Bedwrecker(48)

But I can’t do that, now can I? So I step in front of him and start walking, mouthing over my shoulder, “No, you follow me.”

On my heels, he gets up close and personal and then swats my bottom.

I yelp.

“That was for the coffee, and this,” he swats me again, “is for not listening to me.”

I yelp again.

Mitch adjusts the flashlight and it blinds me. “You okay?”

Rubbing my behind, I smile at him. “All good.”

Once he lowers the light, I turn back to Keen and give him the evil eye. “You’re going to pay for that.”

He snickers. Actually snickers.

When we reach the end of the hall, Mitch looks down at my feet and pulls his brows together.

“Long story.” I wave a hand. “But my shoes are in the car.”

He smiles as if that is all I have to say.

As we walk down the steps, Mitch tells us about his wife, and how her feet are always killing her.

I laugh when appropriate, but am only half listening.

It’s Keen’s breathing loud in my ear that I’m most attuned to, and at the same time, most afraid of, because holy hell . . . now what?





Keen

Bonding over a guy in a white jumpsuit is not what I expected on the drive home with Maggie.

But come on, we’re talking Elvis here—the King of Rock and Roll. Who wore suits.

My thing. Her thing.

After getting in the car under Mitch’s watchful eye, talking about the past or the mind-blowing sex we’d just had didn’t seem top of my list. Nothing good was going to come out of that conversation; I could tell by the way she tensed when I suggested we talk. I will leave that open for her to address on her own terms. So instead I’d turned the radio on, and as soon as I did, Maggie immediately changed the station.

Just as I went to turn it back—I mean the Talking Heads were playing—“Jailhouse Rock” filled the inside of my Porsche.

And because it was Elvis, I didn’t change it. She started to sing along to the lyrics and so did I, and when I glanced over at her, and she said, “What?” the conversation gates opened to all things Elvis.

Who would have thought we’d both be dog lovers and Elvis fans?

Shit, I sound like a fucking girl.

“Have you ever gone to Graceland, Keen?” Maggie asks, putting her window down.

The evening is cool, but nothing like February in New York, so instead of putting her window up, I follow suit and put mine down too. “No, I haven’t, but I think it would be cool. Who knows? Maybe someday when I find the time, I’ll go.”

The breeze blows the wisps of her hair that have fallen down from her quick pin-up. “I haven’t been there either, but I heard there is one whole room dedicated to just his suits. Can’t you just imagine seeing the suit he wore in Jailhouse Rock or the jumpsuit from the seventies with the wide legs? . . .”

Like the sex appeal Maggie carries, she also has an enthusiasm about her that makes it hard not to get sucked into the whirlwind, even for a no-nonsense kind of guy like me. And yes, although I’d never have believed it, I somehow find myself discussing Elvis’s clothing choices.

Shit, now I really feel like a thirteen-year-old girl.

When I pull the Porsche onto the street that Cam and Makayla, and Maggie and Brooklyn, live on, I park under the shadows of a palm tree in front of the large house where some mystery writer lives.

This is the part I’ve been dreading—the good-night talk.

“Why are you parking all the way over here?” Maggie asks.

Switching the ignition off, I turn to face her. “I think we should talk, and I didn’t want Makayla or Brooklyn wondering what we were doing, or coming out to check on us.”

Maggie’s body tenses immediately and I can tell her wall is back up. “Right, we should probably have the ‘that shouldn’t happen ever again’ talk. There, now it’s done.” Her voice gets low and trails off, but her eyes don’t cut away.

Instinctively, I reach over and take her chin in my hand. “Maggie—” I can’t get the words to come out. For the first time ever, I’m not certain about what to do. My entire life has been about action. Make a decision, execute the plan, and don’t stop until it’s complete. Everything has been so cut and dry. Even with women. And now I’m stumbling on my words, uncertain of what to say. How to express my feelings.

The car door opens and she hops out so fast, I can’t even grab her.

Wrenching open my door and hitting a dead run, I’m able to take hold of her arm before she passes the hood of the Porsche. “Maggie, that isn’t what I was going to say.”

She shoots me a warning look. “Keen, leave it be, will you?”