Page 44 of Dirty Love

I find myself needing to harden my heart far too often lately. It’s a strange sensation, that softness in my chest. I don’t like it.

But then she looks up and gives me a playful smile, and I’m mush again.

I’ll go back to being heartless in eighteen hours.

“Hey,” she says as I stop in front of her.

There’s a calculated risk in being in public, but nothing I’ve looked at indicates that her manager is having her followed or watched in any way. He wouldn’t know where to start to effectively do it, either.

So I kiss her. I reach out and pull her to me, one arm wrapped all the way around her waist, the other hand holding the back of her neck, and I kiss the fucking daylights out of her.

She tastes faintly of peppermint gum and wet, sweet promise. I’m going to have her mouth on my dick the second we’re alone, then I’ll repay the favour by burying my face between her legs until she screams.

She tastes like sex because that’s what we’ve got, that’s what we’re allowed to miss, but my arms tighten around her, just kissing her, because damn it, I’ve missedher.

Fucking softness.

It’ll be my death, but I’ll die with a smile on my face.

“Where are we staying?” she asks when I let her up for air.

I’m at the same boutique hotel in SoHo she’s at. “One floor down from your room.”

“Why did I ask?” She shakes her head, but her eyes are sparkling.

“You look like you’ve had a good day.”

She grinned. “Just signed a contract with a big tour promoter for a winter tour.”

“That sounds like something one would celebrate.”

“Right? Which is why I’m shopping. I’m looking for a dress to wear on the Ben & Emily show tomorrow morning.”

“Did you find one?”

“Not yet. Do you mind if we go to Knight’s across the road?”

“Lead the way.”

Except I actually lead the way, because bodyguard tendencies come naturally to me, and it bothers me that she doesn’t use them. She never has, from what I can tell. Instead she seems to cultivate an interesting dynamic with the paparazzi, giving them enough interesting B-roll when they want it that if she’s doing something boring like shopping, they tend to leave her alone.

But there’s nobody around when we hit the steaming sidewalk. We join the throngs of New Yorkers crossing the street, then head through the door opened for us by a uniformed doorman at Knight’s.

It’s just as fancy as any of the other stores on Fifth Avenue, but it’s not a chain. Vaguely in the back of my mind, I know something about the company. Brothers own it, and two spun off their fortunes into tech.

Once we’re inside, Tabitha takes the lead for real. She’s been here before, and she strides with purpose toward the elevator; but she doesn’t skip a beat when I curve my hand around her elbow and guide her to the stairs, instead.

“I don’t take elevators I haven’t had a chance to check out,” I murmur in her ear.

“That’s not paranoid or anything,” she says with a smile.

“Better paranoid than dead.”

“Touche.”

“So I didn’t really take you for a high fashion kind of girl.”

“Woman.”

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