Busted

“Who says you haven’t?” He took the Dinobot and easily switched it from dinosaur to robot, eying her through his lashes. “You know the best thing about buying these toys? Clayton never realizes I do it so I can play with them, too.”

“Be still, my heart.” She took the robot he offered and moved around him, picking up her wine as she moved past the bookshelf. “Every room in this place has a bookshelf.”

“Nah. I didn’t put them in the bathrooms.”

She was able to laugh, she realized. Sliding him a look over her shoulder, she nodded. “Probably not a problem . . . most of us take a book in there anyway.”

He gri

Putting the Dinobot on the bookshelf nearest the door, she headed out of the bedroom and paused in front of the next open door.

He gestured. “Just a guestroom.” He reached around and flicked on a switch. “Travis is using it right now.”

Ressa looked inside, saw absolutely nothing out of place and no hint of the personality of the man who was currently residing there. She doubted even Mama Ang could make a bed that neat.

“Did that man spend some time in the military or something? There’s not a single thing out of place.” She turned away, without noticing the way Trey’s jaw hardened, or the tension in his shoulders as she continued her way down the hall. The next door was mostly closed but she pushed it open, glancing behind to see if he was coming.

“Hey, wa—” A guilty look flashed across his face.

It was that expression that made her look—it was instinct. She couldn’t stop herself, or maybe she didn’t try hard enough.

She thought of the ring he’d worn and some small part of her couldn’t help but wonder. Did he have pictures of his wife in there? There was next to no sign of her anywhere. Was there something here?

But, no. Ressa frowned as she found herself staring into a room full of books. Not bookshelves . . . books.

A lot of them, and they were all his, spilling out of boxes, stacked haphazardly, and judging by the title on one of the nearest, she suspected a number of them were foreign editions. She thought that one was German.

Grimacing, she looked back at him. “Your twin has a handle on the organization thing better than you, I take it.”

“Ah, yeah. Um . . .” He looked past her, a quick, almost furtive look.

“Hey, I’ve seen messy rooms before. And it’s not exactly messy so much as disorganized.” She shrugged and looked back inside.

He edged into the doorway, all but crowding her out, and his gaze once more darted to an area off to the side.

“I guess this is where you keep all your . . .” She turned, absently following his gaze. Her eyes bounced off them twice without really tracking what she was seeing. The third time, she shoved past his larger form and moved deeper into the room.

Head cocked, she stared at one shelf, jammed with books that had been carelessly double stacked. They stood out, like a spring flower among autumn leaves and winter-bare trees—that bright and sassy green, although if he hadn’t kept glancing over there, she doubted she would have looked.

But yeah, now that she’d seen them, she couldn’t look away.

Those books didn’t belong in here.

L. Forrester stamped the spines of those thirty-some-odd books, and piled right next to them was a stack of what might have been one of Trey’s titles in French.

The title, in bright pink font, stood out, and she reached out, traced her finger down the spine

Exposing the Geek Billionaire.

Slowly, she turned her head to look at him, confused. An odd little suspicion began to form in the back of her already chaotic mind. A question hovered on the tip of her tongue, but one look at him had the question fading, while that suspicion exploded into full-on understanding.

His face was red.

The blush crept all the way down his neck and he wouldn’t look at her, either.

Was it because her mind needed the release? The escape? She didn’t know, but absurdly, she started to laugh. He stood there, brilliant red, half a snarl on his too beautiful face and she laughed.

“You . . .” she managed to gasp out between giggles that were edging too close to hysterical.

“What?” he demanded, hands jammed deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched.

“You are . . .” She snickered and then moved toward him, throwing her arms around him. “You are L. Forrester.”

The red in his cheeks deepened—he blushed so hard, he looked like he’d been scalded.

“Trey, you dirty devil.” Ressa laughed harder, completely delighted. The book he’d signed to her. The way he’d acted in the bookstore at Chillers. She pressed a smacking kiss to his lips.

His hands came up and gripped her waist while she continued to laugh.

He still didn’t say anything and she finally managed to get that half-desperate laughter under control. Once she did, she lifted her face and met his gaze. Those blue eyes glittered and his hands flexed on her waist. “Glad you find this amusing,” he said gruffly.

“Oh, it’s not amusing,” she said, a smile still twisting at her lips. “I think it’s perfect . . . but you’re busted, pal. Sorry, but I got your number now.”

“Yeah?” He slid a hand up her back, tangled his fingers in her hair. “Well, there’s a problem with you knowing my secret. I have to keep you. Make sure it stays between us.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him and he leaned down, nipped her lower lip.

“I have to go check on the food,” he said, his voice still oddly strained.

“Oh, I’m not done talking to you about this.” Especially not now that she’d managed to find something else to think about, even if only for a few minutes.

She caught up with him in the hall and he shot her an exasperated look. “What’s to talk about? You do realize that a lot of authors write under a second name, right? Plenty of them try to keep it quiet when the material is that different.”

“Oh, hey.” She bit her i

*   *   *

That mischievous glint in her eyes had him torn. Okay, he was hugely embarrassed now, but there was something in her eyes.

Something dark.

Something dark and edgy. That he understood.

Distraction could prove vital for sanity. That was why he’d buried himself in stories, in books . . . wrapped himself in Clayton for so long after Aliesha had died.

“Why are you blushing?” she asked.

Mortified, he realized his face was still hot and probably burning red. Turning away, he checked the pasta and then turned off the water. “I’m not,” he lied.

“Okay. Then how did you suddenly become so sunburned?”

Sighing, he braced his hands on the counter. “You’re getting a kick out of this, aren’t you?”

“Why are you so worked up over it?”

Aggravated, he shrugged. “The hell if I know.”

“You know, I think it’s wonderful you can write like that.”

Grabbing a colander from the cabinet, he slanted a look at her. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally just shook his head.

She drew closer, and the self-consciousness he felt now only added to his discomfort. When she settled her hips against the counter next to him, he couldn’t really keep avoiding her gaze, either.

“You’re weren’t this gun-shy talking about your other stuff.”

Shows what you know. He just hid it better—because he’d been prepared. But he kept those words behind his teeth. Jerking a shoulder in a shrug, he said, “That was . . . different.”