Snare (Falling Stars #3) (2 page)

Chapter One
Sidra

Using my shoulder to hold my cell to my ear, I dig to the bottom of my bag for my keys.

"Are you listening to me?" My mother stops mid-lecture to ensure I'm paying full attention to her guilt trip.

She's been laying it on thick since I got into a cab and texted to tell her I landed. From that point, she turned to rapid fire texts until I caved, did what she wanted, and called her.

"Uh huh," I respond, placing the key into the deadbolt.

"Sidra Pauline Campbell," she growls, causing me to cringe.

Damn woman knows I hate that bullshit.

"I haven't seen you for over eight months. The least you can do is pretend to be interested in speaking to me. It's not like you called me while you were off in California."

Sliding the key in the lock, I twist until I hear the click of the bolt.

"Don't act all put out," I call her out. "Liza offered to fly you out to visit."

"I didn't want to intrude," she defends. "She needed time to adjust to all the changes in her life. I didn't mean to be in the way."

Rolling my eyes, I pull the key out and slide it into the knob. Just as I turn, the door flies open.

With a gasp escaping my mouth, I jump back. My carry-on bag drops to the floor and my phone slides from my shoulder, landing on top of it with a soft
thud
.

"You're home."

"Wow, you figure that out all on your own, Paul?"

"Sid? Sidra? Is everything okay?" my mother shrieks through my phone.

Bending, I pick it up and put it back to my ear.

"Sid!" she shouts, and I flinch.

"Lower the pipes, Mom," I tease. "I dropped my phone. Everything is fine."

"I heard another voice," she says in her trademark I'm-just-stating-a-fact-not-trying-to-be-nosy way.

Taking a deep breath, I look up into dark brown eyes.

"Paul surprised me," I mumble, knowing what's coming.

"Why's he there?" I don't have to see her to know she's looking pretty sour-faced.

"I don't know. Let me call you back after I find out," I respond, picking up my bags from the floor.

She sighs. "Fine, but if I don't hear from you by tomorrow, I will show up on your doorstep bright and early."

"Threat understood." I shove by Paul and walk into my apartment.

The door closes behind me.

"Can I help that I've missed you?" The real hurt in her question tugs at me.

"I'm sorry, Mom. Really, I promise to call you tomorrow. Let me get settled in and then we can get together, okay?"

"Okay. I love you." She sounds appeased.

"I love you, too."

We disconnect and I toss the phone onto a nearby chair and look around.

My apartment isn't normally immaculate, but I didn't expect to see men's shoes, shirts, and socks lying around. Glancing to my right, I crane my neck into the kitchen and see dirty dishes piled up on the counter.

I spin around and narrow my eyes on the one man who makes my mother sour and my cousin hate me.

"What the hell, Paul?" I snap, waving my arms around toward the mess.

"Sid," he breathes my name.

In four long strides, his arms wrap around and pull me against him.

My heart skips a beat for this man, the one who complicates everything.

When his arms slacken, I look up into his dark chocolate brown eyes. His head dips and he crushes his mouth to mine.

For the briefest of moments, I slip my arms around his neck and kiss back.

God, how I've missed this—him. The taste of his tongue, the feel of his hands on me—it's all so familiar. And for that brief moment, I bask in the attention he gives me, until his phone rings from an unknown location in the apartment.

It's
her
ringtone—the same ringtone I've heard over the past couple years.

His shoulders tense and every muscle in my body turns to stone.

Dropping my arms, I push away from him.

"You should probably get that." I wipe my mouth and fight against the familiar pain stinging behind my eyes.

"No," he states, surprising me by grabbing my arm and turning me back to him.

"What?" I ask in a whisper.

His hands come down on my shoulders, holding me in place. Closing his eyes, he brings his forehead to mine and takes in a deep breath.

"You…" he licks his lips, "you just left."

His hands slip to the side of my neck, tilting my head back.

"I didn't think you were coming back." His mouth presses to mine in a quick kiss. "Fuck, the thought of you leaving and never seeing you again..." His eyes search my mine.

I'm shocked silent. He never spoke like this, at least not since his initial pursuit.

His phone rings again, the same ringtone, and I find my voice.

"But Sam—"

"Is over," he says, cutting me off.

I swallow the lump in my throat and open my mouth to retort, because he's said that before, but he's not finished.

"She started pushing for more and I…I just couldn't do it. Not after you left. You were gone so long and I missed you so much. I couldn't move forward with her knowing how much I needed you." His mouth covers mine once again.

This time, it's more urgent. This time, his hands roam over my body, removing clothes. And this time, we no longer hear the phone.

Waking up in my own bed after eight months in California is disorienting. Doing it alone sends a wave of nausea through me.

Gripping the sheet to my chest, I wrap it around my body and climb from the bed. I close my eyes, swallow the dread rising, and steel my spine.

Not again.

I walk down the small hallway and slow near my small, light blue bathroom.

Silence.

My hands start to tremble as I continue to the end of the hallway leading to my open living room, kitchen, and should-be dining room. Stepping out of the hall, I glance to the kitchen and see only dishes. Scanning through the living room, all I see are dirty clothes.

My heart clenches painfully, but then I hear him.

"Hey, you all right?"

I glance to my left, finding Paul sitting at my large computer set up in the should-be dining space.

He's still here.

"You don't look so well."

I shake my head, releasing the breath I'd been afraid to let escape.

He pushes out of the chair and rises to his full height. I watch as he walks toward me in faded jeans and an old Steelers t-shirt. For a moment, I find him…lacking.

Paul isn't short at five-foot-ten and he's built well for a guy who doesn't work out, but after spending so much time with seven-foot Jackson, way too pretty Christopher, and rugged, muscular men such as Red, Elliott, and Xavier…well, who would measure up to all that?

Remembering I'm not exactly supermodel material myself, I shake off my skewed expectations.

"I'm all right," I finally answer, moving to embrace him.

Paul places his hands on my shoulders, keeping me at arm's length.

"You sure?" He cocks one brow. "I don't want to get sick."

I roll my eyes and push his arms away. "Yes, I'm sure."

Stepping into him, I place one hand and my cheek on his chest.

Instead of the return embrace I expect, he grips my shoulders again and steps back.

I look up at him and furrow my brow.

"Why don't you go get dressed?" He puts another foot of space between us and drops his hands from my body. He glances down the length of me and turns, making his way back to the computer desk.

"What's wrong?" I ask, looking down.

The sheet I've been holding to my chest with one hand has gaped open. I'm almost entirely exposed from my left boob to my feet. The heat of a blush creeps up my neck. Pulling it around me tighter, I push the embarrassment and shame away.

"It's not something you haven't seen before," I mumble, using both hands to keep the sheet closed.

"I know." Paul shrugs, still not looking at me. "You know, I just don't like the whole being naked thing."

"Yeah," I sigh out. "I remember."

When I met Paul O'Ryan, I didn't give him a second glance. He was just a barista in one of my favorite coffee shops. Nothing about him fit my
type
. His advances were lost on me, but he was persistent—sending me free coffee and baked goods, taking note of the books and magazine's I was reading. It was my copies of Playboy, Popular Photography, and Wired that started one of many conversations. It also led to the discovery that he, too, was a bit of a computer geek.

Him pursuing me with such devote attention was new—to me. Only one other time in my life had I been pursued like that, and it didn't turn out well. The fact that he didn't want to have sex right away was also completely different. I am a big fan of the hump-him-and-dump-him, the one night in Sid, but he was adamant about waiting.

The first time we had sex, after five weeks of seeing each other, he needed the lights out and covers on. He said he didn't like being completely naked and exposed—it made him uncomfortable—and I was cool with that. Then, I discovered it also applied to me being naked.

"Come on," he croons, finally looking at me. "Don't get mad. It just makes me uncomfortable."

Nodding, I clench the sheet tighter to my chest and go back to my room. While I dress, I send my mom a text telling her I'm okay and won't be calling until later this evening.

"What are we going to do about the logistics issue?" he shouts through the closed bathroom door.

I spit the toothpaste from my mouth, rinse, and wipe my face. Straightening, I stare in the full-length mirror and examine my appearance.

"I look bigger," I mumble at my reflection.

Turning to the side, I scrutinize my profile. My hair is still dark brown, but longer, reaching just below the bra line. The girls don't seem to be trying to escape from bra-catraz. These jeans are one of my favorite pairs and fit comfortably. Grabbing the waistband, I twist and flip it out. Size eighteen.
Why do I feel…bigger? I didn't in California.

"Sid? Any ideas?" he calls out once more.

Keeping my eyes on the mirror, I grab the doorknob and pull it open.

"Have I gained weight?" I ask, turning back to face myself.

"Maybe a little," he answers. "Just start exercising and eating better. I'm sure the weight will come right off."

I know I asked, and I shouldn't have, because I knew it would hurt. The sting of the truth always does.

"Yeah," I say.

"So, about the logistics?" he presses.

I tear myself away from the mirror and motion for Paul to lead the way.

"Let me see the analytic reports." I twist my hair up into a knot at the back of my head.

"Uh, I have the complaint reports, but you weren't here to do the analytics." There's a bite to the end of his sentence.

"You know how to do the analytics, Paul," I state, plopping down into my chair and rolling up to my desk.