Daring Devlin (Lost Boys #1) - Jessica Lemmon Page 0,50
limo idled on the curb, and what looked like a wedding party filed out onto the street. The women were wrapped in thick coats, matching bright red skirts sticking out of the bottoms as they jumped up and down to keep warm. Men in tuxes were huddled, shoulders under their ears. Probably just as cold as the women but unwilling to show it.
I smiled as a woman in a flowing white gown stepped outside, and muted applause rode the wind to where we stood. Before I thought, I muttered, “I love weddings.”
Devlin, his hair kicking in the wind, screwed his face into a scowl.
“I didn’t realize the Schantz allowed wedding parties,” I said to cover my gaffe.
He looked back down at the limo. “They rent reception rooms.”
“I’m assuming we’re not here to crash the party.” I knew there were thirty-two luxury condominiums attached to the playhouse. When it’d been erected a year ago, I’d looked into renting one. If the seven-month waiting list hadn’t stopped me from pursuing a humble abode, the six-hundred-thousand-dollar price tag would have.
“No, baby,” he said as he waggled a half-empty bottle of bourbon he’d carried from the car. “We’re making our own party.”
He led me to an elevator just off the parking garage, which was still cold since it was practically outdoors. I huddled against the back wall, fantasies of him pushing me against the frigid walls and ravishing me playing in my head like a movie reel. He only leaned in the corner, staring down at the bottle in his hand, a contemplative frown on his face.
The elevator dinged and we stepped out three floors below where we’d parked. He held the doors open and pointed the neck of the bottle at a door across the hall: 103. Elegant sconces lit patterned goldenrod wallpaper over matching carpet. Live potted plants stood beneath each window, three in total. Outside, the city lights winked.
“Nice view.”
“Wait’ll you see inside,” he murmured as he unlocked his front door. I’d wondered before where he lived, what his home looked like. A ritzy condo in the Schantz hadn’t made the list.
I stepped into the short foyer and was greeted by an open living room and attached kitchen. A black leather couch dominated the space, a trendy, exposed brick wall standing between the living room and I assumed a bedroom.
And the view. I walked past the couch to a dining room table—way too big for just him—and admired the tall buildings and their lit windows against a navy-blue night sky. “Wow. Ridgeway’s pretty from up here.”
“Told you,” was all he said as he slipped my coat from my arms.
A painting of a woman in an elegant red dress riding a bicycle hung on one wall, and a large piece of pottery sat on the floor beneath it. Devlin owned art. Huh.
“You have great taste,” I said as I ran my fingers over the leather couch. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall across from it.
“Sonny,” he said
“Is this his place?” A remote was wedged between two of the sofa cushions. I noticed a pair of shoes under the coffee table. Okay, so Devlin wasn’t a neat freak. He just wasn’t a slob.
“He owns it.” Devlin poured bourbon into two glasses and then held up one of them for me.
“I don’t drink hard liquor. How about a light beer?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He dumped the contents of my glass into his and yanked open the fridge. “I don’t have light. Regular?”
“That’s fine.”
He carried the bottle of bourbon and our drinks to the living room. I followed. When he sat and offered me the beer bottle, I took it and perched on the edge of the cushion, suddenly uncomfortable. I wasn’t exactly sure why I was here. Of all the things we’d done together, “hanging out” hadn’t been one of them.
I curled my bottle into my chest. He leaned his elbows on his knees and peered down at his glass.
“Devlin?”
He blinked over at me. I guessed he wasn’t sober, but he didn’t seem completely drunk, either. Like he was in that buzzed state: loose and relaxed.
“Why am I here?” I asked. There had to be a reason.
“Because”—he shifted his gaze to his glass again—“I don’t want to be alone.”
Stunned, I felt my eyebrows crawl up my forehead. I wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d taken me downstairs to the wedding party and invited me to do the Chicken Dance.