Marrying Mr. Wrong (Dirty Martini Running Club #3) - Claire Kingsley Page 0,38

some people are rough around the edges?”

“Sure.”

“It’s not just his edges. He’s basically sandpaper.”

“I like him already. But how did a rough-as-sandpaper man produce a sweet girl like you?”

She laughed again and the sound seeped into my chest like the burn of whiskey sliding down my throat.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m more like my mom.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Yeah. It’s not easy to lose a parent, but I feel like Dad and I did okay. Do you miss your dad?”

Involuntarily, my back stiffened and my grip on the steering wheel tightened. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

I relaxed on an exhale. “It’s all good, sugar. I suppose we should think about taking the car back.”

“We have been gone a while. Do you think they’re worried?”

“Nah. Like I said, they know I’m good for it.”

“Are you going to buy it?”

“I’d certainly like to own one, but with these, they typically build you one custom. I won’t go through all that work tonight, though. It’ll take too long.”

And I have other plans for you tonight.

I enjoyed the drive back to the dealership. The ride was smooth, the company pleasant. I wanted to touch her, but once again my instincts told me to hold up. I liked being the aggressor with women, but I also didn’t want to make her feel trapped. I was a coaxer, a sweet-talker, an enticer—not an intimidator.

We dropped off the McLaren and as sad as I was to say goodbye to that sweet ride, I was happy to be ushering Sophie back into my Mercedes. A light hand across her back eased some of the craving I had for contact. And the way she met my eyes and smiled felt like a subtle nod of encouragement.

She was definitely warming up to me.

Time to take things up a notch.

“What do you think?” I asked when we were settled and on the road back to Seattle. “Want to come to my place? Maybe have a drink and some dessert? I can rustle us up some creme brulée.”

“Thanks, but I should be getting home.”

Wait, what?

She wanted to go home?

Damn.

“You sure? It’s not very late.”

“I’m sure.”

Her tone was sweet, but decisive. Any attempts to change her mind now would just be arguing. That was not how I wanted things to go.

“All right, sugar. Let’s get you home.”

I drove her home and insisted on getting out and walking her up to the front door of her building. I cast wary glances up and down the sketchy street while she hunted through her purse for her keys. I liked this building even less at night than I had when I’d picked her up earlier.

“Thanks, Cox. It was fun.”

“My pleasure. I’ll call you.”

She met my eyes and I was about to slide in for a goodnight kiss when she deftly stepped out of my grasp. “Goodnight.”

And just like that, she disappeared inside.

What the fuck? Not even a kiss?

Cox, you’re losing your edge.

Straightening, I cleared my throat and went back to my car. Things hadn’t ended the way I’d thought—or wanted—but I wasn’t a man who gave up easily. Sometimes you had to retreat so you could fight another day.

And when it came to Sophie, I was just getting started.

14

Sophie

Dad poked at his potatoes and eggs, digging around the plate as if looking for a piece of kale hidden in his breakfast. Apparently he didn’t trust restaurant cooks any more than he trusted me.

I swallowed a bite of my ham and cheese omelet. “Is your food okay?”

He grunted and grabbed the pepper, then shook some onto his food. “Fine.”

The server paused on her way past our table to top off Dad’s coffee. He gave her a polite nod and a gravelly thank you. Sandpaper, he might be, but he had decent manners. Most of the time, at least.

I’d brought Dad to one of our favorite restaurants for a late Sunday breakfast. It was busy, all but a table or two taken. The hum of dozens of conversations filled the air, along with the clink of plates, glasses, and silverware. He usually complained it was too expensive, but I always insisted on paying. Swimming in money, I was not, but I budgeted carefully so I could treat him to a nice breakfast once in a while.

“What about him?” Dad asked, using a fork to gesture to his right.

“Who?”

“That one,” he said, pointing with his fork again.

I cast a quick glance at a man sitting alone, looking at his phone. His plate was mostly