Tripping on a Halo: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  “No!” I interrupted hotly. Jeez, this guy was the king of awkwardness.

  “Where’s the other guy?” Declan asked, and I snapped to attention, realizing the imminent danger. We shouldn’t be standing here. That guy could leave the bar at any moment and storm over, a broken beer bottle or makeshift shiv in hand. I started to feel hot, and wasn’t sure if it was a sign of trouble or just pure embarrassment.

  Nate shrugged, and with such a reckless best friend, I didn’t know how Declan had lived this long. “The manager has him. The guy pulled a knife, so they’re calling the police.” He waved away the news, and I felt faint. A knife. I thought of the man’s hand closing around Declan’s ankle, the fury in his eyes. He could have been reaching for his knife right then. He could have stabbed Declan’s leg, hit a major artery, and it would have been all my fault.

  “Cute outfit.” Nate tilted his head at me. “You going to a costume party or something?”

  I wanted to sink into a puddle and ooze through the sewer grate. He didn’t intend the question to be mean, and that made it even worse. Here I was, in this ridiculous dress, provoking a man with a knife into a bar fight, and bringing Declan into it. I put him in danger. Me. And all in heels that I could barely walk, much less protect anyone, in.

  I felt a surge of emotional hysteria coming on and stepped back before it hit. “It was nice to meet you both.” I managed the words without beginning to cry, a Herculean feat, and turned to walk away. Declan called my name, and I increased my pace, digging in my purse, searching for my phone.

  “Autumn!”

  Tears began to burn the edges of my eyes, and I skittered along the sidewalk, cursing the unfleeability of my heels. He jogged up beside me, cutting me off, and I stopped, my head down, eye contact avoided as I frantically rummaged through my purse. Why in God’s name did I have so much inside it? Who needed ten tampons? Or a spare package of tissues? Ohhh! Tissues. I pulled the little package open, then thought better of it, preferring to hide my tears behind a casual brush of my hand.

  Declan moved directly in front of me, blocking my path, and I abandoned the search for my phone and zipped up my bag, adjusting the strap higher on my shoulder. He repeated my name and I blew out a breath. “What?” I snapped.

  “Look at me.”

  Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. I snorted and moved left to skirt around him. He matched the motion. I moved right and he did the same. I growled in frustration and made a mental note to burn these shoes when I got home because oh my piglet, my toes were killing me. A woman shouldn’t have to deal with losing a wonderful date, public groping, a brush with danger, ridicule, a potato dress and painful shoes, all in the same night.

  He stepped closer and I caught a hint of his cologne as I inhaled. Damn, he smelled good. In the bar, it had been mixed with grease and beer and strangers but out here, the night crisp and empty, the surrounding scents muted, I was hit with the full force of it. His hands settled on my shoulders, pulling me a little closer, and he leaned down and whispered in my ear. “Thank you.”

  It was so unexpected that I lifted my head, risking a glance up, and when his eyes met mine I wanted to sink into them and never come up for air. He was so beautiful. It was the wrong moment to be around a man like that. I was too weak, too fractured. I needed my bed and my pillow and the gentle sounds of Mr. Oinks’ snores. I should run. Turn and take off, before I did something stupid. He was thanking me? I thought of Mom, all alone, stumbling out onto that street without anyone there to protect her. I will protect him. I need him to be safe. I couldn’t handle the gentle comfort of his touch, the kindness in his voice, this tender look he was giving me. I reached forward, clutching the front of his shirt and then, unable to stop myself—he was so freaking everything—kissed him.

  I kissed him like I had never kissed anyone before. My lips were rough. Needy. I tightened my grip on his shirt and rose up on my toes, bringing us closer, my tongue begging, his mouth opening, deepening, taking. His hands found my waist and pulled me tight to him. My hands clawed up, past his collar, skating over his strong jaw, those perfect ears and stealing into his hair, my nails raking into his scalp, my fingers pulling at his hair while my mouth fought over his and poured out every emotion that was pumping through my heart.

  Fear.

  Need.

  Loneliness.

  Want.

  I felt a sob well in the back of my throat and I pushed away from him, my eyes flooding with tears. “I’m sorry,” I choked out, my words barely audible. Reaching down, I yanked at the straps of my heels, freeing one painful foot, then the other. I abandoned the pumps and turned, ignoring Declan and sprinting down the sidewalk, past the closed restaurants and open bars, running until my bare feet burned and my chest ached from the exertion.

  Thank you. Two words, and I’d be damned if they’d broken every latch around my heart.

  18

  Declan sat in the passenger seat of Nate’s Jeep and watched as passing streetlights illuminated spots of the city. A homeless man, curled up on a bench. A chain of newspaper stands outside a closed convenience store. He should have chased her. She had been all alone. Downtown, despite the city’s improved initiatives and efforts at revitalization, wasn’t a safe place for a single woman. What if someone attacked her? Took her somewhere? What if she stopped at another bar and got drunk? He thought of that tattooed prick and his hand tightened reflexively into a fist. Maybe this one would be a smooth talker in a suit. Someone who’d feed her drinks and listen to her woes. Run his hands up her thigh and under the tight hem of that dress. Lean in and offer to take her home.

  That was how women died. And he’d let it happen. He’d let her run off without shoes, down that filthy street, and hadn’t chased her. What the fuck had he been thinking?

  “She’s like Cinderella, man.” Nate chuckled from his place behind the wheel.

  Declan glanced down at the heels in his lap, understanding the analogy. He picked up one of the tan pumps, turning it over in his hands. It was scuffed, and he remembered her attempt to kick it off.

  “So, what now? We show up at her house and stick that on every one of her stepsisters’ feet?”

  “Your knowledge of the story is impressive.”

  “I blame it all on Bridget. She watched that damn thing on repeat. You want to hear the mouse song? I know every word.” Nate rubbed the back of his neck and looked over at him. “Stop moping.”

  Declan didn’t respond, his thumb running over the heel’s smooth sole. He studied the dash’s clock, trying to calculate how much time had passed since he’d last seen her. Thirty minutes? Forty-five? He’d had Nate circle downtown, checking every block for her. Lots of drunk blondes, but no Autumn. No curves of temptation, no mouth that… his stomach tightened at the memory of her kiss. Fuck, she knew how to kiss. Her tongue, her reckless passion…

  “She’ll be fine,” Nate insisted. “Crazy takes good care of crazy.”

  “She’s not crazy.” It was the dumbest statement he’d ever made. Because clearly, she was nuts. No one who thought they had an ordained calling to protect a stranger would be considered sane. Especially someone who took it to the extreme she did. Batshit crazy, that was the term he and Nate had used so many times, back when they’d thought her fascination with him had been a romantic one. Now that he understood the motivation behind the stalking, he hated to use such a cruel term. She was … misguided, he decided. Adorably delusional.

  Thanking her had been an act that came out of left field. Still, it seemed as if something should be said for her dogged efforts, all which seemed to be centered around a selfless plight to keep him safe.

  Nate made the turn into Declan’s neighborhood and he watched the dark homes pass, the families inside asleep. Crazy that one of them belonged to her sister. He smiled at the thought that she had been so close. How often had he come in contact with her and not known it?

  “What’s so funny?”

  Declan shook his head. “Nothing. I
’m just thinking over everything.”

  Nate pulled into his driveway and shifted into park. “I’ve got to admit, you’re freaking me out. This situation isn’t funny. It’s alarming. And you’ve suddenly gotten stars in your eyes over this girl. Don’t forget everything she’s put you through.”

  “Says the guy who wanted me to be her Facebook friend. Plus, she hasn’t really put me through much.” So, she had followed him around. Had fucked with his trash. Occasionally thrown a public spectacle. It had been entertaining. Flattering. It had definitely gotten his mind off Nicola, which had been a blessing in itself.

  “Wow….” Nate chuckled. “That’s a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn in thinking.” He reached for the door handle and Declan stopped him.

  “You should head home. I have something I need to do.”

  Nate winced. “Come on, man. I can’t have you wandering around downtown looking for her. What if a stranger offers you candy? It’s not safe.”

  “I’m not going downtown. Just head home. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Declan stepped out of the Jeep, and Nate shrugged.

  “I’ll never understand you, Dec.”

  He smiled. “Be safe. And go put ice on that hand.”

  Nate scoffed and revved the engine in response. Declan lifted his hand in a wave and walked up to the house, pulling out his cell when it buzzed.

  MOTION DETECTED! Press here to see the live video!

  He glanced up at the cameras, remembering the anxiety he’d felt when he’d mounted them. The annoyance and stress that he’d had, all over some missing newspapers and empty bottles. Why had he cared so much?

  He should have just approached her the first time he noticed her following him. Introduced himself and realized, at that point, what a harmless and adorable woman she was. He could have saved them both a lot of headache and stresses over the last six months.

  Stepping inside, he flipped the switch and looked at his house with new eyes. The couch, a carryover from college, sagged in the middle, the worn leather perfect for weekend football and early nights, but ugly as hell. The walls were bare, Nicola taking the artwork with her when she’d left. The walls were taupe, a result of one long weekend with Nate and Bridget, covering up the pale blue color Nicola had obsessed over. At least the place was clean. He had been well trained by his father, who believed military precision should carry through every aspect of life, the easiest aspect done with a broom and dustpan. Had Autumn come home with him, she would have found fresh sheets on the bed, the edges tucked at diagonal angles, the toilet clean, shower scrubbed down this morning right before he stepped out of it.

  It only took a second to find the postcard, still waiting in the middle of his kitchen counter. Autumn Jones. 444 Frolicking Lane.

  He grabbed his keys and headed for the garage.

  Her house was straight out of a Southern Living magazine. A white picket fence. Craftsman-style home with a wide front porch, the square columns wrapped in jasmine, a swing on one end. A gable roof with dark blue staggered shake siding. Her porch lights were off, and he climbed the front steps quietly, her heels in hand. He put his ear to the door and listened for any sounds from inside. Nothing.

  He hesitated, warring between leaving the heels on the front mat or ringing the bell. It was past midnight. Too late to be waking anyone up, if she had a roommate. He placed the shoes on the front mat and stepped back, examining them. Moving to the truck, he opened the glove box and looked for a piece of paper, settling on the back of a receipt. Uncapping a pen, he attempted a note.

  Thought you might want these back— Declan

  He crumpled it up and flipped through more glove box junk, finding an expired printout of his insurance. The page was bigger, giving him more room. He started over.

  I’m worried about you. Call me when you get home.

  That was great. Just the sort of thing a mother would write. He grimaced at the poor choice of comparison, then scratched through the line. Tossing the paper and pen on the bench seat of his truck, he quietly shut the door and wandered back to the porch. Leaning against one of the columns, he decided to wait.

  Nate was probably right. She could take care of herself. Call a cab. Get home safely. But, just to be sure… he’d wait as long as it took.

  She had been worried about him. He’d seen the depth of her concern in her eyes when she had examined him, her pinched features relaxing the more she had patted him over. How long had it been since someone had given him that feeling? That amount of care? He was lying to himself if he said it hadn’t felt good. Just being in her presence… that had given him a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time, if ever.

  So, he’d return the favor. Worry about her and wait to make sure that she made it home safely. And it had absolutely nothing to do with wanting another kiss.

  19

  I knew better than to take off down a dark street while drunk. Public intoxication was one of the easiest ways to die, with potentially embarrassing repercussions. Take Elisa Lam, a delightful Canadian gal who got drunk and drowned in a large water tank on the roof of a Los Angeles hotel. Her dead body floated in that tank for over two weeks before it was found. Want to know how they finally found her? Guests were complaining about the taste of the water. Yeah. Think about that next time you rinse your mouth out at the Marriott.

  So, no hotel rooftops or swimming for me! Nope, I was taking the much more likely rape-and-be-killed route, walking along the edge of downtown and rummaging in my bag for my phone. I found it and breathed a sigh of relief, pulling up my text to Ansley, now an hour old and still unread. Go figure. I pulled up a car app and scheduled a ride, leaning against a light pole and scanning my surroundings for any potential threats.

  God, I knew how to screw things up. If Declan Moss didn’t think I was crazy before, he certainly did now. Between the bar fight, the tears, subsequent kiss, then my dramatic kick-off-my-heels escape… Oh, plus my confession that I’m responsible for his safety. That golden nugget would have been the sparkly cherry on top of my Certifiably Crazy cupcake. I should have just run with his belief that I was following him around for romantic reasons. I could have played like I had a crush. Hung onto his words with big doe eyes. Fawned instead of pushing him away.

  It would have been fun to pretend that I was in love with him. Especially since he hadn’t seemed entirely averse to the idea. In fact, if I had to guess, I think he sort of liked the idea of me lusting after him.

  I glanced both ways down the street, no lurking strangers (or my ride) in sight. I slid my back down the pole and sat on the curb, taking a moment to examine the bottom of my feet. They were filthy. I had a cut on my left sole and a valet ticket stuck to my right. I peeled off the ticket and apologized to my feet, promising them a long pedicure tomorrow, at that place with the ravenous little fish that would eat away all the dead skin.

  Declan had actually been really nice about the whole thing. Distractingly so. I think he’d been drinking also. Alcohol would have explained the way he’d acted around me. I shivered a little at the memory of his hands, which had been very friendly. It had been a long time since I’d been touched like that. Looked at like that. And all that had contributed to the kiss. A woman starved for affection couldn’t be expected to act rationally. Add in three drinks and an unexpected gesture of appreciation and I’m surprised I didn’t strip down in the middle of the street and ask to have his babies. I sighed. He’d make pretty babies.

  A minivan with a duct-taped front bumper slowed to a stop next to me, the hot pink logo glowing at me. I heaved to my feet and pulled open the back door. The woman behind the wheel nodded at me. “Just crawl over the carseat.”

  I followed her instructions, finding a spot by the window on a cloth backseat that smelled slightly of baby wipes. She pulled away, turning up the volume on the radio. “I’m in the middle of an audiobook,” she called out. “Sorry.”

  “That’s fine.” I pulled the seatbelt across my shoulder and settled into the seat. Finding my pho
ne, I confirmed the pickup, then texted Ansley.

  Nevermind. Found ride. Thank God I didn’t die.

  I added a wide-eyed emoji for emphasis, then a gif of a psychopathic clown with a knife, stabbing the air.

  Loud moaning caught my attention and I lifted my head, tuning in to the audiobook, which was diving into what appeared to be a very explicit sex scene between Joel the plumber and Bethany the lonely divorcee. The male voice spoke, deep and rough, his voice cracking as he urged the woman to open her legs wider and take his—I flushed, sinking deeper in my seat and resisted the urge to plug my ears with my finger.

  A detailed accounting began, so raw and unfiltered that I felt I was there, in bed with the couple, watching the man’s thick erection myself. I pulled at the neck of my dress and pinned my knees together, willing the woman to drive faster and get me home already.

  “Ummm….” I said tentatively. “Could you—”

  “Shhh!” the woman said excitedly, her hands gripping the wheel, shoulders hunched forward, as if she was about to crawl into the speakers and join in. “It’s getting to the good part!”

  Getting to the good part? Oh no. Talk about sustained erotic torture. I bet this is what Sergey Tuganov’s two women felt like. The twenty-eight-year-old mechanic bet them $4300 that he could have nonstop sex with them for twelve hours. TWELVE HOURS. And he did. Got his $4300 in winnings, which was such a specifically random number, then had a heart attack and died. Doctors deduced his heart attack was due to the entire bottle of Viagra that he popped just before his twelve-hour session.

  I can do this, I decided. If they could last twelve hours, I could surely last the ten minutes or so that this painfully sexual ride would entail. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on something other than the sordid description of her pleasure, which really did sound quite enviable. I tried to remember if I ever plugged in and recharged my vibrator. I hoped so. There was nothing worse than approaching the peak only to have it sputter to a stop.