Do You Take This Man (50)

Lear leaned one elbow on the table and dragged an index finger over the inside of my wrist. “Sure. I know work comes first.”

I met his eye, enjoying his smiling expression and ignoring how the stroke of his finger on my wrist felt like foreplay. “It doesn’t always leave time for fun. Have to stay on top of everything.”

“You don’t have to explain, RJ. We’re not that different.”

“Yes. I mean, I’m more type A than you, but still . . .”

He tickled my wrist, making me yelp. “Take it back.”

“Never,” I said.

Our eyes met, both our smiles wide. The heat was rising between us, and my body tingled in anticipation. “Lear, I own three label makers.”

“That’s just prudent,” he said, snatching another chip from the bowl. “And kind of sexy.”

“My label makers are sexy?”

“Yeah.” He bit his lower lip, expression darkening. His eyes flicked to my lips, and I wondered if he’d kiss me there in the open. We didn’t kiss outside of sex. That had been my line to draw, because it felt wise and like a way to make sure we didn’t get confused. I wanted him to lean over and kiss me now, though. “Your custom tabs for each ceremony are enticing, so, yeah, I think your label makers are sexy.”

“Lear,” I said, lifting my arm to glance at my watch.

“You know, it’s considered rude to check your watch when a man is telling you things about you he finds sexy,” he said.

“We don’t have a lot of time.”

He stroked his finger along the inside of my wrist again. “We have forty-four minutes,” he said, not taking his eyes off me. “You think I didn’t check?”

My breath hitched at the soft touches. “You thought I wouldn’t double-check?”

“No, I knew you would.”

“If I didn’t need to get ready and review my notes, I’d say we could do our thing now,” I said, still enjoying the feeling of his fingertip tracing over my skin. I thought about the Mayfields. I’d been working that morning and again after arriving at the hotel, and the case was always on my mind. It was one of the biggest in my career, and the more involved I was, the more I wondered if I wasn’t a little like Dina Mayfield. She was to the point, confident, and logical. I wondered how she’d react to this position, if she’d lean into how good it felt, knowing it wouldn’t last.

He flashed a genuine smile and leaned forward, his forearms on the table. “We can hang out later, Ruthie.”

I was lost in the sensation of his finger moving along my sensitive skin, and I almost missed the nickname, almost let it flow over me.

I gently pulled my hand away and ran it over the front of my shirt. “Don’t call me Ruthie.”

“Why not? It’s your name.”

“Only . . . special people get to call me Ruthie. I don’t even know why I told you about it.”

He held a hand to his chest in mock indignation. “You’re saying I’m not special?”

“Lear, you’re the farthest thing from special.” It felt wrong coming out of my mouth, but that was exactly why I needed to say it. When our bodies weren’t connected, when his hands weren’t on me, it was easier to know what to do.

His cocky smile fell for a split second, though maybe I imagined it. Before I could think too much about it, he glanced across the rooftop at a group of kids screaming. “Sure. No problem.”

I looked away from him, taking in the sight of the other patrons, families and couples lounging in the sun. “What about you? You said Lear is a nickname. Nickname for what?”

“Can’t tell you.”

I cut my eyes back to his. “Why not?”

He smirked and pushed back from the table in a fluid movement, holding a hand out to me. “Only special people get to know.”

I rolled my eyes and stood, brushing chip crumbs off my clothes. I should have expected him to say that, but it still stung. “Fine. I’ll see you downstairs.”

I started to walk past him toward the bar’s exit when his hand brushed my wrist. “You’re not even going to say goodbye?”

“I thought ‘I’ll see you’ was sufficient.” We walked together into the lobby and hurried through the already open elevator doors. When they closed, we were alone. “You don’t have to tell me about the name.”

Lear stepped closer, backing me gently against the wall of the elevator car, and his hands fell to my waist. I had that feeling again, the one where I wanted him to kiss me against all reason. Instead, he spoke. “I chose to be in a production of King Lear in high school instead of going out for football. Nickname stuck.”

“You were a theater kid? I guess that tracks. What with the musicals and all.”

“Hamilton is a wildly popular show,” he insisted. “And I’m named after my dad’s father, Richard, who ended up being kind of a dick. I like Lear better.”

The elevator dinged with each passing level as we neared my floor. I rested a palm on his chest, surprised at the honesty, the lack of sarcasm or playfulness. “Lear it is, then.”

We stood near the mirrored wall, bodies tucked together, swaying in a sort of dance. His gaze fell to my lips again. “RJ it is,” he murmured. “I’m glad I joined you on the roof.”