Stars Over Castle Hill (On Dublin Street 6.6)

I narrowed my eyes at his mysterious amusement. “Seriously, what?”

“You’re the first woman I’ve dated who ordered a coffee. No nonfat, skinny, iced mocha whatever. Just coffee.”

I grinned at him but I was deadly serious when I said, “Don’t confuse the simplicity of my drink with me, Braden Carmichael. There is nothing simple about getting into this thing with me. Merely a heads-up.”

His eyes smoldered.

“What did I say this time?” I tried to huff but it came out all breathy and turned on.

“We need to get to know each other. Fast.”

This time I was the one who threw my head back in laughter.

And it felt good.

Fuckity fuck fuck.

It felt so good.

***

“So tell me about the model,” I said, as we walked toward Princes Street gardens with our coffees to go.

“The model?”

“Fiona.”

“She’s not a model. She’s a financial advisor.”

“Beautiful and smart.” Wonderful.

Braden shot me an arrogant look out of the corner of his eye. “No need for jealousy, Jocelyn. Fiona and I were casual.”

“She didn’t look so casual back there.”

“We started out casual. As soon as I realized she was starting to get serious, I broke things off.”

“I’m confused.”

“Why?”

“You said you didn’t want us to be casual but you wanted to be casual with her …”

This time he studied me as we walked. “You’re not Fiona.”

Something about this pissed me off. “So you pick and choose who you get serious with?”

Hearing the edge in my voice only seemed to delight him. It was becoming increasingly obvious that for whatever reason, Braden got off on my irritation. “What is bothering you? That I didn’t want more than sex from her or that I want more than sex from you?”

His question stumped me. “I’m …well … look at her.”

“She’s very attractive,” he agreed.

“Is that your type?”

He considered the question. “I suppose you could say so.”

“Well, what does Kiersten look like?”

“Tall. Blond. Beautiful.”

So it was his type.

“You don’t cross me as a woman who’s insecure about her looks, Jocelyn.”

I wasn’t a woman who was insecure about her looks and the fact that he had me questioning my attractiveness pissed me off.

“I’m not,” I snapped, and then gestured to my legs. “But if you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a model.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, I couldn’t give a fuck how tall you are.” He shot me a quelling look. “What are you really trying to ask me?”

“If you’re a serial monogamist?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

But that was what was really bothering me.

The truth was I didn’t know if I wanted to start something with Braden, something serious. The thought made my throat close and my heart speed out of control. But I was playing chicken with my issues and I was determined to at least try to win.

However, I wasn’t too happy about the idea of gambling with my emotional well-being over a guy who was going to decide to get untangled from me three months down the line.

“Okay.” He nodded at me, seeming to sense that I was serious, and that his answer really meant something. “Here’s my history for you, babe. I liked being in a relationship. It was the kind of man I was. And when I was young, too young, I fell in love with a girl called Analise. We married when I was twenty-two.”

The news that he was a divorcee hit me like a punch to the gut. So he definitely could get serious when he wanted to. I didn’t know if that made me feel better or worse.

“Analise was an Australian post-grad student. We’d only been together a year before I proposed, and we were only married for two. The first nine months were great. The next three months rocky. The last year hell. We fought a lot. She said I was emotionally distant. And when I think about it, that was true. Thank fuck.” His eyes came back to me. “The thought of handing her—someone as vindictive as her—all my personal crap …”

“Like ammunition in her hands,” I murmured, understanding completely.

He nodded, his gaze sharpening at whatever he found in my expression. “I believe you work hard to make a marriage work. I didn’t want to give up. But one day, not too long before my father passed away, he called me and asked me to check a property we were trying to sell. He told me there had been a complaint about dripping water in the downstairs flat, so I went along to check. I didn’t find a leak, but I found Analise in bed with a close friend of mine from school. My dad had known. They’d been going behind my back for six months.”

The thought of someone doing that to him stunned me. “How could she?” I whispered.

Braden’s eyes softened. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. It was the best thing that could have happened. In retrospect, I doubt I was anything more than infatuated by her.”

“Where is she now?”

“She moved back to Australia when she realized she wasn’t going to get a penny out of me.”

“And from there … did you meet anyone else?”

“I was in and out of relationships right up until I met Kiersten.”

“And she screwed you over, too.” That ache I felt in my chest sharpened, clarified. Braden had been put through the ringer by women. Surely that had affected him.

“I’m not screwed up over women, Jocelyn. Yes, my own mother was not the greatest example, and yes, I’ve had a few women mess me around. But I also grew up with a pseudo stepmum who alone could restore any man’s faith in women. I know plenty of good women. I know they exist. I never wanted anything serious for a while after I had Abby. She deserves all my attention, my focus. I will always put her first. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want. And when I want something badly enough … I’ll go after it.”

I stopped by Ross Fountain. “And you want to try something more. With me?”

In answer, he stepped right into my space and settled his free hand on my waist. I stared up into his eyes, wanting to melt into him and run away from him at the same time. “I can’t do casual with you, Jocelyn.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before.”

“And you want to fuck me,” I cracked.

He bent his head to my ear and his lips brushed my skin. “More than I’ve wanted to fuck anyone ever.”

Despite the warmth of the summer’s day my nipples peaked against my T-shirt and I was trembling from need so much, I clutched tighter onto my coffee in fear it would drop right out of my hand. “What if it’s a letdown?” I whispered.

Braden pulled back to stare into my eyes. “Not possible.”

“You cocky bastard,” I whispered against mouth, “you don’t play fair.”

“I intend to play any way it takes

to keep you.”

My eyes widened at his declaration. “You don’t even know me.”

He grinned as he let go of my waist and pulled back. He took a sip from his coffee, his pale gaze glittering with mischief. “That’s what today is about. So tell me … how can a midlist writer and part-time bartender not only afford a two-bedroom flat in Morningside but is able to buy a fifteen hundred-pound book series like she was buying a pint of milk?”

Shit fuckity shit fuck.

I turned away, sipping at my coffee. My parents were killed in a car crash when I was fourteen, leaving me everything. “My family has money.” I shrugged like it was no big deal. “My family, on my dad’s side, originally came from Louisiana. My great-grandfather made a lot of money in oil.”

“Where does your family live now?”

“They moved to Virginia. That’s where I grew up.”

“And they’re okay with you being in Scotland?”

“Well, my mom was Scottish.”

He was quiet a beat. “Was?”

My heart threatened to pound out of my chest.

Tell him!

Tell him the truth or lose out. Again!

I opened my mouth to give him the words, but they got stuck. I was feeling sweaty and dry-mouthed and my heart was racing so hard, I thought I might throw up.

Nothing was worth this feeling, right?

Right?

I mean, he didn’t need to know everything about me right away.

“I …” I stopped because he’d trusted me with a lot and I felt like I owed him an explanation. “It’s not an easy subject for me. My family. And it’s not that I don’t want to …” I gestured between us. “Only … maybe we could table that conversation for later?”

Braden scrutinized me. It felt like he did that forever. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him because in answer, he slid his hand around my waist and led me into walking again. He dumped his empty coffee cup in a trash can and then took mine to do the same. “Tell me why you wanted to be a writer.”

I sagged gratefully into his side and he gave me an answering squeeze. “I don’t know. I love reading. And I’ve always written. It was an escape, I guess.”