Page 20 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“That’s Sam,” I say, forcing out a laugh. My friend is small but fierce and doesn’t suffer men who don’t respect women. “Blabber mouth. She shouldn’t have told you.”
“Don’t be mad at her. I would have worked it out for myself anyway.”
“Bullshit,” I challenge. “Besides, I’m fine. Nothing to see here except a woman moving on with her life.”
“Bullshit,” he counters. “I see a lot more than that.”
“What the fuck are you on about, Teddy?”
“Exactly what I said. You’re all confidence and laughter out there, but I can tell that’s not what’s going on inside.”
“Don’t be so bloody stupid. Secretly got a therapy degree?”
“No, but I grew up in a household of women. I learned to notice things. I can tell when someone’s sad.”
That’s fucking wonderful. A good-looking guy. Someone I thought I could have a bit of fun with—and he thinks I’m the sad girl. I want to bite back, refute his argument, but the words don’t come. Here I am, the damaged heart I thought I’d hidden so well, caught in the spotlight of Teddy’s gaze.
Tears prickle, and I bite at my lip, trying to hold them back. Idon’tcry, especially not in front of men. I learned young. Growing up, I never let my father see how he hurt me with his barbed words and backhanded criticism. His harsh training has served me well.
In my first year at Baddingly and Kennett, when one of the senior partners called me into his office and ripped strips off me for ignoring instructions on a case (even though it was the reason we won), I stood tall and took it without flinching.
Over the years, I’ve had condescending judges and arrogant opposing counsel hit hard with their comments, and god knows there’s been dozens of times I’ve wanted to crumple into tears, but I didn’t.
And I’m proud that I never once broke down in front of Pierre: not when he introduced me as “a close friend” at a work dinner, carefully avoiding the word fiancée, then argued with me about it later; not when he told me he was leaving, tearing apart all my deluded dreams of happiness; not even when he held out his hand for his mother’s ring and said “Maman will want it back.” I stood strong and kept my emotions in check when most would have given in.
Yet here, I have no defence against Teddy Hargrove with his kind eyes. Two traitorous, scalding droplets trickle down my cheeks. He lifts a finger, a featherlight touch brushing them away.
“It’s the booze,” I lie. “Makes me overemotional.”
“It’s okay.” The gentleness makes me want to cry even more. “I’m sorry. Now I’m the bastard hurting you with my dumb questions.”
I blink hard, shake my head, and blow out a breath.
“His name was Pierre.” Even the effort of saying his name exhausts me. “He’s the bastard. We were together for three years, engaged for one, and we broke up two months ago. Now he’s fucking his PA. Such a cliché, right?”
“And a prize arsehole,” he says. “I’d offer to go round and beat him up, but I guess he’s bigger than me.”
“Yeah, like a fucking giraffe in a suit,” I choke out. “Who also has a black belt in taekwondo.” The ridiculous image has us both laughing.
“Perhaps we should send Sam?” he says, eyes twinkling, and I dissolve into another fit of giggles.
I like this man. With a few words, he can pull me back from the edge of the invisible cliff of despair I’ve been teetering on for weeks. He’s barely had a day with me, yet he sees clearer than the friends who’ve watched me for years.
Teddy leans in, swallowing my laughter with a kiss. The air turns molten, and I melt into him, finally giving way to the burning need for his lips. He’s hungry, and I meet his need with my own. His hand cups the back of my head, guiding me closer.
When we finally break apart, his forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing heavily. His fingers trace a gentle path along my jawline.
“I promise you, Rachel, I would never hurt you.”
The bare honesty in his voice catches me off guard. His eyes, a steady brown like smooth river stones, hold mine without wavering.
I nod. “I know,” I say.
I’m not sure why I even believe him. From all I’ve seen and heard, Teddy Hargrove is an unashamed man whore. Love ’em and leave ’em is his standard approach to women. Yet, none of those exes has ever bad-mouthed him in public, even when pressed by persistent muck-raking journalists.
I’m taking a huge leap of faith here, trusting those who’ve walked this path before me. Trusting Teddy to not do me damage. Yet this already seems to have gone from a bit of casual fun to feeling like something more. Something that could absolutely see me hurt. But in the face of the earnestness in his eyes, I brush aside the thought, and bring my mouth to his again.
His hands twine in my hair, roughly tugging my head back to give him access to my neck. Soft lips trace a burning path down my neck, and a soft moan floats up my throat. His fingers tighten in my hair, holding me exactly where he wants me.
