Rating the Book Boyfriend (Book Boyfriend Builders)

13. Libby

CHAPTER 13

Libby

I step barefoot onto the wooden deck behind Riggs’s home. I’ve changed into a blue-and-white-striped bikini with a sheer white cover-up. The salty air hits my nose, and I’m not sure I’ve ever smelled anything more appealing.

Pulling my folders from my bag, I arrange them neatly on the wrought-iron patio table and take a seat in a padded chair. Riggs appears a few minutes later.

“All loaded in your car.”

“Thank you again for the photos. I wish you’d let me pay?—”

“You’re insulting me, Liberty,” he says with a stern voice, and I give him a chagrined smile.

“Okay, I’ll shut up. Do you have your paperwork?”

He hands over the navy-blue folder, and I page through it. “This looks good, but can we talk about the self-assessment?”

A slight flush rises up and spreads across his cheeks. “M’kay.”

“You pretty much gave yourself fives across the board, except in honesty. You gave yourself a ten there.”

His shoulders lift and fall. “That’s the only one I feel confident that I’m a ten in. I don’t lie. Ever.”

“What about attentiveness? Do you not pay enough attention to Lucinda?”

“I try to,” he demurs.

“And?”

“She’s not always receptive to it, so maybe I’m doing something wrong. Same with all the rest of the categories.”

My eyes stop on each category down the left side. “And do you give her compliments?”

“I do. I know women take time with their appearance, and I always try to mention it so she knows her efforts haven’t been wasted.”

“Then why did you give yourself a five?”

Riggs drops his head and runs a hand over the top of his hair. “I don’t know. I’m just not sure why Lucinda signed me up for BBB. I must be doing something wrong.”

“Maybe…” I don’t finish the thought because it doesn’t seem professional. Maybe you’re not the problem . I hate seeing him blame himself when he honestly seems to be putting in the effort. “I contacted her for more information, and we’re meeting for lunch week after next.”

“Really?”

I smile. “Yes. She’s the one who signed you up, so I’m going to try and get more specifics from her.”

“Oh, okay.” His nonchalant response tells me it doesn’t bother him that we’re meeting, which makes me happy. If he’s secretly an asshat that treats his girl like crap, he would have protested, right?

“You did give yourself a seven in the dirty-talking category.”

“Yeah, I told you I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on that.”

I shuffle through the papers. “I don’t see page forty-two. The one where I asked you to document some examples?” I let that hang in the air like a question.

“We, uh, haven’t had the chance to… Lucinda’s been busy.”

Now it’s my turn to blush. “Okay, no problem,” I say a little too brightly. “You can give it to me next week.”

His almost-admission confuses me. They haven’t been intimate in the past week? Or maybe he’s simply not into dirty talk, though he looks like he would be. Hell, the man looks like he could growl out the filthiest shit imaginable while pummeling a woman’s cervix into submission.

Stop thinking things like that, Libby, I scold myself, moving on to discuss romance. I read over page thirty-one, which is the list of romantic things he’s done for Lucinda since they’ve been together, and I have to be honest. All these things are sweeter than anything I could have come up with. Maybe he needs to be the coach here.

“This all looks great, Riggs.” I rap a knuckle against the paper. “Especially the private, candlelit dinner on the beach. That sounds super romantic. Did she enjoy it?”

His face looks pained. “Not really. She got sand in her new shoes, so she wasn’t exactly happy with me.”

“Oh.” I move on to the next one. “And the trip to Switzerland for your one-year anniversary? That sounds awesome, and very… sandless.”

Riggs chuffs out a laugh. “The sandless-ness is why I chose Switzerland, but we, uh…” He pulls at the back of his neck. “We didn’t end up going. I was trying to be spontaneous and surprise her, but she already had plans I didn’t know about.”

Jesus, who is this woman? If a man who looks like Riggs Romero wanted to whisk me away to Europe—or hell, pretty much anywhere—I’d have my bag packed in about four-point-five seconds.

I pat the back of his hand and try to reassure him. “Riggs, I think you’re doing your best, so much more than a bunch of fives. But all relationships take two people to work.”

I stop short of saying, It doesn’t sound like a YOU problem; it sounds like a HER problem. His reluctant smile tells me that maybe he’s getting what I’m putting down.

“I think that’s enough for now,” I declare, letting my gaze roll toward the beach and the soft waves bubbling at the shore.

“You want to hit the beach?” he asks, perking up, and I nod happily.

We spend the rest of the day on the beach. Sitting lazily on blankets and soaking up the vitamin D. Throwing a ball for Ace and laughing when he bounds after it and trots goofily back to us, pride in his big brown eyes when he drops the ball at our feet. It’s too cold to swim, but we walk through the front edge of the surf and let the gentle water wash the sand from our toes.

I’ve had a crush on Riggs Romero since the first time I saw him on a book cover, but the real-life version of the man—the one behind the face and the killer body—is even better. He’s so fun to be around, and I find his attentiveness almost disarming. Throughout the day, he constantly checked to see if I was hungry or thirsty or if I was tired of playing with his energetic dog.

Not to mention, the man can cook like a five-star chef. The snapper was delectable and flaky, with a buttery sauce that held a hint of lemon. Paired with braised brussels sprouts, it was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

After our meal, I check my bag to make sure I’ve put away all my folders and papers, and I catch Riggs staring at me, an amused smile on his face. “What?” I ask.

“Have you always been this organized? With the spreadsheets and charts and stuff?”

I shrug. “Since I was four.” His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and I clarify, “Of course not with all the computer stuff, but I started organizing my closets and drawers by color. I tried to make everything as neat and tidy as possible.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Did something happen when you were four?”

Damn, he’s astute.

“It did. Nothing all that bad in the grand scheme of things. A lot of kids had it worse than I did.”

“Will you tell me?” His voice is low and his eyes seem to be piercing directly into my soul, making it almost impossible to say no.

“Why do you want to know?”

His pink lips crook up on one side. “I feel like we’re becoming friends, Libby, and I’d like to know more about you. The sun is about to set, and the view is beautiful from the beach behind my house. We can sit back there and talk.”

“Will there be wine?”

He chuckles. “I can open the bottle of Shiraz you brought.”

“So I get wine and a sunset, and you get a sad story. Seems fair.”

We make our way down the short, sandy path to the beach. Riggs is wearing the green swim trunks he swam in today, and his white linen shirt is open and unbuttoned, leaving a small strip of yumminess visible.

He spreads a blanket, and we sit side by side but not touching. We’re silent as he pours deep-red wine into two plastic wine glasses. Sipping slowly, we watch the greatest show on Earth.

“It’s like the sun and moon are on opposite sides of a seesaw,” he says, “and as one lowers, the other rises.”

“It is,” I say, loving his analogy. “And it’s like they trade their lights, the bright yellow one being replaced with the muted blue.”

Quiet falls between us, the gentle lapping of the waves the only sound as the seesaw raises the moon and lowers the sun into the water. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Riggs says softly. “I feel like I pressured you.”

I turn to look at his profile, which is so perfect it makes my teeth hurt. “Not at all. I don’t tell many people because it’s really not that interesting.”

Riggs pivots his head slowly to face me. “Everything about you is interesting, Liberty.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of pressure,” I laugh out, and we both turn back to the water. “I told you I was in the foster care system after my mom died.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, I’d been with this family for a couple years, the Coopers. As I look back now, I realize they probably didn’t have very much money. That’s something you don’t really notice as a child… the lack of money. I remember the house being a little shabby, but they were nice, and I liked being there.”

“Did… did someone hurt you?”

“No, nothing like that. They were a very kind couple, and they asked me if I wanted them to adopt me. I didn’t know what adoption was, but they explained it, and I said yes. It was the only home I’d ever known. Or that I could remember anyway.”

I take a sip of my wine, and the soft richness soothes my throat. “Then they did a vision screening at my preschool, and the school nurse sent a note home saying that I needed to see an eye doctor.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Riggs nodding along, so I continue. “I had something called strabismus, which is basically when the eyes aren’t aligned.”

“Like crossed eyes?” Riggs asks, breaking his silence.

“Pretty much. Crossed eyes is when one eye turns in, but strabismus can refer to any kind of misalignment.” I take another sip of my wine. “When I got out of bed to go to the bathroom late that night after my appointment, I overheard the Coopers talking.”

Riggs inches a little closer. We’re still not touching, but I can feel the warmth of his body seeping through the tiny space between us.

“I remember a bunch of words like insurance and surgery. Again, I was four, so I had no idea what any of that meant, but one thing the wife said was very clear in my little mind.”

“What did she say?” Riggs’s voice is barely audible.

“She said, ‘We can’t keep her, Craig. She’s too… messy.’”

“Fuck,” he spits out, glugging back the rest of his Shiraz. “And you thought she meant you weren’t tidy.”

“Right,” I say as he refills our glasses. “I immediately turned into a tiny, organizing beast. When I was placed with another family, all I could think was that I had to be perfect. I had to be… not messy .”

Though I kept my gaze straight forward, I could feel Riggs looking at me. “Libby, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry for,” I assure him. “I became a very difficult child after that, crying if a single thing in my room was out of place. Like full-on tantrums if a blue shirt got hung up in the middle of the red ones.”

“That’s a lot for a child to deal with,” Riggs says, and I nod in agreement.

“So, Libby the brat was passed from home to home until…” My voice breaks, and goddammit , tears form in my eyes. I haven’t cried about this in years, but something about this night with this sweet man seems to turn on the waterworks.

Before I know what’s happening, a warm, strong arm encircles my back, and I’m being tugged hard against Riggs until my face is pressed against his shoulder. I let the tears loose like someone has turned on a faucet. Not sobbing, heaving cries, but a slow, gentle release of emotions that feels so fucking good to get out.

The big, warm man holds me in silence, not uttering that it’s okay or any other inane thing. He simply lets me soak his shirt with my pain.

After a long while, I clear my throat and attempt to pull away, but a large hand holds my head in place. And I don’t hate it. At all. Riggs Romero is comfort personified, like the softest blanket in the world wrapping around me and making me feel safe.

“Anyway,” I continue, speaking into the damp linen of his shirt, “I got placed with the Hills when I was eight. My mom noticed my eye turn right away and took me to the optometrist.”

“Your eyes look straight now, so they must have gotten you the surgery you needed.”

“They did. My parents weren’t rich, but they had good insurance.”

“And everything’s okay now?”

“Pretty much, though we received a crash course in visual plasticity. That’s a neurological concept where a human is only able to develop normal vision up until the age of seven or eight. After that, there isn’t much plasticity.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means after that critical period, vision is unable to develop, so I’m legally blind in my left eye.”

Riggs pulls back and looks down at me, his eyes seeming even bluer in the moonlight as they dart between mine. “Blind? You don’t… never mind. I was about to say something dumb.”

“I know. I don’t look blind,” I tell him with a small smile. “The muscle alignment was corrected, so they look perfectly normal. But since that eye had been out of alignment for so long, it didn’t receive the visual stimulation it needed to function like a normal eye. It’s called amblyopia, though most people call it a lazy eye.”

His eyes are still flicking slowly between mine, as if looking for a discernible difference. “When you say legally blind, what does that mean?”

“That distinction usually means a person can’t be corrected to better than 20/200. The big E on most eye charts is 20/400, if that gives you some idea.”

“And yours is worse than that?” he asks incredulously.

“I’m 20/1000, so I have to stand at twenty feet to see what most people can see from a thousand feet away. Pretty much everything looks like blurry, barely discernible shapes in that eye.”

“No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way. If they were giving out bad vision awards, I’d definitely get a trophy.”

Riggs barks out a laugh and then clamps his lips shut, eyes widening in horror. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I can joke about it.”

“Of course you can,” he says, with the tiniest of smirks.

To prove my point, I ask him, “What do you call a blind gynecologist?”

Warily, he replies, “What?”

“A pain in the ass,” I sing, and after a beat, we both fall back onto the blanket and laugh like maniacs at the dark sky. The stars seem to twinkle in time with each giggle that passes our lips.

“You’re something else, Liberty Hill.”

“That’s what my dad always said.”

I’m still staring at the glow of the moon against the depths of midnight-blue, but I can sense that Riggs has tilted his head in my direction. “How did you end up staying with the Hills, if you were such a brat? Which I don’t believe, by the way. You’re entirely too sweet.”

If it wasn’t so dark, I’m sure he would notice the blush shining on my cheeks.

“Oh, I can assure you I was, but instead of expecting me to adapt to them, my parents adapted to me. Around me. Mom always told me she and Dad fell in love with me the moment I entered their house and that love trumps all.”

“I like that. They sound like wonderful people.”

“They were. It didn’t hurt that Mom was a librarian, so she was very orderly herself.”

“Ahh, the good old Dewey Decimal System. Who knew something so confusing could change a child’s life?”

I smile up at the heavens. Such a beautiful and apt analysis. “I know, right? I was lucky to have them.”

Riggs rolls on his side and props his head on his hand. “How could you think that story isn’t interesting?”

Angling my head toward him, I allow my lips to squeeze into a wan smile. “I guess if you’re into fit-pitching children with vision conditions, you would think so.”

“That’s not how I read it. I think it’s more a story about love and acceptance on your parents’ part and perseverance and grit on yours.”

“Or just brattiness,” I say, and he presses one long finger against my lips. I stifle the urge to kiss it. But I really, really want to, which is confusing. I’ve never been a finger-kissing freak before.

“Don’t you dare call yourself a brat again, Liberty Hill, or you’ll have me to deal with. You were a scared child who was coping by trying to control the only things you could in your small world.”

“I guess.”

“Turn and look at me.”

My body recognizes the demand in his voice and moves me onto my left side without any conscious input from my brain. My left arm tucks beneath my head, and Riggs lowers into a mirroring position.

We’re so close our elbows are pressed together, and though it isn’t exactly an intimate part of our bodies, someone forgot to inform my vagina of that fact. Because she’s all fucking in with the whole elbow cuddling thing we’ve got going on. Oh yes, my needy little downstairs neighbor is slick with need, like Riggs has his face between my legs instead of some innocuous elbow touching.

And now I’m thinking of his face between my legs. How his broad shoulders would spread my thighs impossibly wide so he could get all up in there. How those full, pink lips would feel kissing every inch of me. How he would lose control and use his teeth because he was so fucking hungry for me.

“Say, yes, Riggs ,” his deep voice commands.

“Yes, Riggs.” I don’t mean for it to, but that totally comes out in a sort of Marilyn Monroe voice, all breathy and wanton. And what was the question again?

“So no more brat talk,” he confirms, and I nod, remembering what we were talking about before the elbow-inspired porn that took off in my brain.

“Yes, sir,” I agree, and his nostrils flare a little bit as his eyes drop to my mouth.

After a very long moment, they rise slowly to meet mine, and I see regret there. “I wish…” he starts, and I wait for him to finish, but he closes his lips.

“You wish what?”

“A lot of things.”

We’re so close, I can smell the sweetness of the wine on his breath, and while most of his face is in shadow, those blue eyes shine like beacons. If I was writing a book about this moment, I would say those beacons were guiding my soul home, but this is reality, not fiction. There’s absolutely no eyeball soul guiding here, and I’d be obtuse to think otherwise.

I mean, the man is madly in love with his girlfriend. He puts so much effort into trying to make her happy that he’s going along with the whole boyfriend building thing, even though I know he thought it was silly at first. Hell, maybe he still does, and he’s just doing it to please Lucinda.

But when Riggs Romero looks at me, covered by the depths of the sky, it seems like the big world has shrunk until we’re the only two people in existence. We lie like that in the dark for what could have been ten minutes or ten hours.

“What’s the one thing you wish for most?” I finally whisper.

“For my life to be my own,” he whispers back. The anguish on his face forces the next words from my mouth.

“Then do it.”

His answer is immediate. “I can’t disappoint anyone.”

“What about yourself?”

Riggs searches my face with those azure eyes. “That’s not what’s important.”

“As a self-imposed people pleaser, I think I can say with certainty that never pleasing yourself will lead you down a slippery slope that’s difficult to reclimb.”

A smirk crosses his lips, and he says, “I never said I don’t please myself.”

I giggle and shove at his shoulder until he falls onto his back. “Ugh, you’re such a guy.”

Riggs shifts his eyes toward me, and he’s so fucking beautiful it gives me a full-body shiver, earning me a frown. He obviously mistakes my tremble for something weather related.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Libby. It’s getting cold out here.” Pushing gracefully to his feet in one swift movement, he reaches out a hand to pull me up.

“Sorry our conversation got heavy,” I say as he shakes out the blanket and folds it over one arm. “It was such a great day, and I hope I didn’t spoil it.”

“Not at all,” he assures me. “I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to tell me.”

Without another word, I pick up the empty bottles and glasses, and we head up the path to the house. I don’t trust myself to talk because I’m afraid I might blurt out exactly how comfortable Riggs Romero makes me.

“Thanks for coming over today,” he tells me once we’re inside. “I’m actually enjoying my lessons with Coach Libby.”

“I’m going for Coach of the Year,” I joke, and he grins.

“You have my vote. You definitely give me lots to think about.” Looping my bag over his shoulder, he says, “I’ll walk you out.”

I know better than to argue that I can carry my own bag. I’m learning that Riggs is very chivalrous, but he does it without being condescending.

“Um, my shoes are missing,” I say when we reach the door, and Riggs curses.

“Dammit, Ace!”

The dog pokes his head out from under the coffee table, takes one look at his owner, and takes off down the hall. Riggs stomps over and digs beneath the table before coming up with two completely mauled melon-colored flip-flops.

“Shit, Libby, I’m sorry. I’ll replace them.”

“No, it’s okay,” I assure him. “They’re just the cheap ones from the dollar store.”

He checks the bottom, probably looking for the size. “No, I insist. I have the goofy mutt trained pretty well. He goes to his room when I tell him to, and he never gets on the couch. His only toxic trait is that he seems to have a hunger for shoes.”

“I have a couple pairs, so it’s fine.”

He’s still shaking his head when he leads me outside. As Riggs walks in front of me, I gingerly make my way over the crushed oyster shells that make up his driveway. Then he turns and notices, and his eyes widen.

“Hold on. Don’t move,” he directs, jogging back and turning around. “Hop on my back.”

“I can’t… I mean… you don’t… no, it’s…” I’ve lost complete control of my verbal abilities at this point.

“Now, Libby. Don’t make me tell you again.”

Oh sweet balls of fire! That tone of voice that leaves no room for debate is my weakness, and I hop up onto his broad back when he dips his knees slightly.

Riggs surprises me by taking off at a gallop, and I squeal. “Riggs, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

“Whatever. You’re light as a feather, Libby-girl.”

“I’m totally not. My long legs make me much heavier than a feather, or even the whole damn bird.”

“Bet you’re lighter than an emu,” he says, and I giggle.

When he reaches my car, he opens the door, turns, and squats so I can slide directly into the driver’s seat. “There you go. Safe and sound. You didn’t cut your feet, did you?” Riggs bends and picks up both my feet, and I have to brace my arms on the seat to keep from falling over backward.

“Riggs Romero, do not look at my feet! They’re all dirty from walking barefoot on the beach.”

He completely ignores me, inspecting each one while I squirm, before releasing them. “I don’t see anything. I’m sorry again about your shoes.” His chagrined smile is so goddamn adorable, and I’m in real fucking trouble here.

“I told you, it’s no biggie. They’re super cheap.” I swing my feet into the floorboard, and Riggs stands in the open door.

“Text me when you get home so I know you made it okay.”

“I’m grown and perfectly capable of driving for twelve miles,” I protest, and his lips kick up on one side.

“I don’t mean to insult your capabilities, Libby, but anyone can have an accident or a flat tire. I always have my sister call me, and she only lives five miles from here.” Then he pauses and cocks his head to one side. “Please. It would make me feel better.”

“For Christ’s sake, stop doing the puppy dog eyes. I’ll call you,” I grump, and he grins broadly.

As I drive away, I glance into my rearview mirror and find him standing in the driveway with his hands in his pockets. And I wonder…

How the hell am I supposed to make this man swoonier than he already is?