Wicked Force (Wicked Horse Vegas #4.5)(8)

I tried to act casual and disinterested as I sat on the couch with a note pad in front of me and my guitar on my lap. I worked on some new compositions, but I’d peer up through the long layer of hair across my forehead every once in a while. He didn’t look at me once, though, other than a brief smile when he walked in.

Then he was gone—sitting just outside the door in the hallway—and I tried to return to my lyrics. My mom made herself a slice of whole wheat avocado toast and pressed one upon me as well. What I really wanted was a bowl of Lucky Charms, but that made me feel juvenile and I didn’t want to feel that way.

Not when Kynan McGrath was definitely causing me to have very grown-up, adult feelings.

I pace back toward the door, still undecided. My mom left forty-five minutes ago to do some shopping. It’s her thing. She’s a fashionista of the highest degree and when she landed me this lucrative Vegas contract, from which I readily agreed to pay her a very nice salary, she began spending her money very seriously. I don’t mind, though, because first and foremost, it’s her money, but also because she works hard for me and I wouldn’t begrudge her anything that rewarded her for it.

Just do it, I tell myself.

Before I can reconsider, I’m snatching the door open and stepping out into the hallway. I didn’t startle Kynan but he gives me a worried expression. “What’s wrong?”

My mind goes blank for a minute, and I can’t for the life of me remember what even led me to open that door. Then I blurt, “I want to play Scrabble.”

His chin jerks inward as his eyebrows go up. “Pardon me?”

Pardon me.

Oh my God... swooning here over that British accent.

“Um... yeah,” I continue, refusing to lower my gaze over the blatant lie I’m about to tell him. “I’m trying to compose lyrics and I’m stuck. I’ve found that playing Scrabble for some reason gets me past the block. I guess it’s looking at all those letters and trying to create words from them or something.”

His look is dubious but more alarmingly, aloof. “I can’t while I’m on duty.”

Does that mean he’d play with me when he’s off duty?

Scrabble, I mean.

But I can’t wait for that. I can’t sit around and wonder if he’ll ask me out on a Scrabble date, because I’m thinking most likely not. I’m just a job. A client. Nothing more.

In addition, he’s older than me. I’m not sure by how much but while he looks young and handsome and fit and muscular and just absolutely perfect in my eyes, he seems a lot older and wiser than I am. What could he possibly want with someone like me?

Normally, this would be the time I’d back off. I’d lose my confidence in myself and beat a hasty retreat. But when he looks at me with those warm brown eyes and I can see all those tattoos in my peripheral vision, I shore up my resolve. “Well, I’m the boss and I say part of your duty is to play Scrabble with me. You can protect me just as well in here as you can out there, right?”

“I was out here,” he replies drolly, “because I didn’t want to intrude on you. It’s not necessarily the better place to be.”

“Perfect,” I exclaim with a clap of my hands and turn my back on him to walk into the apartment. I don’t wait to see if he follows but call out over my shoulder. “Make yourself at home in the kitchen and I’ll go get the game.”

My heart is pounding as I lift the board game down from a shelf in my closet. I pretty much just deviously calculated a way to put that man within my path so I can pretty much leer at him. How screwed up is that? I’ve never done that before. Never been so forward. Never reached out for something tangible that I wanted.

And I do want him. I can’t explain it because I’ve never felt it before. It’s a palpable, almost mystical feeling, as if I could actually wrap my arms around a misty cloud yet feel its perfection with my heart.

Hey... that would be a great lyric. I set the board game down on my bed and whip my phone out of my pocket. I type that out in my Notes app and save it.

When I return to the kitchen, I’ve calmed my racing heart a bit but Kynan isn’t there. I walk into the living room and find him looking out the large window that gives an amazing view of the Strip in the distance.

He turns to face me and nods toward the furniture. “I’d rather sit in here if you don’t mind. So I can see the door?”

I grin at him. “Expecting some crazy guy to come busting in or something?”

Kynan doesn’t smile back. “It could happen. It’s what crazy obsessed fans do.”

That sobers me and my smile slides away.

His face turns cloudy. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” I tell him, but he so did. I want to believe my mom is being overly cautious but to hear Kynan validate her concerns has me worried.

“It’s fine,” he assures me and casually strolls over to one of the guest chairs that faces the front door. He pulls it up close to the coffee table that separates it from the couch. “Let’s play.”

We’re five words into the game and it’s his turn when I get up the guts to start a conversation. As he studies his letters with his finger tapping against his chin, I clear my throat and say, “So what’s your story? How did you get involved in this type of work?”