Page 15 of Kiss Me Tenderly

“There is nothing to say. And you should really stop calling me that. I have a name, you know.”

“So you keep mentioning, and yet, I haven’t heard it.”

“Penelope,” I say, just as the rumble from Henry’s chest becomes stronger. “My name is Penelope.”

* * *

SEBASTIAN

“Penelope,” I whisper, testing the name on my tongue.

It suits her. Simple, yet elegant, just like the girl in front of me.

Once again, all that honey hair is let loose, curling around her shoulders in soft waves, silver hoops playing peek-a-boo between her strands. Her makeup is minimal, not that she needs it. She’s beautiful in that natural, good-girl-next-door kind of way. She’s dressed in a simple blue dress that makes her eyes stand out even more. They’re a blue so dark they almost seem violet, with long dark eyelashes surrounding them.

Color rises in her cheeks, but before I can see the full effect of it, she ducks her head, her hair slipping from behind her ear and shielding her face from me.

Hell, no.

My finger dips under her chin, and I lift her face toward me. My heart speeds up as her eyes meet mine, and it’s like all the air has been kicked out of my lungs.

“Sebastian,” I say, my voice coming out hoarse.

Those big eyes widen slightly, pink lips parting.

Should I have come up with a different name? Probably. But I didn’t want to give her a fake name. I didn’t want tohearher use it when referring to me.

Then again, it seems like she already might know it anyway.

I’m just about to ask her that when a loud snarl snaps me out of my head.

“Is that mutt going to bite my hand off?” My gaze drops to those distrusting dark eyes as her dog glares at me, but I don’t attempt to move my hand. Better to keep any sudden movements to a minimum. “I’m kind of partial to it.”

“Don’t call him that.” She places her hand on the mutt’s head and rubs between his ears. The dog licks her palm in return, all the while not moving his eyes from me. As if he wants to show me just how little he trusts me. “His name’s Henry, and he’s a good boy.”

I can be a good boy, too, if you’ll pet me like that.

The thought catches me completely off guard, the image of Birdy sitting on the couch next to me, those slender fingers running through my hair popping in my head.

I like women: tall or short, thin or curvy, blonde or brunette. It doesn’t matter. I like them all just fine. And what I liked the best about them was if they gave me what I wanted, and then left me the hell alone.

Asshole behavior? Maybe. But we all knew the stakes, and I never lied to them. They always knew exactly what they were getting with me, and it ain’t cuddling and sweet words. So why is that the first thing that came to my mind with this girl?

“Henry?” The dog’s eyes narrow even further, if possible. “Who names their dog Henry?”

She seemed more like the type of girl who’d give her dog a cute name—something like Cupcake or Butterfly.

“That was his name when I got him,” she shrugs. “Do you have an issue with every name, or is it just me and my dog whose names you don’t like?”

“I like your name just fine, Birdy.”

She rolls her eyes, pulling back. My hand drops down, and I flex my fingers to stop myself from reaching for her again.

“You have a weird way of showing it.” She shakes her head. “You should go, I have to pra—”

“Play for me, Birdy,” the words escape before she can toss me out.

I couldn’t let that happen. Not when her music was the first thing that stirred the need to create inside of me, after months of staring at blank pages, my hands unable to produce a sound that’s worth a dime.

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