Catch Me (27 page)

“They’re around. They’re all wifed up so I don’t wanna bug them too much,” Shea explains. I nod, imagining how uncomfortable it must feel to be the odd one out when it comes to relationships. When he and I were doing whatever we were doing, we acted like a couple when we were together. I think it was mainly because his friends were already in serious relationships. As soon as I left town and went back home was a different story—that’s when Shea would have his flings with anybody that walked and had a vagina. I can’t blame him, though. I know what it’s like to be young and rich. If you add famous to the mix you have a recipe for relationship disaster.

“We’ll work on it tomorrow then,” Nick says. “Good luck on your show tonight, bro.”

“You’re not coming?” Shea asks, his eyes wide.

I wonder why he’d never mentioned Nick to me, or maybe he had and he just called him Shadow and I never noticed it because I was to busy working on my microphone line. Who knows, but it seems like he values Nick’s opinion of things.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it,” Nick says, bumping fists with him.

“Good luck in the interviews and stuff,” I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek before walking away.

“Thanks. Be careful,” he calls out behind me. His voice sounds hesitant and I know why, but I refuse to acknowledge it as I leave him behind.

Nick holds the lobby door open for me and gives his ticket to the valet, who runs off to get the car. As we stand there, Nick wraps his arms around me from behind and places his head on mine. We’re both quiet, enjoying each other’s company while we wait for his car. I’ve decided I’ll try and guess what he has. Ryan and I used to play this game, picking out people’s cars based on the way they look. My mom, for example, always drove a Mercedes, which we decided was a perfect stuffy car. My dad drove, or was driven around in, a Bentley, which matched him well. Hendrix has driven an array of cars, but has mainly stuck with Range Rovers. My first car was a two-door Cadillac, but I quickly realized it didn’t match me. I ended up getting a two-door BMW, which also didn’t match me, so I got an Audi A5. That was the best fit for me. Ryan drove an Aston Martin, because you can’t go wrong with that car regardless of who you are.

As I stand here, thinking about Nick’s car, I can honestly say I can’t figure him out. It could be an old collector’s car like a badass Shelby, or a BMW. It hasn’t even occurred to me how much money he makes. I know a producer like him, working with an artist like Shea, is getting paid a pretty penny. And from the people he’s worked with in the past (Google has become my best friend), I know he’s doing well. I don’t pay attention to things like watches or cars in order to define how well off they are because I’ve known many people who have beautiful cars and amazing watches and live paycheck to paycheck. Still, everything about Nick Wilde intrigues me, even to the car he drives.

“There it is,” he murmurs when a beat up Honda Civic pulls up to us. My mouth falls open and I’m so glad he’s standing behind me because I definitely did not picture him in this tiny beat up red car. I bite my lip to keep from laughing, mainly at myself for being the presumptuous douchebag I always told myself I wouldn’t become, and take a step forward when the car comes to a full stop. My eyebrows knit together when a young kid, not the valet, steps out of the car, taking a pizza box out of the backseat.

Turning around to look at Nick, my mouth agape, I find him laughing, his eyes twinkling in amusement. “You’re so stupid,” I comment, shaking my head and turning back around at the feeling of embarrassment that I refuse to show him.

He wraps his arms around me again, kissing my cheek loudly. “I love that you were going to get in it regardless,” he says, turning me so that I can look at him. His eyes are still playful, but his tone is serious.

“I’m not a gold digger,” I say with a shrug, fighting a smile. It’s a ridiculous statement, and I know he knows it, but it makes me wonder if he deals with them as much as I have in the past.

“I know you’re not. You run your own successful business and work for a good company doing something you’re great at,” he says, his lips brushing against mine. I smile against him, loving that he doesn’t mention my father’s money or my mother’s fame. Loving that he treats me like I’m my own person and doesn’t throw my last name in my face.

“I would get on the back of a bike with you,” I say, truthfully, looking up at his gleaming eyes that have become possessive over my own. His mouth meets mine again, giving me a long, hard kiss. “I meant a regular bike, not a motorcycle,” I add bashfully, feeling the need to correct myself.

Nick laughs. “I know what you meant.”

A sleek charcoal grey two-door Jaguar drives into the carport of the hotel and Nick pulls my hand, signaling that this is his. A smile takes over my face at a couple of things: this car is sexy as hell, just like its owner, and I find that I was completely serious when I told him I would get on the back of a bicycle with him. And I don’t think I’ve ever even ridden a bicycle.

The ride to his house is fun. I sort through all of Nick’s music and find that the last song he was playing was The Door’s “Touch Me”, which Nick serenades. I won’t tell him, because he looks way too sure of himself, but he does a hell of a Jim Morrison impersonation. My stomach drops slightly at the view of the Golden Gate Bridge outside of my window, but I don’t pay much attention to it otherwise because Nick is doing a great job of keeping my eyes on him.

“We’re here,” he says as we pull up to a tall glass building. He lowers his window and presses a card into a monitor that opens a gate and drives in, backing the car up into a space. He holds my hand on the seatbelt and gives me a look that confuses me, but I take as a warning not to get out, before he walks to the other side of the car and opens my door.

“Chivalry isn’t dead,” I muse, leaning up to kiss him as a thank you.

“Not when I’m around,” he responds with a twinkle in his eye as he grabs a handful of my ass and squeezes it, which makes me laugh because it totally cancels out my previous statement.

“You left that girl alone last night,” I point out as I follow him to the door of his building.

“What girl?” he asks, playing dumb.

“The redhead that was all over you—the one you bought a drink for,” I say, raising an eyebrow as he opens the big glass door for me and lets me step in.

“The girl that wasn’t you?” he asks. I look up at him and notice he’s trying to stifle a smile.

“Obviously she’s not me,” I respond, failing to see the point.

He shrugs. “There’s your answer. Only one girl was leaving with me last night and that was you.”

I cock my head at him as we step into the elevator and he slides his key in the slot. “What if I had been with Shea or somebody else?” I ask curiously.

Nick presses his body into mine, pushing me against the cold elevator wall behind me. “I would’ve had to get into a hell of a fight and lose a hell of a client then,” he murmurs, dipping his head into the crook of my neck and sucking. I throw my head back, enjoying the feel of his lips on me.

“But Shea’s your friend,” I remind him breathily. “You don’t want to lose your friendship over some girl.”

He pulls his head back and looks down on me, his blue eyes intense as he speaks, “First of all, you’re not just some girl. Second of all, he’s my friend, and I value that, which is why I didn’t try anything before. But seeing his hands all over you … fuck,” he says, placing my hand over his heart. “I hated that, Brooklyn, and if going after you makes me the ultimate asshole, then so be it, but I want you.”

The fast pounding of his heart beneath my hand makes his words easier to believe, to swoon over, even. And I don’t swoon. Not ever. I’ve known enough guys to see through their bullshit sweet talk, but Nick’s talk isn’t sweet, it’s transparent.

“I want you too,” I offer quietly.

“I know,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against mine, making my heart skip a beat as the elevator doors open. Nick backs away from me and takes my hand, pulling me into the hallway. There’s only one door, so I know the floor is his, just like Hendrix’s place and my parents’ place in New York.

He drops my hand to sort through his keys until he locates the one he’s looking for and unlocks the door. “I hope you like dogs,” he says as he opens the door.

Before I have time to react, there’s a black horse galloping toward me. “Whoa,” I say, putting my hands up to guard my face with a laugh. Thank God I love dogs because if I didn’t this one would have given me a heart attack.

“Scooby! Down!” Nick says firmly, effectively stopping the dog from jumping on me, which is good because he could completely knock me down.

“Scooby?” I ask as I pet the Great Dane. “Not Marmaduke?”

Nick scoffs and rolls his eyes, but his eyes are smiling. “Please. Scooby is way cooler.”

“What if I had been terrified of dogs or something?” I ask as I pull on Scooby’s ears. I’ve always loved these dogs; they have the most amazing bark in the world. Growing up, Ryan had three of them, so I’m very familiar with them. I kept his favorite one, Rascal for a while before I had to give it to his mom because the pain it caused me to see him every day.

Nick frowns. “I don’t know, I guess I wouldn’t be able to keep you around,” he says with a shrug as if it’s no big deal to him either way. I laugh when I notice his lips twitch as he turns around and walks toward the living room. “To be honest, I’m more worried about you freaking out over this,” he says, signaling at the view of the Golden Gate Bridge his floor to ceiling windows provide. My breath gets caught in my throat, mainly at the beauty of it.

“Wow,” I breathe. “This is nice.”

My parents’ homes and offices always have the most spectacular view of each city they’re in, but no view ever gets old to me. I’ve always had a fascination with nature and with manmade things. That bridge for example, holds memories for me that I wish I could forget, but people made it with their hands. Men labored on it for years and years and built it so that people can get from one canyon to the next without having to rely on a boat. It’s a marvelous thing, really, despite the lives lost on it yearly by accident or otherwise.

“No freak outs?” Nick asks quietly from behind me, wrapping his arms around me and breathing me in as he nuzzles his face into my neck.

“No freak outs,” I promise in a whisper. And I mean it. In this moment, I feel completely at ease with being here.

He loosens his grip on me when he feels me turning around. I want to really see where he lives, really see what Nick likes and to know every little thing about him, so I tell him that. He laughs but agrees to show me everything. We start in the kitchen, as most people do, and he offers me something to drink and eat.

“I have someone come every day when I’m gone. Scooby goes to a doggy daycare, he’s a spoiled brat.”

I laugh, trying to hold in the water spilling from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. “Doggy daycare? Interesting.”

“Don’t judge. You don’t want a Great Dane stuck inside a house for too many hours, that’s when you come home and start discovering holes all over your walls,” Nick says in a serious tone that tells me it’s happened.

“Why do you have him here though? I mean, why not buy a house with a yard?” I ask.

He places his forearms on the counter across from me and leans in. I love the way his shoulders move up when he’s in that position. And the way his neck extends … and the way his lips part slightly, making his full mouth look fuller.

“I will someday,” he says.

I roll my eyes and exhale. “Let me guess, when you’re ready to start a family.”

His lips tilt up slowly. “Exactly.”

“So predictable,” I say, shaking my head.

Nick circles the counter and pulls my hand so that I hop off the barstool. When I turn to walk toward the bedrooms he slaps my butt and I yelp at the unexpected sting, though it wasn’t hard.

“Nick!” I reprimand.

“I never claimed to be unpredictable,” he says, growling into my ear and placing a rough kiss on my neck before squeezing me into a hug.

“This is my favorite room,” he says, turning the knob to what looks like a recording studio with no closed off booth. There are musical instruments laid out across the room, leaning on the wall and sitting on chairs.

“Hmm. Not the awesome living room?” I ask, surprised that the massive living room with the stunning view and large sectional wouldn’t be his favorite place.