Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(6)

I smiled when it landed on the subject of said thoughts. Darren.

He’d followed me halfway down the darkened alley. Then he’d “rescued” me from two guys I definitely could’ve handled, or at least my self-defense instructor and I bravely thought so.

The scratching sound resumed, followed by a pitiful high-pitched cry. I groaned and shoved up off the couch. When my bare feet left plush carpeting, they met cold porcelain tiles in—of course—another shade of white. White marble covered the countertops. A white apron-style country sink sat below a window draped with white sheer linens.

I opened the back door and let the little guy in. “Hey, munchkin.”

In trotted a teenaged calico kitten as if he owned the place. While he prowled the inside perimeter, I opened the fridge, grabbed a carton of milk, and poured it into a saucer. The little devil launched onto the counter, nudged his head in, and began lapping away before I had a chance to put the saucer down on the floor.

Laughing, I ran my fingers down his silky short coat. “At least one guy wants what I’m offering.” Strong purrs vibrated under my fingertips. I stroked him twice more before I put the carton back into the fridge. Then I hunted human liquid fuel. The caffeinated kind.

After a few shakes, a pour, and a switch flipped, the coffeemaker began brewing a strong dose of morning medicine. Drips and sizzles filled the silence while I stared over the counter, back into the living room.

The muted color, or absence thereof, did have a calming effect. Cleared my head, in a way. Helped me begin to analyze the bewildering crash-and-burn that had happened last night.

It didn’t matter a great deal that Darren had rejected me outright. Just threw me a little. I’d never had to offer myself up on a platter like that.

But in those last moments, a spark was there. At least I’d thought so.

Maybe it said something that I’d strayed outside of my usual type. Sure, he was drop-dead gorgeous, but even with the pretty face, he was different: a little edgier and much quieter. And yeah, his body drew my eye, but the lines were lean and muscular, not bulked out from too much weightlifting for sports.

Music suddenly streamed from inside my purse on the edge of the counter, playing Ariana Grande’s “Focus”—Kendall’s ringtone. I leaned over, grabbed my phone from my clutch, then hit the control button. “Yyyello.”

“So how was the ride?” she teased.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Redirection sounded better than “nonexistent.”

“Well, duh. That’s why I’m calling.”

I snorted. “When have you ever known me to kiss and tell?”

“Never. In fact, this is the first time I’ve ever seen you into a guy. I was beginning to wonder if you played for the other team.”

With all the luck I’d had last night—with all that I’d ever had—maybe I should’ve begun to wonder myself. “Well, don’t get used to it. There’s a reason my love life is classified.”

My family was under the impression my very private personal life had to do with the traditional Michaelson gauntlet that suitors had to survive before being stamped as “acceptable” by our clan. That was part of it—even though most of their scrutiny was really playful teasing. But no one knew the real reason I’d kept my personal life under wraps. And I planned to keep it that way.

A heavy sigh sounded out over the phone, seconds before a low grunt. She’d probably plopped herself onto her overstuffed couch. The crinkling of plastic told me she had a bag of chips. A loud crunch followed.

“Nothing? Can’t even feed your girl a breadcrumb?”

“Damn.” I whistled low, intent on diversion. “We cannot let this appalling info leak out. The Michaelson girls are sounding really hard up.”

“We are,” she groaned.

“Sad.” But apparently true. The coffee maker chirped. I opened a cabinet, pulled out a mug, and poured myself a cup as I considered her request.

“Okay.” She wants a breadcrumb? “The instant he touched me” —my mind flashed to his finger on my lips— “my body burst into flames.”

“Ugh!” I heard a slap and imagined her palm smacking her forehead. “Cheap tease!”

I grinned. Then I blew out a measured breath through pursed lips, remembering how my first intimate contact with Darren actually felt—more like a slow-burning fuse that crackled and popped along my nerve endings.

Damn. Why couldn’t he be a good, typical, hormonal guy like all the others? Take the bait. Lay the girl. Be happy when she nudges you out the door before morning and doesn’t ask for your phone number.

“You asked.” I felt zero remorse.

“Fine. But one of us must get laid sometime this century or people will start talking.”

“About us not having sex?”

“Sure: Those Michaelson girls are such nonsluts.”

Suppressing a smile, I blew on my coffee. “Mmm-hmmm. The country club membership committee? They no longer represent our standards, simply not hussy enough for us.”

Her voice developed a throaty high pitch, lilting with a foreign accent. “The antithesis of promiscuous.”

“Our critics are now British?”

“Sure.” Another crunch sounded. “Mary Poppins. Pygmalion.” She mumbled around food in her mouth.