Stripped Raw (4 page)

“Here’s the thing,” he says. “You can’t say lingerie to a man without him wanting to know what color your panties are.”

I start to laugh. He’s a typical man, but at least he admits it. “Honest. I like honest.”

He reaches across the table for my hand. “You’ve got the sexiest little laugh.” I stop laughing. “Too honest?”

I’m not the best at accepting compliments. I know this about myself. Casting my eyes down, I see the telltale white strip of skin on his left ring finger and immediately pull my hand back. “Are you married?”

“I’m divorced,” he says, rubbing his ring finger. “I was married for ten years, no kids.”

“Ten years? How old are you?”

“We got married really young. I’m thirty-three. You?”

“Twenty-six. Never married.” I untie my hoodie and slip it on.

“You’re cold?” Kane asks and motions for the waiter. “I’ll have them turn the air off.”

He’s sweet and protective, plus handsome? There has to be a catch. “It’s fine.”

“You said you haven’t lived in Dallas long?”

“I grew up here, but I went to college at Rhodes in Memphis and spent the last few years since graduation working in Europe. Then I came back to start my own company.”

The waiter brings some water, takes our orders, and quickly disappears. We continue to talk casually, and I think things are going well. He’s easy to talk to, easy on the eyes, and he seems genuinely interested when I talk. I find myself comfortable with him. It’s rare to have that happen when you first meet someone, but there is an ease between us that I’ve never felt before.

“There’s something else I need to know,” Kane says.

“I’m not telling you my panty color.”

“I plan on finding that out all on my own.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” he says, grinning. “But I need to know if you’re still a Cowboys fan?”

“I’ve never been a Cowboys fan. The Saints are my team.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “You live in Dallas. You
have
to be a Cowboys fan.” I playfully shake my head. “You’ve got to be kidding! Nothing’s more American than cowboys.”

“The Cowboys are the snobs of the NFL.”

His head lowers to the table. “This is
so
disappointing.”

“So, that’s it,” I tease and get to my feet. “I guess we’re through. I guess you don’t care what color my panties are anymore.”

He quickly gets up and playfully puts his hands on my waist. He pulls me close to his body, and the playfulness is replaced with intensity. I reach to tuck a loose strand of hair out of my face, but he does it for me. Something about a man touching your face, grazing your cheek, feels so intimate. “Restroom?” I ask, and he points to a door behind me.

Flashing him a thankful smile, I turn towards the bathroom, hoping and praying he’s not looking at my ass as I walk away from him. Please don’t be looking at my ass, Kane! And if you are, please, ass, don’t jiggle!

Yes, sometimes I talk to my ass. I told you I have an ass complex. Don’t judge me.

Splashing a little water on my face to calm myself, I can’t believe everything that has happened today. Is it even noon? It’s been a crazy day. But everyone needs a little crazy, right? I deserve to feel good and have a little fun. Kane is completely unexpected. Tessa would want me to go for this. Is it possible my man-hating phase could end? Probably not, but maybe it could take a short vacation?

I walk out of the bathroom, and my smile quickly fades. On multiple televisions, a clip of my interview with Deacon is playing on a national talk show, the one where women sit around and claw each other’s eyes out over everything from politics to parenting. But they aren’t going at each other this morning. They are praising me as the “next great feminist” in America, touting me as the “bad ass of lingerie” and the “racy red-headed vixen.”

Kane is standing at the bar, watching the whole thing. He turns my way, and I walk over. “Told you I had a crazy morning.”

He gives me a nod and places his hand at the small of my back, leading me back to the booth. “I’ll have to watch the whole interview later,” he says, “but you should be proud of the way you handled yourself.”

“That guy Deacon is such a. . . .”

“I know,” he says. “He’s my stepbrother.”

There’s the catch! My whole world starts spinning. “What?”

“I wasn’t lost when I came to your store. I was coming to see you.”

“What?” Things click into place. I reach for his shirt sleeve and pull it up, finding both the Rolex and the tan, muscular forearm I was perving on this morning. “You were talking to Deacon before my interview.”

“He’s pissed about what happened this morning.”

“
He
is?”

“Deacon sent me to talk to you,” he says, “to have you issue a public apology.”

For the second time today, it’s time to bust some serious balls. “An
apology
? He sent you to scare me? Well, in case he didn’t learn this morning, you can tell Deacon I don’t scare easily!” I quickly get up and head for the door, my man-hating phase raging back. Kane can go on my list, too.

He captures my elbow. “Wait, please.” I stop and yank my arm away. “Just listen for one minute. I’m trying to come clean here.”

“
Come clean
? Then you don’t ask for directions for a place I’m sure you knew how to get to.”

“I’m sorry I did that.”

“You already knew I designed lingerie. Knew my name already. Wow! This entire thing has been one big sham.”

“That’s not true,” he says. “I mean, of course, I knew your name and what you do. But the rest. . . .”

“Was this some sort of plan you cooked up with Deacon to get back at me?”

“No,” he says, motioning for me to sit down, but I don’t. “I heard you this morning, too. I wasn’t there for your interview, but I heard you laugh from outside Deacon’s office. I caught a glimpse of your hair and legs, too.”

I shrug. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I. . . .” he pauses for a second then looks me right in the eye. “This morning when I heard you laugh, I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time. As soon as I came into your shop, I knew it was you, and Deacon was shit out of luck.”

His honesty hits me so hard I exhale. I didn’t expect that. If it were any other guy, I probably would’ve been out the door by now, but Kane seems to be different. It isn’t just his brilliant blue eyes or hot body—though that certainly helps—but I can see he is being open with me and truly looks so disappointed.

“Please,” he says, touching my hand for only a second, “don’t leave.”

“It’s always better to leave before I get hurt.” His eyes close. It’s almost like it hurts him to think he’s hurt me. That would be a first.

“Just give me a chance to explain,” he says.

It is moment of truth time—stay or go. I hear Tessa’s voice in my head, telling me to give him a chance. He is being honest when he didn’t have to be. He could’ve kept up the charade. But it’s going to take more than his hot body and those sexy eyes. I’ve let too many men into my heart before, only to be abandoned. I promised myself I wouldn’t let that happen again, that I’d walk away before I let any man hurt me again. That’s perhaps the most important thing you should know about me—I’m a runner. Not in the marathon kind of way, obviously. No, I’m always the first to leave a relationship. It’s better to leave than be left. I haven’t always been that way, but when you’ve been abandoned, cheated on, and downright humiliated by men—you tend to learn the signs that things are going south and cut your losses. And this is a big ass flashing neon warning sign—time to split.

“You
and
your brother can go to hell!”

KANE

Well, fuck me
backwards without lube. Could I have screwed that up anymore? My first time out with a woman since my divorce and what an epic fail. Kenzie deserved the truth; it was the right call to confess. I’m not sure why I lied in the first place, other than just being shocked I found the woman with the erection-inducing laugh, and totally forgetting the purpose of my visit was to wipe up my stepbrother’s mess. I hated being there under false pretenses, anyway. And quite obviously, the last thing Kenzie or her stepsister needed was to hear any bullshit legal talk.

I like this woman. I regret too many things in my life, and this will not be one of them. No way am I letting that happen. If nothing else, I need to try to make this right with Kenzie. She may continue to hate my guts. God, I hope not. I really need to know how she tastes, kisses, moans, smells, moves. Hold up! Getting way ahead of myself. This whole fiasco started with Deacon, so he’s got to help fix it.

At the time, I didn’t know what was up with my stepbrother because I’d been cooped up in court. Maybe Deacon was on the verge of death, bleeding out on a street corner somewhere, or maybe he just got another parking ticket. Whatever it was, I had to check on him. These days, I’ve been trying to do a better job of putting family, not work, first. So I excused myself from court and let my partners finish up selecting the jury.

Deacon’s “emergency” was some horrible interview, a “pencil dick” comment especially rubbing him the wrong way. Defamation of character, he said, trying to sound like he had half a brain. I told him there’s no defamation claim because it’s true, but he didn’t find that amusing at all. I, on the other hand, thought it was hilarious.

Listening to him drone on, I wanted to scream, pissed I left jury selection for this crap! This was not why I went to law school. I have better things to do, other juries to pick, more cases to win. These were the times I hate being the lawyer in the family, hate being related to Deacon Barnes. Don’t get me wrong, my stepbrother can be a good guy, but his screw-ups seem to be coming fast and furious these days. And he’s not letting up. It was obvious his ego was bruised and someone had to pay. He wanted Kenzie’s head on a platter or a public apology from her. I was supposed to do my brotherly duty again.

So I went to see Kenzie, and I’m glad I did. I’m so glad I asked her to lunch. Had I not done that, I would’ve regretted it forever. I have enough regrets. I don’t need another one, so I’ve got to fix this.

Like any good lawyer, first I need to get the facts—watch the interview that has Deacon’s panties in a wad. So I watched it several times online in my office and can’t tell if Deacon is trying to be an ass or if he just can’t help himself. Regardless, my chest puffs out each time Kenzie goes after him. I’m proud of her, this woman I barely know, this woman who obliterated my stepbrother on television.

I’ve ignored a few texts from Deacon and decide to call him, hoping he’s calmed the hell down since this morning—but no such luck. He answers the phone barking questions: whether I met with Kenzie, why I hadn’t followed up with him.

“My life doesn’t revolve around you,” I remind him, but he’s not listening. Not that it matters. In Deacon’s mind, he is the center of the universe. The questions keep coming: whether she’s going to apologize, whether we should sue in state or federal court. If I didn’t love him and know better, I’d check him into a mental ward.

It’s hard to fathom Deacon being on TV, but he gets good ratings, and that’s all that really matters. Maybe I should just hang up? But I know it won’t do any good. He’d just call or text again. It’s best to let him rant. Like a fussy toddler in a preschool class, he’ll eventually wear himself out.

Sure enough, he does. He’s calming down now, and I know how to make sure he stays that way. If there’s a way to get through to Deacon, it’s via his ego. “Maybe this will actually be good for the show?” I suggest. “All the national press? Could be good for your career? Open up some other opportunities, too?”

As expected, he likes those ideas, so I continue to calmly talk to him, telling him he has nothing to worry about with Kenzie, that he should instead consider how to turn what happened into something good—for himself, of course. Eventually, there’s silence on the line. He must be thinking. Did the call get disconnected? He’s never this quiet. He must be thinking really hard.

“You fucked her, didn’t you?” he asks.

“What?” I choke out. “What’re you talking about?”

“I can tell something’s up,” he says.

“You don’t know shit,” I say.

“You like her, don’t you?” he asks.

Now I’m the one who’s silent. “I took her out to lunch.”

“I knew something was up. Did you go to lunch before or after you tapped that ass?”

“We didn’t have sex! Jesus! What’s the matter with you?”

“There’s nothing the matter with me!” he says then re-focuses. “You’ve been out of the game a long time. This is how it’s done now.”

“So you’re telling me that women want one night stands now?”

“Works for me. ‘Hit it and quit it’ is the only way to go.” Deacon pauses for a second. “Unless you really like her?”

“I do,” I say, followed by a long stretch of silence. “Deacon, what’re you thinking?”

“Take a wild fucking guess,” he says.

“That you’re not going to get your apology,” I say, hoping he loves me enough to let this go. Otherwise, I’ll crush him. We both know it.

“Fucking douche,” Deacon says. “You owe me!”

“Fine, but I need a favor.”

*