Because I’m a terrible liar, I choose to divert the conversation instead of giving him any real answer. “There’s no way I’m going to stay here. You’re…you. And I hate being a burden even if you have a hundred rooms to sleep in.”
Amusement flickers in his baby blue eyes. “I don’t have a hundred rooms here, and you’d only be a burden if you fight me on this. I had to watch my mother struggle for a long time before she got on her own two feet. If I can help you in any way, I want to.”
I’ve always been bad at accepting help. It used to bother Mom and Dad whenever I’d turn down their assistance, irritate them that I’d always let my pride get in the way of reason. But there were certain things I couldn’t do on my own, and I’d have to compromise. Now is no different, I suppose.
“One night,” I agree quietly. It doesn’t sit well with me based on the staticky feeling shooting down my neck in warning, but what else was I going to do? A cab ride back to the city would cost a pretty penny and then there’d be room charges if I even found a hotel last minute.
When a grin stretches across his face, I hold my breath. He takes a step closer to me and reaches out to gently brush a piece of fallen hair out of my face and behind my ear, his fingertips leaving a scorching trail along my skin that makes me shutter a breath. “We could make the night interesting. Get rid of that frown.”
Holy shit.
In the back of my mind, I anticipated this, knew a guy like him—someone who could be another Hemsworth brother with his tussled blond hair and smoldering blue eyes—would try something. Between the sexy accent, the way he towers over my small five-foot-four frame, and how he purrs his words while giving me the look, I’m two seconds from becoming a puddle.
But that isn’t me, even if I really, really want it to be. So, I take a large step back once I control my drumming heartbeat. I’d like to think my reaction is out of shock, not arousal, but not even I’m immune to Garrick Matthews’ good looks and charm when it’s pointed directly at me as it is now. “I don’t do random hookups. Been there, done that. They’re not for me. And if that’s the payment you expect for letting me—”
“Whoa, hold on.” He quickly shakes his head, his hair gelled into slight curls tumbling over his forehead from the quick motion. “I’m only teasing, love. I mean if you were game then I’d show you my bedroom in a heartbeat. But I’m not saying I expect it.”
It’s hard to swallow as I wrap my arms around myself. “I shouldn’t have come here.” I eye the door, debating my options.
“Second floor, third door on the left.”
His voice pulls my attention back to him, his genuine eyes somehow calming my nerves. “It’s the spare bedroom you can have tonight. Chase and I don’t have rooms near there, so it’ll be all yours. No strings. Just somewhere to crash. We’ll figure things out in the morning.”
“We?” I can’t help but ask.
One shoulder lifts. “Or you. But I know where your car is, so you might need my help for a little while longer. Until then…” His gaze drifts to the staircase.
To show he’s serious, he steps away from me. His hands go to his pockets, his stance relaxed, and that makes mine mirror it. He’s nothing like the tabloids have said if the few moments I’ve been around him are any indication.
Then again, I knew that from before. From the things Zayne had told me about his best friend.
My voice is barely audible when I say, “I appreciate this. Thank you.”
His head bobs. “Goodnight, Rylee.”
“Goodnight.” I don’t say his name because I feel like a liar—a fraud. I don’t deserve to be on a first-name basis with Garrick Matthews. Especially not when he’s being this kind to a stranger.
Almost stranger, I remind myself.
I wake up after a restless night’s sleep and drag myself to the bathroom despite not wanting to leave the big, fluffy four-poster bed. Everything in this room is immaculate—wide, open space painted a light gray with French country stylings that seem so over the top yet perfect somehow.
There are details that show the effort put into making this place his own, and it makes me want to study each little piece I passed on my way to the bedroom last night with more observation to figure out who he is—the pictures of him and his family, awards on the shelves in the living room, and all the decorations that must mean something to him. Even the paintings on the wall in this room seem to have a point, something beyond matching the aesthetic. They’re peaceful, flowers and country sides, and blue skies.
I’m guilty of judging a book by its cover, though I’ve been schooled once or twice during my time working for the L.A. Free Press. In the back of my mind, I know the celebrities that we print stories on are human beings. They just have more than the average person. Yet, I always have to remind myself that it’s their quality that people are always so interested in. Like if they’re a decent human or not, what scandal they’re involved in, who they’re dating or cheating on, and if there’s something groundbreaking about their character.
More times than not, I realize that the people who have the most care the least because they think their value is all that matters in life. But one of my mother’s
