Bad Bridesmaid (Billionaire's Club Book 11) by Elise Faber (important books to read txt) 📕

which he’d parked just down the block, and made his way to Heidi’s door.

She was waiting in the opening, the rattiest sweatshirt he’d ever seen covering her lush curves, the basket he’d left in her arms. Her hair was down, her legs covered in rainbow-printed pajama pants, and her feet were bare, purple-painted toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her PJs.

And she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Seeing her was an actual punch to the gut, a physical caress.

Then she spoke, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t take a tiny bit of wind out of his sails.

“I’m only inviting you in because you’re alone.”

Ouch.

But still, it was a way in. So he simply took the basket from her arms and said, “Well, if I’m here being pathetic, I don’t mind being pathetic with you.”

Her cheeks went pink. “That’s not what I meant.”

He knew that, knew despite the sharp words and her attempts at distance, that Heidi wasn’t mean at heart. She had a generosity of spirit and a big heart, both of which had recalled him to her place, even after he’d clearly hurt her deeply a few months before.

Shifting the basket, he brushed his fingers over her cheek. “I know.”

“No touching,” she muttered, stepping back. “If you want my famous spaghetti Bolognese, you’ll stop with the seduction and just be Jaime’s brother.”

He didn’t want to be Jaime’s brother in that moment.

He wanted to be this woman’s lover, her other half, her everything.

But he’d blown it. He’d run scared last time, and now he was paying the consequences. Also yes, maybe he had a plan to sweet-talk this woman into a second chance. He’d fucked up, he panicked and left, but . . . he’d come back.

He’d seen her.

The puzzle pieces in his mind had finally rearranged themselves into proper alignment.

And he knew that he couldn’t give her up.

Travel had grown dull, his life empty. But now he was seeing in full color for the first time, and that was simply from being in her presence for a few hours. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

He wanted . . . well, first he wanted this woman to not look at him with daggers in her eyes.

Baby steps.

Lifting his hands, he said, “No touching.” A beat. “Unless you ask me to.”

Her eyebrows lifted, and if her glare were a physical thing, he would have been flayed open and bleeding on the ground. As it was, and lucky for him, she didn’t have that power, so he was able to follow her into the house, able to surreptitiously take in her surroundings.

To mark if anything had changed.

It hadn’t, and he walked through the clean space, everything neatly in its place, from the dust-free photographs to the purple couch with the cheerful turquoise cushions. She strode into the kitchen, and he saw she had food set out on the counter. As he hovered in the doorway, she bent and grabbed a pot from a drawer, slamming more than placing it on the stove.

“Is there a reason you haven’t started mixing drinks yet?” she muttered a little while later.

He’d been watching her at work, opening cans of tomato sauce, browning some meat in a pan—which had required her to do an additional bend and had given him an additional glimpse of those curves currently hiding amongst the rainbows on her pajamas—chopping an onion and herbs, and he hadn’t realized that he’d spent long minutes standing in that opening.

She was mesmerizing.

Even grouchy and in enough fabric to cover an elephant.

Which was a thought he would not be saying aloud.

Because, once again, he liked his balls where they were, thank him very much.

“I thought it was a school night,” he bluffed. “Figured you’d want to save your one drink for mealtime.”

“I changed my mind,” she muttered, stirring the pot after adding what smelled like garlic—and plenty of the yummy aromatic if his nose was any indication. “I need more than one drink to deal with you creeping out on me like a peeping Tom.”

He burst out laughing.

“That wasn’t supposed to be funny.”

Crossing over to her, he said, “You’re like a kitten trying to be terrifying, hissing and swiping out with your claws but not managing anything remotely close to frightening.”

Her hazel eyes darkened.

And he had the distinct thought that if he really liked his balls where they currently resided, then he was going to have to stop running his freaking mouth.

But instead of taking her frustration out on his junk, instead of smacking him over the head with that pan—as he probably half-deserved—her lips curved into a rueful smile and she said, “Unfortunately, I’ve never mastered the art of being scary.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“Oh yeah?” she muttered. “You haven’t seen me trying to scare off annoying men in the bar. One of my glares and I swear they pull up a chair and start ordering appetizers.” She turned back to the sauce and stirred in one of the cans of tomatoes.

“I’m guessing it doesn’t work on annoying men in your house, either?”

Her lips tipped up. “No, it doesn’t.”

He laughed, finally placed the basket on the counter, started pulling together ingredients for the prickly pear margaritas that he’d heard through the grapevine were her favorite.

“I’m not good at seeing things through to the end.” Brad froze, shocked that he’d said the words aloud.

He’d thought them often enough, had berated himself for his jumping about, for his lack of staying power, but he couldn’t ever remember a time when he’d admitted that failing to someone else.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, the silence punctuated only by the sizzling meat in the pan, the scraping of the wooden spoon as she stirred.

“Why do you think that is?” she asked softly, when he’d nearly given in to the urge to run screaming from the townhouse.

The question was an obvious one.

Just not one he’d expected her to ask.

It was also one he wasn’t prepared to answer.

“I don’t know.” Did it relate to