Page 64 of Bracing The Storm

I’m his type. Not Sinead.

The sudden ping of his phone interrupts the moment. He breaks the kiss off too quickly and, after a glance at the screen, starts the engine.

“Let’s go home. We need to talk.” His tone is grave, instantly dissipating the sexual tension.

I open my mouth to ask questions when a strong gust of wind hits the side of the car, almost sending us off-road. At some point, the sky has turned a dark shade of charcoal and thick drops of rain start to splatter the windshield. I try to peek out the window, but the high humidity and sudden dark fog make it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.

“This is bad,” Patrick says and revs the engine.

“I thought you said you’re used to stormy weather.”

“Yes. But not at this time of the year.”

I bite my lip, waiting for him to say more, but he keeps quiet, focused on the road. His absentmindedness gives me the opportunity to regard his profile without his noticing. His shoulders are tense. His hands clutch at the steering wheel, the skin taut over the knuckles. In spite of the worry line on his forehead, he is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Completely out of my league and then some. I’ve never been particularly popular with the guys, not like Mia. And yet a famous rock star seems to see something in me.

Lost in thought, I only see the house as the car pulls into the garage. Patrick gets out and opens the passenger door for me.

I smile and mouth, “Thank you,” but his eyes are still distant. I can’t imagine it’s the storm that’s worrying him to this extentwhen he’s safely tucked inside a house that’s been standing for centuries. Then again, what do I know?

“Can you wait for me in the kitchen? We really need to talk before we go any further than we already have.” His tone is clipped. The question resembles a silent demand and does not leave room for objection.

Before I get a chance to respond, he’s disappeared through the adjoining door into the house, leaving me no other option than to do as bid.

Chapter Twenty-Two

We need to talk.

Patrick’s words keep echoing in my mind as I’m waiting for him to break his silence. I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table for only a few minutes, and yet they are slowly starting to feel like hours. I can smell bad news from a mile away, what with me being an expert in receiving them, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what Patrick needs to talk to me about.

The suspense is killing me.

He’s going to tell me sleeping with me was a mistake.

I take a sharp breath and release it slowly as I try to calm my racing heart. Obviously, he can’t be breaking up with me because we’re not dating. We haven’t defined anything at all, not even where we’re standing with regard to dividing up the house.

Is that agreement still in place after I let him take me to his room and shared more than just a bed with him?

I fight the urge to tap my fingertips against my thighs as I sneak another peek at him, wondering why he can’t just get on with it, preferably before I turn eighty and might not even remember who he is in the first place.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, legs crossed in front of him, gaze lowered to a spot somewhere at his feet. I can’t help but wonder whether he’s one of those neat freaks who can’t get over the speck of dirt smudging an otherwise spotless floor.

The thought brings a smile to my face.

It goes to show I know nothing about this man. Up until recently, I didn’t even know his profession. I can definitely overlook a few OCD tendencies as long as he’s willing to ignore my annoying habit of cooing at every baby that crosses my path, be it the human or furry kind. Stranger things have happened, but some men apparently see that as a big red sign of a need to procreate—and fast.

True story.

“Lori.” His deep voice finally breaks the silence, startling me.

I look up from his feet and clear my throat, vying my smile to disappear lest he ask why I’m laughing. I can’t share with him that I would be willing to ignore his shortcomings as long as he’s giving us a chance. He might be out of my league, but a girl’s got to dream and dream big, right?

“Yes?” I prompt and cross my legs, revealing the pair of sparkly pink sneakers I’ve been wearing to work. Patrick’s gaze is instantly drawn to them. They’re the sneaker version of my recently-gifted fuck-me heels, albeit with a less inflated price tag. They aren’t particularly comfortable or suitable for standing several hours on your feet, but I still haven’t shopped around for anything more fitting.

“The shoes.” He points at my feet.

“Shoes, yes. I know what footwear is. Been wearing it most of my life.” I frown, unsure where he’s heading. He can’t possibly want to talk about my sneakers. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing’s wrong with them. It’s just”—there’s a glint in his eyes as he shakes his head, and I realize he’s laughing—“I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re just…”

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