Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t, and as I sip my wine I realize I’m doing a heck of a lot more questioning than he is.

I wonder if he’s simply more polite or if he doesn’t care to know more beyond the fact that I have a sister.

Noah flips the steaks before giving me a glance over his shoulder. “What, no more questions? Don’t want to know my birthday or social security number or favorite brand of condoms?”

“Somehow you don’t strike me as the type of guy who’s all that picky about his condoms,” I say.

“Did you just imply I’m promiscuous, princess?” he asks, turning around.

“No,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “I lack your particular knack for that sort of shaming.”

To his credit, he winces, but then he turns around, flipping the vegetables once more. He removes one of the steaks and covers it with foil, leaving the other one on for a few more minutes.

I watch as he removes the second steak as well as the vegetables, adding them all to the plate before covering it once more with foil, then tosses the tongs down on the little shelf attached to the grill.

When he turns back, his expression is angry, but there’s a sort of agony to it, as though he’s more pissed at himself than me.

He walks toward me slowly and my breath catches a little at his nearness—even more so when he uses his hips to nudge my knees open so he can step between my spread thighs. The dress rides up, awfully close to displaying the lady parts, but he doesn’t even glance down. He’s too focused on my face.

He shoves a hand into my hair, his fingers fisting just a little roughly, the other hand resting on my hip.

For a second I think he might kiss me, but instead he rests his forehead on mine, his eyes dark as they look into mine. “I’ve treated you badly, said things I shouldn’t, and for that I’m sorry. Really,” he says, his voice rough. “But I don’t think I’m off base in thinking it’s not just me who’s messed with your head. It’s the fucking paparazzi and all that comes with your private life being public, and you need to shake that off. You need to not give a fuck what anyone says or thinks about you, me included. You get me?”

“I’m working on it,” I whisper.

“Work harder,” he says, his fingers tightening slightly as he eases back and lets his eyes roam over my face. “Because you’re good, Jenny Dawson.”

I wince, and his hand tightens on my hip. “No, I don’t mean it like that. I don’t mean that you’re supposed to be virginal and sugar-sweet and not make mistakes. I mean you’re good in that you’re kind and patient and only moderately annoying.”

“High praise,” I say with a little smile.

He leans again, his forehead resting on mine once more as his eyes go even darker. “You’re also sexy as hell and give great head.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Last night was—”

“If you say it was a mistake, I’m giving your steak to the dogs.”

“I was going to say last night was an experiment.”

His hand slides down, his thumb trailing over my lip. “I’d say it was a successful one.”

“I thought for sure you were going to push me away today,” I whisper, the hand that’s not still holding my wine coming up to fiddle with the button of his polo shirt. “Give me all the reasons that this can’t happen.”

“It shouldn’t happen,” he says, his eyes watching the way his thumb drifts over my mouth. “I’m not the guy for you.”

“Why not?” I challenge.

“Because I’m the guy building the porch swing while you’re working on your next Grammy-winning album. I’m the guy drinking PBR while you sip champagne. I’m a redneck, you’re red carpet.”

“But—”

“You know as well as I do that you’re leaving sometime soon, and I’m sure as hell not coming with you.”

I want to tell him about my plan to buy the place, but I don’t. Because what would that even mean? It’s not as though I plan to live here full-time. Or even part-time. It’s not remotely

practical, and it’s not as if he even wants me to stay.

“I am not for you, princess.”