One Wicked Week. Nicola Marsh
Читать онлайн книгу.
she’d have to tell him everything. It didn’t make it any easier.
‘Sasha was amazing. Top student, excellent musician, incredible polo player.’ Her heart twanged as it always did at the memory of her sister. ‘She was one of those people who loved everyone and the feeling was mutual.’
He hesitated, before blurting, ‘You weren’t jealous?’
‘Maybe a little.’ She shrugged, deliberately blocking that useless, insidious emotion she’d conquered a long time ago. No point being jealous of a ghost, no matter how much her folks rubbed her nose in Sasha’s perfection. ‘But I loved her too. She had a good heart and that’s what ultimately killed her.’
Sorrow clogged her throat and she swallowed it, needing to finish this now that she’d started. ‘She took a gap year after finishing high school and volunteered to teach kids English in a small Guatemalan village. It was her way of showing our folks that she wouldn’t bow down to their expectations no matter how much they wanted her to take over the business one day.’
Tears prickled her eyes and she blinked them away. ‘A landslide swept through the village during her third month there. They never recovered her body.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Brock reached out and clasped her icy hand between his.
She didn’t need his sympathy, she’d moved on from her grief a long time ago, but it felt nice to have his solid hands rubbing hers, infusing her with his warmth. However, when his hands stilled, she became all too aware of the warmth spreading higher; up her arm, through her chest, into her belly, a languid heat that morphed from comforting into something else entirely.
Quickly sliding her hand out of his, she scooted back in her chair. ‘Anyway, this charity I’m setting up is my way of honouring Sasha’s memory and continuing the work she would’ve done if she’d had the chance. I want to raise money to fund education for poorer areas in South America so that children everywhere have a chance to make something of themselves.’
Admiration lit his eyes and she hated how good it made her feel. She hadn’t told him to gain respect. She’d told him to distract, to ensure he wouldn’t keep badgering her as to the real reason behind her discomfort around him.
‘So now you know.’
‘It’s a good thing you’re doing,’ he said, his tone low and soothing. ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘I don’t need your praise,’ she snapped, the urge to lean in for a hug too strong, too tempting.
‘Then what do you need?’
He wasn’t talking about his IT skills and she knew it.
Since when did the glowering geek morph into this intuitive charmer? It made her like him all the more. Not good.
‘I need you to focus on us working together.’
She eyeballed him, daring him to disagree. He’d always backed down in the past, not willing to spar, unlike other guys. He’d been closed-off and dour in uni, which had made her want to tease him all the more. But he’d avoided her unless it had involved assignments and she’d accepted that he didn’t like her. Something he’d proved otherwise on that fateful night she’d revealed herself to him in more ways than one.
‘What else do you need?’ He reached across the table and touched her knee, a glance of his fingertips that sent a pleasant shock through her.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Damn, could she sound any feebler?
‘The Jayda I used to know had a permanent smile on her face and a cheeky twinkle in her eyes.’ He gestured at her. ‘You look sad and I think it’s more than your sister’s death and your parents’ shoddy treatment.’
Damn, how did he do that? Home in on her hidden insecurities? Not that she’d tell him the real reason behind her moroseness. She’d shared way too much of herself already today. Besides, part of her reinvention in turning her back on her parents and striking out on her own meant she had to be bold, brash and not beholden to anyone, ever.
She didn’t need to be psychoanalysed by him or anyone else. She needed to take control of this situation, starting now.
Her gaze landed on the pianist, who made a smooth transition from elevator music to an upbeat jazz number. And in that moment she knew how to assert her confidence and show him how much she’d changed from that clingy, needy woman he’d known for one night six years ago.
‘Do you still like jazz?’
He blinked in surprise before nodding. ‘Yeah, I’m a tragic. How did you know?’
Great, now she’d have to reveal the most inconsequential thing she remembered about him and he’d know exactly how tragic she was.
‘You had a few playlists on your phone during uni days.’ She kept her answer deliberately vague, hoping he wouldn’t call her on it. ‘Anyway, there’s a new jazz club recently opened in this hotel. Want to check it out?’
Her invitation floored him, if his wide eyes and slightly parted lips were any indication, but he recovered quickly to stare at her with blatant speculation.
‘You’re full of surprises, Jayda York.’
Good, because as long as she held the upper hand she could keep her doubts at bay and prove how much she’d changed from their last encounter together.
‘Is that a yes, Brock Olsen?’
He nodded, his delectable mouth easing into a smile. ‘That’s a hell yes. Let’s go.’
He stood and held out his hand to her, and, swallowing every reservation she had that she’d done the dumbest thing ever, she placed her hand in his.
‘THE HIPSTER CAT? Seriously?’ Brock placed a hand in the small of Jayda’s back and guided her into the dimly lit club, knowing this was a dumbass idea but powerless to do anything about it now.
He should’ve said no the moment she’d invited him to accompany her here but he couldn’t leave, not when she looked so morose. He couldn’t believe she’d never told him about her sister. Then again, he’d meant nothing to her and the only reason she’d reached out to him on grad night was because that dickhead Deon had done a number on her. She’d been vulnerable and he’d been convenient. That was why she’d bolted in the middle of the night, embarrassment at revealing too much of herself to a stranger.
He’d been glad. Her flit had relieved him of giving her the polite brush-off the morning after. It had suited them both. But what had happened tonight...he wasn’t wrong about the sadness. It emanated off her like a goddamn aura and he didn’t like it. Her asshole parents had hurt her, she still grieved for her sister, and he hated seeing the vibrant, bubbly woman appear so fragile.
So he’d manned up and done the right thing, agreeing to her invitation to this jazz club. Not that it was a hardship. She had him at jazz. He played the greats on repeat while he worked: he couldn’t get enough. What surprised him was her remembering his passion.
Which begged the question: what else did she remember from back then? Did she remember him going down on her, twice? Did she remember the multiple orgasms? Did she remember taking him so deep into her mouth that he almost passed out?
He was an idiot for dredging up those memories when she currently clung to his hand as they entered a darkness made for sin.
‘Can’t see a thing in here,’ he muttered, sounding like a grouch.
Her soft laughter washed over him. ‘I think the candles are a nice touch.’
He bit back his first response, ‘too bloody romantic.’ Doing this was about getting