Best Friends With the Billionaire(11)

…

As Kirk put his Aston Martin into gear and drove off, Cassie uttered a half groan half splutter from the passenger seat.

“Oh my God!” She clutched at her hair. “I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for hours and now I want to scream my head off.” She flicked on the A/C and leaned her flushed face toward a vent. “How can you sit there looking so calm? Aren’t you glad it’s over?”

“It wasn’t that bad. I’ve had worse.”

“I have to apologize for my mom. Her family was rich once, and she grew up expecting to be rich, too, but my grandpa lost all his money, and my mom has never really adjusted to her plebeian status. I hope she didn’t embarrass you with her questions.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Kirk hadn’t cared about Audrey’s inquisitiveness, but he did care about her apparent indifference toward Cassie. At times it had verged on dismissiveness. Didn’t she realize what a fantastic daughter she had? And Lillian was just as bad, but she obviously took her cue from her mom.

“I can see why you never want to talk about your family,” Kirk continued. “But you don’t need their approval. They haven’t earned the right to judge you.”

Cassie shrugged. “That’s why it was easy to ignore them when I was younger, but it’s different now. I want to get along with them.” She ruffled her hair again, making it even more untidy. “Oh, let’s forget about them. Where are we going?”

“Home, I thought.”

“I don’t want to go home. I need to blow off some steam before I’ll be able to sleep.” She snapped her fingers, turning to him eagerly. “Let’s stop by Emilio’s place for a drink. I’m sure something’s happening over there tonight.”

Emilio was one of their old college friends who owned a string of bars and nightclubs. It was at his newest bar in North Beach that Kirk and their friends had met Cassie the previous week to welcome her back to San Francisco.

Kirk lifted his eyebrows at her request. “You sure you want to go there now?” Cassie wasn’t an all-night rager, and neither was he.

“One drink, that’s all.” She beamed at him. “Please?”

Kirk blinked, momentarily distracted by her smile. Cassie really had the sweetest smile. He’d forgotten how it lit up her entire face.

“Okay,” he replied.

For a Tuesday night, Emilio’s bar had a decent crowd. They made their way to the counter where Emilio was helping out his bartenders. He shouted out a greeting to them and poured them a couple of beers. Music played, but not too loudly. The clientele were mostly small groups of friends out for a relaxed drink rather than raucous partying.

Kirk finished his beer then visited the restroom. When he returned, a man was talking to Cassie. The stranger stood next to her bar stool, one arm propped up on the counter, leaning over her. He was well-groomed, probably in his thirties, and the way he was blocking Cassie off from the rest of the crowd indicated he was definitely interested in her.

Kirk stopped dead in his tracks. A strange, barbed feeling twisted in his gut as he stared at Cassie, trying to gauge her reaction to the dude. She sat straight, legs crossed, looking up at the guy hitting on her, and the small grin on her face said she wasn’t exactly discouraging him. Why the hell did she have to smile at him like that?

As he watched, Cassie straightened her Giants T-shirt, and the movement drew his attention to her breasts. He’d never studied her breasts before, but now he couldn’t help noticing they were round and firm and generous. He found himself noticing other things about her, like the soft fullness of her lower lip, the thick sweep of hair brushing her eyes, the curve of her upper thighs encased in denim.

The prickling in his gut intensified and rippled through his limbs. His fingers spasmed, and the muscles in his back contracted. Heat sparked and bloomed in him and spread to his groin in a hot, inexorable tide.

Shit, what was going on with him? He was staring at Cassie—leering at her—like a man who’d just gotten out of prison. Why hadn’t he ever noticed how sexy she was? Not glaringly sexy, not in a pouty, mincing, cleavage-thrusting way, but in a subtle, fresh, natural way, a way that snuck up and hit him on the head like a sledgehammer.

He rubbed the back of his neck, confused and dismayed by these novel sensations. How could he be turned on by Cassie now, after all these years? She was his best friend, she trusted him, relied on him. She’d never shown any amorous interest in him, not once in all the years they’d known each other. If she knew what was going through his head, if she knew he was sorely tempted to touch her, kiss her, run his hands all over her, she’d be horrified. Or frightened.

He couldn’t risk it. He’d already decided that he valued friendship over sex. Lust was transitory, and Cassie was too important to him to risk scaring her off. He had to forget how much he wanted to hold her.

The guy chatting her up let out a braying laugh, at the same time slipping an arm around her waist.

That does it! Kirk strode up to Cassie’s bar stool, jostling the man’s arm so it dropped to his side.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked Cassie, acting like the other man didn’t exist.

“Hey, dude, what’s your problem?”

Kirk kept his focus on Cassie. She glanced between the two of them, bewildered. “Uh, sure.” As she stood, she looked at the other guy. “Sorry, we have to go.”

“But I don’t have your number.”

Kirk’s lips tightened. “It’s 1-800-in-your-dreams,” he snapped before he took Cassie by the arm and ushered her out of the bar, barely pausing to wave good-bye to Emilio on the way.

Outside on the sidewalk, Cassie chuckled. “1-800-in-your-dreams? I’ve never had the opportunity to use that line before.”

Kirk blinked at her, struggling to get his ruffled emotions under control. He was still holding her arm, and he realized how close they were standing together. Close enough to smell her delicate, lemony scent. Close enough to see the flecks of umber in her eyes, the smattering of freckles across her nose, the denseness of her eyelashes. Her head was tilted up toward him, her face filled with bubbling amusement.

“Don’t tell me you enjoyed having that guy hit on you?” he asked, surprised at the gruffness in his voice.

“I don’t know. Guys don’t hit on me very often. They’re more likely to treat me like one of the guys than a hot chick.”

Guilt panged inside his chest. Yeah, that’s what he’d always done—viewed her as one of the guys instead of a woman with feelings and needs.

“So?” he asked, defensive. “That’s better than having to fight off sleazebags, isn’t it? Or being treated like a sex object.”

Her eyes grew large, and she became very still in his grasp. “Maybe…” She bit her lip. “Maybe once in a while I wouldn’t mind being treated like a sex object.”

Her husky, uncertain murmur sent a shaft of heat through him. His fingers tightened around her arm as his attention focused on her lips. Her mouth looked soft, inviting. What was she saying? That she wanted him to treat her like a sex object right now?

Before he knew it, he was pulling her closer. She let out a small gasp but did nothing to stop him. The night air between them throbbed with heat and suspense and a myriad of unanswered questions. His brain felt overheated. His body had taken over, and all he could think about was tasting Cassie’s mouth, touching her intimately, ripping apart the boundaries that demarcated their relationship.

His head dipped toward her. She quivered in his grasp. He was so close to having what he wanted.

But was that what he really wanted? If he kissed her, there was no going back. Once he stepped over the boundary, he couldn’t un-step it. Hesitation cooled the burning lust. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t risk losing Cassie with a stupid, ill-considered move brought on by a rush of illogical jealousy.

He released her arm so abruptly she stumbled back a pace.

“A sex object? You don’t mean it,” he said, his throat tight and rough. “You’re worth much more than that, so don’t you ever sell yourself short.”

She rubbed her upper arms, confusion clouding her face before she turned a little away from him, her hair shielding her expression.

“I was only chatting with the guy,” she muttered, sounding annoyed. “I was never going to give him my phone number.”

“Okay.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, disoriented, dissatisfied. “Next time I won’t interfere.”

They began walking back to his car, a good few yards between them, but to Kirk it felt like a yawning chasm.

…

Cassie tossed in bed, reliving the near-kiss that had ruined their night. Kirk had been so close to kissing her; if she’d only given him the slightest encouragement, it would have happened.

But she’d hung back. She hadn’t done anything. Because she was paralyzed by the memory of her first kiss with Kirk, an event he didn’t even recall.

It had happened two years ago, when she’d flown back to San Francisco following Alison’s death. She’d been shocked by Kirk’s gauntness, the hollowness in his eyes. He’d spent several long months nursing his wife, and the funeral on top of that had clearly taken its toll on him. Cassie had grieved for him, for Alison, and deep down, for herself, too, because she saw how much Alison meant to Kirk.