Stripped (17 page)

It was a good thing he found her adorable. “So, we’re in Pasadena because…”

Her lips twitched, full and rosy because he hadn’t been able to keep himself from kissing her at the stoplight a quarter-mile back. “Because I’m buying a house here.”

“A house.” Did he even known any twentysomethings who’d bought houses? He lived in a world of temporary residences, with monthly rent payments and shared gardens. The only people who owned houses were of his parents’ generation, or the generation before. A house for Fiona seemed…heavy. Weighted. “You hadn’t mentioned.”

She shook her head, lifting a hand from the steering wheel to tuck windblown strands of long brown hair behind her ear. “My parents know. Wes knows. The real estate agent knows. Other than that, I’ve kept it quiet.”

“Why?”

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug as she turned her head to smile at him, gray eyes sparkling behind the lenses of her glasses. “Because I wanted to have a happy secret, for once. That’s what buying this house feels like—a happy secret.” She faced the road once more. “It’s something I won’t run away from,” she murmured, softer now.

He wondered what she meant by that.

Their speed slowed as she turned onto a well-shaded street bearing the name of Plata Drive. The houses here weren’t the sprawling, tile-roofed mansions he’d seen in the neighborhoods closer to the studio, nor were they the modern, airy, glass-encased beachfront abodes dotting the coastline. These homes were modest twentieth-century structures, with massive oak trees in the front yards and sidewalks bearing chalk drawings and red plastic children’s toys that had likely been abandoned before bedtime the night before.

“We’re here.” Excitement lit her voice as she pulled the car into an empty driveway. Parking quickly, she hopped out, sliding the car keys into the back pocket of her jeans. Toned, tanned arms lifted over her head in a torso-flexing stretch, and he watched as she winced, hands dropping to rest briefly on her midsection. Over those scars.
 

Christ, her scars.
 

Of all the sights he’d been expecting to see once Fiona was well and truly naked, evidence of massive physical trauma had not been one of them. Pink and shiny, the raised gashes were echoes of violence too visceral to be ignored. The fact that she was alive at all astounded him—and not just alive, but vibrant, vital. Her skin glowed, kissed by the California sun under which she’d spent most of her life. Her body moved like good scotch tasted—strong and smooth, with a smoky burn that left him thirsty for more.
 

Her scars didn’t matter to him. Those scars mattered to her, however, and he wouldn’t insult her by saying they didn’t, no matter how he intended the words.
 

But he would let her know, in any way he could, that she didn’t ever have to worry what he thought. Because he thought she was bloody perfect.
 

The sound of a car door slamming caught his attention, and he turned to see a forty-something woman in gray trousers and a white blouse striding up the drive toward them, stiletto heels clicking smartly on the cement. “Fiona, right on time!” the woman said with a toothy smile, flipping her blond hair over one shoulder.

Fiona tucked her hands into her front pockets and rocked back on her heels, but gifted the newcomer with a shy but excited smile. “Hi, Kelly.” He watched as she relaxed her limbs, shoulders lowering and hands dropping to her sides. “Kelly, this is Declan. Declan, this is Kelly, my real estate agent.”
 

He shook hands with the blonde, murmuring polite words of introduction before returning to his observation of Fiona. Every day he understood her better, new facets of her personality becoming more and more evident to his searching gaze. Her reticence to engage with strangers and tightly controlled physicality, which he had early on believed signaled her dislike, was actually shyness coupled with insecurity. She was warm and affectionate with a very select group of people…a group to which Declan now belonged.
 

She trusted him, and that trust made her irresistible.

He snapped back to reality in time to realize that Kelly had led them up to the front steps of the turn-of-the-century bungalow that had been painted a soft sage green, trimmed in tones of rust and red. The porch spanned the width of the house, its columns square and in perfect condition. A two-seater swing was hung to the side of a large window.
 

Kelly unlocked the front door, ushering them inside. She eyed Declan appraisingly, but said nothing. “I’ve got a showing a couple blocks over in forty-five minutes. Is that enough time for you to look around?”

Fiona nodded. “I told you on the phone yesterday that I’ve made up my mind, but I wanted to see it one last time before putting in the offer.”

Beaming, Kelly stepped back over the threshold onto the porch. “Excellent. You two take your time, and I’ll get that paperwork rolling for you, shall I?”

“Yes.” Another nod, jerkier than the last, and Declan could see that poor Fiona was making a valiant attempt not to jump up and down.
 

His girl was
excited
. It made him want to spin her around in dizzying circles, until neither of them could breathe.
 

When they were alone, she shot him a sly glance, the corners of her lips lifting in a conspiratorial grin. “Want the tour?”
 

He remembered when the electricity had abruptly cut out in her apartment during the storm, how she’d seemed almost embarrassed by the simplicity of her apartment, though it differed very little from some of the places he’d lived early in his career. He also recognized what she was doing: sharing another little piece of herself with him. Chest sweetly aching, he returned her grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

The trim, ceilings, and crossbeams were a beachy white, the wooden floors restored to brilliance. The walls neither cracked nor sagged, painted light, soothing colors, like mint green and butter yellow, summer blue and aged ivory. The lighting was modern and elegant, the kitchen appliances gleaming like new. A claw-foot soaker tub held a place of honor in the main bath, and the master suite had double doors that opened onto the rear deck.
 

They walked through the house in silence until they returned to the kitchen. Then he couldn’t hold back any longer. “This place is a showpiece.”

Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her as she stared unseeingly at the ceiling. “It’s
perfect
.” She breathed the word, face flushed and lips curved. Her tone held a reverence to it that made his insides do a backflip. She dropped her gaze to meet his, eyes flashing. “The only reason I can even think about making an offer is because it’s a bank foreclosure. Even then, I’ll still be paying it off until I’m eighty.” She sounded thrilled.

This time, it was his heart that flipped over.
 

Wandering toward the utility room off the back of the kitchen with a bounce in her step, she stuck her hands in the front pockets of her jeans, a gesture that now had nothing to do with shyness and everything to do with containing her energy. “Three years of saving for a down payment on a place just like this, taking every possible paying job I could as soon as my apprenticeship ended. Plus, I have good credit. It was, like, the one thing I didn’t screw up in Vegas,” she muttered under her breath. “The point is, I’m buying a house. This house. Even if I need to live on craft services and Ramen for the next decade.”

“Why a house?”

Her chin lifted defiantly. “When you’re taking your clothes off for a living, you don’t think about houses. Or maybe you do. Some of the women I worked with were white-picket-fencers, but I wasn’t that girl. Then I woke up in a hospital bed and started thinking about houses.”
 

There was a lump in his throat, formed of an emotion he couldn’t identify—either panic or longing, and both terrified him to his bones. “And what about the…the things that generally come along with houses?”
 

One dark eyebrow arched over the rim of her glasses. “Frankly, I’m just hoping for a working washer-dryer unit.” She turned on her heel, arms spread wide as she viewed the two large, square sparkling appliances sitting next to one another in the utility room. “
Voila!
” When she faced him again, with a knowing smile on her face that told him she knew exactly where his mind had gone—to husbands, babies, swing sets, and sandboxes—she rested a hand atop the washing machine. “And it’s the right height, too.”

“Height? For what?”

She walked—no, she
strutted
past him, out of the utility room. “Think about it.”

Five seconds later, he was hustling through the kitchen, across the dining room with its elegantly painted built-ins, and past the brick fireplace in the living room. He found her on the front porch, sitting on the swing and staring up at the porch’s ceiling. “You’re a bad girl.”
 

Grinning, she shifted to let him settle next to her on the swing. “You’re a clever boy. I knew you’d figure it out, eventually.”

“You know you have to get the house now, and invite me to the housewarmin’.”

“And then have my way with you on top of the washer?”
 

“If you must.”

She laughed. “So…do you like L.A.?”

He stretched his arm behind her, along the back of the seat, and used his heels to set the swing gently swaying. “I do.” Not that he’d seen much of it. There were places within the city, he knew, that were dangerous—deadly, even. But every city had its shadowed corners, and Los Angeles was no exception. He was privileged to work in the industry he did in this town, which meant his street view was, well, less street and more view.

This neighborhood was nice. Calm and quiet, green and growing. The houses surrounding this one were well-maintained, with neat gardens and an air of safety. He’d always wondered if, when he was confronted with the possibility of “settling down,” he would look at structures like these and find himself bored by the sameness of it all. Monotony was supposedly a trademark of that stage of life, but, looking around, Declan didn’t see the possibility for monotony.

Instead, he saw that foothold, the same one he’d recognized in Fiona. It was a base of strength, a place to rest and rejuvenate, an oasis in the middle of chaos. But more than that, too, and he wished he could articulate it better.

Her side tucked against his, she settled twitchy fingers in her lap, absently picking at one thumbnail. “You’ve seen my home. Tell me about yours.”

What was there to tell? The flat in London wasn’t home, any more than the hotel room here was. “I guess home would be my mum and dad’s place in Dublin. It’s this tall, narrow place near Trinity College that we’ve been in since before I can remember. My sister is living with them while she finishes her dissertation.”

“And your parents? What do they do?”

“Dad’s a primary teacher, Mum’s a professor.” He smiled fondly. “Bunch of brainiacs, the lot of ’em, and then there’s me. Like I said, I didn’t particularly like school. We used to joke I’d been adopted—aside from the fact that I look exactly like my father.”
 

She curled her legs beneath her on the seat and leaned more heavily into his side. “Do you miss them?”

“Well, sure.” His arm tightened around her. “But you know how it is. They’re parents. They don’t expect you to hang around forever.”

The quiet between them held for a moment. Then, “My parents are glad I’m nearby, I think. Because I disappeared on them for so long. It was…I made another wrong choice when I shut them out of my life after leaving college. They deserved more from me.”

“You were a kid.”
 

“I was old enough to know better.”

There was more she wasn’t telling him, but he didn’t want to push. She had already allowed him deeper into her life than he suspected either of them had anticipated. “Are they keeping tabs on you now?”

She shook her head. “No. But I think it’s comforting for them to know I’m safe and healthy.” He watched as her fingers stilled in her lap, squeezing until her knuckles turned white. “It’s comforting for me, too, knowing they’re nearby, even if I sometimes hate it, too.” She huffed out a wry laugh before pushing her glasses up her nose and tilting her head back to meet his gaze. “Twenty-seven years old, and still needing Mom and Dad. Looks like I never grew up, huh?”

His heart clenched in his chest as he leaned in to drop a brief kiss on her parted lips. “No. I think you probably grew up too soon, darlin’.” A vision of her scars flashed across his mind. “There’s nothin’ wrong with a little need. Not when the heart’s involved.”

“Hmm. You sound pretty smart to me, Declan Murphy.” Leaving the swing, she moved to halt at the top of the steps and gazed out over the tidy patch of green grass with a soft look in her gray eyes that spoke of contentment. “We need breakfast.”

He followed to stand at her side. “No, we need condoms.” When she laughed and looped her arms around his neck, pressing a line of kisses into the scratchy stubble shading his jaw, he felt that sweet ache in his chest again. All right, then. Breakfast before condoms it was, he thought as he shifted to capture her lips with his.

THIRTEEN

He’d slept at her apartment every night for the past ten days.
 

Holy crap.

There was a duffle filled with his clothing on the floor in front of her closet, and a dopp kit propped on the counter next to her sink. She could picture him crouched by the duffle this morning as he rummaged for a clean white tee shirt.
 

He’d smiled over his naked shoulder at her, water droplets from yet another shared shower clinging to his skin, and made some comment to the effect of,
Doesn’t matter what I put on, your dad’s gonna force me to take it off in an hour
. And she’d laughed, because it was funny and true and about her father and she was happy.
 

But there had been a muted buzzing in her ears, as though she’d been dunked in a too-chlorinated swimming pool and someone was holding her underwater. The corners of her eyes had stung as she had stared at him, her stupid smile merely a spontaneous answer to his.