My Darling Bride(5)

He scowls.

“You forgot,” I say with a heartfelt sigh. “You’re just so big, honey bunny.”

His mouth parts, and before he can ruin my performance, I crook my arm through his and herd him to my door, unlock it, and tug him in. Surprisingly, he doesn’t give me much trouble.

I slam the door with a bang—take that, Fake Clint—then engage the dead bolt lock.

Leaving Lambo to his own devices, I tense my shoulders as I peek through the blinds.

Fake Clint leans against the rail and lights up a cigarette, and I huff. Go away, you rat.

“Okay, what . . . the . . . fuck?” Lambo calls from behind me.

I turn, and he looks angry.

Sadly, it does nothing to hamper his attractiveness. On a scale of one to ten for hotness, Lambo is a million. He’s truly a mountain of a man and stands with authority, his feet spread and arms crossed, calling attention to the roped muscles on his forearms. He doesn’t have that pumped-up steroid look with a short neck; no, his muscles fit his frame perfectly.

“Well?” The sharp word hangs in the air, and I get it, totally. This man is someone, and I’ve just messed with him.

I note the Rolex on his wrist, the Gucci belt, the Italian loafers. La-di-da. He knows how to dress. Men like him are a dime a dozen in Manhattan. I can walk out of my building and see ten. Carry on, Emmy.

I sigh, nudging my head back at the door. “Clint was right; these walls are thin. I can practically hear him exhaling his cigarette. Keep your voice down.”

Disbelief flits over his face. “I don’t even know who you are.”

I raise my hands, my voice going back to the terrible scratchy one. “I know, I know. I’m sorry for the drama. Truly. He was being weird; then you showed up, and I just went with it.”

It was as if I was possessed.

I didn’t even recognize myself.

I could have just told Lambo the guy was bothering me from the get-go. Maybe Fake Clint isn’t even that menacing, but with Kian doing what he did, I may have gone overboard.

I’m not an impulsive kind of girl. Okay, that’s a lie. Obviously.

“Lots of weirdos at the Golden Iguana,” he says tightly.

“I hear the sarcasm.”

He grunts as his eyes rove the messy room, taking in the clothes that drape over every surface, my books, the packages of tart candy. I have several from an emotional binge run to the gas station. I move to stand in front of the nightstand, hiding the copious number of empty miniature prosecco bottles. I bump into the table, and several fall to the floor, clanking together and confirming that yes, as a matter of fact, I do have a slight hangover. I’ve named my headache the End of a Relationship Throb. I thought a swim might help. It didn’t. I rub my head absently, and he watches me.

The air-conditioning clicks on, and the room chills—and my nipples threaten to rip through my rash guard. His gaze drops to my breasts like they’re beacons, and I imagine he can see right through the material. Right. I’m barely dressed. I grab a white button-up shirt off the bed, one of Kian’s I snatched, and slip it on, thankful it comes to my thighs. I close a few of the buttons. “Sorry for the mess. I didn’t know I was going to have company.”

“Jesus. I’m not company,” he says as he nudges his head at the door. “I need to go to my room, lady.”

“Of course, but first, let me explain . . .” I offer him a tiny bottle of prosecco, one that isn’t empty, and he frowns.

“A little early, don’t you think?”

I shrug. “Depends on how one’s morning is going.”

“Today is totally sucking. You’re. Annoying. Me.”

Oh, I can see that. There’s an angry glint in his eyes, and his stellar cheekbones are flushed. “Fine, okay, I see what you mean. The guy out there, the one you rescued me from, was hitting on every female with a heartbeat last night, and today he was watching me swim, and when I came up the stairs, he cornered me. He asked if I was alone, and I told him I had a boyfriend in the room, but he didn’t believe me.”

“Where is your boyfriend?”

I wince. “That’s the thing. I don’t have one. Well, I did, but that’s another story. That’s why I needed you.”

“I see.”

“What Kian did was beyond reproach. I left Vegas and came here to get away from him. I should have just flown home from there, but I wasn’t thinking. I needed time to process. That’s how I ended up in the middle of the desert.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m never dating again. I’m going to get a cat. A rescue one. The ugliest one they have, the most pathetic creature, the one that no one else wants. It’ll love me unconditionally.”

“I really don’t care, lady. I despise cats.”

Jeez. He’s a tough nut. And a man who hates kitties? Concerning. Sure, a man (or woman) is allowed to like what they like, but cat haters are a good way to find out which humans to avoid.

Men who like cats, in my opinion, are usually kind and gentle, important qualities for a relationship. Men who don’t like them can be quick to judge and impatient. On the other hand, Kian loved cats, and he’s currently the king of douchebags. Dammit. There goes that litmus test down the drain.

I refocus. “Anyway, the guy outside is in the room next to mine and claims he can hear me. See, when he says that, I’m picturing him with a glass to his ear on the other side of the wall to spy on me. Or—and this is scary—maybe there’s a tiny hole in my wall, and he can actually see me. I’m not saying he’s a serial killer, but you seemed the better option.” Anxiousness rises. I’ve judged Lambo safe, but hell, what do I know? “Um, are you one?”