Page 12 of Her Bad Boy

There was a long, uncomfortable silence and a blank, snowy screen before the gate unlocked and began to open, and the voice said, "Drive up to the house and stop in front of the door. Don't get out of the car unless you're asked to."

"Jesus Christ." Alan, the Uber driver, would obviously have preferred to be anywhere else. She was amazed that he didn't just drive in enough to drop her off and turn around and head out again. But he didn't.

And he was well rewarded for not having been that cowardly. When Lucas appeared, he moved immediately to open her door, but she saw one of his assistants—she resisted the thought of calling them henchmen—come around to Alan and give him what looked to be a good-sized wad of hundreds, which improved his attitude considerably about being there.

Lucas' hand was extended, of course, to help her out of the car, but she didn't take it, and he couldn't say he was very surprised. Even though he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew why she was here, he was just happy to see her.

And as soon as she turned to get the stuff she was bringing out of the back seat, he moved to block her from doing so, bodily, looking at her the entire time while saying, "Joey, would you grab the crate that's in the back for Miss Barstow, please, and bring it in? Please have the driver wait. Get him whatever he might want from the kitchen, too."

Then he addressed Allie finally, saying, "Please come in."

For its enormous size, the house was surprisingly homey, not stiff and formal at all, which was how she had pictured it in her head. He offered a tour, but she forced herself to decline. This was not a social call—or so she kept chanting in her head, among other things.

She followed him through to a large room that was lined floor to ceiling with books, big comfortable couches, pillows on the floor and the largest TV screen she'd ever seen, which was playing an episode of Planet Earth's new season with so much realism it was as if you were standing next to a penguin.

He invited her to sit, but she was nervous, he could tell, and refused that, too. "I'm very sorry to bother you, but I really just came here to bring back the things you left for my birthday."

He looked crestfallen, but not too much so, as if her visit wasn't all that unexpected.

He also looked gorgeous—she'd never see him in jeans before, and he'd paired them with a Henley that revealed more than it hid of his physique. And despite her fears and guilt and worry and concern, everything in her was urging her to walk towards him and hug him tight and have him put those big arms around her, even just once. But she didn't dare.

"Really? But they're all things I bet you still need."

She had to laugh. "You are not wrong—except the kitty litter. Why did you give me kitty litter in with a bunch of stuff for car related emergencies?"

Lucas grinned. "It's cheaper and more easily acquired than sand for traction. I learned that trick while I was an undergrad at Harvard. Having to dig your car out of regular three foot snowstorms—not to mention the plows, which bury you even further—teach you that kind of stuff really quickly."

"Ah. Well, I know you must've hoped I'd've learned from all of your hard work that afternoon, but the only thing that's rattling around in my trunk right now is the can of fix a flat you gave me."

His look was definitely scolding, although his tone was deliberately mild. "Why am I not surprised to hear that, Miss Barstow?"

"Well, it wouldn't be right for me to accept these things from you, and I think you know that. I can't accept anything from you."

Lucas sighed, nodding his head reluctantly. "I had to give it a shot, although I have to admit that my motives were pretty altruistic—especially for me," he winked. "Knowing that you had that stuff in your car would ease my mind tremendously, but I understand and respect your position."

"Ease your mind? Why?" Allie frowned.

But Lucas stood before her and said, with no hesitation, "Because I care about you, Allie. I know you don't want to hear that from me, any more than you want gifts from me, but it's the truth and you deserve to know it. If our situation were different—if I were an average Joe who worked as a mechanic or whatever—I wouldn't be able to keep myself from pursuing you. I can barely do it now, and I only do so because I know that I make you uncomfortable in several ways—most of which I think would resolve themselves if we spent more time together, but some of which I realize you will never be able to adjust to."

What he did next was something she was in no way prepared for. He adjusted his stance to be closer to her, tipping her chin up with one finger, so that she had to look at him. Then, slowly, very slowly, he bent down and kissed her once, in a manner so profound that, even when he pulled away, her eyes were still closed and she remained stock still for several long beats afterwards.

"I have a feeling that's going to have to hold me—maybe forever." Then he cleared his throat, saying, "I certainly don't want to you to keep the gifts if you don't think you should."

That prompted Allie to snap out of her trance, saying awkwardly, "Thank you for understanding."

"I do, Allie. Probably more than you know. But, if you should ever change your mind, I think we'd be amazing together, and I'd do everything in my power not to scare you about the things you want—because I want them, too." He emitted a soft chuckle at her wide eyes. "Don't worry. I won't hold my breath waiting for that to happen."

Blushing furiously, as she always seemed to do around him, Allie forced herself to turn away from him. "Well, I'd better be going."

Every single cell in his body screamed that he shouldn't let her walk out his door without truly tasting her first. He had a bet with himself that he'd concocted during the long nights he spent thinking about her, fantasizing about her, stroking himself languidly while imagining how the different parts of her would taste—shyly sweet and hidden salty—just like her, and he'd already proven himself right about the shyly sweet with that kiss.

But there she was, walking away from him, and there he was, letting her go like the nice, polite man he endeavored to be—sometimes.

Having been raised to be a gentleman in the world in which he lived was not always an easy thing. At this moment, he wanted nothing so much as to go completely caveman, to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to his bedroom, and rarely, if ever, let her out again.

But he knew he couldn't do that.

She was a good girl.

---