Hothouse Flower (Calloway Sisters 2)

“I’m not a fucking teddy bear.”

I gasp. “Really? I thought you were.”

He chucks a pillow at my face.

I smile so hard.

He loves throwing things.

“If you’re scared, maybe you shouldn’t go to Fashion Week without your mom.”

“No,” I say. “I need to do this on my own.” I’ve wanted this for so long—before the shit storm blew in from the press and paparazzi. I dreamed about sight-seeing, and my mother won’t let me do that if she’s attached to my side. She’ll only steer me towards fashion designers, schmoozing everyone for the chance to be the face of their clothing line.

“Well, you have my number,” he says. “Don’t be afraid to fucking call me, okay?”

I nod, and he climbs off my bed and goes to my dresser, searching through the bottom drawer for some of his clothes that he keeps here. I trace his features quickly. He’s unshaven, so he looks a little older than twenty-five, his actual age. And his brows do this thing where they furrow hard, like he’s in a bad mood. But really, he’s just brooding.

It’s his normal expression, one that’s insanely attractive in this possessive—I will protect you even if it fucking kills me—quality that I didn’t think I would like until I met him.

And it drew me in like this magnetic pull or a moth to a flame. All those cheesy things people say about attraction.

But below the physical connection (which I’m sure isn’t too hard for any girl to possess with a guy like Ryke Meadows) there’s something more strong and pure. A friendship built from three years of non-fucking. Of talking and laughing and yes, maybe a little bit of flirting.

And below that. There is only need.

I didn’t realize it was there—that need—until the nightmares of my dreams became the nightmares of my life. And he’s the kind of guy who wants to slay all those monsters for me. Too bad he can’t get to the ones in my head.

Even if he tries.

As he grabs a clean shirt and jeans, he straightens up and meets my gaze. I shouldn’t stare anymore, but I end up eyeing his muscles, the ones that are so supremely cut. Most people would be able to tell that he’s an athlete by looking—and not some muscular bodybuilder type. He’s light enough that he can ascend a mountain quickly, but strong enough that he can carry his weight on a single finger.

A black tattoo with reds, oranges and yellows engulfs his right shoulder, right chest and ribs. It’s an intricate design of a phoenix bound at the ankles, the inked chain extending along his side. A gray anchor is on his waist, a portion disappearing beneath his drawstring pants.

He looks kinda like someone you’d dream about waking up next to but never really think you would.

Despite this darkness that often swirls in his eyes, there’s a hardness along his jaw that’s dangerous, unapproachable, something that instantly hypnotizes me.

I can’t look away.

Even though I should.

His eyes narrow with each ticking second. “Don’t look at me like that, Daisy.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“I can tell when someone’s attracted to me,” he says without missing a beat.

“How?” I want that power that he has. I want to know if he finds me desirable. But maybe he never will.

His gaze falls to my shirt that reveals a little bit of my stomach. He inhales deeply, and something switches in his eyes, a look that says you’re fucking beautiful. I want to touch you. He’s never stared at me like that before—and if he has, he’s kept it from me.

I wish it didn’t affect me, but I can feel the back of my neck grow hot. I try to keep my composure, not wanting to be another silly girl that crumbles in his wake. He just barely licks his bottom lip as his gaze rakes me over.

And then his eyes return to mine again, and they’re hard once more. “That’s the look you were giving me, sweetheart.”

Oh. He called me sweetheart. I linger on that for a second, not hearing anything else really.

“Daisy?” He glares.

I smile. “You called me sweetheart.”

He rolls his eyes and repeats, “That’s the look you were giving me.”

“Oops,” I say with a noncommittal shrug. I was just staring. I wasn’t planning on jumping his bones. I wasn’t even fantasizing about his cock inside of me. Chaste. My thoughts were so chaste. Maybe not now, but they were.

“Fucking understatement.”

I stand up on the bed again so I have the height advantage. “I can freak out if you want me to.” I touch my chest theatrically. “Oh Ryke, I fucked up big time. Kill me now.” I hold out my hand towards him and bounce on the mattress again. “Apothecary, the poison.”

His lips twitch into an almost-smile. And almost-smiles from Ryke are practically grins. I’ll take ‘em. “Cute,” he says. “Just remember—”

“We’re friends,” I finish. “Platonic, non-fucking friends. I remember. And I agree, in case you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget.” He tilts his head towards my bathroom door. “I’m going to take a fucking shower and then head out. I’ll see you tonight at your sisters’ place. They’re still throwing that going away party for you?”

“Yep.” In four days, I’ll be modeling at Paris Fashion Week. One week will be for work. Three weeks in France will be for me. I nearly beam at the thought. I’ve never been allowed to tour France, and as a model, I go to all of these beautiful countries and cities, but I rarely ever see them. It’s the first time my mom isn’t chaperoning me. I know Rose convinced her to give me some space. For that, I hugged my older sister until she had to pry me off.

I plop down on the bed and hang my legs off the edge, closer to Ryke than before.

He glances at my computer on my pillow. “Have you talked to Rose about Cleo?”

I frown. “How do you know Cleo was the one on Facebook?”

“I could see the fucking screen.”

I shake my head. “I’m afraid if I tell Rose, she’ll confront Cleo and make this a bigger deal than it has to be.”

“It is a big fucking deal. This goes beyond a Facebook comment, and you know it.”

My throat closes up for a second.

Ryke glares, the silence sinking to my stomach. He waits for me to unleash more off my chest, and when he sees that I can’t produce words, he ends the conversation for me. “Just stay off social media.”

Before he takes a step towards the bathroom, my doorknob jiggles, trying to turn. “Daisy,” a prickly, feminine voice calls through the wood.

It’s unmistakable.

It’s routine.

And it’s my mother.

The only question left: Where should I hide Ryke Meadows today?

DAISY CALLOWAY

My mom knocks loudly. “Why do you always have to lock your door?” Because I know you have a key to my apartment and like to stop by unannounced.

Ryke stiffens and glares at the ceiling before he points to the bathroom. I’ll be in here, he mouths.

What? I mouth back and gape in mock confusion.

He flips me off and then messes my hair with his hand. It’s an innocent, playful gesture. But with my mother on one side of the door saying, “You should be awake by now. Maybe this apartment wasn’t such a good idea.” He catches himself and our bodies sort of…tense in unison.

My arm accidentally makes contact with his abs like his did earlier with my boobs. But he’s not wearing a shirt like me. So his warm skin heats my cheeks, and I feel his muscles constrict. I look up and he stares down. One of us has to step back first, but we both stay rooted.

He ends up putting on the shirt that’s in his hand, but he stands so close to me while he dresses. I watch his muscles stretch as he fits his head through the collar and arms through the holes. When the cotton falls to his waist, hiding his abs, he meets my gaze once more, as though testing to see whether that helped eliminate any unburied tension.