Trashed / Page 4

Page 4


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This is that kind of smile.

But, unlike Flynn, this one works for him. Like, really works. The way his lips just slightly curl at the corners, the way his eyes narrow to intense, piercing slits, the press of his lips against each other, those lips, just begging to be kissed…it works. God, does it work. I can’t look away. I’m trying, but I can’t.

He’s just so fucking hot.

And it works, because I want to say yes. I want to have real dinner with him. I want to pretend that this ripped, famous, gorgeous hunk of a man could actually like me, and want to spend time with me.

He starts walking, pulling me with him, and again he’s gentle but totally and irresistibly powerful. I’m pulled into motion behind him, and somehow my hand is in his, clasped palm to palm. Our fingers aren’t tangled together in that intimate way of holding hands, he’s just holding my hand and pulling me behind him, and I can’t help but follow, watching his long, tree-trunk thick legs move in his khaki board shorts, his sculpted calves rippling. Even his calves are muscular. It’s totally ridiculous. I didn’t think guys this built actually existed in real life.

Yet here he is, pulling me, walking ahead of me, larger than life and holding my hand.

What the actual fuck is going on? What’s happening?

“Where are we going?” I manage to get intelligible English words out, arranged into a grammatically correct sentence.

“Dinner.” He’s leading me, and I’m wondering if he knows where we’re going, since he’s got us headed in a direction away from the restaurants.

“But I said no.”

He glances back at me. “Yeah, so?”

“Which means I don’t want to have dinner with you,” I say, sounding reasonably firm.

That’s a damned dirty lie, but he doesn’t need to know that, and I’m not going to admit it to him. Or to myself. Because going to dinner with Adam Trenton is a bad idea.

He’s going to expect something from me that I won’t be willing to give.

He stops, and then somehow he has both of my hands in his, and his eyes are sliding down to mine and searching me and reading the lie in my heart. “Do too.”

I may be many things, but I’m not a liar. “I’m in my work uniform. And I’ve been outside all day, sweating.”

He leans toward me. “Sweaty is sexy.” He says this in that leonine purr of his, and manages to make it sound promising and dirty all at once.

It’s hard to swallow or even breathe, because he’s so close to me you couldn’t fit a piece of paper between my chest and his, and his presence is overwhelming, dominating, blocking out the island and the clip-clop of a horse-and-carriage trotting past us and the caw of a seagull overhead.

“Nice line, asshole.” That was good. That sounded like I’m unaffected.

He ignores that. “It’s just dinner. I’m only here for the weekend, okay? What can it hurt?”

“Just dinner?”

He nods. “Just dinner. Promise.”

“Okay. But let me shower and change first.”

He grins, and follows me as I lead the way to the co-op dorms I stay in for the summer.

Did I just agree to have dinner with Adam Trenton?

This is a bad idea.

I know it is, but for reasons I can’t fathom, I’m ignoring my gut.

Chapter 2

I sit on the front step of her building, wasting time on my phone while she gets ready.

I still don’t know her name. That’s kinda fucked up, actually. I’ve licked fudge off her thumb. I’ve been so close to her that I could almost feel her heart beating, I could see her pulse drumming in the strong curve of her throat. I’ve gotten her to agree to go to dinner with me, yet I don’t know her name.

I expect to be sitting here for a while because, in my experience, chicks invariably take hours to get ready. Yet, barely twenty minutes later she’s coming out the door wearing a pair of tight, faded blue jeans with rips in the thigh. They don’t look like the type of expensive designer jeans that come pre-ripped; rather, they seem to be actually that old and worn and faded that the rips are from age and wear. I hear her before I see her, so the first thing I see is her feet, in a pair of Chucks. The white stripe of rubber around the base of the shoes on both feet have been colored with a black marker into a checkered design. These, as well, are the kind of shoes you just know she’s had for a long time. My eyes travel up her legs, encased in those tight, faded jeans, and Jesus the girl’s legs are absolutely fucking killer. She’s got mile-long legs, but not the skinny tall-girl legs. These are curvy with muscle and flesh.

God, I look up at those legs and in that moment I want nothing more than to feel her wrap those legs around me and hold on tight. It’s a hot, hard, intense thought, and I can’t shake it.

I’m staring.

And then my gaze travels farther, up to the plain black V-neck T-shirt she’s wearing. My mouth goes dry, and I’ve got to stand up and turn away and adjust myself discreetly, because the image of those powerful legs wrapped around my waist is only the beginning.

Tits. Jesus, just…Jesus. I can’t look away. The shirt is molded to her body, the V-neck baring an expanse of deep, tanned cleavage that hints at a glorious pair of breasts. And then I force myself to make actual eye contact, because I’ve been ogling her far too openly for far too long.

And I’m stunned into a breathless, speechless stupor.

Let’s be clear about one thing: I’ve been on set with some hot women. I’ve been to parties with some of the most beautiful and famous women on earth. I dated Emma Hayes for nearly two years, which is an eternity by Hollywood standards. And Emma is…stunning. I can’t take that away from her, no matter how big a bitch she is.

But this girl, in old ripped jeans, inked-up Chucks, and a cheap black V-neck…she’s drop-dead gorgeous. I don’t think she knows it, either. She can’t have any clue how intensely, heart-stoppingly beautiful she is. She wouldn’t be sweeping up fucking trash on Mackinac Island if she did.

She’s put on makeup sparingly, just a hint of eye shadow and mascara to highlight those big brown eyes, some color on her cheeks and lips.

Mmm, those lips. Plump and red and begging to be kissed.

Even her ears are beautiful. She’s got detached earlobes, a single small diamond stud in the lobe, with three hoops climbing up the shell on both ears.

And her hair….my god. So thick, so black, so long. My hands twitch, itching to bury my fingers in those ebony locks, feel them slip like silk between my fingers and pull her against my chest and kiss the ever-loving shit out of her.


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