the door and walks out, closing it quietly behind him.
Never before have I been so tempted to chase someone.
********
I crack open my lids a tiny bit, fully expecting to feel knives stabbing me in the head. But the bright, early-September light pouring through the window isn’t painful at all. It’s the strange case of the hangover that never was. And I’m grateful.
What is painful, however, is remembering the humiliation of the night before. It comes back to me in a rush, as does the image of the gorgeous club owner, Cash. I roll over and bury my face in the pillow as the details drift through my mind—tall, strong body and perfect, handsome face. A smile to die for.
Ohmigod, he was so effin’ hot!
Even now, I wish he’d kissed me. It’s ridiculous, but it might’ve made the whole debacle a little less…wasteful.
Chastising myself, I roll onto my back again and stare at the ceiling. I’m smart enough to recognize when I’m falling prone to my one true weakness. It’s for that reason alone—because of the way my pulse speeds up when I think about his dark eyes daring me to undress him; because of the way I feel all warm when I think about his lips on mine—I have to be glad I’ll never see him again. He’s the embodiment of the one thing in life I need like a hole in the head—another bad-boy love interest.
As always when I think of disastrous relationships, I think of Gabe. Cash reminds me a lot of him. Cocky, sexy, charming. Untamed. Rebellious.
Heartbreaker.
Gritting my teeth, I drag myself from between the sheets and make my way to the bathroom. I push Gabe out of my head. refuse to give that ass**le one more second of my life.
After I’ve splashed enough cold water on my face to feel partially human, I stumble my way toward the kitchen. I pay little attention to the posh designer furnishings and perfectly-placed pieces of art as I pass through the living room. It’s been almost two weeks since my roommate bailed and I had to move in with my rich cousin, Marissa. I’ve finally gotten used to seeing how the other half lives.
Well, sort of, I think as I stop to look at the two thousand-dollar clock on the wall.
It’s nearly eleven. I’m a little irritated with myself for sleeping away a large portion of my day off, so I’m prickly and grumbly when I enter the kitchen. Seeing Marissa sitting on the island with her long, bare legs crossed toward a guy perched on a stool does nothing to help my disposition.
I stare at the back of wide, linen-clad shoulders and a dark blond head. For half a second, I consider what I’m wearing—boy shorts and a tank top—and what I look like—tousled black hair, sleepy green eyes, and smeared mascara. I debate heading straight back to my room, but that option is taken off the table when Marissa speaks to me.
“There you are, Sleeping Beauty!” She smiles warmly in my direction.
I’m immediately wary.
For starters, Marissa is never nice to me. Ever. She is the triple-S trifecta—spoiled, snobby and snide. If there had been any other option for obtaining a roof over my head, I would’ve chosen it. Not that I’m not grateful. Because I am. And I show that gratitude by paying my share of a rent that Marissa doesn’t even pay (her father does) and by not strangling her in her sleep. I figure that’s pretty generous of me.
“Good morning?” I say uncertainly, my voice hoarse.
The broad shoulders in front of Marissa shift and the dark blond head turns toward me. Sinfully dark brown eyes stop me in my tracks. And steal my breath.
It’s Cash. The club owner from last night.
I feel my mouth drop open as my stomach falls through the floor. I’m surprised and embarrassed, but more than anything, I’m overcome by how much more appealing he is in the daylight. In a way, I guess I’d secretly thought my reaction to him last night was a product of alcohol coupled with the fact that I was stripping his clothes off him.
Obviously, neither had anything to do with it.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in confusion.
I see his brow wrinkle. “Pardon me?”
He glances at Marissa then back to me.
“Wait a minute. Nash, do you know her?” Marissa asks, her warmth now curiously absent.
Nash? Nash, as in Marissa’s boyfriend?
I have no idea what to say. My fuzzy mind is having trouble putting puzzle pieces into place.
“Not that I know of,” Cash/Nash says, his expression blank.
Once I realize what’s going on, my confusion and embarrassment give way to anger and indignation. If there’s one thing I hate more than a cheater, it’s a liar. Liars disgust and infuriate me.
Reflexively, I rein in my temper. It takes little effort to remain calm now, the result of a lifetime of swallowing my emotions. “Oh, is that right? Do you always so conveniently forget the women who partially undress you?”
Something flashes in his eyes. Is it…humor?
“Trust me, I think I’d remember something like that.”
Marissa hops off the island and assumes a belligerent stance, her hands fisted on her hips. “What the hell is going on?”
I’ve never been one to stir up trouble between couples. What they do and don’t tell each other is their business. But this time it’s different. I don’t know why, but it is.
Maybe it’s because she’s my cousin.
I tell myself that, but I know there’s no love lost between Marissa and me. Another thought flies through my head—one that says I’m upset about being so casually forgotten by the guy I woke up thinking about—but I completely disregard it, labeling it “ridiculous” and moving on.
First, I address Marissa. “Well Nash here showed up at Shawna’s bachelorette party last night trying to pass himself off as a club owner named Cash.” Next, I turn to the imposter in question. Try as I might, I can’t keep the derision from my tone. “And you. Really? Cash and Nash? Don’t you think you could’ve been a little more original? What are you, four?”