through the holes, and let the shirt fall to my knees.
Shane gives me a quick inspection, his eyes lighting with approval. “Did I mention I like you in my clothes? And out of yours.” I don’t have time to respond before he drags me to him, lifts the shirt, and slips his hands inside the band of my skirt. “I took this off of you for a reason,” he says, sliding it off me, the material pooling at my feet. He grips my waist and lifts me, kicking it aside. “How about some wine?”
I stare up at him, and something unnamable expands between us, and that something is what he’d meant when he said think about it. It’s also exactly why I was going to leave and why I can’t. “Will you let me drink it this time?”
“Cognac isn’t wine and I didn’t want you to pass out on me. But now, as long as it’s in my bed, feel free.” He laces his fingers with mine, and it’s somehow the most intimate thing we’ve shared, as is the way we just stand there for several seconds before he says, “Let’s get that wine.”
“Let me bring in my clothes,” I say, tugging my hand free, and grabbing my skirt and blouse. Shane picks up my shoes and I do another sweep of the area. “I can’t find my bra anywhere.”
“You don’t need it,” he promises, ushering me to the door before I can argue that I will tomorrow. Or later when I really leave but I let it go, entering the apartment first, and rotating to face him only to have him take my clothes from me. “I’ll put those in the bedroom.” He motions to the minibar. “There’s wine in the cabinet. Take your pick.”
He’s already walking and I’m staring after him. The man just kidnapped my clothes, which is kidnapping me. I wait for the panic to set in, but it doesn’t come. Shane doesn’t know the truth about me and there is no reason he ever will.
It’s better to live one day as a lion than a hundred years as a lamb.
—John Gotti
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMILY
Now with the excuse of being Shane’s captive, I turn toward the minibar, fully intending to enjoy the wine and the man, when Shane’s phone starts ringing from the living room again, reminding me about my phone. I take a step toward my purse, and think better. If I didn’t get the call I’m expecting I’ll be upset. If I did, I’ll be freaked out that I missed it, and it’s not like I can have yet another heated phone debate in front of Shane. I turn back to the minibar, but Shane’s phone has not only stopped ringing, it’s started again. Concerned about the late hour and a possible emergency, I walk to the living room and grab it, but I’m not sure what to do from here. Should I call out to him? Should I hunt him down?
Sighing, I just take it with me in hunt of the wine, setting it next to the cognac. It starts ringing again and my gaze catches on the name “Seth” by accident. Regretting ever going after his phone, I quickly squat and open the cabinet, counting the rings until they go silent. Then and only then do I stare at a dozen bottles of wine, shifting one here and there to stare at labels, concerned I’ll pick the most expensive bottle on the shelf. I have a fleeting memory of how romantic I’d thought my parents trying a new bottle of wine every Friday night had been. She never had a glass again after he died.
“Having trouble?”
I jump at the sound of Shane’s voice to look up and find him towering over me. “You surprised me,” I say, popping to my feet to discover he’s changed into a snug white T-shirt and a pair of navy sweats and still manages to look GQ.
“You must have been really concentrating on the wine.”
“I was thinking of—” His phone begins to ring where it sits on top of the minibar, and his brows furrow in confusion.
“I grabbed it for you,” I explain quickly. “It keeps ringing and I was going to bring it to you but I felt weird about it. Then I felt weird about calling out to you or ever touching your phone.” It stops ringing again. “Then I felt even weirder when I saw the caller ID like I was snooping. I should have just