Owned (Rockstar Romance) (Lost in Oblivion Book 5) (13 page)

“You mean the gloves you had your father give me?”

“Yes. Those gloves. Your hands are freezing.” She bit her lip as he pulled out the box and thumbed it open. He tilted it toward the faint light. “I didn’t set it up properly first,” she said weakly.

For that matter, maybe she was supposed to get down on one knee? She didn’t know the etiquette for proposals in this case.

His gaze flicked to hers, his thick, snow-laden hair flopping over his forehead. “Celtic knots? Is that what these are?”

“Yes. I’m half Irish, and I know you said your mom was too.”

Though he held her gaze, she saw the shutters come down. It was as if he’d been open one moment and closed the next. All from the mention of his mother.

The last thing she wanted to do was remind him of pain. Not tonight. Not when she was trying to show him he was part of a family now, one that would never reject him simply for being who he was.

Who he was happened to be a man who couldn’t go easily through life. He would never be one for polite conversations when he was hurting. Could never slap a veneer of civility on something that cut him to the quick.

Simon had harmed him deeply, so he struck out with his fists. She didn’t condone his behavior. Would never condone it. But she couldn’t blame him for reacting the only way he’d learned to deal with disappointment and hurt.

She couldn’t reject him for being himself, even when that self was acting like an ass. That brutally honest, usually uncouth, often brash man was the one she loved with her whole heart.

That didn’t mean she wouldn’t rip him a new one after the love goggles were peeled away and she saw the extent of his latest injuries. Stupid boys.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and slipped out the band, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. “Nice heft to it. It’s a good piece. Solid. The kind that won’t ever break or bend.” He rolled his lower lip between his teeth. “Christmas present? Did I ruin the surprise?”

He really didn’t get it. She wasn’t sure if that was because he was on a completely different page of the book than she was, or if he truly couldn’t an imagine a scenario where she would propose to him.

Now that she was in the moment, with the heavy flakes drifting down around them, clinging to his lips and cheeks, and those inquisitive golden eyes focused on hers as if he’d never be drawn away, she couldn’t fathom doing anything else.

This was right. Whether he said yes or no—please God, let him say yes—it was right that she make the overture at this time, in this place. With her history behind her and their future spreading out before them.

“Will you marry me, Nicholas Crandall?”

L
ila stared up at him
, clearly expecting an answer. He should have one. All things being equal, he should be able to just shout, “hell, yeah” and do a fucking dance that he didn’t have to get down on one knee and propose. Because really, one knee,
him
? Could that be any more old-fashioned?

But he’d wanted to do it. He’d been
prepared
to do it. He could be courtly. A true gentleman. Sure, he intended to fuck the hell out of her the second they were alone, but still.

There was a ritual, and he’d been glad to do his part. She deserved that much. She’d lived with an asshole who took her for granted, and she should be spoiled. Showered with diamonds and sex and praise and probably breakfast in bed, but he could only do so much.

Diamonds, sex and praise, absolutely. And there was always delivery.

“So make a girl wait, why don’t you?” She shook off his slackened hold on her wrists and pushed off the car to walk a few feet up the road. There were only a few tire tracks. Other than coming to or from the open house on the hill, most people wouldn’t travel this way, especially in this weather. At least for another hour or two until the party finished.

She marched down the middle of the street, her blond hair sticking out from under her hat in every direction. When she turned to glare at him, love punched him in the windpipe like a closed fist. No. It grabbed his throat and squeezed, reducing his airflow to a thin hiss. But she wasn’t aware of his distress. She was too busy ranting.

“You’d figure you ask a guy to marry you, he’d have an answer one way or the other.
Yes. No. I haven’t thought about it. Are you kidding me?
Something. Not just silence. Not even mentioning the fact that said guy was all about moving in with me last summer, but maybe that was just about saving rent once you break the lease on the band house.” She muttered something that sounded like
cheapskate
under her breath. Not too under, since he heard it pretty clearly.

He shoved her ring box into his free pocket. The other pocket held the ring he’d bought for her, his constant companion these days. But he gripped the band she’d given him—or he’d taken, same difference since it was for him—like a lifeline. “Is this about the cable bill?”

“What?”

He stalked up the street and enjoyed immensely that she held her ground. Actually, no. She moved forward to meet him.

And that was why she was meant to be his wife. She would never back down from him. Never hesitate to tell him when he was acting like a complete jackass.

Like right now, but he had reasons. Good reasons.

“It was my job,” he said, low. Either she’d hear him or she could read his lips, but he’d be damned if he pulled a Nicholas Crandall, senior and bellowed.

“Paying the cable bill?” Her brow furrowed under her cap. “If it means so much to you, have at it. I do it online.”

“Jesus, will you listen?”

“Talk some sense then.”

He was fresh out of sense. Out of everything except the need pulsing hot in his veins. She was his, and it was time he put a ring on it.

Beyoncé was a wise woman.

He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her against him, ignoring the shriek in his ribs in favor of the sheer pleasure of covering her mouth with his. Her tongue slipped out to war with his, and there was nothing sweet about it. Nothing tame. She tasted of snowflakes and fury and apples, always apples, and he nearly fell to his knees for real. If anyone made him want to get down and worship her, it was this woman.

His.

Always his.

When she nudged him back, he went. And dropped his forehead to hers. “I wanted to live with you because we belong together. Under the same roof, in the same bed. Side by side in the kitchen, burning shit.”

She sniffed. “You’re the only one who burns shit.”

“Tell that to your potato pancakes.”

“That was a new recipe.” She swung out to smack him and he caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. “I get it. I do. You want to be together but marriage is a whole different ballgame. You aren’t ready. I’m not dense. I knew there was a good chance you’d say no, but I had to ask. Now.” She curled her fingers around his, holding tight. “I just had to.”

“Why?”

The wrinkle in her forehead was mirrored in the curl of her mouth. “Because life is too damn short.”

“It is. And?” he pressed. “There’s more. I know there’s more.”

When she didn’t say anything, he kissed her gloved knuckles again. “The plane ride.”

“Yeah, it was scary, but that wasn’t what pushed me all the way.”

“This was your errand,” he said, understanding slowly dawning. The ring box he’d shoved in his other pocket felt like a lead weight, a balanced one to his own in the opposite one. But the strong, sturdy ring she’d given him, he still cupped in his free hand. The warmth of it pushed him on. Gave him courage to speak freely.

To not hide anything anymore. Not from her.

“You ran out on your family and a celebration you’ve been talking about for months. You haven’t been to one of these open houses for years, and yet you sacrificed the beginning to go buy me an engagement ring. In a storm. Let’s not forget the storm.”

“Yes. I did all that.” That she sounded absolutely annoyed only made him more delighted with her.

In fact, any momentary irritation that she’d scooped him on the whole proposing thing had faded into freaking happiness.

This incredible, infuriating woman wanted to marry him. Voluntarily.

“Why? You plan everything to the nth degree.”

She blew out a breath and sent a tangle of blond fluttering. “It was the stupid book, okay? The stupid pregnancy book in your bag. Yes, I snooped. I’m sorry. I’ll feel guilty about it again after I get done being pissed that you don’t want to marry me, though apparently you’re cool with the idea of knocking me up. Maybe. Someday.” She hesitated for a heartbeat while his brain wheeled like a drunken monkey on a unicycle. “Unless your someday isn’t with me, after all.”

His eyes widened, to the point that he was sure his eyelid had just touched the jumping vein in his temple. “Excuse the fuck out of me?”

“You heard me.”

“I did, but I know you aren’t thinking straight now. Who do you think I am? Gray-freaking-Duffy? I don’t sit around reading manuals about impregnating future girlfriends.”

She gave him a smug smile. “Gray doesn’t need a manual.”

“That’s officially it.” He shoved the ring she’d bought him in his pocket and gave her approximately two seconds to realize what he was about to do.

As in swoop in and haul her over his shoulder, fireman’s carry style. Saying nothing, he began trudging up the hill with his very unwilling charge flailing her legs and beating his back.

Because, hey, why not have more bruises? He had such a nice rainbow already. If he ended up in a full body cast tomorrow, it’d be worth it.

They were going to get a few things straight. Up close and personal.

And alone. So very alone.

“Nicholas, you better put me down right now.”

“Make me.”

She rapped on his spine with those ninja knuckles of hers, but he didn’t so much as slow down. He was beyond pain now. His purpose gave him renewed energy to withstand the barrage of attacks from his enemy.

Who happened to be his soon-to-be wife. He’d been roughed up by his best friend and his woman in one day. Somehow fitting, that.

But he could do some roughing up of his own, and he wouldn’t leave any bruises behind. No marks of any kind except maybe the reddened welts from the silken cord he’d stashed in a secret pocket of his bag. She’d probably found that too.

“I might be a cheapskate, but you’re a snoop.”

“You’re about to be dead. Do you think you can carry me through the store without my father ripping you to shreds?”

“Yep. Actually, I know I can.” He didn’t, not one bit, but he kept his voice sunny in spite of the stitches in his sides from the climb.

It was cold as shit out, and he was beat all to hell. Lila was a lot of things, but she wasn’t a waif. He loved every one of those curves and intended to make happy use of them soon, but right now he was feeling every step.

Maybe it was time to hit the weights with Deak, that gym rat. Or just stop hitting Simon, and letting Simon hit him.

“You can’t just leave two cars.”

“I can, and I did.”

“You’re blocking the road!”

“I am. Might slow down a cow or two. Now hush.” He pinched her very sexy ass and she fell silent. “Good girl. You might get off with a light punishment if you don’t dig your hole any deeper.”

She huffed. “I’d like to see you punish me.”

“You’re about to.” He adjusted his hold on her legs and thanked God the hill wasn’t that steep. He was going to pay for hauling ass up it in his current condition, but hey, he had a statement to make.

And if he fell to the ground in some kind of fit, maybe she’d feel guilty for driving him to such extremes.

Gray didn’t need an impregnating handbook. Yeah, they’d just see what
he
needed, and how little Lila could walk once he’d shown her his grasp of the subject of sex.

“You can’t carry me through the store. I’ve known these people since I was a child. Nick!” She whaled on his back, but not hard. She hadn’t forgotten he’d already met the ground and a few flying fists. She wasn’t really that angry. Probably more shocked than anything.

Yeah, well, he was a little shocked at how much this night had gone off the rails—hell, the whole day—but he was working with what he’d been given.

Right now, he was focused on tying her to his bed. That would make all the pain and discomfort worthwhile.

The main store on the orchard property swam into view, and he nearly wept joyful tears. He blinked the snow out of his eyes, gripped her thighs a bit harder and marched determinedly toward the building.

“Nick, please. I’ll do anything you want.”

He paused. “Literally anything?” That could have possibilities.

“Why, you jackass, I can’t believe I ever wanted to marry your pigheaded ass.”

He started walking again. “That’s double negative ass, and by the way, yours is luscious.” Turning his head, he nipped the fullness of her cheek right through her pants.

“I hate you. So much.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” At the last moment, he swerved around the side of the building and up the steps that led to a small balcony off their room. He’d noticed it earlier, and now it was coming in pretty damn handy. “If those French doors aren’t unlocked, I’m going to be picking the lock, baby. Brace yourself.”

“You would break into my parents’ property?” Half her words were sucked away by the swirling wind, but he got the gist.

“Sweetheart, I’d break into the Vatican while the Pope said Easter Mass.”

“Why—you—you…”

“Yeah. Ditto.” He stopped midway up the stairs to catch his breath. He was a few steps away from collapse. The flames currently eating through his shoulder blade weren’t helping. Perhaps he’d be popping a few Advil before he fucked Lila into next Christmas.

If a few meant fourteen.

“The doors aren’t locked. I unlocked them after we arrived.” She blew her hair away from her mouth. “Turnbull is super safe, except for visiting rock stars.”

Ignoring her, he risked his life to adjust her weight and attempt to open the door. As expected, she used his lack of balance to swing down and swing out, catching him upside the head hard enough to not only clean his clock, but set off the alarm too.

Holy shit. His girl had a fist on her. And she wasn’t pulling her punches anymore.

Cupping his ear, he pivoted to stare her down. Breathing hard, they measured each other, separated by only a few inches with the cracked open French door between them. Her hat was barely still on her head, her hair flopping everywhere, and she had murder in her eyes.

Riding shotgun with lust.

“Run,” he murmured.

She yanked open the French doors and ran.

He fully expected her to sprint through the room and out the door and downstairs to safety. Deep down, she was a good girl, through and through. Sure, she had pockets of dirty, but she had to know he was on the verge of testing them both. Physical pain and exertion and the fight—fights, plural, though theirs hadn’t been that serious—had him raring to go, and not in a way that matched well with silk sheets and candlelight.

But instead of fleeing the room and escaping, she slapped a hand against the door and turned the lock. Then she turned and faced him and unspooled her scarf. Whipped it out from her neck and thwapped it against the wall before letting it fall to the floor, the same place her coat soon fell. She only wore one glove, though that didn’t last either. She continued on to her sweater, shedding it and her lacy bra in about half a second. He still hadn’t moved from outside the French doors when she moved on to her pants and panties, drawing them off and discarding them with a flick of her fingers.

Wearing only her leather calf boots—and how she’d gotten her jeans off over them so silkily was one of the mysteries of women—she marched to the bed. “You better get your ass moving, Crandall, before I have to take care of things myself.”

Her impatience clear, she finally slipped out of her boots, killing one of his fantasies and spurring about fifty others.

Even her feet were damn sexy.

He didn’t waste any time. He lost his clothes on the way to the bed, more aware of the various aches and pains that made themselves known as he peeled away fabric than where his garments landed. Then she rolled into the path of the moonlight and he got a full glimpse of every one of her creamy curves.

His mouth went drier than it already was.

He tried to swallow. Couldn’t. Tried to breathe. Couldn’t. He fumbled out for the spindle of the footboard, finding he needed to hold on as she slid a hand over her breasts.

“Going to watch? Okay. We can do that too. But just so you know, I intend to—oh my God. Nick.” She gasped and crawled across the bed to brush careful fingers over the mottled mess turning his rib tattoos even darker. “Let me look at you.”