Tailored for Trouble (Happy Pants #1) - Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Page 0,87

stared up at her from the couch, sort of smiling, but not. “Where are you going?”

She turned slowly, fearing with every step she might disintegrate into a giant poof of utter humiliation. “I think I need a moment,” she whispered and then went up the stairs to hide inside the giant bathroom. Perhaps she could live there forever until everyone she knew grew old and died.

At the exact moment she entered the bathroom, there was a loud knock at the front door. She heard the rumble of Bennett’s voice and then the click of the front door.

Heavy footsteps grew closer up the stairs. She prayed she might evaporate. She’d traveled all this way and hemmed and hawed, ultimately deciding that she would give her body to him only to discover he didn’t want her.

But then, what did he want? Duh, you idiot. For you to see the real him. Yaaay, let’s be friends!

“Taylor?” Bennett lightly knocked on the door. “Why are you hiding in the bathroom?”

“This is where women go when they need to feel humiliated and rejected in private. Or to pee.”

He laughed. “And which of those would you like me to assume you’re doing?”

“Number one and two—no! I mean, the first two. I’m not peeing or doing that other thing.”

Kill me now. Please, please, please. I summon thee, o’ bolt of lightning.

“You are a very odd woman.”

“Only when it comes to intimacy,” she groaned.

“Which is why, perhaps, I feel a certain ease with you. Now, please open the door.”

“I really can’t look at you right now,” she said.

“All right. I’ll leave the clothes here on the bed and wait downstairs. Then you and I are going to talk.”

“About what?” What an ass she was.

“Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting.”

She looked at the marble countertop, grabbed a washcloth, and began wiping down the drops of water she’d left all over the surface. Dammit. I need some bleach.

She then paused and looked at her shaking hand. What in the world are you doing? Bennett had offered to open himself up to her, to let her in and tell her something extremely private. Hell, he’d said it was painful. But there she was, thinking about herself, about how she felt, about being rejected when that wasn’t what he was doing at all. He’d offered what she really wanted: him. Not just sex, but him.

God, I really am such an idiot. She chucked the washcloth into a little basket underneath the sink and planted her hands on the vanity, hanging her head.

It seemed from the moment they’d met, she’d systematically devolved into a child. Everything she thought Taylor Reed was had been stripped away, piece by piece. Her job, her illusion of being respected, her financial independence, her belief she was in control—something that had given her comfort once upon a time. But now she was beginning to see clearly. Control was an illusion, and meeting Bennett had shown her that. Life was like a river, and the river flowed in one direction and one direction only. Sometimes it moved nice and easy through familiar territory; other times it became wild and turbulent and carried you to untamed lands. You either made the most of the ride or you didn’t.

She laughed quietly to herself and suddenly felt an odd sort of peace, as though all of this was meant to be. Maybe being reduced to nothing but a girl on a raft on a river was exactly what she needed at this point in her life. Maybe she had to let go. No baggage—literally. No judging. No expectations of any kind. Stripped down naked. Maybe that’s what it took to truly see a complex man like Bennett for who he was. And accept him.

Taylor took a breath, splashed some cold water on her face, and then looked at herself in the mirror. Okay. You can face him, Taylor. You can face whatever it is he’s going to say without judgment or expectations.

She reached for the bathroom door handle and paused. “You’re standing right there, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Sneaky bastard.

She pulled open the door and there stood Bennett, thick arms crossed over his broad chest, eyebrows raised, and wolfish smile on his face. His linen shirt and pants gently hugged the masculine silhouette of his body. Yes, even his casual clothes were tailored. Tailored for trouble.

“I thought you went downstairs?” she said, noticing that he’d dimmed the lights in the room a bit and had turned on the palm-leaf shaped ceiling fan, making