Diary of a Bad Boy(79)

“Anytime.” She gives me a brief smile before walking in the opposite direction to another waiting vehicle.

Before moving toward Roark, I give Whitney a second to get in her car so I can have more of a private moment with the man I’ve been pining after.

As Whitney’s car disappears, I make my way to Roark, who hasn’t moved a muscle since sticking his hands in his pockets. A few feet from me, he smiles softly and reaches his hand out. I take it immediately and let him pull me into his strong body. His grip falls to my hip as I loop my hands around his neck, my suitcase abandoned behind me.

“Hi,” I say shyly.

“Hey lass.” With his free hand, he strokes my cheek while staring into my eyes. “I didn’t think Whitney would be on the plane.”

“Me neither.”

Worry in his mossy eyes, he asks, “Everything okay?”

I nod. “She said she wouldn’t say anything and I should be careful of your Irish accent. Said it could be lethal.”

“Yeah?” He smiles. “I think she’s a smart woman. It is lethal.”

“I know.” Standing on my toes, I thread my fingers through his hair and push up toward him. “Kiss me,” I whisper, so close to his lips.

Smiling, he closes the rest of the space between us and presses a sweet kiss to my lips, melting me in his arms. Even though it’s only been a week, it feels like it’s been forever since I’ve seen him, since I’ve been able to taste his mouth on mine, and now that we’re together again, I want nothing more than to spend the next three days lounging in his apartment—or mine—naked and doing nothing but exploring one another.

I like the idea so much that when he pulls away, I say, “What are you doing over the next three days?”

He smiles and runs his hand up my back. “You.”

Giddy, I pull him to the car before grabbing my suitcase and say, “My place or yours?”

He taps his chin and says, “Tuna can or luxury suite? Hmm . . .”

“My place is not a tuna can.”

“I can make it from your bed to the bathroom in four steps.”

“Your legs are long.”

“Your apartment is tiny,” he counters. “We’re going to my place, end of story. Plus, we need to try out those new sheets. They were put on the bed today.” He helps me into the car and presses a kiss to my forehead before pulling me into his side and holding on to me, not once letting me go as we make our way through the city to his apartment. Excitement and anticipation bubbles inside me.





“Are you sure you didn’t want to stop at your place to pick up any of your things?” Roark asks as we make our way up the elevator to his apartment.

“Anything I need is in my bag, plus I don’t plan on wearing many of my clothes.”

He raises his brows. “Are you planning a sex-a-thon in that pretty head of yours?”

“Maybe.” I bite on my bottom lip. “Isn’t that what you were planning?”

The elevator doors part, and he rolls my bag behind us as we make our way into his apartment. “You don’t even want to know what I’ve been planning.”

Once in the living room, he turns toward me, sweeping me off my feet into his arms . . . as someone pops up from the couch and scares the crap out of both of us.

“I fucked up everything,” he shouts, arms flying out to the side.

“Jesus, Bram,” Roark says, gripping me tightly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

A blond-haired man in torn red sweatpants and a soft, cashmere sweater approaches, looking a little crazy, despite his incredibly handsome face and piercing blue-green eyes.

He pulls on his hair that looks like it’s been through a wrestling match with his hand. “I messed it up, man, everything. All my hard work went straight down the shitter.” He glances my way and plasters a kind smile on his face, as if he isn’t about to jump off a cliff. “Bram Scott, you must be Sutton.”

Roark sets me down. I take Bram’s hand in mine and say, “Nice to meet you.”

He shakes my hand and then turns back to Roark, panic in his eyes. “What the fuck do I do?”

Annoyed, Roark answers, “Well since I have no clue what the fook you’re talking about, I don’t know.”

“The proposal, I messed up the proposal.”

Ooo . . . if he’s talking about a marriage proposal—from the sight of him, I’m going to guess that’s what it is—that can’t be good.

Taking a step back, I say, “You know, I think I’ll give you guys some time to yourselves.” Roark’s grip on me tightens.

“You’re not going anywhere. Bram can leave.”

“I need your help,” Bram pleads, and I actually feel really bad for him.

“Go see Rath. He’s her brother, after all. What better person to help you than her brother?”

“I did, but he’s with a girl.”

Roark gestures to me. “What the fuck do you think I’m doing right now?”

Giving me a soft smile of acknowledgement, he says, “But you’re still fully dressed, so in my head, it’s fair game.”

Chuckling, I say, “He has a good point.”

Roark shoots a look in my direction. “Don’t agree with him.”