A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (2 page)

“So, you work out?” Dan’s steady voice cuts through my fear and somehow calms me.

In, out, in, out . . .

When I pry my eyes open, he juts his chin in the direction of my open coat, which has exposed my sexy sweatiness.
Oh geez . . .
I tug it shut again. “Yeah, uh, I try to go after work. I feel better afterward, but half the time I have to drag myself there. How about you?” I allow myself to get lost in his kind eyes and incredible looks—whatever it takes to hold it together.

“I go when I have to.” He grimaces, but his gaze holds me steady and keeps the panic at bay.

“It’s got to make it easier if they’re paying you to work out, no?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make me enjoy it any more, though. I’m not all that athletic, despite public perception.” He laughs.

Not athletic? How can that be?

We sit perpendicular on the floor for a few quiet minutes as I try to fully recover from the last jolt.

He says, “You know, I’m enjoying the peace and quiet in here.”

“Except that I’m making you talk to me. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s nice to have a normal conversation for a change. I’m not sure the last time that happened.” He frowns as if trying to remember. “Of course, I need to be in a death trap to have it.”

He’s only joking, but the mention of those two dreaded words ignites my panic once again. “Death trap, ha! Yeah.” My voice is high, my hands curled into fists again.

He winces. “Oh, sorry about that.”

Breathe . . .

I shake my head, chanting silently:
refocus, refocus, refocus, green eyes, green eyes, green eyes
. Finally I ask, “Aren’t conversations part of your job description?”

He shrugs and nods. He seems unsure of what to say. “Well . . . yes, I do talk with people all the time, but I’m not sure the last time I spoke to someone about normal things like their work and family without prying eyes and ears around. Anyway, it’s usually just me prattling on to some journalist about what I’ve done.”

Huh. How is he not a conceited ass?

Suddenly, the elevator jostles us and begins inching upward toward the seventh floor. When the doors open, two men greet us—a tall, burly man called Bob, as his shirt is labeled, and a short, balding guy.

“Dan! Let me help you up,” the short one urges to Dan, holding out a hand.

“That’s all right, I’ve got it.” Dan stands and turns to me. Before I know it, he’s holding my hand, lifting me upright, and pulling me from the elevator into the windowed hallway.

“You can breathe now,” Dan says, smiling, then retrieves my bags from inside the elevator. I inhale the biggest gulp of air possible.

“Thank you.” I feel all flushed again as I take one of the bags from Dan.

“Claire, this is my manager, Len.”

I look to the short, balding businessman and hold out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Len.”

“Nice to meet you as well, Claire.”

“Everyone okay?” Bob asks.

“Yeah, fine,” Dan answers as I nod and continue to breathe in steady intervals.

“I have to run a diagnostic on this thing. Use the stairs for the next few minutes, okay folks? I’m going to shut it down ‘til I make sure it’s all set.” Bob turns and leaves.

Dan, Len, and I stand there in awkward silence. I finally break it with, “I should be going.” I turn to take my other bag from Dan.

Dan doesn’t let go of the bag, but instead turns to Len. “You go ahead to your flat. I’ll meet you there, okay?”

My heart plummets.
He’s sending Len away? He wants to talk to me alone?

Len glances between Dan and me. With an impish grin, he says, “Okay. Nice meeting you, Claire.” He walks down the hall to his apartment as Dan and I watch. Once Len shuts his door, Dan turns his full attention to me.

“It was really nice talking with you, Claire. I was just getting used to it in there,” he jokes, slaying me with his golden-boy Hollywood smile.

I pull myself together as best as I can—being half melted and all—and reply, “Yeah . . . me, too. Thanks for the distraction.”

Dan pauses, examining me a moment, and then says, “You still look a bit shaken—are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Yeah.” I nod, pretending it’s the stuck elevator that’s still affecting me. “I’ll be fine. Of course, I’ll be avoiding elevators for the rest of my life.” I laugh.

Dan smiles, glances down at his shoes, and then makes a quick swipe across the back of his neck with his hand. “Perhaps if we went for a drink later it would help you unwind after our little . . . trip?”

Whoa. Did he just ask sweaty me for a drink?

I should say no. Of course I should say no because, really, what’s the point? But then Bridget and Camille will be on me again about going out, so . . .
“Okay.”

Dan nods. “Do you know Mickey’s Pub? It’s a bit of a hole in the East Village, but it’s nice and relaxed.”

“That’s near me actually.  What time?”

“Does nine work?”

“Sure. I’ll see you then.” I take my second bag from him, smile in appreciation and leave.

I float up the stairs to my student’s apartment, drop off her work, and leave the building. I walk home in a fog—literally and figuratively. I replay the entire elevator event in my head.

After several passersby shoot me weird glances, I realize it’s because I’ve been walking around wearing a dopey grin and saying hi. I roll my eyes at myself and force my cheeks down . . . but the thought of meeting Dan later creeps in and the grin’s back, bringing a giggle with it. That’s when I scold myself:
Don’t even, Claire. He’s probably just looking to get laid
.

I toy with the idea of telling Bridget and Camille about this afternoon, but they’ll drill me for every detail, and their questions will only tie my stomach into more knots. I decide there’s no need to let on—it’s only one night, anyway.

When I arrive home, Bridget and Camille are lounging in the living room with the TV on.

“Hi!” I call out.

“Hey!” Camille answers from the recliner.

“Hi.” Bridget’s nose is glued to her phone, no doubt searching for any special man-hunting events.

I put my bags down and sift through the mail.
Here goes nothing
. “So what are you two doing tonight?”

I can almost hear Bridget and Camille’s heads whip in my direction—I
never
ask about their plans. “We haven’t decided yet. Do you want to come?” Camille asks.

“Actually, I have plans,” I say, feeling two sets of eyes boring into my skull.

“Really?” Camille asks, muting the TV.

I turn to face them. “Well, after your interrogation last night, I gave it some thought, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to go out for a drink. A few work friends have been asking me, too, so I said I’d go to a bar with them. Not that there’s anything wrong with you guys, but I don’t think I’m ready for your loud dance clubs. They’re going to a pub, so . . .”

“No. No, that’s fine. I think it’s great you’re going out to . . . socialize,” Camille stammers.

Bridget and Camille exchange a glance that I pretend not to notice.

We make dinner shortly thereafter and discuss important things . . . like what we’re going to wear. Admittedly, my wardrobe is lacking. It’s mainly T-shirts, jeans, and unexciting work clothes, which mean Bridget and Camille are more than happy to help me out.

I would have protested far more if I’d known just how many outfits Bridget was going to toss my way. In the end, it’s Camille’s dark denim jeans, Bridget’s fitted, violet button-down shirt, and my ancient black leather jacket that look pretty good. Of course, Bridget insists I wear her ridiculously high-heeled leather boots, too. With my luck, I’ll fall.

Camille and Bridget sit on my bed, smugly admiring their fashion victim. I can’t help but smile at their enthusiasm. I stand in front of the full-length mirror, twisting from one side to the other, making sure everything is in its place, when Bridget blurts out, “You’re such a bitch.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you have a great ass, and you hide it in hideous sweatpants,” she says, giving my ass a hard whack.

“Ow! Shut up.” I laugh and rub my stinging ass.

“So what pub are you going to?” Bridget asks.

“Mickey’s.”

“Oh, that place. It’s kind of a dive.”

“Really?”
Oh no. Where did I agree to go?

Camille elbows Bridget.

“But I’m sure you’ll have a good time,” Bridget says.

Before we head out in different directions, Camille reminds me to call one of them if I need them. I really hate when she gets all motherly like that.

Chapter Two

On the cab ride over to Mickey’s, I wonder if I even know how to act on a date anymore.
The last date I went on was the final straw in my mother’s forced attempt to get my love life back on track. I still can’t believe I let her meddle, but I was broken and didn’t care.

Soon after that date with another “perfect match” who nearly humped my leg at dinner, I swore off men, and for the last three years I’ve been living my life well enough. I have a successful teaching career, a cute apartment with my best friends in the greatest city in the world, and even though I’m scraping by, I’m happy. What more do I need?

I’m not quite sure what happened on that elevator, but somehow I agreed to drinks with a famous actor, who’s likely looking for a one-night stand. I haven’t had many of those. I’ve only tried it once and ended up feeling used and empty. God knows I’ve had enough of feeling like that.

Sitting in the back of the cab with nerves fraying fast, I think back to Dan’s easy green eyes and his strong, warm hands helping me up from the elevator floor.

It doesn’t help with the nerves.

Why am I doing this?

The knots tighten in my stomach as I get closer.

What if he blows me off?

At least I made the right decision not telling Camille and Bridget. If he’s a no-show, I won’t have to explain anything. Thank God for that.

As the cab eases to a halt outside Mickey’s, I sit unmoving and stare at the obvious dive. Very much a hole-in-the-wall, it comes complete with a hazy glass window that I can’t quite see through and what looks like a homemade sign. It’s hardly a place for a celebrity—or a single girl, for that matter.

The cabbie’s loud throat clearing brings me back. I pay, climb out into the frigid night air, and stand on the sidewalk talking to myself like the crazy person I’ve become in the last six hours.

What the hell am I doing?

It’s just a drink, Claire. Calm down. You can do this. Breathe.

And just when I think I’m ready—

What the hell am I doing?

Claire, he’s just a guy. You know how to be calm and cool. You do it every day at work. Put on your game face and get in there.

With a deep inhale of winter air, I step up to the solid wood door and pull. The rush of warmth stuns me a moment and gives me a chance to scan the dimly lit scene. There’s a cozy feel inside as friends chat, laugh, and drink. Tables line the left-hand wall, and there are a few people seated around them. In the far back, several people play pool or darts. My eyes shift to the thick, mahogany bar on the right. All of the seats there are occupied, and others stand around, as well. I realize that, thankfully, I’ve escaped the notice of all the patrons.

Except one.

At the end of the bar sits Mr. Beautiful, and he’s looking directly at me.

Oh God.

Our eyes lock, my breath hitches, and a devastating smile breaks across Dan’s face. 

His rumpled hair looks deliciously damp, and his green button-down looks so soft I want to run my hands over it . . . and under it—
Claire!
An obvious blush bursts across my face. I have never been more grateful for crappy lighting in my life.

I make my way to him, reminding myself—
game face, game face.

He twists on his barstool to face me. I can smell the soap and shaving cream that lick him clean—I mean wash him clean.
What is wrong with me?

“Hi!” I sputter because every muscle in my body has just sprung to life.

“Hello,” he says in that swoony accent, smiling wider and casually glancing at me from head to toe. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look . . . different than you did in the lift.”

I swallow. “Well, I showered and changed out of my sweaty clothes,” I say, hoping he isn’t too disappointed he asked to meet me.

Dan quickly responds with a shake of his head. “I mean you look . . . really . . . really lovely.”

I smile a little, but it’s tough with my heart jammed up inside my throat.

“Shall we sit down?” He nods in the direction of an empty table.

“Sure.”

Dan hops off the barstool, grabs his leather jacket, and leads the way to a table behind a pillar, hiding us from the general view of the bar. He holds out my chair, which impresses the hell out of me. I sit as he takes the seat across from me and throws his jacket over the back of the chair.

I unbutton my coat, shrug it off, and drape it over the seat. When I turn back, his eyes jump from the center of my chest to my face.

Oh no. Did my shirt unbutton itself? Damn Bridget for making me unbutton this thing so low!
I covertly take a peek . . .
phew
. All is in place.

A waitress appears. “What can I get you?”

“Claire?” Dan says, indicating for me to order first.

“Um, I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Two more of the same, please.” Dan taps his almost empty glass.

Once the waitress leaves, he shoots me a grin. “I’m glad you were able to meet up.”

My heart knocks hard, but I grin back. “Sure. My roommates were harassing me about going out, so . . .”

“They know you’re here?” he asks, tightening up a little.

I nod, realizing that he’s probably worried about cameras. “They know I’m here, just not with you. They’re too nosy.” I smile.

He nods and even seems surprised. “What were they doing tonight?”

“They went to a bar.”

“How’d you get out of going with them?”

I begin to stammer when he says, “Don’t you usually go with them?”

I shake my head and shrug. “No, I’m not really into bars.”

He stiffens. “I’m sorry. Would you like to go somewhere else?”

Stupid me. He probably thinks I don’t want to be here.
“No, not at all. It’s just that they like to, um . . . hunt for men, and that’s just not my thing.”
Oh God, what am I saying?

I can tell that my idiotic rambling amuses him. “So you don’t like to hunt for men then? They come to you I suppose?”

“Oh yeah, they flock.” I laugh, emphasizing the last word.

Dan smiles and shifts in his seat. He studies me. “You don’t have a boyfriend?” He downs the last of his beer.

“No, I have a husband,” I deadpan because the idea is simply ridiculous.

“What?” He coughs.

I smirk. “I’m kidding. I don’t have a husband or a boyfriend. I’ve sort of taken a break from dating.”

He raises his eyebrows and exhales. “Well, aren’t you the comedian.”

I try not to notice or turn purple, but he watches me while the waitress drops off our drinks and leaves. “What do you mean, ‘a break’?”

Shit.
“I just wanted to focus on my career for a while.” Lies. Lies. Lies. I take a long sip of my beer.

“Oh.” He nods. “So how long have you been a teacher?” He takes a sip, keeping his eyes on mine.

This time, I examine
his
face. “Are you trying to figure out how old I am?”

Dan blushes! “Well . . . sort of.”

“I’m twenty-nine. You?”

“Twenty-three.”

Simultaneously, we nod and swig our beers.
Crap, he’s young
.
Probably too young.

After a too-long pause, I have to end the awkwardness. “Shall I go back to the nursing home now?”

He slays me with that smile again. “Not yet, Miss Daisy.”

I laugh. “You know about
Driving Miss Daisy
?”

He cocks his head to the side. “What kind of actor would I be if I didn’t know classic movies?”

“This is true.”

We laugh together and drink. I exhale. This flirting feels good, like stretching out after a long flight.

“So, now that we have that out of the way, is there anything else you’d like to know?” I ask smugly, challenging him with a smirk.

He counters with a raised eyebrow. “All right, if you don’t really do the bar thing, what do you do?”

Damn it.
“Well,” I say before dragging things out with another long sip. “It’s not that I don’t like bars, but . . . lately I’ve been kind of a homebody.”

“You don’t go out much?”

“Not that often.”

“Really? I’d imagine teenaged girls would drive you to drink. It’s happened to me.” He drinks hard as if proving his point.

I smile, and even though I’d like to come across as more than a complete hermit, I go with the truth anyway. “Sometimes they do. It’s just that . . . staying at home has been more my speed lately. You know, Miss Daisy and all.” I drink and then ask, “So what do you do at night?” which I immediately regret. Surely it’s party after party, girl after girl.

He shrugs, probably scrambling for what else he could say. “I go out with friends when they’re around, but when I’m working I’m not left with much time to socialize.”

“Oh.”
Duh, like he’s going to admit to sleeping with the masses.
“Do any of your friends from home live in the U.S., too?”

Dan sits up straighter and leans forward, clutching his beer.  “One of my friends, Colin, moved here a couple of years ago, but the others still live back home.”

“Is Colin an actor, too?”

“No, he’s a musician. He plays all over L.A. with his band. They’re quite good.”

“That’s cool. What kind of music do they play?”

“You know, I have no idea.” He laughs and leans back, thinking. “Alternative rock? Bluesy rock with an edge? I’m not sure what it’s called, but whatever it is, it’s bloody good. What sort of music do you like?”

“Everything, really. I go more for the song than anything else. You?”

“I’m the same way. I’d listen to anything.”

I snicker and sip. “I guess we’re both musical whores then, throwing ourselves from genre to genre.”
This beer has gone straight to my head! I’m such a lightweight.

“Yes, Whores-R-Us.” His head drops down as he laughs.

“How do you like New York?” I ask.

“I really enjoy it. It’s a fascinating place to visit. Suppose you like living here?”

“Yeah, it’s amazing. There’s always something going on—”

“Even if you’re a homebody?” He leans in again, a little closer this time.

I shake my head, grinning like an idiot, and feel spurred on by his challenge. I lean in too, and in a husky whisper, say, “Even homebodies come out of the house now and again.”

Dan sits back with that hot smirky-smile and picks up his drink. His eyes don’t move from mine.

Gah!
I can’t handle.
I giggle into my glass and glance over to see an open pool table. “Would you like to play pool?”

“Sure.”

As we walk over to the table, I tease, “Do you even know how to play, Brit?”

He narrows his eyes. “Yeah, Yank, I know how to play. We invented it, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh, okay. It’s just . . . you’re so young. I wasn’t sure you knew what to do.” I shrug with an innocent smile.

He stops dead and looks me straight in the eye. “I know exactly what to do.” We both know he’s not solely referring to pool. Then again, neither am I.

I can’t help but tease him some more. “Sure you do.”

His playful glare sends shivers up my spine.

We grab cues and chalk them, and he sets up the table.

“Do you play often?” I need to know just how badly I’m going to get beaten.

“Often enough. I hope you aren’t offended when I win.”

I cock an eyebrow at him as he slides the triangle of balls onto the mark and glances up to gauge my expression.

“Win? We’ll see about that, Brit.” Now I have to make a concerted effort not to lose.

“Old ladies—I mean, Yankees first.” He gestures to the table.

I give him the ol’ evil eye.

He stands at the opposite end of the table, leaning on his cue and grinning, looking every inch the Hollywood star. If I’m going to attempt to win, I can’t look his way. His tousled, dirty blond hair and mesmerizing smile are far too distracting.

I take a deep, calming breath. Bending over the table, I aim, trying to recall any strategies on how to play pool because my mind is a scrambled mess from all the flirting. I pull back on the cue, and with as much force as I can muster, I hit the cue ball. Of course, it’s a shameful break. The white ball’s wimpy tap causes only a few to separate from the pack. Certainly none go into any pockets.

“Impressive,” he teases, coming in for his turn.

I narrow my eyes at him and step back to await the slaughter.

Dan examines the table. He takes aim on a yellow striped ball, which slips right into the pocket. He looks up at me and shoots me an “I’ve-got-this-in-the-bag” face.

He finds his next move, aims, and knocks that one in, as well. His smug smile widens.

He needs to go down.

On his third shot, the balls make contact, but the purple striped one skates by the pocket. Trying to hide his annoyance, he glances up at me and says, “All yours.” He drags over a barstool to wait.

As I seek out my move, he asks, “Would you like another pint?”

“Sure. Thank you.”

A waitress appears in moments.

I aim at the solid orange ball, and by the grace of God, when I hit it, it goes in. I silently pat myself on the back. I’m searching out my next move when I feel his eyes on me. I’m afraid to look, so instead I focus on finding the best pool option—and suck in my belly a little more.

I make laps around the table needlessly because my mind is wrapped up in how my jeans make my ass look and if my hair looks okay and if somehow I have food stuck in my teeth that I’m unaware of. This is one of the reasons I’ve come to dislike dating—so much obsessing over crap that doesn’t matter in the end. And it annoys me that I’m letting that exact stuff mess with my mind.

“You think you might go for another one this century?”

“I’m sorry, Mister Movie Star, do you have other places to go tonight?” I ask with a smile, which I can tell throws him off completely.

He shakes his head, grinning. “Nowhere else I want to be.” He casually sips his beer, but by the intensity of his stare, I can tell he’s gauging me.

Whether he’s joking or not, I don’t know, but I quickly force my attention to the solid purple ball I’m aiming for and shoot. It plops in. I almost “Woot!” but restrain myself. Growing in confidence, I find my next shot, and it goes in, as well.

“Are you a ringer or something?”

“A ringer? Me? Yeah, you caught me.”

He shifts uncomfortably.

On my next turn, I miss the red ball. “See? Now it’s your turn, jinx,” I tease and take his place on the stool.