More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
I’m firmly in camp just ask him, but Stefan’s holding strong in the I’m gonna hack his email account approach. So. That’s healthy.
I don’t know how to say out loud that there’s this guy who doesn’t like me and that it bothers me. A lot.
I confess, I’ve put a lot more thought than I should into whether or not he’d even notice my absence, and I can’t hide my smirk now that he’s confirmed that he noticed, if not exactly cared.
My mom was the hottest thing in Hollywood after starring as a Bond-girl-style character in a blockbuster hit. They got married, had me, and my mom’s acting career fizzled before it ever really took off. She didn’t seem to mind—she threw herself into the role of a Park Avenue housewife like nobody’s business.
The socialite was everything that he abhorred. Self-indulged, flighty, useless . . . ridiculous. And yet . . .
Sure, he knew how to make sympathetic noises when his more heartbroken clients bemoaned their ex’s infidelity or inattentiveness, but he never really knew what to say when it mattered. Somehow it mattered here, now, with this mess of a girl, and for the first time in a long time, he wished he were better with the touchy-feely shit.
Don’t wave back. For the love of God, man, don’t— Andrew lifted his hand, just briefly, in acknowledgment. Damn. She really was the most ridiculous creature. He carefully hid his smile until he was back outside.
Crap. Now I owe the guy. Not because he was nice. I may not remember all the details, but I distinctly remember that he wasn’t nice. But he was decent, and that’s . . . that’s . . . Annoying.
Why was he so nice? I don’t like when he’s nice. It makes me feel . . . funny. And how am I supposed to act when I see him next?
Andrew doesn’t meet my eyes, and it bothers me, because he doesn’t seem to be ignoring me so much as hiding something. I have this weird sense that I’ve hurt his feelings with my impersonal greeting. Which is blatantly unfair. He’s the very definition of impersonal. But I feel a sting of regret all the same.
Andrew looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “It doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to just exchange one apology for another.” “You do when they’re the same offense.” “Yes, but mine was done out of professional necessity, yours was just petty—” “I ate a banana,” I interrupt. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, at a loss for words. “What?” “Yesterday. I was hungover, as you probably expected, and I didn’t have a banana, but I ordered one for dinner.” He’s silent for a full thirty seconds. “You ordered a banana for dinner.” “I did.” Andrew closes his eyes for a moment. “You really are
...more
“Yeah, well, that’s my problem,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “It would seem that my incentive to leave and my incentive to stay are one and the same.”
“He hates me,” I mutter, deciding to have more tiramisu after all. “Nope. He just doesn’t know what to do with you.”
“What are you looking for?” I ask. “Garbage bags.” I blink. “Can’t take it anymore, huh? Going to off me and drag my body out of the building in a big black bag?” “Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana.” There it is. “You’re small enough that I could just put your body down the trash chute. Far more practical.” I laugh. “Did you just make a joke?” He looks up. “Are there trash bags in here or no?”
“What?” I ask when he doesn’t finish. I order myself to meet his gaze, but I can’t seem to stop looking at his mouth. It’s not smiling, and I’m used to that, but for some reason I can’t stop thinking about how firm it must be, what it would be like to kiss someone so rigidly in control. Would he dominate? Would I like it? I feel the heat coming off him, and it answers my question. Yes. Yes, I’d like it. I’d like making him lose control even more.
I catch a glimpse of him as the doors shut, his expression utterly blank, and even as I hate him, I want to know what he’s thinking. I want . . . him.
What did a man do when he’d inadvertently called a woman an idiot simply because he’d wanted to hold her attention, to keep the conversation going so she didn’t tire of him?
If anyone accused him of waiting for her, he’d deny it with his dying breath, but damn it, where was the infernal woman?
Andrew shakes his head and all but drags me forward. “You’re ridiculous.” But I’m pretty sure I hear a smile in his voice when he says it.
If you’re wondering what Andrew Mulroney looks like while he’s in workout mode, picture this: Thor and Captain America somehow defeat biology and have a love child together. And call him Andrew.
His eyes burn hot against my skin, and I realize I’m so totally in over my head. But backing down is not an option, so instead of rezipping it like I want to, I place my hands on my hips.
Andrew takes a step nearer to me, and my pulse goes crazy. Touch me. Touch me, touch me, touch me. . . . His hands extend toward my sides, the warm pads of his fingers touching the outside of my stomach, and we both suck in a breath at the contact. My eyes close, silently begging him to slide his hands all the way into my jacket, to put his hands on me. Andrew’s fingers skim up my torso, over my rib cage, lightly, teasingly. His breathing is harsh and I’m pretty sure I’m panting. But before things get really interesting he jerks his hands away from my skin, instead grabbing the sides of my
...more
I slowly shake my head, not wanting to speak for fear he’ll remove his finger, and I suddenly feel like I need him to touch me in any way I can get. Who knew that prissy, asshole guys did it for me? But Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, is really doing it for me right now, all sweaty and irritated and a little bossy.
He stares straight ahead as the doors close, then says quietly, under his breath: “Yes.” “Yes what?” I whisper. He glances down at me, his expression unreadable. “Yes, perfectly ridiculous.” I can’t help the smile.
“What do you think a woman’s place is?” I purse my lips. “Annoying you?” “Ah, yes.” He takes a sip of his champagne. “Well, you’re quite accomplished at it.” “And yet here we are.” “Indeed.”
I mean, I’m a modern woman and all—I know I’m supposed to subscribe to the notion that a woman can be complete without a man and vice versa, and I do. I really do. And yet, sitting here with two people who somehow share the same air, the same life, but barely seem aware of the other person’s presence, I can’t shake the sense that while maybe I don’t need someone to need me, I really, really wouldn’t mind spending time with someone who at least wants me.
“Not a fucking chance,” he growls. His fingers spread wide on my back, pulling me all the way to him as he lowers his head. And Andrew Mulroney kisses me.
“Stay.” His eyes close again, and his next words are a sleep-filled murmur, but they stop my heart for a second anyway. “Need you,” he says, his voice low and exhausted. Need you. Andrew Mulroney needs me. And go ahead, call me a sissy, but my eyes water, just a little. It’s sort of nice to be needed. Especially by him.
I nod. “You’ll like her. She wears poofy dresses and talks to pigeons.” He lifts his eyebrows. “She sounds ridiculous.” “As I said, you’ll like her. Or should I say, you won’t dislike her.” He rolls his eyes, and we both turn back toward the TV, where a cartoon prince is chasing a troll, and out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see him smile.
I feel his chest extend under my cheek as he sighs. Then, very slowly, his arms go around me, pulling me close, and I realize that somehow, even sick as I am, this is the happiest I’ve felt in a long, long time.
“When I kissed you the other day”—his fingers spread wide over my back, coaxing me even closer—“that wasn’t a mistake. Not even fucking close. Or if it was, it’s one I intend to make all over again.”
I hear him swallow, then speak. “Believe it or not, I had intended to take you on a date.” I laugh. “I think I liked this better. We needed to get it out of our system.” I feel his smile. “Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana. I am far from done with you.”
It shouldn’t be this good this soon. She shouldn’t feel both so familiar and so new. They shouldn’t know each other as well as they did. It was too much. Too much, and yet not enough, and . . .
He fell back asleep, but he didn’t dream. No need. He was already living the dream.
The woman was just so damn vivacious, drawing people to her with every breath. Everyone liked Georgiana. And she’d chosen him. Somehow, this gorgeous, compelling creature seemed to want to spend time with him.
He reached across and took her hand, waiting until she met his eyes. “What are you doing next Thursday?” She stared at him. “Do I look like the sort of girl who plans four days in advance?”
“When you gave Hailey Ash’s number, did you simultaneously delete it from your phone?” She snorted. “Um, no. It’s Ash Morrigan, Andy.” “Georgiana.” “Hmm?” He smiled and held her gaze. “Lose that phone number.” Her answering smile told him she knew what he was trying to say. You’re mine.
And I’m starting to freak out—just a little—that I like being a part of his life. I like it way too much.
It was the color that really got him, though. Red. For him. She was hot, yes, and everyone had noticed. But he saw beyond that to her sharp wit, huge heart, and quick-to-laugh humor. She wasn’t just hot. She was enchanting. And he was enchanted.
“Georgiana.” “Georgie,” I correct, leaning forward to take his bottom lip between my teeth. Then I position him at my opening, and he takes over, his hips thrusting forward, pushing me against the wall. Again. Again. Again. He kisses me as he fucks me, and our mouths are as greedy as our hands, demanding ever more from the other person. Demanding everything.
I feel the breath knocked out of me, because there’s no more denying it, no more denying my heart. This is it for me. This is what I want, not just for as long as I can have it, but for always.
And they would get through it. They had to. He just needed to make her see logic.
“So,” she said, her voice flat. “We’re done here?” Done? Hell no, they weren’t done. Not now, not ever.
I open my front door to Marley, who’s holding a box of pizza with two blocks of mozzarella on top. “Um,” I say. “Well,” she says, pushing into my apartment, “I ordered a pizza and asked for extra cheese. But then I was like, what if that’s not enough cheese, you know? So I stopped and got some extra, because . . . cheese.” I nod approvingly. “This is why we’re best friends.”
And that sort of pursuit of joy was what Georgiana Watkins did every day. He’d been wrong. She wasn’t blindly waiting for some fairy tale; she was just smart enough to believe that she deserved it.
Andrew had been wrong to imply that Georgiana didn’t have a brain, but she’d been wrong too. He was no Tin Man—he had a heart. And it belonged to Georgiana Watkins.
I mean to tell him I love him too, but the only thing that comes out is a sob as I throw my arms around his neck and pull him close. He still doesn’t relax, the press of his fingers urgent, demanding. “Love me back,” he whispers. “Please love me back.” I press my face to his neck. “You’re ridiculous,” I whisper. “Of course I love you back.”
“If you really love me, we’ll never speak of the singing episode again.” I grin back. “If you really love me, you’ll do an encore whenever I demand it.”
Andrew glances over as he opens the bottle of red wine. “Has anyone ever hated you?” “You did,” I accuse, putting a hand on my hip. “From the very start.” “Self-protection,” he says, pouring us each a glass of wine. “I’m smart, remember? I knew, even from the beginning, that you’d turn my life upside down.”
For everyone who believes in a Disney version of happily ever after . . .
