She leans back and cups my cheek. “I love you, Rye Bread. One day, someone else will love you too.”

“You have to love me, Ma. I’m your son. Not everyone finds me as lovable.”

A journo once called me Rye the Good-Time Guy. Like a ride in a carnival, I was good for some thrills and fun. I’d get you off, but too much of me would leave your head aching and stomach reeling. I probably shouldn’t have slept with her and called it quits before she wrote the interview. Lesson learned and all that. But she wasn’t entirely wrong. Everyone sees me that way.

Everyone, it seems, except my mother.

Shaking her head, Mom pats my cheek. “You’re too smart to think something so stupid.”

Chapter Fifteen

Rye

 

I’m feeling slightly low and morose when I get home, but I stop short at the sight greeting me in front of my apartment door. “Bren?”

She’s bending down to set something on the floor but snaps upright and whirls around at the sound of my voice. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Well, I do live here.” Shock has me staring. I’ve never found anyone at my doorstep before.

I live in the Dakota—a New York City icon. Each apartment is like a Gilded Age mansion in miniature. The condo board might be picky as fuck, but the natural light and feel of the space is incredible. Moreover, the gothic building has been home to Lauren Bacall, Judy Garland, and, most infamously, John Lennon. He was murdered outside its doors. It might sound morbid to some, but I choose to remember that he had a life here.

Every time I leave or return to the building, I send up a silent word of acknowledgment to John; I’m pretty sure everyone in the band does this when they visit me.

I’d ask Brenna how she got in, because security is tight, but I don’t want to ruin the mystery. The main point is she’s here. Here, at my house.

“When did you get back?” I ask, unable to stop staring at her like she’s a mirage.

“An hour ago.”

A pulse of surprise ripples over my skin. She just got in, and she came straight here.

She’s fidgeting now, her legs blocking what she left at my door. I eye it—and, okay, her killer legs too—with interest. Those long legs just might be my undoing: sleek, toned, and lovingly showcased by her tight navy-blue skirt and dainty spiked pink heels. I want those heels digging into my back while I bury myself in her wet heat.

Reflexively, I clear my throat. “What were you doing?”

Brenna’s cheeks darken, but she lifts her chin to counteract the blush. “You said you weren’t feeling well.”

Inwardly, I smile at the accusation in her voice. “I wasn’t. I went for a walk to clear my head.” I’m not about to admit to running home to Mom. Besides, I did walk those six blocks.

“Right.” She nods briskly, awkwardly. “Good plan. Fresh air is good.”

I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning. “It’s the best.”

Her eyes narrow at the amusement I’ve failed to hide.

“Well…” she says tightly. “You’re obviously doing all right. I’ll go.”

“Hold on.” I step into her path. “What did you bring me?”

Again, she flushes, her gaze sliding sideways as if she wants to be anywhere but here. But then she gathers herself and grabs her gift off the floor. “Here. It’s…for you.”

God, she’s cute. I can’t say that without risking a limb, but she is, damn it. Instead, I take what turns out to be a wicker basket by the handles.

“I figured that.” I glance down at the gift. A stupid smile spreads wide across my face. “You brought me a goodie hamper?”

I’m fairly reeling. It’s just so…cute.

Brenna’s nose wrinkles as she visibly squirms in place. I know she wants to flee. Too bad. I’m not letting her get away now.

“There’s tea,” she says. “Coffee too. In case you’re sick of tea. And those ginger biscuits and lemon curd that you seem to like…and, well, shit.” She huffs out a laugh taut with embarrassment and gives me an accusatory glare. “It’s supposed to make you feel better!”

With my free hand, I reach out and cup her neck to pull her close. “I’m feeling better already.”

Then I kiss her.

It’s meant to be something light, tender, grateful. Because I am grateful. But the instant my lips touch hers, it’s like a shot of adrenaline, surging hot and pure and insistent. I duck my head to get closer; she tastes so good, her lips so soft and yielding that a bolt of lust shoots straight through me.

Her breath hitches, lips trembling against mine. I stumble with her toward the door, one hand grasping the silky cord of her ponytail, the other clutching her gift, our kiss going deeper, messier. She gasps into my mouth, a little puff of air that tickles my lips and inflames my need, and then her arms wrap around my neck, drawing me closer.

I approve. But it isn’t enough. It’s like I’ve been walking through the desert only to come upon her unexpectedly. Part of me wonders if she’s real. But she is. I feel the difference in me already.

For the first time in days, I can breathe. It’s unsettling to realize that the woman who has somehow become my air doesn’t want to be, that she only needs me for quick physical comfort. Even so, I’m going to enjoy every second of her while I can.

“Four days, Bren.” I lick her lower lip like candy. “Four fucking days away. That was not part of the deal.”

She grasps my shirt, tugging, her sweet mouth just as greedy. “Stop lecturing me and get inside.”

I smile against her lips. “Bossy.”

Blindly, I fumble for my keys. It would go more smoothly if I stopped kissing her, but I can’t. It takes me three tries to get the key in, all the while, she’s sucking on my tongue, nibbling on my lips. I’m going to lose it.

The door finally opens, swinging wildly as we all but fall into the apartment with only my arm around her waist to keep her upright. I set the hamper on the floor—carefully, because it’s her gift to me—and kick the door shut.

Then I’m kissing her again because, damn, she feels so good. She’s pure adrenaline, delicious addiction. Sex and candy sliding over my tongue. We stumble along, tripping over some unseen obstacle near the doorway to my room.

“What was that?” she asks, words muffled by my mouth on hers.

“Books.” I’m not exactly tidy, and I like to read. Teetering towers of books rise like stalagmites along the apartment floor.

Her chuckle is a delighted feminine purr that tickles my lips. Grinning, I wrap my arms around her slim waist and lift her over the spilled stack of books, backing us into a wall in my room because I need to brace myself before my knees give out.

I want her too much. She gets me too hot. Dragging my mouth away from the temptation of hers, I step back, draw in air. Doesn’t work; my body throbs in one big pulse of lust.

Slow. I need to slow this down. Savor her.

Brenna leans against the wall, pink lipstick smudged over kiss-swollen lips, her hair mussed and her perky breasts rising and falling beneath a prim, white silk top. She stares back at me with a dare in her eyes, like she expects each of our encounters to be a tussle, a contest to see who comes out on top.