Taking What's His (Shillings Agency 4)

“Yes. Yes, I do.” He slid off of her, taking his magical fingers with him. “Damn it, Lydia. You never should have let me inside. You never should have…I never…”

Frustration balled up in her stomach, making her sick. Sitting up, she smoothed her dress over her thighs with a trembling hand. “Get out. Now.”

He ran his hands down his face and took a minute to compose his words. “Look, this has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, I know that.” She lifted her chin, staring him down. “But I’m pissed anyway. You can’t do this. Come in, kiss me, and then act as if I’m the worst mistake you’ve ever made.”

He watched her over his fingers. “Lydia…”

“No. Don’t.” Shoving his shoulders, she snapped, “Just go.”

Still, he hesitated. He took in every detail of her body, and for a second she thought he was going to come back to her. But he stood his ground. “You deserve more than I can give you. You deserve a prince, not a broken man like me. We will never, ever, live in a world where a guy like me can treat a girl like you the right way.”

Refusing to reply to that, she pressed her lips together.

“It’s true. You can ignore me all you want, but it’s true.” He stared down at her, his bare chest heaving. “I’ve seen things…done things…that no one should have done or seen. And now I’m falling apart. I’m no good for you. For anyone. Stop letting me in. Stop kissing me. Stop listening to anything I say. Just stop.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left. She watched him go, her heart wrenching. Even though she couldn’t tell if she was more angry or upset, she knew one thing. He thought he didn’t deserve her. Thought he was somehow lacking something. He was wrong. She almost chased after him. Almost tried to get him to see himself the way she did, but she forced herself to stay still. Nothing she did, or said, would change the real issue at hand. She was his best friend’s little sister…

And he didn’t want her.

…

The next morning Lydia sat in her living room, her phone in front of her next to her open MacAir. She’d typed in two little words on the Google search bar, but she hadn’t hit return yet. She glared down at the computer, her heart accelerating at just the appearance of his name on her screen. Holt Cunningham.

She could hit the button. Read all about his past, so she could find a way to make him see she wasn’t scared of him. He seemed to think he was some kind of monster, but he was wrong. He was a damaged man, sure. But that didn’t make him a bad one.

Did it?

Just as she was about to hit search, a knock sounded at her door. She stared at it. It wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. Who would be here this early? Slowly, she walked to the door and plastered her face against it. Through the peephole, she saw…

Oh, crap.

Gasping, she smoothed her hands over her hair. It was probably a frizzy mess, but that wasn’t a huge surprise since she’d spent the night tossing and turning. Great. He looks like a model, while I look like a troll. Not much to do about it now.

Not if she wanted to let him in—and she did.

After taking a deep breath, she cracked the door open. “What are you doing here?”

He held out a bouquet of flowers. “I wanted to give you these. I saw them on my way to work, and the green ones looked like your eyes…” He broke off, his cheeks red. “I mean… I thought of you…”

They looked like my eyes? God, he’s trying to kill me.

Her heart did a flip-flop and then soared. Opening the door more, she took the blooms and brought them to her nose. They smelled lovely. “You bought me flowers?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I did.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I saw them, and I thought of you, so I bought them.”

She stared at him, and he stared right back.

Neither one of them spoke.

After a while, he shifted on his feet. His gray pants hugged his body way too freaking closely, and he wore a button up blue shirt. His glasses were perched on his nose, and his hair was styled to the side. He looked hot as hell, of course. He always did. “I’m sorry for last night. For what I did.”

“For touching me, or for stopping?” she asked, gripping the doorknob.