Mister Romance (Masters of Love #1)

“No. But stay still anyway. How are you feeling?”


“Awesome. The drugs have kicked in, and I’m fiiiiine.” I touch his face, because ... well, why not? It’s there, and it’s pretty, and wow ... his mouth is so pretty. And so annoying. It’s annoying how symmetrical he is. And how piercing his eyes are. And don’t even get me started on the eyebrows, eyelashes, and cheek bones, not to mention the mouth. “You’re handsome.”

His lips quirk. “And you’re stoned. Is your back still spasming?”

“Nope, it’s loosey-goosey, salmon-moosey.” I giggle as I graze my hand down his neck and onto his chest, because he’s so fracking attractive, it’s hilarious.

Max doesn’t giggle, however. He presses his lips together as I investigate the muscles of his chest. He shouldn’t look perturbed. After all, I’m an investigative journalist. This is a natural extension of my craft.

He must not appreciate my technique, because everywhere I touch, tenses.

“What are you doing?” His voice is doing that dark, sexy thing.

“Research.”

“Miss Tate –”

“Stop calling me that. My name’s Eden.”

“I call you Miss Tate because it helps me try to keep things more formal between us.”

“Uh huh.” His eyelids flutter as I graze his nipple through his T-shirt. “How’s that working out for you?”

He puts his hand over mine to stop my exploration. “Well, it’s freaking pointless when you touch me like that. Do you realize you’re a handsy drunk?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

He stands and mutters, “Only when I’m trying to ignore how goddamn attracted I am to you.” He stalks back into the kitchen, and I flop back into the couch and stare at the ceiling.

Honestly, having him in my apartment is weird. He’s not a friend. He’s not a lover. He’s a walking, breathing erogenous zone who fascinates me and infuriates me in equal measure. He’s like a wild beast that can rip out my internal organs with no effort at all, and now that he’s invading my inner sanctum, I’m horrified to find I enjoy having him here. It’s bizarre and unsettling.

“May I ask you something?” I ask while blinking to try and focus my fuzzy vision.

“If you must.”

“If Brick hadn’t taken his hand off me tonight, would you really have broken his arm?”

Something clatters in the sink. “You don’t have to hit someone to do it damage.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

He doesn’t answer me. I wish I had a notebook nearby, because while I can usually catalogue this stuff in my head, my brain is too fuzzy, and I want to come back to this subject when I’m sober.

“Have you ever gotten into a fight over a woman?” I ask.

“Several times.”

“And? Did you always win?”

Again, silence. Then he says, “No. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it again ... and do it better.” When the electric kettle beeps, I hear all manner of pouring and stirring.

A couple of minutes later, he places a steaming cup on the coffee table in front of me and pulls the table closer, so I can reach it. Holding his own cup, he sits in the armchair next to me.

I sip the tea, surprised that I like it. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And for the record, I didn’t spike it. Just in case you were wondering.”

He watches me as I drink, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to how he looks at me. It’s like he’s trying to show me his true self through clairvoyance, while hiding everything else about him.

“I’m sorry I got angry with you earlier,” he says quietly. “When I came to the bar tonight, I wasn’t expecting to be accused of criminal activity. It took me by surprise.”

“Why did you come?”

He holds his cup with both hands and looks down into it, as if he’s searching for answers. “I wanted to apologize. I thought you ran out on me because of what happened when I hugged you.”

“Which was?”

He looks up at me, surprised. “You don’t know?”

I shake my head. “I was too busy being paranoid about being dosed and high. Did you steal my Starbucks loyalty card from my purse when I wasn’t looking or something? Because that would piss me off. I’m one star off getting a freebie.”

He puts his cup on the table and rests his elbows on his knees. “Miss Tate, I usually manage to keep a certain veneer of professionalism between myself and my clients, but last night with you, I ... failed.”

“Failed, how?”

He takes in a breath and exhales. “Do you really need me to say it?”

“Max, I’m highly medicated right now, and my brain isn’t firing on all cylinders, so, yeah. Please say it, so I can stop feeling dumb.”

Embarrassment flits across his features. “When you were upset after the song and I hugged you, I was ... aroused. I didn’t mean to be, but having you on my lap, and then hugging you, I ...” He looks at the floor and shakes his head. “I thought you felt it when I pressed against you. Or heard it when I moaned. That’s why I was ashamed of myself when you ran out.”

To be honest, I barely hear anything after ‘aroused’. That word uttered in his white-hot voice has set fire to my face and body. For the first time in a long time, I’m at a loss for words.

I do my best space cadet impersonation as I struggle to find something witty to say.

He looks over at me. “Miss Tate? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I just ... uh .... apology accepted, I guess. Don’t beat yourself up.” When I realize my pun, I squeeze my eyes shut in embarrassment. “Sorry. Total accident. Plus, I have no idea if you beat yourself after I left. If you did, great. Go, you.”

A heavy silence falls between us, but my brain is still fixated on what he just told me.

“So,” I say, trying to connect the dots, “you were attracted to me? Or was is Caleb?”

He pauses for so long, I wonder if he’s going to answer. Then he says, “Both, and that’s something that I haven’t experienced before.” I stare at him, and he shifts in his seat. “Why do you seem so surprised?”

“I just didn’t think I’d be your type.”

He makes a scoffing noise in his throat. “You’re everyone’s type.”

My hackles rise. “Are you judging me for having a healthy sex life? Because it might not have filtered into your eighteenth-century gentleman’s brain, but these days women are free to sleep with whomever they choose, as often as they like, and in whatever position floats their boat. And I don’t think it’s fair for you to –”

“Miss Tate ...” He gives me a patient look. “I wasn’t making a moral judgement. I was trying to say that you’re an amazing woman, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a man who wasn’t attracted to you.”

Goddammit. That’s even worse. “You don’t have to say that. We’re not on a date right now.”

“I’m aware of that.”

I drop my gaze and look at his chest. “Men say those things all the time without meaning them.”