Page 32 of For the Win
“I’m not even in a band. Not really.”
“I don’t get that either. Your voice is incredible.”
I like his praise more than I should. Part of me leans into it, looking for more strokes. “I know. But I have a servant’s heart and a special way of irritating people that’s insured I haven’t hadmy own band since the traumatic freshman-year breakup of A Mighty Win.”
“A Mighty Who?”
I give his chest a playful flick. “They had the same problem with that name. We had one gig before getting into a fight over it, since no one got that it was a play on a Eugene Levy/Catherine O’Hara movie instead of me being a diva.” I snicker. “Not that I wasn’t a total diva back then, because I was, and I used way too much guyliner, but I wasn’t lying about the name.” I nuzzle against him sleepily. “Unfortunately, since I never learned to play an instrument, that was the extent of my musical career. Unless you’re counting karaoke and those Rock Band video games, because I am a legend at both. And before you ask, I have no regrets.”
“So instead of the spotlight, you spend your days either taking care of your friends and students or thinking about taking care of your friends and students. Is that right? I doubt you stop long enough to give anyone a chance to return the favor.”
I lift my head to stare at him suspiciously. “You got all that from The Great Macaron Interrogation?”
“You’re not as difficult to read as you think you are.”
“I don’t know if that’s a complement or a kill shot. I’m incredibly difficult and very complicated, thank you very much. You have no idea. And you should be glad. That’s how difficult I am.”
“I’m not seeing it.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “What I do see is that you’re a hard worker, a natural caretaker and a great friend.”
“You’re the caretaker,” I murmur sleepily against his chest, loving the smell of him. “You cook meals meant for families, not tables for one. You take care of the M&M sisters and go above and beyond for random strangers who get lost through no fault of their own. I see right through you. You’re the kingof caretakers, wrapped up in overly attractive, dragon-assassin packaging.”
“You keep mentioning my package. Even when you’re falling asleep.”
It’s one of the last things I hear him say, and it makes me smile. Who can blame me? It’s one hell of a package.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MICHAEL
I studyWin as he sleeps in my arms.
Dark lashes fan over pale cheekbones, casting shadows over skin that would be flawless if not for the scratches he had when I found him and the patches of beard burn that I can’t force myself to feel sorry about.
He starts to snore softly, and I’m in a bad way, because I like the sound of it and what it means. Trust. The first new bud of it, at least, if he can fall this deeply asleep beside me.
As I hold him closer, a tenderness I doubt he’d appreciate starts to take root. “All night” is on pause for the moment. Which is fine, since it’s barely evening yet and this blizzard is showing no signs of losing steam. After the day he’s had, he probably needs it.
I wish my dick would get that message, because it’s hard and ready for another round. The room smells of sex, his body is cuddling against me, and mine is crackling like the fire, impatient to burn again. Eager to explore. The things I want to do to him might surprise me if I hadn’t been imagining them for weeks now.
I’m not like my father or the rest of his family. I’ve got nothing to prove virility-wise, my life doesn’t revolve around sex and I’m fine with being alone. I’m used to it, in fact. I spend more time with emails, spreadsheets and reports than people. I work out alone, eat alone and, on the rare occasions when I do seek company, the man—or woman—always knows the score going in. I make no promises, no one gets hurt and my former supervisor—my father’s cousin Ali—could never use my habits and personal choices against me.
I’m done with that manipulative asshole, but even though I quit, he’s still trying to fuck with my life.
I shove him out of my mind, thinking about the first time I saw Win instead. He was on stage. If I had a type before that moment, it wasn’t anyone like the elven slip of a thing with wild dark hair, smooth pale skin and pouty fuck-me lips, who sang like a siren.
In his sweater and bright red jeans, he looked glaringly youthful and innocent, but his voice and eyes told another story. There was knowledge there. Hidden heartbreak and a need that matched my own.
The desire was so instant, so strong, that I behaved like the beast he’d named me, dragging him into the office just to have the excuse to touch him. When he left at his friend’s panicked shouts, I was unaccountably angry. Then, after realizing what had happened, guilt at my own selfishness sent me back to my hotel, knowing he wouldn’t thank me for inserting myself into the situation.
But my obsession lingered. Time and separation didn’t diminish my need. I put that theory to the test when I refused to look for him for months. I had the resources, knew how to find him, but I held myself back. I didn’t like that I couldn’t get him out of my mind when I already had so much on my plate with my brother’s family and the dispute over the will.
Knowing we were in the same city and I couldn’t see him started to wear on me. I thought I saw him a dozen times. I ran after a cab once before stopping myself. Staying away for that long was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Which is why I’d talked to an acquaintance about him. Why I’d already planned to find him after this weekend was over.
But he found me first.
Now that he’s in my arms, I’m cursing myself for wasting so much time. I could have had this for the last two months. Someone who inspired tenderness and lust in equal measures. Someone I needed to touch. Someone I could talk to.
I don’t do that easily. I’m too used to keeping my own counsel. Crowds make me uncomfortable and conversations that aren’t about work or family feel pointless.
