Diary of a Bad Boy(50)
Adjusting his shirt, he walks back toward me and stops at the foot of the bed. Last night’s cologne clings to his clothes, wrapping me in warmth. Slowly, he reaches out and cups my cheek, lowering his head to mine, our foreheads connecting. He takes a deep breath and says, “Thank you for last night and for this morning. It meant a lot to me, Sutton.” Lifting his head, he presses a sweet kiss to my forehead, lighting me up inside, then he steps away, sticking his hands in his pockets as if to stop himself from touching me again.
“Think about the event. I’ll talk to you later. Have a good day, lass.”
With a parting wave, he lets himself out. Once the door is shut, I let out a disappointed sigh and lie back on my bed. What in the world happened in the last twenty-four hours? How did I become the person he came to when troubled? I feel like I was given a tiny entry into his world, but then just as swiftly pushed away. It’s so confusing. He is so confusing.
I have no will to really do anything. Roark confounds me, and there’s really no one I can talk to about this. I’m not heartbroken, but . . . concerned. Do I want to be the friend he turns to when none of the girls at the club do it for him? Gah. It’s a dull, gray day, making it perfect weather for me to have a lazy day, curled up in my bed watching movies. I’ve gone with a romantic comedy binge starting with How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days—that Kate Hudson is such a sassy character—then I moved on to When Harry Met Sally—where Billy Crystal sings Surrey with the Fringe on top, my favorite—and now I’m almost done with Crazy Rich Asians. God, the part where the girl walks down the aisle and it feels like time stands still as the water flows makes me cry every time.
Louise is curled on top of my lap, replacing the need for a weighted blanket. Who needs one when I have a sixteen-pound cat that does the trick?
Her purr vibrates against my hand with every stroke I make across her body, and as the movie plays, I can’t help but allow my mind to drift to last night. The intimacy I shared with Roark, the need I felt vibrating from him, but the iron-clad restraint he had—even when drunk—stopped him from taking that next step.
Unless he really doesn’t want to. I’ve seen the women he’s attracted to, and although he said he can’t stop thinking about me, I certainly don’t fit that mold. My dad is his client. It’s a hurdle, but I wouldn’t think a deal breaker. Dad thinks very highly of Roark, otherwise he never would have teamed us together for the camp. Our age? Such a non-issue. His family? I have no idea how much they ask for, nor why, but if Roark has been giving to them for all these years, why would he think dating me would make any difference? He’s allowed them to exploit him for years.
I guess the real question is, why is this a problem for me at all? Do I want something more with him? His reasons don’t seem insurmountable to me, so maybe I need to accept that there are self-erected barriers only he can remove should he wish to. Yes, I want to be intimate with him, because I’ve never known this sort of physical attraction in my life. He is right. I’ve never had an orgasm during sex with a guy. But something tells me it’s not just the lack of sex that frustrates me.
I want more from Roark McCool than hot sex. I want him, body and soul. Patience has never been my strong suit, and he’s testing my ability to sit back and let things play out. I keep reminding myself, every time I get frustrated, to take deep breaths and think about what patience could bring me. If I move too fast I might scare him away, and that’s the last thing I want. I also want his friendship . . . strangely.
Knock. Knock.
Louise stills on my lap and I carefully move her to the side, toss my blanket off my legs, and pad to the door to look through the peephole. My heart stutters in my chest when I see Roark standing on the other side of the door.
Excited, I unlock everything and open up. A smirk crosses his face as he gives me a quick once-over. I’m wearing purple thermal leggings and a matching top with my hair piled in a bun on the top of my head, and I’m not wearing an ounce of makeup. And from the way he’s looking at me, I’m guessing he likes it . . . a lot.
Leaning against the doorframe, hand on the door, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
He takes a step forward, hands behind his back. His cologne is the first thing to grab hold of my heart, next is the devastating smile that crosses his face as he brings a bag from around his back between us. “I got you something.”
“You got me something?” God, he makes me smile so hard.
“Yeah.” He nods at my apartment. “Can I come in?”
I step to the side, allowing him to breeze on in. Dressed in dark jeans, tan boots, and a black jacket, he spins around and hands me the gift as I shut the door.
I take it—it’s kind of heavy—and say, “Want to take your coat off?”
He sticks his hands in his pockets and shakes his head. “I’m not staying, just dropping that off.”
I hide my disappointment as I walk over to my bed and cross my legs, letting the present rest in my lap. Still in the middle of the room, Roark keeps his distance but watches intently as I start to pull the tissue paper from the bag. “Did you wrap this yourself?”
“Would it impress you if I said I did?”
“Maybe.”
He smiles wickedly. “I paid someone to do it.”
That makes me laugh out loud. Of course he did. Shaking my head, I pull out a round object and start unwrapping it, unveiling a pink mug . . . with white polka-dots. I can’t seem to shake the smile that is permanently on my lips.