“You don’t deserve five minutes,” she bites off, making me smile again.
I don’t respond to that, but launch right into my explanation. It seems that the fair and beautiful Weatherly has a bit of a temper. “I asked you when I saw you in the tub that first day if you were a birthday gift.”
That gives her pause. I feel it in the way the supple muscle of her arm relaxes a little.
“Remember? And that’s all this was—a stupid birthday gift from my numb-nuts friend. Cher was just playing along. I didn’t touch her, I swear.”
“I saw you touching her.”
“Oh good God, you know what I mean. I didn’t touch her that way, nor did I have any intention of touching her. You can ask her yourself if you don’t believe me. I was right in the middle of trying to let her down without embarrassing her when you walked in.”
That gets another rise. Weatherly spins toward me. “Without embarrassing her? Without embarrassing her? I think she had more than embarrassed herself . . . quite sufficiently, in fact, by that point.”
“It was just a misunderstanding. No reason for anyone to get fired or beheaded or any dicks to be cut off. Because that’s what it looks like you’re thinking right now.”
I cover my junk with one hand.
Still no smile.
I see the indecision in her eyes, though. I see the rational, reasonable woman returning, although I love this hot-blooded one, too. I’m not normally a fan of jealous women, but for some reason, I find that I very much like this one.
“What the hell is going on out here?” William O’Neal bellows from the front steps.
My shoulders sag. Shit. I don’t even turn to look at him. I’m not worried about him right now. I’m worried about Weatherly.
“Don’t let this mess things up between us,” I tell her softly. “I had nothing to do with that. I swear it. I have no interest in her. Which will probably worry me later,” I add.
Weatherly’s brow furrows. “Worry you? Why?”
“Because I’m not in the habit of turning down hot women who throw their naked bodies into my arms.”
“Then why did you?” she asks, an edge returning to her voice.
“Because she’s not the hot woman I want. You’re the only woman I can even think about. I have no interest in touching anyone else. Touching or kissing or spending time with. I told you that you’ve bewitched me, and hell, woman! I meant it.”
“Why do you make it sound like such a bad thing?”
“Because I don’t like not being in control. And you make me lose control. You’re all I can think about. And every time I start thinking about you, I feel like I’m gonna lose my damn mind if I can’t get inside you. Or put my hands on you. Or press my mouth to yours.”
Her expression changes. I recognize the look. I see it the instant she goes from angry to hungry. Hungry for me, for what’s between us. I know it because I feel it, too. It’s all I can feel, it seems like. That should bother the shit out of me, but this woman is under my skin. Jesus Christ, how she’s under my skin. And I just told her as much, which is a first for me, something else that’s out of character for me. Then again, Weatherly O’Neal is proving to be all kinds of firsts in my life.
When I start to step closer to her, desire shifts back to concern. Her mouth cracks then closes, and then cracks again for her to speak.
“Don’t hurt me, Tag. I wanted to let go. I’m trying to let go, but I’m still not a woman used to this. To you.” Her eyes . . . they glisten with sincerity. With the soft plea. They’re trusting me to be a man of honor.
Guilt stabs me in the chest. Don’t hurt me, Tag.
She’s so honest, so vulnerable. I know it’s hard for her, which makes me admire her all the more. Most people aren’t brave enough to admit weakness. Maybe that’s why, on her, it doesn’t seem like weakness at all. Just courage.
I bring the tip of my finger to her trembling lower lip. “I swear on my life that I’ll do my best.”
And I will. I’ll do my best not to hurt her. I just hope to God I haven’t already broken that promise.
SEVENTEEN
Weatherly
What in the name of all that’s holy have I gotten myself into? I think as Tag reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together. It’s an intimate, comfortable gesture that two people who really are engaged might indulge in. But we aren’t. And I’m terrified that this ruse is going to start feeling too real. If it hasn’t already.
Tag brings our entwined fingers to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Let me bring you a no-longer-warm breakfast. Let’s start over. The right way. The way I intended for this morning to go,” he says, staring deep into my eyes. I feel myself falling helplessly into his stormy gaze. Falling, falling, falling until I’m lost in the tornado once more. He does it so effortlessly—pulls me in. It’s not all his fault, though. Part of the problem is that I find myself wanting to fall. Badly. I find myself wanting this to be real, wishing this could be my chance at happiness, happiness that has nothing to do with money or power or holdings or business. I want those things to be mine. All mine. I want Tag to be mine. That’s why it nearly leveled me to see him holding a naked woman in his arms.