Page 3 of Come Here and Kiss Me

In a rather pissed-off tone, he snarls, “Brooklyn!”

My heart sinks, and my head spins as I try to remember exactly how last night ended. With confusion and uncertainty escorting me, I cautiously make my way to the front door.

“Brooklyn, open the damn door!” he orders in a scolding tone, and I’m instantly pissed.

He’s not my fucking father, even if he is older than me and I enjoyed him bossing me around last night. That was last night when passion overruled my reasoning.I grip the lock and slide it over so hard that it doesn’t pop out.

The second the struggle is over, I whip the door open and demand, “The fuck is your problem?”

I don’t bother to hold back my anger, even if my heart beats as if it’s trying to bust through the cage that holds it inside me.

You and me both, buddy.

I leave the door open, with Ronan standing there, narrowed eyes with a devilish spark and consuming composure.

“What was so damn important that you had to wake me up?” I lie, blaming him because, really, if he’s mad at me, I want him to know I’m mad at him too.

Anxiousness slips through me as I cross my arms and sink into the deep navy velvet sofa. It sits perpendicular to the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the hustle and bustle of New York shops below and the breathtaking sight of the skyline above. Ronan stares a moment longer, his gaze boring into me, and I stare back just as intently.It takes him a second to step inside and close the door behind him.All the while, it’s silent as if he’s judging me, and all I can think is … what the hell happened last night?

I thought it was mutual. I thought he enjoyed himself as much as I did.What the hell did I do?Tears threaten to prick at the back of my eyes, so I bury those emotions deep, deep down inside me where they belong. I’ve had a crush on this man since I was far too young, and he was far too old for me. I won’t be made to feel ashamed of last night by anyone.

Including him.

Especially him.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he says in a sedated tone but still tight in accusation.

“My father is being … well … my father, so I’m ignoring it.”I pick at my nails as he takes a cautious step forward.

A sharp pain at my temple reminds me of my predicament, so rather than waiting for whatever the hell he has to say, I get up and make my way to the kitchen.

“I need coffee,” I tell him as a means of an explanation, and he follows.

It’s then that it hits me. He’s never been in my apartment. Suddenly, my cheeks heat with the realization. The kitchen is smaller than I’d like, but it’s not like I cook anyway.I pop a pod into the coffee maker and hit the button, then quickly remember to slip a mug into place.

“What do you want?” I ask, turning around to lean the small of my back against the counter. “If it’s to thank me for last night, you’re very welcome,” I sass with my asymmetrical smile remaining tight as he doesn’t respond with a better mood.

At least he has the decency to avert his eyes.

As he swallows thickly, my gaze focuses on the cords tightening his neck and the five o'clock shadow around his sharp jaw. My brow furrows when I realize he’s wearing the same shirt and pants from last night. Or at least I think he is. The white tee is slightly wrinkled, like he slept in it, though it's still tight on his broad shoulders. His suit pants are like any other black suit pants, so I suppose maybe it’s not the same.

However, I choose to think it’s the latter.

The worst yet best part is that he smells like last night—of sex and sin and that intoxicating cologne he always wears. And his hair, hell, I might as well have just fisted it as he devoured me. It’s a messy sight, mirroring me.

It’s quiet for a minute as I wait for him to say something.

Anything.

I motion for some response.

“New place?” he questions, looking around while my gaze drops for only a moment before finding his eyes again. This time, he’s staring right at me.

“It’s just my parents’ old place. I’m staying here for now,” I reply, tending back to my coffee as the sputtering of the machine comes to an end. I don’t tell him about the argument with my father or how he forced me to go to his university.

After stirring a touch of cream and sugar into my coffee, I add, “I’ll be here while I go to your school.”

“Right, about that,” he remarks as he stands on the kitchen threshold.

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