I blame it on the no fucking clue part.
Why would I want to mark her?
I’ve never wanted to do that to any woman before.
Seriously, this is a big-ass problem. I’ve always been the kind of guy that could take Trudy or Judy or Ruby or whichever girl wasn’t claimed. Josh wanted Trudy with the blond hair; sure man, take her. Evan wanted Judy with the big tits; go for it, dude. Ruby with the red lips was fine by me.
And now I want to punch some douchebag’s lights out because he kisses Maggie on the back of the head. And to boot, I want to mark her as my territory so no other man even looks at her in the wrong way.
That is insane.
And I can’t talk to Cam about it because A, he is out of town, and B, he would probably punch my lights out.
I consider calling Brooklyn but I know he won’t be up yet, and since he lives with Maggie, I’m not 100 percent certain he’ll be cool with the fact that I not only fucked her once, but twice. And make that multiple onces.
Better wait until I get my shit figured out to bring it up to either him or Cam. I’ll need to come clean, no doubt, but I think I’ll keep it under wraps until we return from New York City.
Hopefully by then what happened between us will be forgotten, or at least not all I can think about.
Before leaving the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Fuck, I really look like shit. But what would I expect? I didn’t sleep much. And I refuse to think about why.
Sometimes pretending is the only way.
Maggie
February temperatures in Los Angeles remain as cool as January. If we’re lucky, there might be a little less rain and slightly more sunshine.
That is if we’re lucky.
Lately, we haven’t been lucky.
The forecast calls for more thunderstorms and colder temperatures. Not exactly my favorite weather, but there’s a silver lining. Much to my delight, this has me breaking out my boots for work, the flat, comfortable ones that zip to right below my knee.
For clothing, I decide on a figure-hugging pencil skirt and a tight black V-neck silk blouse with bell sleeves. Very matchy-matchy, but still I like it.
While brushing my hair, I pull it back, and then let it fall, deciding to wear it straight. Yes, I know he likes it down, and yes, I’m leaving it down for that very reason.
Finally, I slip on one of Makayla’s signature crystal gemstone necklaces. I chose the desert rose because it signifies all things possible.
Cross your fingers that it works.
Besides, he owes me one freak-out.
It’s a little before seven thirty, and I decide to head on out. This will help me mentally prepare myself to see him, and all his hotness.
In addition, I can go over my speech again. Although I really haven’t finalized even the first few words.
Crap.
Pulling my suitcase behind me, I open my door, and suddenly everything I worried about all night and morning disappears.
Just like that.
Because there he is, leaning against one of my pillars, with two cups of coffee in his hands, looking like he just walked off the runway.
Black and white never looked so good.
Black suit.
White shirt.
Funky black and white tie.
Simple and yet smoking hot.
A Simon Warren, I can tell.
I want to lick him, and I haven’t even apologized.
I’m so screwed.
But then a slow, easy smile turns up the corners of his lips and my heart melts a little. Mind you, my heart has never melted. Somehow that smile says it all, and I know in my gut that everything is going to be all right.
“Maggie.” His voice is warm and gooey caramel, smooth and yummy.
“Keen,” I say, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. No need to overwhelm the guy. “You’re early.”
With my body a trembling bundle of nerves, I find that I’m struggling to get myself, my raincoat, umbrella, suitcase, and oversized purse out the door.
With his eyes devouring every inch of me, he sets the coffees down on the porch railing, and I swear the air crackles as he rushes toward me. “Hey, let me give you a hand.”
The Maggie of yesterday would have scoffed at the thought of Keen Masters helping her. The Maggie of today can play the damsel-in-distress card if it means gaining empathy. “Yes, that would be great. Can you grab—”
Just then he reaches for my suitcase and as soon as our hands connect, a zap of electricity whispers wicked promises for the night. “What is all this, anyway?” he asks, although it comes out much more mumbled as the first signs of thunder boom in the distance.
The wind picks up and I feel like I’m talking too loud. “I’m going to stay at my mother’s tonight. The early morning flights are killer, and staying in West Hollywood shaves an hour off the morning commute to LAX.”
He wheels the suitcase to the top of the steps. “Great idea. I’ll grab my stuff before we leave and get a hotel for the night.”