Her head fell back as she laughed and I desperately wanted to kiss her neck. I tensed my arms instead, holding her in the formal position.
“How about the rumba?” she asked. “Do you know how to rumba?”
“No,” I murmured. “It’s an unpopular style of dance at an all-boy school.”
“I can see why. The rumba is a dance of passion,” she explained, following my lead as I stepped back and to the side.
We weren’t dancing to music any more. I had no idea what was playing in the background. I was too busy following the way her red lips moved as she spoke.
“It’s a very slow, serious flirtation between partners on a dance floor,” she explained. “Like making love with your clothes on.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” I whispered.
She grinned, and I was gone. The pose I’d been struggling to keep disappeared as my hands slipped behind her and travelled south.
“The rumba step is compact and smooth,” she said, making no attempt to escape my wandering hands. “You need to roll your hips, like this.”
“This isn’t your first rumba, is it?” I sounded remarkably composed considering she was grinding against me with every sway of her hips.
She looked up. “Is it your first?”
“One of many firsts for me tonight.”
She suddenly looked deadly serious, leaving me to wonder what I’d said wrong.
“I wish I could trust you, Ryan,” she whispered. “Things would be so different right now.”
There weren’t enough words to reassure her that I wasn’t following my usual catch and conquer program, so I said nothing.
“You’ve been the perfect gentleman.” She patted my chest as if she was praising an obedient dog. “The bad behaviour has come from me.”
“Are you testing me, Bente? Seeing how far I’ll go before –”
“Not testing you,” she interrupted. “Just getting in first. That way I’ll have no one to blame but myself when I’m creeping out of your apartment at four in the morning.”
I dropped my hold on her and took a step back. I could hear the music in the background perfectly now, and found it irritating. I walked toward the stairs to switch it off, but my mouth got the better of me. I turned back midway. “I know I hurt you. I know it today and I knew it five years ago. But things are different now.”
“How?”
“Because I can admit to it.” The words came in a rush as I pushed for understanding. “I was glad when you left New York when you did – so freaking relieved you wouldn’t believe it.”
Her eyes gleamed in the muted light. She muttered some of the obscenities she’d screamed at the cab driver the day before.
“You’re not hearing me,” I said, throwing my arms wide. “I was glad you were gone because that meant I didn’t have to look you in the eye every single day knowing how badly I screwed up. I had no idea how to deal with you.”
“And what about now, Ryan?” she asked quietly. “Are you ready to deal with me now?”
“It doesn’t scare me any more.”
She looked to the ceiling. “What do you want?” She sounded exasperated. “Where do you see this going?”
I made the brave move of approaching her – slowly, in case she decided to throw a chair. “I have no idea; but I don’t want you to sneak out at four in the morning,” I told her. “I want more than that.”
She looked miserable. “You’re so smooth,” she muttered. “It’s like silk in the beginning. It’s the ending that’s rough.”
We stood inches apart, but I held off reaching for her. “It might never end,” I suggested. “For all we know, it could be smooth sailing forever.”
Finally she smiled – not blindingly – but enough to reassure me that I wasn’t in mortal danger. “I just don’t tru –”
I cut her off by wrapping my arms around her and pulling her in close. “You don’t have to trust me,” I said quietly. “You just have to trust yourself. You know things are different. That’s why you’re here.”
I considered kissing her but Bente beat me to it. She stretched up and kissed me instead, really truly kissed me.
“Number three,” she whispered, finally breaking free.
12. INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM
Bente
I listened to my inner voice and then bravely disobeyed it, prepared to accept whatever heartbreak followed. Ryan Décarie was a guilty pleasure – one that I’d never stopped liking, just stopped indulging in because it wasn’t good for me.
I kissed him a few hundred times before we paused for dinner and then a hundred times more when we got back to his apartment.
Being in Ryan’s apartment felt nothing like it had the day before. I wasn’t interested in checking it out. I was more interested in checking him out.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, wandering around the kitchen like he’d lost something.
I stood in the centre of the living room, clutching my tiny purse with both hands. “No, thank you.”
Ryan stopped the aimless drift and rested both hands on the counter. “I freaking adore that dress,” he declared.
I fanned out the bottom of the skirt. “This old thing?” My flippant comment was a sham. His driver had patiently waited outside Ivy’s house for half an hour while I’d pieced my outfit together.
“Actually, it’s more than the dress,” he amended. “I adore you in my apartment, in that dress.”
I wasn’t sure how I’d ended up here. A casual dinner with our nieces had somehow transitioned to kissing, lewd dancing and the offer of a nightcap at his place. I had to establish a line I wouldn’t cross, and I drew it. “I’m not staying.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I didn’t ask you to.”
I dropped my head, feeling slightly stupid. “No, you didn’t.”
“But if you want to,” he added, ambling toward me, “I have the perfect place to hang that dress.”
His arm slipped around my waist, drawing me close.
“I’m sure you have, but I’m not staying.” Even to my ears, it didn’t sound believable.
His lips brushed mine, spreading unbearable heat through my body. “I’ll call a cab then.”
“Yes, please,” I whispered.
“My phone’s on the counter.”
“You should get it then.”
“I should,” he agreed.
He didn’t get it. He got me instead, because my resolve went out the window about three seconds later when he kissed me again. Carefully set lines blurred, my red dress hit the floor, and we were both goners.
***
I’d expected an air of awkwardness the next morning. I’d even prepared for it. Ryan wasn’t going to get a chance to politely ask me to leave his bed because I was up before he even stirred. I was getting in first and cutting myself loose. The idea was to play it cool, thank him for the nice time, and lie about getting together again soon.
Once I was dressed, I sneaked into the adjacent bathroom to wash my face and sort out my rat’s nest hair. The top drawer of the cabinet didn’t make a sound as I slid it open. Finding a hairbrush was my objective, but curiosity side-tracked me.
The drawer was as neat as the rest of the apartment. I picked up a small bottle and studied the label closely. Even then, I was none the wiser as to what shaving oil was – but it sounded sexy as hell.
He had everything from hair products to moisturisers. Perhaps looking drop dead gorgeous took work.
The last thing to catch my eye looked like a big ChapStick. I pulled the lid off, checked it out and concluded that it was still a big ChapStick. “For people with big mouths,” I mumbled.
“Not really.”
I jumped, dropping it on the floor. The stick rolled across the tiles, coming to a stop at his feet.
Ryan picked it up, showcasing every muscle on his bare back as he stooped. It was an unfair move on his part. Thinking straight was hard enough without that kind of display.
&nbs
p; “It’s a styptic pencil,” he explained, rolling it between his fingers. “It’s good for healing shaving nicks.” He handed it back to me and I quickly dropped it back in the drawer. “Are you snooping on me, Bente?”
If anything, he seemed amused by the prospect.
“Do you know the definition of investigative journalism, Ryan?”
He folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “I’d like to hear yours.”
“It’s a form of journalism in which reporters deeply investigate a single topic of interest.”
“I’m all for deep investigating, Miss Denison,” he murmured in a low tone. “What would you like to know?”
My eyes darted between his eyes and his mouth. “Nothing.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve got you all worked out, pretty boy.”
“I’ve got you all worked out too,” he replied, taking a few slow steps closer to me.
“Really?” I asked dryly.
“Yes. You’re a shameless stickybeak.” The way he hummed the words against the side of my neck made defending myself impossible. “Are you done spying?”
“For now,” I mumbled.
“Excellent. We can get back to more important tasks, then.” He abandoned the mind-scrambling neck kissing and led me to the kitchen. “Sit,” he ordered, pointing at a stool. “Please.”
“You’re very bossy, Ryan.”
I wondered if he realised it. He was forever issuing orders. It should’ve been a quirk that grated on me, but it didn’t.
Ryan disappeared from view while he searched a low cupboard. “I don’t mean to be.” He popped back up, set a cast iron pan down on the counter and pointed at the stool again.
I gave in and sat down. “What are you doing?”
“You’re very inquisitive, Bente,” he teased.
“We make quite a pair then, don’t we?”
He smiled, and it was magnificent. “Oui, sweetheart. We do.”
“One night together and you’re calling me sweetheart?” I tried sounding appalled, but failed. “That’s a bit Fatal Attraction isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “No more Fatal Attraction than you snooping through the drawers in my bathroom.”
He had a point, so I changed the subject. “What are you cooking?”
Ryan walked to the fridge and peered inside. He seemed to be having trouble deciding, which was understandable. There was more food in his fridge than in the storeroom of his restaurant.
“How about something fancy?” He glanced at me. “Oeufs brouillés?”
“That sounds amazing.”
“You’re sure?” he asked, sounding worried.
I wasn’t sure about anything. I had no idea what it was, but he made it sound heavenly. “If it’s out of your league, I’ll settle for cereal.”
Ryan nudged the fridge door closed with his foot and carried an armload of ingredients to the counter. “Nothing is out of my league when it comes to cooking. I’m a fine chef,” he declared, dumping the food down in a heap.
“You like to cook?” The notion surprised me.
“No, I love to cook,” he corrected. “I’m actually more of a baker. I like to bake. Cakes are my specialty.”
I laughed, and then threw my hand over my mouth because it was inappropriate. “I’m sorry,” I replied. “It’s not funny. It’s actually very sweet.”
Ryan smiled crookedly. “It’s not common knowledge, Bente.” He grabbed a whisk from a drawer. “If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”
“Who would I tell?” I grinned. “All you’ve done is even the score. I told you about my Dirty Dancing addiction, remember?”
“I remember.”
“So we’re even.”
“Au contraire, sweetheart,” he crowed. “I’m still ahead.”
***
Oeufs brouillés wasn’t anywhere near as impressive as it sounds.
“Scrambled eggs?” I asked, staring at the plate in front of me. “I thought you were going to serve me something fabulous – like a plate of truffles infused with the laughter of a thousand babies.”
“That would be amazing,” he agreed. “Are you disappointed?”
I turned the plate in a full circle, pretending to study it. “No,” I had to admit. “Nothing about the past day has disappointed me.”
13. TRAIN WRECK
Ryan
Strange things were happening to me. I had a million things to do that day, and most involved getting Nellie’s back in order after my theatrics of the night before. But spending the morning with Bente was much more enjoyable. We sat at the kitchen counter, enjoying breakfast. Conversation flowed, and before I knew it, it was close to midday.
“I should be going,” she said, noticing me glance at my watch.
“Why?”
Bente carried the plates to the sink. “Because the day is slipping away. My sister is probably going out of her mind.”
Her sister was already out of her mind.
“How long are you planning to stay with Ivy?” I asked curiously.
She leaned against the counter. “It was supposed to be temporary but it looks like I’m in for the long haul now – at least until I can find a new job.”
I bit my tongue to stop myself offering her one. It would’ve been an insult. Bente wasn’t a server any more. She’d been a working reporter in Boston for a long time before coming home to New York. “I’m sure something will come up,” I said instead.
“Yes, I know it will,” she agreed, walking back to me, “but a great new job isn’t going to just fall in my lap, which is why I should be spending the day job hunting instead of hanging out with you.”
As soon as she was in reach, I swivelled the stool and grabbed her. “I don’t think you should leave,” I said quietly. “I want you to stay.”
She wedged her body between my legs. Her hand moved to the back of my head, raking her nails through my hair. “I have to leave some time, Ryan. There’s only so much sex two people can have before they die of exhaustion.”
Close enough to kiss her, I brushed my lips against hers. “Are you prepared to investigate that theory? I’d be happy to be your single topic of interest.”
Her body instinctively leaned, chasing my mouth. “I’m always up for a challenge, Ryan,” she murmured.
***
No one dies from an excess of sex. After two days of intensive research, we proved it. The investigative study might’ve been ongoing if not for the fact that real life kicked in.
Late on day one, Ivy started blowing up Bente’s phone, demanding to know where she was. By day two, her voicemail messages included threats of bodily harm so Bente had no choice but to return her call.
“I’m staying with a friend,” she uttered.
Even with a pillow over my head, I heard the reply. “You don’t have any friends,” Ivy roared. “You need to come home.”
I tossed the pillow aside and pulled the phone from Bente’s ear. “She’s not coming back, Ivy,” I said loudly. “Never, ever.”
That earned me a sharp elbow to the ribs. It was worth it just to sock it to her nasty sister. “Ryan, shush!” Bente hissed.
“Ryan? Ryan Décarie?” Ivy screamed. “You’re hooking up with Ryan Décarie?”
I couldn’t help smiling. I hadn’t seen the woman in years; obviously I’d made a lasting impression.
Bente sat bolt upright, taking the sheet with her. “I’m not hooking up with anybody. I’ll be home this afternoon.”
I tried talking her out of it by kissing a line across her back. She wriggled but kept talking. “You need to get a grip, Ivy.”
“Ryan Décarie?” her sister spat. “You’re the one who needs to get a grip.”
Bente barked a few choice words and ended the call. She tossed her phone on the bed and flopped back. I took immediate advantage, kissing a new line along her collarbone. “I don’t think she likes me,” I noted between kisses.
“Not so much,” she agreed. “I wish we could hide out here forever.”
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“We can,” I hummed into the hollow at the base of her neck. “Let’s do it.”
Her body trembled beneath me as she laughed. That was reason enough to stay in bed forever.
“It’s alright for you,” she said, giggling. “No one’s chasing you.”
“You’re right. That’s actually pretty sad,” I lamented. “I could be dead on the floor, and no one cares.”
Bente shuffled from beneath me and reached for my phone on the nightstand. “Here.” She held it out to me. “Do you need to call a friend?”
I silenced her with a kiss, but I did take the phone. When I turned my head to check the screen for missed calls, she groaned. “I didn’t mean now, Ryan.”
The screen was one long log of messages. I’d been missing call after call for two days because I’d switched my phone to silent. “This isn’t good,” I muttered, laying my head back on the pillow.
Bente propped herself up on one elbow. “Something wrong?”
I dropped the phone back on the nightstand. “I have to go into work,” I told her. “My restaurants are going to the dogs. If I stay away much longer, someone will add coleslaw to the menu.”
She sighed. “So this is how it ends.”
I swept her hair off her shoulder. “It’s been nice knowing you.”
“That’s it?” She huffed out a husky laugh. “That’s all I get?”
I curved my hand around her waist and rolled her on top of me. “I’ll give you much, much more if you stay.”
“No, I have to go too.”
I put my hand to her cheek and she leaned into my palm. “Pack your stuff and move in here,” I blurted. “Or better yet, I’ll send someone to do it.”
Her flash of surprise matched mine perfectly. It was a ludicrous suggestion. I’d never lived with a girl in my life; except my mother, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t count. “Forty-eight hours,” she choked. “We’ve known each other forty-eight hours.”