One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One Book 3) by Ainslie Paton

Author:Ainslie Paton [Paton, Ainslie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Supervised by Cats
Published: 2020-06-17T23:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t a crier. It simply wasn’t the first thing Mena thought about doing when she was sad or angry, hurt or overwhelmed. She was more likely to throw something or buy new lingerie she didn’t need, but her throat was tight, and her eyes were wet, and there was an uneasy swirling in her chest that felt a lot like she was about to break the pattern of her adult lifetime and sob.

Grip was mayhem for her heart.

He couldn’t simply say things like that and expect her to deal.

She’d gone home from breakfast with Vera and gotten herself ready for a dirty weekend, excitement buzzing in her body, and then on the drive over, talked herself into ending things between them before it got any more compromising. She’d rehearsed the words. It was the smart, rational thing to do. He’d understand. He wasn’t a spoilt child. He must’ve already been thinking they were done. The knots inside her stomach had untied.

And then he opened the door to his stunning home on a cliff by the sea with absolutely no clue what seeing him shirtless did to her.

It took her good intentions and bear-hugged them out, and her shaky resolve and demolished it.

And it wasn’t entirely about the shirtlessness, or the way he bounced on bare feet at the sight of her, although that was the icing on a very desirable confection. It was what being in the same room with Grip made her feel.

Young, alive.

Whole in a way she hadn’t recognized she needed.

And now he’d opened every door and window in her house of deception and was waiting for her to walk on through with a smile on her duplicitous face.

Why did he have to care so hard so quickly, because they were never going to work out. Heels and sneakers. Hitting things and studying them.

He was a showman, performing for a crowd, and she was an analyst who worked quietly alone. He’d owned a monster truck and she leased a BMW. How could they possibly fit together with their clothes on?

He was a fantasy, the very best kind, revisited at a time when she’d needed a pick-me-up. If they spent too long together, she’d bore him, he’d irritate her, they had nothing at all in common. It was enough he was prepared to accept her resigning his account for some spurious reason. It was too much he drummed his fingers on her heart.

“Mena, honey, you okay?”

“So many bubbles, Grip.” She took his hand in hers and kissed each of his big knocked-about knuckles, “You make me dizzy,” each of his broad fingertips. He might not like what she had to say next and she was shocked to realize she loathed the idea of disappointing him.

“We have to come up with a reason for me stepping aside and it can’t be that we’re having sex.” She broke from his one-armed hug and the frame of his legs and put some distance between them, sitting on her shins to face him.

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