Chapter 7

Savage knowsI have a crush on him, and he avoids me like I’m carrying the plague. And that’s why Cash forcing him to be my bodyguard is the worst. First, because it’s degrading and second, because I know Savage doesn’t want to spend time around me.

He touches me and then wipes his hand off on his jeans. He gets angry when he looks at me.

I sit on my living room sofa, frozen, my mind traveling back to that night, the scent of his cedar and smoke cologne trapped in my nose.

It wasn’t that long ago. Just a couple of weeks.

Marci was upset and I took her to Longhorn’s for some girly day drinking. Jesse took her home, and he called Savage to fetch me. And after tequilas and enough cocktails to tranquilize a horse, you would think I wouldn’t remember it in painful detail.

But I do.

Oh my God, do I remember it. I cover my eyes, my cheeks heating.

Savage feedsme into the back of his SUV and leans across me, clipping on the seatbelt. I smile up at him, because, what the fuck? Why not?

He might hate me, but he’s so gorgeous, and I am so tired of holding back. So tired of wanting a man who doesn’t want me.

Why is it that the only guys who are interested in me are people like Franklin? Ugh. Men who are walking red flags, who see me as an object?

Savage peers at me. “You good?”

“You have pretty eyes,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes at him.

Savage makes a noise that might be a laugh, and his dark eyes pinch at the corners. “Tell me if you need me to stop the car. Lie down if you need to.”

“Okay.” And then I flop sideways with a sigh.

Savage gets into the car, and the engine purrs to life. I drift in and out, the SUV spinning around me, as I stare at his muscular arms, hands on the wheel of the car, his beard, the tattoos inked along his strong neck.

A while later, we park, and an influx of cool air tells me that the door is open. “We’re here,” he says, and then gentle hands lift me upright.

“Thanks,” I manage, as he unclips my seatbelt and lifts me out of the back of the SUV into his strong arms.

I loop my arms around his neck and snuggle in close, pressing my nose to his neck, inhaling deeply.

He stiffens.

But I can’t help myself. This is the closest I’ve ever been to him, and hell, it’s probably the last time I’ll ever get to feel his arms on my body.

This is wrong.

Or maybe it’s right. Maybe Savage likes me?

It’s a tequila-addled thought, but I don’t care.

The door slams shut, and I’m carried upward. I stare up at the side of his face, and my finger moves to his beard. “This is nice,” I say. “Your beard. I like the way it looks on you.”

His breaths come quickly. I’m not imagining it, right?

“Your keys,” he says.

“Oh, they’re in my purse.” I struggle, trying to get it off my shoulder where I hooked it at some point during the night. I don’t remember when.

“I’ve got it.” He takes the purse from me, and gets the keys out of it. He opens my apartment door one-handed then carries me inside, tucking a hand over the back of my head to keep it safe.

Lights flare, and I blink and shut one eye. I catch a glimpse of my living room before I’m carried through to the bedroom and set down on the bed.

“Can you sit up?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so.” I struggle upright, and he guides me. I sit on the bed, bracing my hands on the floral sheets, and watch as Savage carefully removes my shoes, his fingers brushing over the sensitive skin on my ankles and feet.

It’s obscene, this huge man bowed before me, removing my shoes, and it makes my heart thrum in my chest, and a terrible, naughty idea forms in my mind.

He’s so caring with me. So gentle. Surely that means something? It can’t just be because I’m part of the Taylor family or because I’m Cash’s sister, right?

“Savage?” I whisper.

He’s just removed my second shoe and set it aside. He frowns and looks up at me. His thighs are encased in jeans, and they look as if they barely fit, as if they’re so strong he might just burst out of his clothes. God, I wish that would happen.

No, I wish he would take them off for me.

“Can you help me with my clothes?” I ask.

“Hannah.”

“Please,” I say. “I don’t want to sleep in jeans and a sweater.”

His jaw works, and his pupils dilate.

“Please,” I repeat it sweetly.

He gets up and then he takes my hands and stands me upright. He holds me in place with one arm looped around my middle while he unbuttons my jeans and strips them down my legs. He lifts one foot and removes a pants leg, and then does the same with the other.

The cool air brushes against my skin. I struggle to remember which underwear I chose today. The pink lace? Please, let it be the pink lace.

Savage stands and keeps his gaze fixed on a spot on the wall.

“My sweater,” I say.

His strong, callused fingers brush over my stomach, and I inhale.

“That feels nice,” I whisper.

“Hannah.” It’s a warning.

“Please,” I murmur. “I’ll be good.”

Savage’s nostrils flare, but he takes the hem of my sweater and pulls up. He helps me get it off. I rest my hands on his chest to keep my balance, and his gaze snaps to my face then down an inch to my chest.

I look down too, and I am, indeed, wearing the pink lacy bra.

Yes.

He grinds his teeth audibly.

“Savage,” I whisper softly, and move my arms, loop them around his neck, my gaze imploring. “Can you help me into bed?”

His hands are at his sides, and I don’t like it. I want him so bad, I ache for him. I don’t care if it’s pathetic, or if it’s one night that I’ll regret for the rest of my life, because I just know that touching Savage will ruin me.

I run my hands up the back of his neck and into his dark hair.

His gaze doesn’t flinch. His hands come up and he loops one arm around my waist. He lowers me onto the bed carefully, but he’s not coming down with me.

I pull on him, tipping us backward so that he lands, arms on either side of my body, his hot weight held above mine. His gaze tracks over my face and down to my body, and I swear desire flares in that look. Or maybe I’m lying to myself.

“Hannah, what are you doing?”

“I want you,” I say. “Okay? I want you. Please.”

“Hannah.”

“I want you so bad I can’t think straight,” I whisper. “I want you inside me.”

“No.”

“No?”

He shakes his head firmly. “No. You and I will never happen,” he says. The last two words are sharp and harsh. “Never.” And then he pushes off the bed and looks away. “Get under the covers.”

My insides boil with shame, and I crawl under the duvet and drag it up to my chin. Tears prick at the sides of my eyes, and I turn my back on him. Hating that I tried, hating that I want him.

He switches off the light. “Goodnight, Hannah.”

The memory runson repeat through my mind, and it’s so clear, the pain, the shame, Savage’s expression when he told me he would never want me, that it’s like I’m reliving it for the fiftieth time. I keep torturing myself with that memory, and it makes me angry.

Why? What’s wrong with me?

Because I’m Cash’s sister? Because he doesn’t find me attractive?

Either way, he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want me. And I’ve made it clear that I want him. And now, it’s awkward, and I simply cannot be trapped with him watching my every move.

I can’t even be in the same town as him. How am I going to survive him being around me constantly?

I forced myself onto him. I made a fool of myself. I upset him.

And I’m never getting drunk in front of him ever again. Not only did I lose my dignity, but I lost my mother’s bracelet and my favorite lipstick that night.

“You’re okay, this is fine,” I say, into my empty living room. “He’s out there, and you’re in here, and you are never going to act the fool around him ever again. You are never going to tell him you want him again. You’re going to leave. Simple. It’s only a couple of weeks until you go, so…”

And now, I was talking to myself like a crazy person.

I force myself off my sofa and get ready for bed. I shower, brush my teeth and put on my comfiest PJs—pink cotton shorts and a cotton strappy top—and then I shut off the lights and lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling.

“No. You and I will never happen.” The words, rumbled in his deep voice, come back to me again and again.

“Ugh. Stop it. Stop.”

What is he even doing out there? Just sitting in his car? Sitting in his car and staring at my apartment against his will? It’s bad enough that I threw myself at him, now he’s out there when he doesn’t want to be. God, the only saving grace in this situation is that it doesn’t seem like he told Cash about what happened. If he had, I would’ve dissolved into a librarian-shaped puddle of goo.

I get out of bed in the dark and walk through to the living room. I twitch the curtains back and peer down at the sliver of the street I can see from my front window.

Savage leans against the front of his SUV, his arms folded, and his head tilted back, staring directly up at me.

I almost flinch back, but I stop myself.

This is my apartment. I don’t even want him out there. Why shouldn’t I look out of the window? Embarrassed or not, he knows I don’t want him here, but he stayed, so if Savage doesn’t like me looking out my own damn front window, he can leave.

He keeps staring up at me, and I fold my arms and stare right back down at him.

It’s like we’re playing chicken. First person to look away is the loser, except I’m already the loser thanks to the whole “pink lace incident”. And the pepper-spewing. Oh God, the pepper-spewing.

I’m about to pull back when Savage pushes off the front of his SUV, and I grin. He’s going to leave. I win.

But Savage doesn’t circle around his car. Instead, he walks toward the stairs, watching me like I’m a deer, and he’s the hunter.