Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (14 page)

“Geez, Hope, pull it together! Hurry up and drink this.”

Hope did, then wished she hadn’t. “Holy crap,” she gasped, gulping in air as tears filled her eyes. Fanning her face with one hand, she clutched Bridget’s arm with the other. “My throat is on fire.”

“Don’t worry, sweetpea. It’s gonna hit your stomach in three... two... one. There,” she said, when Hope finally took a full breath, “It’s all better now, isn’t it?”

Nodding, Hope dabbed at her eyes with a cocktail napkin, careful not to smear her heavily applied mascara. “Jesus Christ, that tasted like jet fuel. Why would anyone willingly drink that stuff?” Pulling in deep gulps of air, she gathered herself. “I think I might be drunk now.”

“We need another Cuervo shot, Bubba,” Bridget said over her shoulder, blocking Hope from his suspicious glare. “Some asshole bumped into her, but she saved the others.” Grinning mischievously at her, Bridget winked. “What he doesn’t know, right? Now get your boobs back in place and deliver your shots. I’ll go cover that table for you.” Before the platinum blonde could take a half step, Hope yanked her back with a fistful of her hair. “Ow! What the—”

“If you go near him, and I mean within ten feet of his personal space,” Hope said, staring at her newfound friend with humor and a touch of seriousness, “I will cut you. I swear to God, Bridge, you’re sweet and nice and all, but it won’t matter. I’ll take ya’ down.”

Okay, that sounded pretty serious.

“Oh, you know him?” She rubbed her scalp as a spunky smile lit her face, worthy of a cosmetics commercial, if not a million dollar modeling contract. “Well, look at you! No wonder you choked on your own tongue. My girl’s got herself a nice slice of beefcake, huh?” She looked at table twelve again. “No worries, sunshine, he only has eyes for you. I don’t poach, anyway.”

And with a wink and an air kiss, she trotted off toward her own section, as if her life hadn’t just been threatened.

Covertly putting her boobs back in place, Hope scowled at table twelve. What the hell was he doing here?

“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed, having delivered the round of tequila shots to her rowdy table of five, her shaky hands only spilling a few drops.

Beck’s brows shot up and he looked casually around the club.

“Verifying your employment,” he drawled. And like the coolest cat she’d ever come across, he took her in from head to toe, staring at her chest for a beat longer than proper. “Is that a standard issue uniform for a cocktease waitress? Leather and not much else?”

“I’m serious, Beck.” She looked toward Bubba, but his attention was on an overdone redhead in a blue halter top. So was Marcia’s. “What do you want?”

A corner of his mouth curved up, a flattering gleam of interest lighting his green eyes. Say me, Hope thought earnestly, holding her breath. Say you want me.

“A drink.”

Well, damn. Of course, he wanted a drink. He was in a bar, after all. A bar where attractive women flaunted their bare boobs to anyone looking. And if that happened to be a handsome guy who was also gainfully employed, then it was a no holds barred, free for all that became less about scoring a tip and more about scoring a date. Her body went white hot at the thought and she wished Bridget was nearby to pour another double shot of tequila down her throat. And then she thought of Bridget’s boobs and changed her mind.

Okay, so this is what jealousy felt like.

“You’re supposed to take my order, right?”

Before she she could reply, the tequila soaked group of men sitting in her station started tapping their empty shot glasses on the table, working on an obnoxiously good drunk after their latest round. Motioning between her and the bar, they chanted, “Beer—me—up.”

Bubba sent her a sharp look and Hope wasn’t sure if he was pissed at her for letting their glasses go empty or at them for causing a scene. Either way, it didn’t bode well for her paycheck. Beck hadn’t moved an inch and when she looked at him, he was scrutinizing the men. Like he might be planning their individual deaths.

“Beck,” she snapped, irritated by his distracting presence and the jealously flowing through her. Mercedes was due on stage and she had a pole routine that could make a Cirque du Soleil performer look like an amateur. “You got me fired from one job already. Please don’t do it again.”

The plea wasn’t empty. Bubba was watching.

“I got you fired from the hotel?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

You, your fine ass, and your alpha man attitude. “Can we discuss this another time?” She took a step toward the noisy table before a bouncer kicked them all out, with her right behind. “Please. I really need this job.”

He reluctantly nodded and she hurried to the five-top, slightly unsteady on her feet. It could be the stiletto’s she’d been wearing for too many hours. Or the potent liquor coating her empty stomach. Or it could be the magnetic man boring a hole into her back as he tracked her every move, watching as she grabbed a round of beers for the needy table, adding a bottle of pale ale to the tray.

When she set the sweating bottle down in front of him, he nodded his thanks. “Hope. We need to talk.”

Oh, no. Hell to the no. She wasn’t giving him the opportunity to back out on his offer. She was sleeping in an actual bed tonight. A bed that was in Beckett Smith’s house. And preferably, with Mr. Smith in it, as well. Nervous energy pulsed through her veins, the buzz more from Beck than the tequila.

“Sorry. No time,” she said, with a smile.

Moving from table to table, there was an extra pep in her step as she felt his intense gaze on her, barely giving the girl on stage a glance. Her skirt had a bit more lift as she bounced around her section with practiced flirtation and if the plump globes of her breasts spilled out of her corset far more than she usually allowed, then it was simply because she was too busy to adjust them. By the time she checked on her tables, efficiently removing empty glasses and happily returning with full ones, collecting considerable tips as she went, Hope looked toward table twelve with a grin. Only to find him gone.

Her strut wasn’t as pronounced as she walked to the table, grabbing the still full bottle of beer and the crisp, twenty dollar bill sitting under it. But a broad smile split her face as she surreptitiously glanced at Bubba, glad he was engrossed in the redhead again.

A gleaming silver house key, shiny and brand new, sat on top of the cash and Hope pocketed both like they were a winning lottery ticket.

CHAPTER TEN

The man had a real thing for keys. But as it turned out, the one that fit his front door was unnecessary.

Parked under her purple Jacaranda, the flowers lightly scenting the humid sea air, Hope ascended the front porch of the Lark Street house for the second time that day. Smelling like Bridget’s green apple body wash, she wore a plain white t-shirt with a plunging neckline and fashionably worn, black silk cargo pants. Except for the black suede ankle boots, which had been a silly indulgence last winter and one she’d woefully regretted in recent weeks, the outfit was as casual as the one she’d worn this morning and her preferred attire. Dressing to impress had never been her thing, but as she gripped the straps of her oversized canvas bag and slung it over a shoulder, she contemplated the logic of wearing something prettier. She had a stylish cheetah print jacket stuffed in the trunk of her car that would’ve finished this look nicely and she cursed herself for not thinking of it sooner.

Because impressing Beckett Smith was something she desperately wanted to do. Impress him, then undress him. Literally wow his socks off. Then get to work on those pointers Val had given her. It sounded like an awesome way to spend the rest of the evening.

Until his front door opened just as she inserted the key into the lock.

He stood there, in low riding, worn out jeans and a faded t-shirt, his arms crossed and his face impassive. Looking not the least bit impressed. Or even remotely interested in the undressing part, for that matter.

“Oh—hello,” she whispered, his big body darkly silhouetted in the doorway, upping his intimidation factor. Behind him, cream painted walls were shadowed by the low light of a bronze wall sconce. When he said nothing, she held up the key. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

“I’m one hundred percent certain this isn’t a good goddamn idea.” The tired rasp in his voice slithered down her spine, leaving an arousing tingle in its wake. He finally stepped back and reluctantly motioned her in, shaking his head. “But royally fucking up seems to be my new hobby,” he added, more to himself than her.

Crossing the threshold into her dream home, Hope took it all in with a suspended breath, inhaling the mixed scents of new paint, recently stained wood, and laundry detergent. The foyer opened into a sizable living room, where a comfortable gray sofa sat facing a wall dominated by a stone fireplace with a huge flat screen TV mounted above it. Flanked on each side by built-in cabinetry and windows covered in plantation shutters, it was a space that made her heart squeeze in happiness, a near exact replica of the room she had vividly imagined so many times before. A heavy legged, rectangular wood table with six chairs upholstered in the same gray fabric as the sofa sat in the spacious adjoining dining room. Backed by floor to ceiling windows overlooking what she assumed was the backyard beyond, it was both a place to eat a formal holiday meal with the in-laws and negotiate with a stubborn child unwilling to do his math homework. The legs of each chair sat perfectly in line with the table, which sat perfectly in line with the wide planks of the dark hardwood floor. Hope wasn’t sure if it was a stunning coincidence or OCD at its finest, but either way, the precision made her grin.

As did the single beam of light burning brightly in the adjacent kitchen, spotlighting a white farm sink installed in front of a deep garden window, exactly as she’d assumed on the many nights when that glowing light had been her token symbol of safekeeping. The kitchen was a professional chef’s wet dream, tricked out with solid marble countertops, antique white cabinetry and stainless steel appliances. A washing machine rumbled behind one of the two closed doors next to the butlers pantry. One most likely leading to the garage and the other to the source of fresh smelling laundry detergent floating through the house.

Hope was pretty sure there wasn’t anything sexier than a man who did his own laundry.

Looking over her shoulder at the one who’d been silently watching her, his arms once again crossed over his chest as she assessed his perfectly restored home, Hope ran her fingers across the ornate, layered wood moldings wrapping every door frame and window casing. The detailed woodwork alone must have taken him weeks.

Amazed at the craftsmanship, she smiled in genuine admiration. “Your home is beautiful. Did you do this all by yourself?”

He tilted his head and shrugged, a humble acknowledgment. “It’s not really my home.”

“It’s not?” Her brow furrowed as she looked around the kitchen. “But you live here, right?”

“I sleep here,” he corrected, opening the enormous refrigerator and grabbing two bottles of water with one hand.

“There’s a difference?”

“Yeah.” He held a bottle out to her and she shook her head, the tequila sitting heavy in her stomach. He set it on the butcher block island instead, twisting the cap off the other.

“You sleep here, but you don’t live here. That’s an odd clarification.” She pursed her lips. “You cook here, don’t you?”

“No.” Now he was being intentionally difficult.

“Do you eat here? Do you shower here? Do you do your laundry here?” He conceded her point by downing half the bottle without replying. Satisfied, she nodded. “Then you live here.”

“Whatever.” Dismissing the comment, he brushed past her and walked into the living room, pointing toward an open door off a small hallway on the other side of the foyer. “That’s where you sleep.”

Happy to continue her exploration, she preceded him into the guest bedroom and assessed it with the eye of someone viewing fine art at a museum. Not surprised to see the same level of care and craftsmanship as the rest of the house, it was sparsely furnished with only a bed—queen sized, she noted with glee—and a matching dresser. A sliding farmhouse door, replicated with vintage charm, led to a connecting bathroom featuring a walk in shower with gleaming white subway tile and a rain style shower head. The vanity was large enough for a woman’s various accessories, yet it held nothing except a stack of haphazardly folded towels. Reaching for the washcloth sitting on top, she lifted it to her nose, the soft terrycloth still warm from the dryer. Regardless of the hasty way they were folded, the cotton towels were freshly laundered and Hope smiled to herself, catching her silly reflection in the mirror.

Someone had put a significant amount of time, money, and effort into renovating this historic old home to its former glory. And that same person had put some effort into making sure his surprise house guest had clean towels.

And it sure as shit wasn’t a guy who only slept here.

He might be fooling somebody else, and most likely himself, too, but he wasn’t fooling her. There were meticulous signs of dedication, if not an all out labor of love, covering every square inch of this house.

By the time she wiped the astute grin off her face and dropped her canvas bag on the bed, he’d disappeared from the guest room. She found him in the dark living room, standing at the picture window overlooking the front yard and an empty Lark Street beyond. Arms raised, he was inadvertently showing off a mouthwatering set of guns as his fingers gripped the casing above his head. Staring past his reflection toward something Hope couldn’t see, she watched him soundlessly, using the unguarded moment to drink him in. No matter how magnificent the house surrounding them, Beck was still the most gorgeous thing she’d ever laid eyes on. And while he’d never been far from her mind, the remarkable memories of that night almost a month ago, when her world had been turned upside down by a mysterious stranger, came rushing back.

The shiver inducing stroke of his tongue against her bare skin. The purely feminine feeling of overwhelming connection when he slid his hard body into hers. The powerful headiness that came with knowing how badly this exceptional man wanted her.