Red. (Den of Mercenaries #1)(20)

“I—sure.” She didn’t think she could have walked away if she tried. “What’s up?”

“What are you doing after work?”

She swallowed, the sound loud even to her own ears. “I’m…uh…well, nothing. Just home, I guess.”

When had she turned into this stuttering mess? Like she had never talked to a guy before?

“Come home with me then.” He said that without blinking or stuttering, and making sure she understood just how serious he was.

Since they weren’t busy, she didn’t mind sitting with him, actually found that she enjoyed being in his presence, even if he didn’t reveal much. As the statement and the implications of it hung between them she had no idea how to respond. She wasn’t even sure there was a correct way to respond to that.

But after a second, she found her voice. “What are you asking for?”

The question was whispered, almost as though she was afraid that their conversation might be overheard. Before he could answer, as she was finally accepting what he had asked moments before, she knew, as any woman would, exactly what he wanted.

“One night,” he said, his gaze like a physical caress as it swept over her from head to toe and back again. “Or two.”

A flush of heat swept through her at the dark promise she saw in those blue eyes of his. No one had ever looked at her that way before, like she was utterly, and completely, desirable.

Like she was the only thing he wanted to taste…

His offer was tempting—he was tempting—but she could never agree. She didn’t think she could do a one-night-stand, not even two nights, because she knew how it would end. Even if he made her crave one with him just by the way he was staring.

Reagan already liked him. He was charming in his own way, polite, if not reserved, and possibly one of the most attractive men she had ever seen. Sex would only complicate it, make her believe in something that probably wasn’t there.

Shaking her head before she could conjure the thoughts that would make her give in, she said, “I have to get back to my other tables.”

She wouldn’t outright refuse him—even she couldn’t bring herself to do that—but if he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Yet before she could get away, he caught her wrist, his hold gentle, and she didn’t doubt for a second that if she attempted to pull away, he would let her.

The index and middle fingers he had pressed against the pulse point in her wrist was warm, almost too warm, but that only made her far more aware of his hold.

With his other, he pressed something into her hand, curling her fingers around it before she could see what it was. He still held her as he stood.

“For when you change your mind,” he explained, finally releasing his hold on her as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the exit.

Looking down, she opened her hand and found a plastic key, the name of a hotel she was familiar with inscribed on it, along with a room number.

He hadn’t said if she changed her mind, but when.

As she tucked the key away, she wondered how long it would be before she caved.



* * *



The next night, Reagan stepped out of the shower after scrubbing herself raw to get rid of the old hamburger and grease smell that clung to her skin whenever she worked at the diner. She was trying unsuccessfully to keep her thoughts from Niklaus, but that was nearly impossible considering how frequently he was on her mind.

He hadn’t been back in the diner since the night before, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t looked for him every chance she got, her gaze straying to the doors whenever the bell chimed. And with each person that walked in and wasn’t him, she had been a little more disappointed.

He shouldn’t have mattered.

That was the crazy part about it all.

A couple of conversations, and the fact that he was extremely nice to look at, shouldn’t have meant that he was seared into her brain, and worse, starring in her dreams.

Back in her bedroom, Reagan slathered on lotion, tying her wet hair up into a bun to keep it out of her face. And as she was reaching for a pair of ratty old sweatpants and the t-shirt she usually wore to bed, she heard the first mutterings.

That was how it usually started--soft voices carrying through the thin walls of their apartment. As the alcohol continued to flow, the pitch rose, and very soon, there would only be the sounds of yelling and things breaking.

There was a time when her father’s drunken rages used to frighten her, making her curl into a ball in her room as she waited it out. When he had begun breaking their belongings, smashing glasses against walls, she had called Jimmy in a rush, afraid of what their father would do next. It was only after a number of times that Jimmy intervened, and she had run out thinking to protect her mother, that she realized even in his drunken madness, he still would never hit his wife.

Yeah, he screamed bloody murder for hours.

Yeah, he broke what few possessions they had, and when they were replaced, he broke those as well.

But he had never put a hand to his wife.

For that reason, Reagan still felt a touch of pity for the old man…but not much.

Especially not tonight.

More than once she had wished she was living a different life, away from the sheer craziness that was her own.

And tonight, she decided, she wanted something different.

Tonight, she wanted to pretend the Reagan who worked crazy hours and came home to a broken family didn’t exist.