Connected (18 page)

“
Shit!” I yell, holding up my index finger. “Sorry, give me a sec, that could be my boss,” I say rolling my chair back and kneeling on the floor under the table to find my phone and gather my things. I find my phone first, right in between River’s feet.

As I reach for it I hear River clear his throat. “Ahem, I can get that for you,” he says before peering his head under the table. “But on second thought I think I like this better,” he continues, pointing at my head between his legs.

Noticing that my face is almost in his knees, I move back a little to look at him and end up staring right at his crotch. I move quickly, trying to remove myself from the very awkward position I’m in and as I do, I smack my head on the table.

Standing back up again, I hold my phone up and laugh a little before patting my head and saying, “Sorry about that, but I got it.”

He chuckles again. “Do you want me to get the rest of your stuff or do you want to do it? I’m good either way.”

Biting my lip, I say, “If you don’t mind, I’ll let you get it.”

Staring at me with intensity in his eyes, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “You sure, I was enjoying myself.” Then not waiting for an answer, he scoots out of the chair, and starts to gather everything as I watch him still patting my head and having missed the call.

His mannerisms, his tone, his facial expressions, and his body language . . . all so charming—almost disarming. He’s the same as I remember. And right now, as he stands in front of me putting my things back in my bag, all I can think about is him. How much I want him.

Once everything is safely put back in my bag, he asks, “And dinner?”

I bite back a smile. “Sounds great, but we really need to get going, the offices close at five on Fridays.”

“
That’s no problem,” he says. Then pointing to the large tablet in the center of the table he says, “I was really looking forward to Pictionary, later maybe?”

Shaking my head back and forth I put the rest of my things away and say, “Let’s go.”

He puts his hand out in a lead-the-way gesture; he scans my body from head to toe again. “Do you want to drop your stuff off at your hotel before dinner?” he asks while grabbing his guitar and my suitcase from the corner.

Nodding my head I say, “Yeah, I’ll just grab a cab and head to my hotel, I can meet you for dinner later.”

He runs a hand through his hair and looks at me. No, he’s actually glaring at me. “Is that a nicer way of brushing me off?” he asks.

I cringe, remembering the night I left when he asked me to stay, but since he doesn’t even remember me I’m not sure why he has such an aggravated tone.

“
What? No,” is my only response.

Shaking his head he says, “It’s settled then, I have my car here. We’ll just swing by your hotel first.”

His annoyance seems to be gone and he no longer waits for me to take the lead. Instead, he grabs my hand, leading me to the elevator and out of the building.

WHERE WE BELONG

We’re just beginning to talk

We’re just getting to know each other

We seem so close in such a short time

We hold hands and smile

And it feels like this is where we belong.

Is holding hands more of an art or a science? This is the thought running through my mind as River and I walk out of the office building together. I ask myself this question because when he takes my hand, I don’t mean he holds it palm in palm; I mean he laces all his fingers in between mine and holds them tightly in his grip. It feels intimate and conveys the idea that we know each other very well, when in reality, we don’t. Not yet anyway.

Ben is the only guy I’ve ever held hands with. So in trying to figure out the whole art or science question, I attempt to picture other couples I know. I try to remember how their hands intertwine; however I can’t delve into that level of detail in my memory. I only have my hand holding with Ben as a gauge to help with my decision.

Ben and I usually held hands when we were in public. I don’t really know if this was a gesture of closeness or a way for Ben to let others know he was my boyfriend. Either way, when we held hands, we were palm in palm. Our hold was loose enough that if we needed to let go to allow someone by or to stop and look at something the hold was easily dropped. I’d say our handholding was more of a science.

So why does the way that River holds my hand seem so different? His hold is tight, our fingers are laced, and he’s occasionally rubbing circles on the top of my hand with his thumb. These small gestures definitely make handholding seem more like an art. So my conclusion would be that handholding is unique to the two who are doing it.

Wholly absorbed in my thoughts as we walk through the parking garage, I barely notice it’s just as empty as the building. With his guitar slung over his shoulder, he runs his other hand through his hair. He takes the lead as he heads toward what I assume is his car. It’s a vintage Black Porsche. He turns as we walk and I see him crack a genuine smile. He has the cutest dimples. It’s the first full-blown smile I’ve seen from him, and it is adorable.

Arriving at his car, he gently lets go of my hand as he reaches in his front pocket for his keys. He unlocks my door and opens it for me to get in. He clutches my hand to assist me into the very low seat. Once I’m seated, he lifts my hand and kisses it. Instantly, I feel a sense of déjà vu, as if I’m back in the bar that first night I met him so long ago.

He closes my door and walks around to put my things in the trunk. He opens his door and tosses his guitar in the small area behind us before he gets in. Grinning crookedly, he raises an eyebrow and splays both hands out. “So do you like it?”

I bite my lip and raise my eyes as if thinking. “Isn’t this James Dean’s car?” I ask.

He shakes his head and laughs. “Well this one isn’t his actual ride, obviously, but it’s modeled after his 1955 Little Bastard.”

I giggle at hearing a car referred to by such a nickname, I remember my dad and his love for James Dean. My dad won me over with his constant movie watching and references. We were both avid James Dean fans so much so that we must have watched Rebel Without A Cause over a hundred times. I think I knew all the lines by heart. I probably still do.

He looks over at me curiously and says, “Can I ask what you’re thinking about?”

Sighing at the memory, I lock the thoughts of my dad away. “Dream as if you will live forever, live as if you will die today.”

He places both hands on the steering wheel and glances over at me. The intensity of his powerful green eyes captures my full attention. “I love that movie, and that's definitely one of my favorite lines.”

I put my seat belt on before twisting sideways to face him. “James Dean was my dad’s favorite actor, and he always loved his car. So how fitting that I get to ride in a Spyder in my lifetime.”

“
Hmmm…” he responds as he puts on his seatbelt.

Giving him a thumbs up, I say, “Hey, I really do like your car. It’s actually pretty cool.”

His huge grin returns and his dimples blare in high definition. Then, just as I remember him doing in a gallant attempt to avoid any awkwardness in conversation, he changes the subject.

He starts the car and pulls out of the garage, heading down the street toward the Las Vegas Strip. “Where to?”

I tell him where I’m staying, and after what feels like only a few minutes, we pull up to the Hard Rock Hotel. He puts the car in park and glances over at me. “Stay there. I’ll get your door.”

Walking around to my side of the car, he points and nods to the valet indicating he himself will get my door. After opening it, he braces his hands on each side of the doorframe and leans in. He surrounds me with his intoxicating scent and overwhelming sexiness before he reaches for my hand.

I shake my head and roll my eyes at his over the top chivalrous gesture but thoroughly enjoy the whole dynamic of it. Stepping out of the very low car, I clutch his hand and laugh a little. “Thank you, kind sir.”

He guides me forward to close my door. Then, half-grinning he looks away, almost shyly. “You’re welcome.”

He’s so adorable.

Standing very close, he gingerly pushes me back against the car, again bracing his hands on each side of me. He’s close, but still not close enough. His eyes shift back to mine; they are piercing me with their intensity, sending shivers down my spine. As he leans in toward me, he whispers in my ear. “Sir. I think I like the sound of that.”

He shrugs his shoulders and stares at me with his mesmerizing green eyes. He chuckles and says, “What, a guy can’t be a gentleman?”

I smile, actually impressed, and laugh a little myself. “I never said that.”

He hands his car keys and some cash to the valet. “Just the bags in the trunk go to this beautiful girl’s room. We won’t be long.”

Hand in hand again, he leads me to the front desk. He stands close to me and I feel his hand occasionally, maybe accidentally, brush against my outer thigh. Giving my name to the cute female clerk, he checks me in. She sends him a flirty smile and asks if a credit card should be left on file for incidentals. He smirks and hands over his card. When I protest he just shrugs and winks at me. “Doesn’t matter, I don’t think you will be charging anything.”

I have always been an independent person; even with Ben, I would exude my independence, often getting really upset if I thought he was infringing on it. Strange, how for some reason, I’m not the least bit upset that this adorably charming man took control of getting me checked into my room. Actually, I find his actions somewhat of a turn on.

Before handing me my room key, he looks at it while sliding his tongue over his lower lip and dragging his teeth across it. “I’ll wait in the bar, unless you need some help getting to your room.”