Sweet Ache

“Yeah. Indy.” I navigate a turn up the windy road.

“Should I know him?”

“Colton Donavan?” I say his name like a question, my lips pursed as I wait to see Hawkin’s reaction.

“No shit.” He says it so casually that he earns major brownie points with me. But it’s not like he’s a slouch in the fame department either so my brother’s public lifestyle shouldn’t faze him—make him suddenly fawn all over me—like it does so many others. He falls silent for a minute as he thinks. “I don’t follow racing but know who he is. So that’s your last name, huh? I was wondering. Quinlan Donavan,” he muses more to himself than me.

And here goes part two of the Quinlan checklist of whether a man can handle me.

“Actually, no it’s not.” I glance over to catch the perplexed look on his face. “Colton wanted to make it on his own accord, not on the family name.”

“Go on.” He draws the words out. I can hear the amusement in his voice as he tries to figure out what I’m going to say next. “What is your last name then?”

“Westin.”

“Hm,” he murmurs as I can all but hear the thoughts connecting in his mind. The ones telling him that my father is the renowned film director Andy Westin. His lack of a reaction is so refreshing compared to the usual barrage of questions and requests that follow someone finding out who my dad is. “You’re like unwrapping a present. So many surprises to discover.”

You can unwrap me all you like.

“The best parts of me are hidden,” I deadpan, a lopsided smirk playing over one corner of my mouth. I love seeing his jaw fall lax in my periphery. Gotta keep him on his toes.

“Good thing I like to take my time when I open a gift. Nice and slow.” He draws the words out, a whistle falling from his lips as the tingle begins anew deep in my core. “And I always take my time untying them when they’re knotted tight. Always open the box by sliding my fingers in the seam first before I dive right in …”

How in the hell has he just seduced me and all he’s describing is a damn birthday present?

It’s best I don’t respond right now because his cologne, his unaffected responses, his just being normal is causing things inside me to zig and zag when they should be going straight.

“I bet your brother got in a lot of fights growing up.”

His comment throws me. “Why do you say that?” He points for me to turn left on another street and I steal a glance at him from behind my sunglasses.

“Well, I’m sure he spent a lot of time protecting your virtue,” Hawkin says, and I fight back the laugh that threatens when I think of the scuffles he got in with guys talking in the locker room about his little sister, then and now—Luke Mason, case in point. “Any good older brother protects their younger sibling. No questions.”

There’s something about the way he says it, the catch in his voice, that makes me feel like he’s not just talking about Colton. And of course I want to delve deeper, want to ask about Hunter because I’m not oblivious to the fact that this whole conversation has focused on me when I’d much rather have it be on him.

“You’re older than Hunter?” I ask in another attempt to learn more.

“Mm-hm … by four minutes,” he says, pointing for me to take a left turn.

“Are you guys close?”

“We’re identical twins.” I bite back the sarcastic remark on my lips about the obviousness of his statement, and how he didn’t answer the question. “Most people can’t tell us apart, especially when we dress alike.”

“I bet that was fun growing up. Does he—”

“So, you’re a TA…. What is your master’s degree in?”

“Film and television production.” I glance over to see his eyebrows raised for me to explain further. And it’s not lost on me that he’s turned the topic of conversation back on me. “I grew up watching filmmaking behind the scenes. I find it fascinating—the egos, the money, watching ideas come to fruition … the stuff that no one thinks about.”

“Well, it’s not like you didn’t have a good teacher,” he muses casually with a slight nod of his head. “No acting bug then?”

“Being in front of the camera doesn’t interest me.” I shiver at the thought. The assessing eyes and unforgiving critics. No thanks. While I’m all for being front and center in my personal life, I prefer behind the scenes in my professional one. I think of watching the media chaos that used to surround my brother when the woman he dated changed or if he got in a fight in his testosterone-fueled bachelor days. The thought of all that attention is not appealing.

“Right here,” he says pointing to a long driveway, ivy-covered walls on both sides as we drive up it. “It all makes sense now.”

“What does?” I ask, slowly getting used to his habit of speaking his internal thoughts without giving me a direction which way they are going. With most people I’d be annoyed but with Hawkin for some reason I find it endearing, a sign that his mind is running a million miles an hour although he never divulges what the other things are that occupy it.

“Your smart-ass mouth.”

“Come again?” I laugh as I pull my car to a stop in front of an expansive Tuscan-style house. I shift in my seat and remove my sunglasses so that I can study him, try to figure where exactly he’s going with this. How a conversation about my degree, my future career, has led him to a conclusion I’m sure is all wrong about me. I know I have a helluva bite, but get beneath the surface and I’m a softie to those that really know me.