Stars Over Castle Hill (On Dublin Street 6.6)

Holy …

Shit.

We stared at one another, the sexual tension unbearable. My chest was rising and falling fast as I tried to catch my breath.

“Say something, Jocelyn, change the subject, because if you don’t, I’m going to kiss you, and if I kiss you, I know I’m going to want to touch you, and there’s no way I’m doing that in a lift that has a camera in it.”

I exhaled sharply at the sudden fantasy of him doing all that, of the thought of his mouth on mine as his hand caressed my breast, or his long fingers dipped between my legs, or—

“Don’t. None of that is going to happen,” I decided. “Not in here or ever.”

Instead of asking why, he gave me a cocky smirk that suggested he didn’t believe me.

Arrogant son of a bitch.

“It isn’t,” I insisted.

“Okay.” He shrugged. “Are we to remain just friends, then?”

“Yes. In this elevator. After that we’re strangers again. So while we’re here, you can call me Joss.”

Braden chuckled. “If you were any other woman, I’d say you were playing hard to get, but I think you actually mean it.”

“I do mean it. Is that unusual for you? A woman not throwing herself at your feet?” I teased.

“Actually, yes,” he said. “Women throw themselves at me all the time.”

I guffawed at his cockiness. “You know, you really need to work on that whole modesty thing you have going on.”

“I’ll get right on that.”

Grinning, I shook my head. “You have enough cockiness for five men.”

“It comes with age.”

“Which is?”

“Thirty-eight.”

He looked damn good. “Hmm. Nah, I bet you’ve been cocky since you were a kid.”

He shrugged.

Which meant he had been.

I bet he’d been adorable, too.

Shit fuckity shit fuck.

“So, working on your birthday? That’s awful, Jocelyn. Why didn’t you make other plans with friends?”

Uncomfortable with the sudden change of subject, I looked at my feet. “The only thing I wanted to do was go to the theater. The opera Tosca was in town. I couldn’t get tickets.”

Braden raised an eyebrow. “Tosca. Very tragic.”

“You know of it?” I was surprised.

He nodded. “Why do you like it so much?”

“About five years ago I worked with a girl who wanted to be an opera singer. She used to play it in the staff room. It drove some of our colleagues nuts, but it started to grow on me. Then one night she was playing this track that …” I shrugged. “I … I don’t know. It got to me. She told me it was from Tosca. ‘E Lucevan Le Stelle.’ Pavarotti’s version. I’d never heard anything so painfully beautiful.” My voice dropped at the end of my confession.

We were quiet a moment and I was afraid he was going to ask me why I was so touched by tragedy. I was not going there.

“It’s a wonderful opera,” Braden finally said.

“Yeah,” I forced a grin. “That’s why it sold out already. So I worked instead.”

“You didn’t want to celebrate with your friends?”

“Tell me about Abby.”

He frowned, seeming annoyed by my evasion, but I was grateful when he said, “Abby is almost six and she’s not like me at all. Very shy.” He shot me a teasing smile.

I laughed. “Oh, definitely not a chip off the old block, then.”

“Here.” He reached inside his tux jacket and pulled out his wallet. From inside, he pulled out a small photograph and handed it to me.

I took it and I felt a surge of unexpected jealousy. It was a photo of Braden with a little girl. He was down on his haunches and she was pulled tight in between his knees, their cheeks pressed together as they smiled for the camera—Braden’s big and crooked and much too attractive, and Abby’s sweet and shy. She was a beautiful child with long dark hair and stunning pale blue eyes. And I envied him her. Or I envied her him.

A knot formed in my chest and I quickly handed the photo back. “She’s beautiful. And she looks exactly like you.”

“That’s where the resemblance ends,” he said, staring proudly at the photograph. “She’s an angel.”

“If her mum is such a bitch,” I said bluntly, “then she must take that from you. Are you hiding the soul of an angel, Braden Carmichael?”

He gave me that smoldering look again as he slipped the photo back into his wallet. “Definitely not, Jocelyn Butler.”

Jump me. Jump me and rip my clothes off. Just do it! I swallowed the thought with a breathless laugh. “Then she’s an anomaly.”

“No. She’s exactly like her aunt. My sister Ellie.”

“Oh. That’s sweet.”

“Jocelyn.”

“Joss.

“Jocelyn.”

I narrowed my eyes at the thick hoarseness of my name. There was a whole lot of sex in his voice. “Braden—”

“Give me your number, Jocelyn. Let me take you out on a date.”

I contemplated it. I really did. As I stared into his beautiful eyes, felt the intensity of his attraction, of our attraction, I wanted nothing more than to say yes if only to be able to spend an entire day in bed with him. Because I had never experienced sexual chemistry like this in my life.

It seemed foolish to ignore the promise of great sex.

But there was something more in Braden’s eyes. I felt like he wouldn’t be happy with only sex. I felt like he’d get so deep inside me, he’d see my soul.

And I was ashamed of my soul.

Broken as it was.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Apparently, I wasn’t ready to not be alone after all.

Before Braden could reply, the lift juddered to life. As it began its descent, Braden stood up and held out a hand for me.

I knew if I took it, if I let him touch me again, I might change my mind. So I gave him a sad shake of my head and pulled myself up by the handrail.

He sighed. “It’s a mistake, babe.”

A lovely flutter flittered across my chest at the endearment. “A mistake?”

“Us walking out of here and not seeing each other again.”

“How do you know that? I could be a scheming, crazy, money-hungry, raving lunatic for all you know.”

“You’re not,” he said, with all the aut

hority of man who was used to being right.

“How do you know?”

“I just do. I feel it. And my gut instinct hasn’t let me down in a long time.”

I was quiet a moment, and I felt him waiting expectantly for an answer. If I were a different woman, with a different life, with a different heart, with a different soul, I might have reached for his hand. I might have even reached for a kiss. Because although we’d just met, a kiss wouldn’t have been out of place for us.

But I was me.

Joss Butler.

And I was going to be alone after all.

As the elevator doors opened, I turned to meet Braden’s direct gaze. “Neither has mine.”

And I walked out, brushing past the apologetic staff and maintenance guys, hurrying away from a man who excited and devastated me all at once.

The Pursuit

I should have known.

I think deep down, I did.

And there was part of me that was annoyed, scared, and this other part of me (the moronic part) that was thrilled.

Because apparently men like Braden Carmichael went after what they wanted and he had decided he wanted me.

My heart sped up at the sight of him entering the club two nights after our elevator encounter. It was my first shift since that night, it was early, a weekday, so the club was quiet and the music was low. At ten o’clock, I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. My eyes were drawn to the entrance to the club and I watched Braden stride in. I froze as he caught sight of me at the bar, and even across the distance, I could see the determination in his expression. He drew stares from both women and men as he strode across the club toward the bar.

But he only had eyes for me.

And when he came to a halt at the bar, he crossed his arms on the counter and leaned over. “I always get what I want, Jocelyn.”

His sheer will and utter arrogance was almost endearing and I couldn’t help the smirk that quirked my lips. “This is bordering on stalker behavior.”

However, I had experience in that. That guy had made me uncomfortable, unsettled in an unpleasant, aggravated way. I was unsettled because of the connection I felt to Braden. But to my confusion and irritation, I was really glad to see him.

He grinned that crooked, sexy smile. “You didn’t honestly think I’d give up?”