Cav doesn’t listen. Instead he steps closer, crowding me into the tiled corner. “Are you sure that’s what you really want, baby girl? Because I think you’d rather I pin you to this wall and fill that perfect little pussy over and over until your screams bounce off these walls. I think you want me to help you forget that piece-of-shit loser who came before me. I can wipe him away, Greer. You’ll never remember any cock but mine. Never remember any orgasm as good as the ones I’m about to give you.”
The vision of what he described comes to life in my mind, and dammit, I want that. I want him. I want to forget the frenzied thoughts warring in my head. Maybe, just maybe, for once in my life I can stop thinking and go with what feels right.
Except the last time you did that with him, you got burned.
Sitting alone on the Top of the Rock, waiting for Cav to show. And he never did. The hair, makeup, and everything else I spent an entire day preparing for that one night . . . for nothing. And I never heard a word from him again.
He walked away then, which means he can easily walk away now.
I shake my head. “Go. Please. This was a huge mistake.” The words grate against my throat, sounding as forced as they truly are.
I keep my eyes lowered to the side, counting the tiles on my shower wall rather than meeting his gaze. When he doesn’t move, I squeeze them shut and wait.
Another cold rush of air signals his exit. Because that’s what Cav is good at—leaving.
I stay in the bathroom for much longer than I need to, killing time because I don’t want to face what I’ve done. Five minutes, that’s about how long it took for me to let a guy I hadn’t seen in years fuck me. No explanation. No discussion. Just sex.
I would call myself a slut, but I don’t believe in double standards.
And then there’s the small matter of the fact that we didn’t use a condom. I will call myself an idiot because that’s the absolute truth. I’m on the pill, but I don’t know where Cav has been. If there’s any truth to the tabloids, I just fucked half of Hollywood. Ick.
Right, so doctor’s appointment next. And then I’m going to get to work on the case I snatched out of my office. I’ve spent two days in a woe-is-me pity party, and it’s time to get my ass in gear.
Feeling better about my decisions, I blow-dry my hair and apply my makeup. Finally looking less like a homeless waif who found her way into my apartment, I enter my bedroom through the connecting door to find clothes. Part of me wonders if I’ll find Cav sprawled out there, waiting for round two, but that would be a no. Grabbing a clean pair of leggings, a bra, and a T-shirt, I quickly toss them on.
I’m stepping out of my bedroom when I hear the sounds coming from the kitchen.
No. Way.
That’s my first thought when I see Cav sliding an omelet onto one of my plates.
“Hash browns are almost done. Hope you’re hungry.”
I must have stepped into an alternate universe. Because that’s the only explanation I have for the fact that Cav is cooking breakfast in my kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my question ridiculously obvious and dumb.
“I’m hungry. Didn’t take the time to grab any food before I came.”
Okay, time for an awkward reality check.
I drop a hand to my hip and lift my chin. “Speaking of coming, do you have anything I need to be worried about? I mean, I’ll still get checked and I’m on the pill, but it’d be good to know what I’m walking into.”
Cav shakes his head as he lifts the hash browns out of the pan and onto the plates. “I would think you’d know better than to believe every damn thing you read in the tabloids, Greer. I might be a dick, but I’m not a total manwhore. You hungry?” He finally looks at me when he holds out the plate.
I don’t know what to say as I take the plate from him besides, “Thank you.”
Yes, definitely alternate reality. I’m sitting at the bar in my kitchen with Cavanaugh Westman beside me, and we’re eating omelets and hash browns. How the hell did this happen?
And of course, the ridiculous girl inside me says, This isn’t exactly a story we can tell our grandchildren about how we reunited.
We are not having grandchildren, Greer! We’re having no children. We’re not even a we.
I keep sneaking sideways glances at Cav as we eat. His jawline is covered in just enough scruff to make me wonder what it would feel like against my thighs.
Abort, Greer. Abort. I’ve got to stop thinking that way about him.
Memories from the first time I spotted him filter through my brain . . .
Who is that guy? His navy blue work pants fit his thick thighs and tight ass to perfection. Every other man I’d ever seen in those kind of pants—the ones with the bar code patch on the waistband for the cleaning company to scan that peeked out from beneath a heavy canvas belt—had a flat man-ass or a plumber’s crack that no one ever wanted to see.
But not this guy. The blue-gray work shirt made his eyes appear steel gray. The sleeves were rolled up over thick, corded forearms, revealing words inked along his golden-brown skin.