self-protection and the survival instinct took over. Except the stupid hope wouldn’t quit, the longing to get it right, the need to believe that this time maybe she’d learned. That this time maybe things could be different.
Marie thought she wasn’t a romantic? She was too much of one.
She stepped into Troy’s house, feeling as if she’d crossed a figurative threshold along with the literal one. The place was like him, relaxed, welcoming, but classy, in good taste.
A dog approached her, muscular and clean, reddish-gold with white around his muzzle and ears. Very pretty with intelligent eyes.
“This is Dylan. You like dogs?”
“Sure.” She liked them when they didn’t like her too much. The whole jumping, slobbering thing wasn’t ideal, but Dylan seemed well-behaved, greeting her with a restrained sniffing bout and wagging tail.
She looked around while petting him, at good quality furniture, chairs and sofa upholstered in teal and beige with rust accents, and bright coordinating silk pillows. Looked at the television, but no recliner; at landscapes and prints on walls painted a pale orange; at lamps with multiple arms snaking out, tiny colorful shades on each bulb. At smooth stone sculptures on the mantel of the beautiful fireplace; at a tall, narrow vase filled with curly willow on an end table. In short, she looked everywhere but at him.
“Nice house.”
“Mom’s an interior decorator. The living room was my Christmas present, but I think it ended up more her present than mine. A little too decorated for my taste, but it’s comfortable.”
Darcy nodded, a fish out of water in Troy’s elegant house. Even a mistake-glance at him brought back their skin-on-skin passion all night long at the hotel, and she wondered how she’d stay out of his bed this time and whether, if he made a move, she’d end up caring about anything but getting naked with him again.
“Would you like a drink?”
“I’d love it.” More like needed it.
“Beer? Gin? Vodka? Tequila? Or I could open a bottle of wine.”
“Wine would be nice. Red, if you have it.” She was curious what he’d offer, moved around his living room, observing, touching, anything to hide her horrible awkwardness.
“Red wine coming up. Have a seat.” He disappeared into the kitchen, which Darcy was dying to see, but refused to follow him, puppy style, especially since Dylan already had that job.
She blew out a breath and perched on the edge of the teal couch, pushing at magazines scattered on his coffee table: Men’s Health, National Geographic, Newsweek.
So. They were going to have a talk. In Darcy’s experience, talk was a euphemism for screaming first, lapsing into furious silence second.
She couldn’t wait.
“Here you go.” Troy brought two balloon glasses of red wine on a tray with a bowl of roasted almonds and offered them with easy grace. He was younger than she was by at least five years, but in this warm, stylish house she felt like an outclassed child.
He settled himself on the couch a cushion away, too close and not close enough. She could still catch his scent, was still yearning for the feel of his mouth. Happily, Dylan jumped up between them and settled, head on Troy’s lap, tail thumping occasionally next to Darcy’s thigh.
Darcy sipped her wine; no surprise, it was excellent.
“So, Darcy, you showed up here expecting to spend the night with Quinn.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, but his face was tense, and his free hand rested on his lap in a fist.
Guilt. Darcy drank more wine, annoyed at her instant reaction. What did she have to feel guilty about? They’d signed no contract; hell, they hadn’t even exchanged names. “That’s right.”
Troy abruptly got off the couch and paced the length of the room, no longer bothering to hide his agitation.
He was jealous. It hit her with a combination of horror, more guilt and a tiny thrill. She’d hurt him by agreeing to be with someone else. After only one
Marie thought she wasn’t a romantic? She was too much of one.
She stepped into Troy’s house, feeling as if she’d crossed a figurative threshold along with the literal one. The place was like him, relaxed, welcoming, but classy, in good taste.
A dog approached her, muscular and clean, reddish-gold with white around his muzzle and ears. Very pretty with intelligent eyes.
“This is Dylan. You like dogs?”
“Sure.” She liked them when they didn’t like her too much. The whole jumping, slobbering thing wasn’t ideal, but Dylan seemed well-behaved, greeting her with a restrained sniffing bout and wagging tail.
She looked around while petting him, at good quality furniture, chairs and sofa upholstered in teal and beige with rust accents, and bright coordinating silk pillows. Looked at the television, but no recliner; at landscapes and prints on walls painted a pale orange; at lamps with multiple arms snaking out, tiny colorful shades on each bulb. At smooth stone sculptures on the mantel of the beautiful fireplace; at a tall, narrow vase filled with curly willow on an end table. In short, she looked everywhere but at him.
“Nice house.”
“Mom’s an interior decorator. The living room was my Christmas present, but I think it ended up more her present than mine. A little too decorated for my taste, but it’s comfortable.”
Darcy nodded, a fish out of water in Troy’s elegant house. Even a mistake-glance at him brought back their skin-on-skin passion all night long at the hotel, and she wondered how she’d stay out of his bed this time and whether, if he made a move, she’d end up caring about anything but getting naked with him again.
“Would you like a drink?”
“I’d love it.” More like needed it.
“Beer? Gin? Vodka? Tequila? Or I could open a bottle of wine.”
“Wine would be nice. Red, if you have it.” She was curious what he’d offer, moved around his living room, observing, touching, anything to hide her horrible awkwardness.
“Red wine coming up. Have a seat.” He disappeared into the kitchen, which Darcy was dying to see, but refused to follow him, puppy style, especially since Dylan already had that job.
She blew out a breath and perched on the edge of the teal couch, pushing at magazines scattered on his coffee table: Men’s Health, National Geographic, Newsweek.
So. They were going to have a talk. In Darcy’s experience, talk was a euphemism for screaming first, lapsing into furious silence second.
She couldn’t wait.
“Here you go.” Troy brought two balloon glasses of red wine on a tray with a bowl of roasted almonds and offered them with easy grace. He was younger than she was by at least five years, but in this warm, stylish house she felt like an outclassed child.
He settled himself on the couch a cushion away, too close and not close enough. She could still catch his scent, was still yearning for the feel of his mouth. Happily, Dylan jumped up between them and settled, head on Troy’s lap, tail thumping occasionally next to Darcy’s thigh.
Darcy sipped her wine; no surprise, it was excellent.
“So, Darcy, you showed up here expecting to spend the night with Quinn.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, but his face was tense, and his free hand rested on his lap in a fist.
Guilt. Darcy drank more wine, annoyed at her instant reaction. What did she have to feel guilty about? They’d signed no contract; hell, they hadn’t even exchanged names. “That’s right.”
Troy abruptly got off the couch and paced the length of the room, no longer bothering to hide his agitation.
He was jealous. It hit her with a combination of horror, more guilt and a tiny thrill. She’d hurt him by agreeing to be with someone else. After only one
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