Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(45)

I search the drawers and then settle for a long-sleeved White Sox T-shirt, and when I slip it on, something on one of the twin nightstands catches my eye.

It’s my photograph, right next to his watch and his wallet. The one where I’m looking at the camera, looking vulnerable and caught by surprise.

I try to ignore the hot little clench in my stomach as I force myself to head back to the kitchen.

Tahoe stands by the kitchen window, staring at the Chicago skyline with a clenched jaw, as if he’s trying to control some inner frustration.

Every sharp angle and smooth curve of his face is beautifully outlined in the dark. His blue eyes practically glow when he turns and sees me in his White Sox T-shirt. Something raw and hot flashes in his gaze for the briefest second before he quells it. I can’t breathe.

I gulp and try to distract myself and him. “I was getting us some water.”

“I know,” he says, not interested in my thirst.

He looks into my eyes for a long moment before trailing his down my body. I stand there and let him.

I let him look at me.

In his shirt.

Though he doesn’t say anything about the shirt I chose to wear, he’s looking at me as if he thinks I look gorgeous in it. I don’t think a man has ever looked at me this possessively before. He clenches his jaw. His dark voice breaks through the air. “I’ll get you some water.”

He reaches for a plastic cup and pours water in it.

I defiantly stare at the little plastic sippy cup, quirking my brow at him.

He smirks. “I have a little cousin.” He looks into my eyes again. “Besides, I think we’ve already established we can’t trust you with sharp or delicate objects.”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “Shut up.” And I open my hand. “Give me my sippy cup.”

He laughs and hands me the cup, taking me by the arm and leading me to the study. He plops down on the white couch and pats the seat next to him. He turns up the fireplace, and as I sit down beside him, I notice he’s cleaned up all of his papers.

I’m clutching onto my sippy cup for dear life, afraid to move.

After a few long, dragging, crackling minutes, I hear a low rasp. “Hey, come here for a bit.” And he reaches out his arm and draws me into his chest. “I like that you came over,” he whispers, brushing my hair behind my cheek.

I swallow. “Well. Someone has to watch out for you, I guess.”

“I guess,” he agrees, looking into my eyes.

We stay there silent for a while but I don’t make a move to leave his arms.

Knowing I shouldn’t get comfortable, I eventually force myself to sit up straight and put a little distance between us.

He drags his hand lazily down my spine then drops it. “What’s up?”

I shrug then glance at a thick vintage car book on the coffee table. “Are you as passionate about cars as you are about lacrosse?”

“My grandfather restored vintage pieces. The one on the cover is mine.” He smirks and spreads his arm on the back of the couch again. “They used to build things to last in those days,” he says.

“Really? Hmm. It’s lovely.”

“I’ll drive you around in it someday.”

He rests his head on the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling again.

The exhaustion of the past few weeks from hard work and apartment hunting start weighing on me, so I place my cheek on the back of the couch, facing him. He tells me about his grandfather and his collection of cars, and the museum in Texas in his memory, and I focus on the sound of his delicious voice, lulling me to a near sleep.

The exotic smell of his soap and skin makes me feel like I am on vacation and nothing else exists but this. Him. Him him him, god, HIM.

“I’m comfortable around you,” I whisper, as quietly as a confession.

He turns his head to me, his eyes half-mast. “Does your boyfriend make you feel as comfortable as I do?”

Some fiery warmth in his eyes makes me want to admit, I started dating him because you’ve always implied that I can’t be with you.

His pupils enlarge, as if he can read the answer in my eyes.

“He doesn’t,” I admit. “But…does that matter? So what if I’m more comfortable with you? Maybe you’re just good with the ladies.” I smirk, trying to lighten the thick-as-tar air between us. “Ladies are your specialty.”

He scowls. “Hell, I never said that.”

“Then what are we doing here discussing… What are we even discussing?”

He sits up and looks at me, shifting his body as he does, his expression deadly somber as he rests his elbows on his knees and grabs his cast with his good hand as if it suddenly hurts. “Just because I’m not with you, doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.” He raises his brows, challenging me as he slowly adds a bad boy smile and lets me register what he said.

I blink, flabbergasted.

“Are you teasing me?” I narrow my eyes, straightening too.

“Why would I tease you, Regina?” He tugs on a strand of my hair, smiling with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Tahoe Roth, the infamous player, would be monogamous all of a sudden? What? Do you want a girlfriend now?” I ask, pushing at his chest, laughing at the thought.

He laughs too. “I’m too old for a girlfriend,” he says, catching my wrist before I can retrieve it and squeezing it gently in his warm palm.