Page 22 of On His Knees

Her eyes soften when she looks at me, her gratitude evident. “They’re the ones who told me to go for it with you.”

“Oh yeah.”

She reaches out, puts her hand on mine, and the softness of her skin messes with my thought process. “I don’t sleep around, Tate. This,” she says and glances around the room, “was my very first one-night stand.”

“Oh.” Okay, so I didn’t expect that. Then again, is it the truth? I study her face, find nothing in it to tell me she’s lying, but a good con is hard to read.

“Not that there is anything wrong with a woman having many different partners. We should own our sexuality. As long as she’s sensible and safe, it’s okay to have sexual freedom.”

Curious to know more about her, I ask, “If you feel that way, then why is this the first time for you?”

She goes quiet, and looks down at her food, giving me the sense that she’s trying to choose her words carefully. Last night she was open and honest, but the lawyer in me senses that in the light of day she’s hiding something. Just like Granddad was. I should come right out and ask her about him, and why he’s signing half his estate over to her. So why don’t I? Because I can’t risk messing this up before I’ve learned anything useful at all. For now, I have to keep going.

“I’ve just...been busy with other things in my life,” she says, a vague answer, which confirms my suspicions. “What about you, Tate? You said you didn’t have great role models in your life. Tell me more about yourself.” She picks up a slice of bacon and nibbles on it.

This time it’s me who is choosing their words carefully. “Let’s just say, the women in my life turned out to be different than I thought they were.”

“I’m sorry.” A log in the fire crackles and she smiles. “How long do you have this chalet?”

“The entire week.” Not a lie. I dig into my food, hungrier than I thought. No surprise, really. I haven’t had a night like last night in...ever. I mean, sure, I’ve had sex before, plenty of it. But come to think of it, I’ve been so busy setting up my own practice and worried about Granddad that it’s been months. That’s probably why last night was so incredible.

Her eyes light up. “Winterfest starts tomorrow. I hear a lot of the proceeds go to the local hospitals, with each event donating to a different department. I think that’s wonderful.” She takes another sip of coffee, looks at me over the rim. “Are you taking part in any of the festivities?”

“Probably. Staff usually are involved. I’m sure Henry will let me know what he needs.”

“Henry.”

“My manager at the bar.” She crinkles her nose. “What?”

“You like working here?” I nod. I always liked working here when I was younger, but that’s not what she’s really asking. She’s asking if I have any higher aspirations. Summer Love would never settle for a simple bartender. Another clue that she’s a gold digger? My stomach twists at that thought, because the more I’m around her, the more I get the sense that she’s not that girl.

“I like it,” I say.

“I can see the allure. Do you miss the States?”

Just then my cell phone rings. Saved by the fucking bell. Praying it’s Granddad, I pull it from my pocket and check the display. Shit, it’s my new receptionist, Helen. She’s been going over candidates for the law firm. I’m in need of a junior partner. “Excuse me for a minute. I have to take this.” I step into the privacy of the bedroom and answer the call. When I’m done, I walk back into the main room and catch Summer texting. She sets her phone down and smiles up at me.

“Everything okay?”

No. Nothing is okay, but being here with her like this, locking the outside world out for a few hours, makes everything better.

I am so fucked.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Summer

I SIP THE STRAWBERRY daiquiri in front of me, my body on hyperdrive, unable to stop staring at the hot bartender as he takes orders a few feet away from me. I shift in my seat, my stubble-abraded body stinging in the most glorious ways. My muscles hurt as I move, but I love the reminder as well as the finger bruises I discovered on my hips this morning.

Two girls sidle up to the bar and take a seat. Tate turns his attention to them, and out of nowhere, a wave of jealously surges inside me when one of the pretty ski bunnies leans into Tate and whispers something in his ear. He laughs, and she slides a napkin across the counter. No doubt her room number. Tate accepts it and shoves it into his back pocket. I have no idea if he plans to meet up with her or not, and I truthfully shouldn’t care. I mean, come on, I’ve only had sex with the man once. Okay, well maybe it was more like four times—but all in the course of one night, which means I have no claim to him, no right to feel jealous.

This is just sex, Summer. Don’t go mixing it with emotion.

“So, how was he?” Cara asks, and nibbles on her straw.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” I say, and give her a coy smile.

“We don’t want to know how he kisses. We want to know how he was in bed,” Amber pipes in. “How big was his cock?”

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