Breaking Stone: Bad Boy Romance Novel (8 page)

T
he car cruised
past me when I was almost back at the cottage. I stood on the road, watched the indicator blink and the tail lights disappear as it turned into Stone’s driveway.

I shouldn’t have cared, but I did. A guy was driving. Todd, I presume. There were at least two other women in the SUV. I was glad I hadn’t stayed. They’d have been smart and sexy, dressed in the hottest clothes. They’d have been characters from Stone’s books. I would have felt like the frump, the hired help. I would have felt like the nanny.

Everything I’d been feeling while having a drink with Stone vanished. His was a different world, and I was the unseen assistant behind the laptop who made stuff happen. What I wasn’t was the clever creative star, or part of that scene.

My thoughts returned to the comments on the Facebook page, and I imagined that Stone’s friend had picked up some of those women, delivering them with the takeout to the house.

Ugh. Totally not my scene at all.

It was after eleven when I went to bed. I spent the evening setting things up for the new FaithLit launch, but there was still more to do in the morning. Once in bed, I couldn’t sleep. I was up to Stone’s fourth book, and I flicked open my Kindle and began to read. I read slower this time, our earlier conversation influencing the way I approached the story.

This new partitioning of my life required a dual personality worthy of its own story.

From FaithLit to Filth: One Woman’s Descent to the Dark Side.

The first hookup took place on the third page. If my mother ever got hold of these books, she’d send me to a camp for reprogramming. Even worse was the fact that, yes, reading all that sex made me hot. I couldn’t deny it, but I knew I’d also be embarrassed tomorrow if I thought about
that
scene when I was in Stone’s company.

The hero spanked the girl’s ass, and she’d loved it. I don’t think I’m prudish, which is probably the sign of a full-blown puritan, because no regular person even goes along the ‘I’m not a prude’ track. Even worse, as I lay there trying to sleep, I imagined myself in that scene, just the way Stone predicted his readers did. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be creating a fake Facebook profile and joining the comment fest on his page.

The next morning, I found Stone’s house looking like the aftermath of a frat party. The SUV I’d seen as I walked home the evening before was still parked in the driveway. Stone had given me a key, so I let myself in through the front door. Somewhere in the house, the shower was running. The patio was littered with bottles and cans. Abandoned glasses held dregs, a saucer overflowed with cigarette butts, and a skimpy piece of clothing hung over the back of the chair I’d occupied the previous afternoon.

This had all the evidence of Stone living up to his reputation.

On autopilot, I gathered bottles and glasses, ignoring the ugly pit that had opened in my chest. Stone’s behavior yesterday had been unlike him, and I’d bought into it, believing that his reputation was nothing more than a publicity stunt of soap-operatic proportions. Like one of his fangirls, I’d turned the time we spent sharing a glass of wine on the patio, the bike ride, and the lunch into something bigger that ended in a sex scene worthy of one of his stories. Worse, I’d given the potential of
us
a lifespan beyond the forty-odd days we were destined to spend together.

Yes, I’d spent a moment in the small hours thinking about us doing things together
next year!

And what woman wouldn’t? Everything he did was with an air of masculinity, peppered with testosterone—the sharp glint of his gray eyes, the dimples, the hard, well-proportioned body, and most of all, the don’t-give-a-fuck confidence. It was dizzying stuff, and if he could package it in an aerosol can to spray around, the guy would make a fortune.

I resolved to shut down all of my stupid thoughts. I was a realist who’d suffered a brief short-circuit, but I’d rewire and get on with the job I was being paid to do.

I’d get the book out of Stone and move on to big things.

In the kitchen, I poured dregs from glasses into the sink, scraped food off plates, and loaded up the dishwasher. The benches were littered with takeout containers, unused napkins, and spilled food. It was clear the guests had come to party, but not to clean.

I found a trash bag and filled it, then all I had to do was wipe the benches, find the recycling bin for the bottles, and start making coffee.

“This must be Poppins.”

I tried not to groan. The male LA accent was backed up by a female giggle.

“I want a Poppins, too,” the girl added. Her voice squeaked like a fifties B-grade starlet.

Best morning ever. I’d now become a stupid joke.

“Haven’t I popped in you enough, Cleo?”

Yuck. I turned in time to catch an ass-grab that almost lifted the starlet’s tiny skirt to her waist. Any higher, and I’d see what the guy, who I presumed was Todd, had eaten for breakfast.

“I’ll make coffee in a moment,” I said. “And by the way, the name’s Katrina.”

Todd came over and shook my hand, introducing Cleo, who barely looked legal or properly clothed. They settled themselves on the barstools at the kitchen island like they were at a diner waiting for the menu. I hoped they didn’t expect breakfast. Taking care of Stone was one thing. Cooking for guests was not in the job description. They could head into town if they wanted food.

I fired up the coffee machine, hoping Stone would soon be through so that I could escape to my office. Todd wanted his coffee black. He ordered without looking up from his phone. Cleo asked for a double-shot nonfat soy latte with no foam. I bet she was fun in the Starbucks queue. I made her coffee with milk, which was essentially what she’d requested without realizing it.

While I played barista, Cleo’s brain cells met as she tried to describe something she’d recently eaten. “My Mom’s got a new boyfriend.”

“Again?” Todd asked, tapping the screen of his phone.

“This one’s British. He brings her presents and flowers. Like, the other week, he bought her a Terry’s Chocolate Orange. It was chocolate, but it tasted like orange. I mean, it looked like an orange, except it was chocolate. A sort of chocolate and an orange. Isn’t that just so British?”

“Amazing,” Todd mumbled, his fingers skipping over the screen.

Cleo giggled. “I know, right? When I tasted it, I said to him,
Brian
—or was it Barry—
this is amazing!
”

They were clearly expecting table service, so I delivered their coffees, certain I’d hear the verdict while I fixed a coffee—double shot—for myself.

Todd expressed more gratitude than the coffee warranted, making me think his hangover was vast.

I waited for Cleo to taste hers. “It’s quite dry,” she said, screwing up her pert nose and licking the foam from her pink, glossy lips.

“You’re thinking of last night’s wine,” I muttered. I thought I was free to escape only to be surprised by the appearance of a Cleo clone, as if these women had been ordered up, same model, choose your own hair color. This one had jet black hair in contrast to Cleo’s stark platinum, but everything else looked and sounded pretty much the same.

Except she was wearing nothing more than a t-shirt I’d previously seen on Stone. Ouch.

“Where’s the big man?” She squeaked.

“Right here, babycakes,” Todd replied.

Cleo giggled.

Much more of this, and I’d hurl.

“Not you, hot Toddy,” she said, wrapping herself around him and doing something with her tongue in his ear. She eyed the coffee I’d just made myself.

“Is that for me?”

“Sure.” I put it down on the counter. “I made it just how you like it.”

The new girl frowned, then shrugged.

“This is Mindy,” Cleo said, pointing at her friend, “and this is Poppy.” Her finger swung in my direction.

“Katrina, pleased to meet you,” I said, fast and flat, turning the sentence into one long word.

“Is there honey in this? It doesn’t taste like it.”

Of course, honey in coffee. Why hadn’t I thought of it? “Two teaspoons,” I lied.

“Okay,” she chirped, and took another sip. “And what do you do, Katrina?”

At least she was taking an interest. “Brain surgery,” I replied. God, I was going straight to hell for this. I decided to forgo coffee in favor of peace in my office. “Help yourself to everything,” I said, gesturing toward the pantry and the fridge with a generous spread of my arms. Without waiting for a response, I turned to leave the kitchen, smacking straight into the stone wall of a certain man’s chest.

He grabbed my upper arms to steady me. “Poppins,” he said, his grin evil.

“Her name’s Katrina,” Mindy offered. At least someone paid attention.

I tried to pull from Stone’s grip, but he steered me backward from the kitchen and around the corner.

“Apologies for the mess and the morning guests. Todd was in no state to drive. Leave it all. I’ll clean up when they’ve gone.”

“Too late. It’s clean. You look a mess.” His hold was causing an awkward sensation in the pit of my stomach, but he didn’t take the hint to let go when I wriggled.

“Then you can clean me, too.”

“Sorry, not in the job description.” The sensation in my stomach became heavy. There’d been a shower scene in book four that involved two characters getting clean, dirty, then clean again.

“It’s an evolving document. I’ll make the necessary changes.”

I wriggled again. “You look as though you slept rough.” Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?

“Wound up like a cat on the armchair in the tower.”

“You didn’t,” I said.

“Those girls are insane. The shit they were suggesting even made me balk. I told them to hit the bedroom and I’d be with them as soon as I found my camera. Then I locked myself in the tower.”

It was probably bullshit, and even more, it was none of my business. “You’ve got work to do, Stone. Please tell me they’re not staying long.”

“I’ll get rid of them. Fuck, I destroyed myself last night. There are a hundred construction workers in my head trying to jackhammer their way out. Mice made a straw nest in my mouth overnight. You should have stayed and kept me sober, Poppins. I’ll get this lot on the road and hit the gym.”

“Words, Stone. In an order that makes a story. Try writing.”

“Fuck yeah, Poppins.”

“Stone?” Cleo/Mindy sounded plaintive.

I gave Stone a shove. “Go, the children need you.”

Of course I wanted to believe he’d slept alone, locked in the tower. Sadly, I honestly doubted Stone could remember anything that went on last evening.

I closed the door of my office and tried to calm the way my body had reacted to him. I checked his Facebook page. The fans were calling for more photos. About an hour later, the guests made a chaotic departure, and I gave it more time, then headed for Stone’s gym with my camera.

What I saw made my mouth dry. There were no complicated machines in this room. Just free weights, a large mat, a rope hanging from the ceiling, a ladder arrangement of bars against a wall, and one photogenic man wearing gym shorts and a lot of sweat. French doors were wide open to the garden. The place was a heady mixture of peace and strength.

Stone didn’t acknowledge me as he moved slowly through a series of yoga poses, each one more complicated than the previous. I didn’t want to disturb him, but I knew the fans would love the photos. I crouched near the mat, the garden as a backdrop, and started taking pictures.

Finally, he finished.

“You should do this with me. It’s very relaxing and excellent for hangovers.”

“I’m not the one with the hangover.”

“We can fix that tonight.”

I laughed and took more shots of Stone wiping his face with a towel.

“I’m surprised,” I said. “I thought you’d have a setup with a bunch of high-tech machines. But this is quite simple.”

“All you need is your body’s weight and gravity.”

I swiped through the images on my phone. “As evidenced by this.” I waved my phone at him. “I thought I’d put some of these up on your fan page.”

Stone patted a space on the bench beside him. “Let me see,” he said, reaching for the phone and scrolling through the images. “Don’t forget Instagram.”

What I wouldn’t forget was the scent and heat rolling off him.

He handed me back the phone with a smile. “You’ve got a good eye, Poppins. These are excellent. Use whatever you like.” He gave me a nudge. “Want to join me on the mat for some stretches?”

Oh, God, hot face, definitely turning pink. I glanced at the mat. It was huge and could easily fit two people. “I’m not really dressed for it.” I was wearing jeans, and they’d stretched to full capacity over my butt and thighs. I didn’t want to risk a split seam.

“Excuses, Poppins. Bring gear tomorrow.”

“It’s all back at my apartment.”

“There’s a store downtown that sells workout stuff, yoga gear, that sort of thing. We can grab you something this afternoon.”

“No...really.” It was bad enough sitting this close to Stone on the bench. Lying on a mat with him would not be a good idea.

“Come on, Poppins, you’re stalling. Do I have to write it into your job description?”

“That won’t be necessary.” I stood and took a few steps back from him, getting him into focus and taking a few more photos. In one of them, I caught him winking. I knew it would be perfect for his fans, but for a moment, I considered keeping it for myself. I spied the rope again. “What do you do with that?” I asked, pointing at it.

“Let me show you.”

I had him. What man didn’t enjoy showing off? I watched as he took a high grip with his hands, then looped the dangling rope around his leg. He was at the top in seconds.

“You’re going to have to do that again.” I stood behind him this time to get some images of his shoulder and back muscles. When he got to the top, he swung the rope and reached out for the chin-up bar, and he proceeded to perform a set of chin-ups before dropping to the ground.

“I like to monkey around,” he said, giving me the double-dimples.

“You’re fit.”

“It’s good for strength and stamina, especially when you spend a lot of your life in a chair.”