by Katy Evans
He takes a drag from his cigarette, frowning, as if trying to decipher the answer to my question. “I suppose I never let my infatuations run that long. When one starts, I nip it in the bud.” He uses his free hand to make a scissor-like movement in the air.
“How so?”
“After a night or two.”
“Just enough to get it out of your system? That’s really dickish of you.”
“Dick is the best word you have for me?” His laugh is low and deep and so very pleasant it makes me quiver.
“You seem to have a pretty big one on you—”
“I don’t make any promises, though—”
We both speak at the same time and stop when we realize what I said.
My cheeks start to burn.
I can’t stop thinking of his package now under his pants.
“Are you thinking about it now? It’s liking the attention.”
“Shut up!” I laugh and shake my head. “My mouth is always getting me into trouble. When I was a little girl and one of my mom’s friends came to visit, I asked her flat out why she had the voice of a turkey. It wobbled!”
He reaches out as he simultaneously peers into my face, and when I realize he’s going to brush my hair back so he can look at me as I tell my story, I nervously push it back and keep going.
“My mom couldn’t apologize enough,” I add.
Why did I do that? He was going to touch me and I stopped him.
I got too nervous about it . . . by the way he was looking at me.
I fall silent and drop my gaze to my feet, letting my hair fall back in a curtain as I hope recklessly that he’ll try to do it again.
He doesn’t.
“So why did she talk like a turkey?” he asks with a puzzled frown.
I laugh, and he laughs too.
It’s weird. He makes me feel like he is so interested, like it’s important for him to know.
“Are you this curious all the time?” I ask.
“Curious? I’m not curious, in fact I’ve zoned out this whole time.” He makes a dismissive move with his head. “Zzzzz, heard nothing.”
I push at his chest, and he laughs and catches my wrist, and then my laughter traps in my throat and I can’t breathe, because his touch zips down my body like a bolt of lightning.
“So, you wanted to know about my crushes,” he says. “You were curious too. Do you have any lives left?”
“Only one, I think.” I grimace and then grin.
“One’s enough if you make the most of it, isn’t it?” he asks softly, then passes me his cigarette, which is about done.
I thank him, but shake my head, declining, touched he was saving the last drag for me.
I want to ask him if he’s doing anything this weekend. I want to see the sights, but I don’t want to go alone and I don’t want to be a constant burden to Tahoe and Gina, or the few interns I’ve met who seem about as lost as I am. But I don’t. Instead I say, “Well, I guess I’d better get home.”
It’s only until I’m riding down the elevator that I realize I didn’t ask him about his interview, or call him names because he stole my red hairband.
I suppose I wanted to have an excuse to talk to him again.
That weekend, Gina takes me out to lunch to meet her friends, Rachel and Wynn. They all ask about me, how I’m doing at Carma, and whether I’ve met Callan.
“No, but I’m happy I haven’t. I warned Tahoe I wanted to do this on my own,” I tell them.
“It’s funny. Callan is such a good guy, but in business he’s very intense. He’s like an apocalypse,” Wynn says.
It makes me a little nervous just at the prospect of meeting him.
The conversation turns to them forcing me to eat a Chicago-style hot dog—no ketchup, they say. I chow down on one, the best hot dog I’ve ever had, and they insist I also must try a deep-dish pizza soon.
Gina confides in me she has a bet going on with my brother.
“Livvy, don’t go to any clubs. I have a bet with him that if you go, as he suspects you will, he’ll shave his beard. And I don’t want him to shave it.”
“I really don’t care what my brother does with his beard, but I promise you if I go, he’ll be the last to know.”
That evening, when I get to my apartment, I get a call on my cell phone from Wynn—whose contact I just added while we were at lunch.
“It’s Wynn, Livvy, I need to ask for a favor. About that club thing . . . the no-going-clubbing rule Tahoe set for you. Is that set in stone?”
I ask her why.
“My ex is at this club. I want to see him. I want him to see me looking amazing. And I want to see if we can talk, but I can’t go alone, and Rachel and Gina would kill me. Please come, nobody will know. I’m renting nearby; you can sleep over at my place so you’re not on your own late at night.”
It’s 9 p.m. and I’m already in my PJs, but I really liked Wynn, and I want to enjoy the city, so I tell her I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.
I slip on a pair of tight jeans, a cropped sequined top, high heels, and pull my hair back in a ponytail. I add a red pearl necklace simply because I miss using color at work, and then Wynn texts me that she’s in a cab downstairs, and I grab my keys, a small clutch purse, and head out, feeling a little guilty and sending a quick prayer for my brother to be blissfully ignorant about my escapade.
Thirty minutes later, I’m at a noisy club littered with booths, a huge dance floor, flashing lights, and music. Wynn is in a booth with a handsome blond guy, having a heated argument, and I’m people-watching when my eyes snag on a figure with lovely copper hair and a face to die for at the very end of the room.
Hot Smoker Guy?
When a couple of dancers obstruct my line of sight, I shift in my seat and stare disbelievingly. He’s with another guy, deep in conversation, and I can hear his rumbling laugh through the music.
A girl sits on his lap, looking dotingly up at his face with eager puppy-dog eyes that beg for him to pet her.
He talks to his friend while the girl’s fingers wander over his chest. Still, he ignores her.
I feel sorry for her, but it looks so comfortable on his lap that I’m sorry for me too.
I’m scowling when he absently scans the room and catches me staring.
His smile fades a bit as his gold eyes hold mine—and he gives me a look that rivals vaginal penetration. He uncurls his hand from the woman’s waist and inches her off his thigh, leans forward, elbows on his knees, as if he wants to talk to me and only me.
I tilt my head up to hold his gaze, and the hunger/worry stomach pangs double in force. I give him a haughty look because I expect him to say something crass. He looks at my mouth, then lifts his drink and toasts.
He takes a sip, wetting his lips, and stretches his arm out over the woman again.
He smiles and watches me probingly. He seems to be waiting for me to walk up to him, but I’m trembling a little and I will die before he notices, so I stay in my seat.
I turn around and look at Wynn, and Hot Smoker Guy’s gaze seems to follow.
Wynn seems to be trying to get to her feet, wiping tears from her eyes.
Hot Smoker Guy appears and helps her up by the elbow. He asks her something and nods.
Hot Smoker Guy looks up and sees me.
I smile at him, grateful for the help with Wynn, but he doesn’t smile at me.
My stomach sinks and I look hastily away as he brings her over.
“I’ll take her home.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Wait. She’s coming, too,” Wynn protests.
There is a prickle of heat against my fingers; his hand engulfing mine totally. He’s smirking, his gold eyes laughing as he scans me thoroughly, head to toe, and his lips—slightly warm in a way that makes my stomach lose control—brush against the shell of my ear, his voice all dark chocolate, wine, and foreplay as he says, “You really don’t go here.”
I scowl at him, then let him drag us both out of
the club. We help Wynn into a cab, and he follows her in before tugging me inside, reaching over me to close the door.
My thigh brushes against his thigh. My throat feels tight.
“Just say the word and he’ll be so swollen tomorrow he won’t be able to open his eyes.” His words swallow the silence of the cab.
His voice, clear without the Chicago wind around us, pulses through my body. I stiffen to try to ignore its effect on me.
“Stop, no way. But thanks.” She laughs mournfully.
He takes her hand and squeezes it and cups her face with the other. “Hey. You’re good. You don’t need some asshole who doesn’t need you back.”
She takes his hand and squeezes, says, “Thank you,” and hugs him. He wraps one arm around her, and I want to vomit. I realize he’s looking at me as he strokes his hand down her back, his stare so intense that it feels as if he’s stroking his hand down my back.
I miss home so much right now I want to cry.
I don’t know why I want to cry, but I edge my thigh away from his and move to stare out the window.
I hear him ask Wynn something about what happened, and Wynn tell him it’s a long story, that they just won’t work out.
He says he’s sorry.
And he sounds genuinely sorry.
I feel like a third wheel all of a sudden, and I want to call my brother so I can have a guy’s arms around me, telling me it’ll just take one second, and it’ll be over.
It takes a gazillion seconds before I leap out of the cab, avoiding his gaze even as he helps her out. I take one of her arms while he takes the other, and we head upstairs to the apartment and settle her on a living room sofa.
“Thanks,” I say as I take off Wynn’s shoes, and he looks at me with a frown.
“You okay?”
“Fine. Thank you. Now you know where she lives in case you want to . . . visit her when I’m not here or whatever . . .”
He lifts his brows, then I tell Wynn, “I’ll get you coffee.”
“You know where to find me,” he tells Wynn.
“At the club?” I want to shout when the door closes behind him.
I exhale and inhale as I make coffee and try to push the odd homesickness away as I come back to Wynn.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. It was just difficult to talk to him. Emmett and I used to be so easy together, but now that he’s my ex, it’s like there’s this whole wedge between us.”
She seems better now. I take a couch opposite hers and curl my feet up under me. “How did you two meet?”
She sighs and stares into space. “He seduced me with food and that smile he has.”
“I’m sorry, Wynn. Should I call Gina or Rachel?”
“Don’t even think about it! They’ll kill me, and they’ll absolutely kill you for being there.” She looks at me and her expression softens. “Thank you, Livvy. I promise nobody will know.”
I won’t ask, I won’t ask, I won’t ask, I repeat like the mantra. Then I ask. “Hey, the guy who brought you home—”
She waves a hand. “Oh, I totally warned him not to say a word.”
I bite down on my lower lip, still aching to know. “Who is he?”
She quirks an eyebrow at the anxiousness in my voice, and her big blue eyes widen even more.
“He works where I work, so . . .” I hasten to explain.
“Hell, I know.” She eyes me in amusement, then scowls in puzzlement. “Ask him.”
Now I’m thinking: I am not going to ask her, it’s really not my business. And then, “Did he and you . . .”
“What? Ohmigod, never! He’s a one-way ticket to Broken Heartsville, even worse than Emmett.”
So they’re just friends? Thank you, god. Though I thought he and I were friends too but he doesn’t cozy up to me in that way. He tried to touch my hair and I moved it back before he could and that was the extent of it.
“He’s single, if that’s what you want to know,” Wynn says. Then her eyes go a little wider in concern as she says, like this is crucial for me to know, “He’s like the testament to singleness. All his friends are taken, so now he’s the last man standing. Please don’t tell me you like him. He’s the last man Tahoe would like to see you with. Trust me.”
“I don’t like him. Not at all. I’m not . . . interested in anything like that. This is why I have this fake engagement ring, see?” I show her my hand. “This’ll keep all the guys away, even at clubs. This year is all about work for me. I want to go back to Texas and get some more experience, then open my own investment firm, helping struggling businesses.”
“Good for you.” She looks wistfully past her shoulder, out to the window. “Love is an illusion. The more you want it, the more it hides.”
“You’ll get back together with him. Your ex, I mean. I saw the way he looked at you. When you stood up crying, he wanted to come after you but held himself back.”
“Emmett?” She turns her attention back to me, looking sad again. “I don’t think so. He flat out said he didn’t want marriage. I thought after I moved in, it would be in the cards. We just don’t want the same things.” She sounds wistful, and then she frowns and waves it away. “Anyway. Guard your heart, Livvy, you’re too young, and I’ve seen too many men steal hearts without giving anything back.”
I should have listened.
But the next day when I’m done with Mr. Lincoln and the preparations for his presentation with Callan Carmichael, which will take place the following day, I feel compelled to ride the elevator up to the terrace again. I tell myself I’ll just thank him for looking out for Wynn. It was gentlemanly, I suppose.
Though maybe his reasons for helping her were just to seduce her because, apparently, he’s an expert at that.
He’s not there.
I ride up to the terrace on Tuesday, then on Wednesday.
He isn’t there.
It isn’t until Friday that I step out of the elevator, already expecting him not to be there, when I see him seated in a lounge chair at the far end, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he types something on his phone, frowning in concentration.
I don’t want to feel the rush of happiness. But I do. It comes with a tangle of pain in my stomach, and that I cannot explain, but I blame it on the terrace railing and the fact that I’m . . . well, not happy at high altitudes.
Funny how the tangle wasn’t here when he wasn’t here, though.
I approach and sit down next to him, and he doesn’t look up from his phone. Once he types something, he puts out his cigarette and looks at me with a smile.
The tangle loosens as if someone burnt the ends and it exploded in a ball of warmth.
“Where were you?” I ask.
“Around,” he says.
I’m feeling bold and admit, “Well, I missed sharing a cig with you.”
I grin mischievously, but his answering grin is about a thousand times more mischievous than mine.
“I couldn’t resist not seeing you either,” he says, low.
Nervous by his nearness and realizing how much he seems to mean it, I reach out for the cigarette pack and the lighter sitting to his right, and he covers it with one big hand. “These trips to the terrace are terribly bad for you,” he warns, still smiling with those hazel eyes.
“Cigs are as bad for me as they are for you.”
He’s silent for a moment, making me wonder if he was even referring to smoking. Then he tsks softly, as if I’m a naughty girl but he seems to kind of like it, and then he lights one up. I watch him, a little breathless as he cups the flame then hands it over. I set my lips around it and they tingle because he just had his mouth on it. I can taste him on the cigarette. I can taste him in the air.
I don’t want to do either but I can’t seem to force myself to stay away. He’s like the highlight of my day.
I inhale, then exhale the smoke and put out the cigarette on the clear ashtray on the coffee table before me instead of passing it over to him, suddenly
feeling too intimate to share a cigarette.
“Does this brother of yours know you were out clubbing?” he then asks, looking at the cigarette I just extinguished as if wondering why I didn’t want to share today. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, looking sideways at me, his stare once again playing havoc with me.
I shrug. “Why?”
He leans back and links his fingers behind his head, watching me with a growing frown as he studies me even more, as if I’m this complicated thing. “I wouldn’t want my little sister in those kinds of clubs.”
“You have a little sister?” My voice reveals my utter surprise.
“No,” he says slowly, eyes twinkling.
“Fine so tell me where a girl’s supposed to go. Or better yet, take me there.”
His eyes widen in surprise, but then his lips twitch, and his eyebrows slowly start rising. “The places I frequent aren’t exactly ones a girl with . . . clusters of freckles belongs in.” He smirks.
I start to blush. I can’t help it. I can’t help wanting to know more about him.
I want to do more than that; I want to kiss him.
I’ve never wanted to kiss this way before. With my whole body, hands and legs and tongue.
“I wanted to go see the sights this weekend. I haven’t seen anything but my apartment and Carma since I got here, and I’ve heard there’s so much to see,” I say, searching that gorgeous face for an inkling of whether he’d like to come. “But tonight I just wanted to go to a bar and have a drink or two.”
“That bad a day, huh.” He studies me in understanding, and it only makes me want to kiss him more.
“Worse,” I say, nodding in exaggerated dismay.
He passes me my jacket. “Put on your jacket, then. Let’s get some drinks.”
“I’ve planned on working for a company from twenty-two to twenty-five, then start my own business by twenty-six, and maybe at twenty-eight, I’ll meet my husband.”
“Really?”
“Well, he won’t know he’s my husband but . . .”
“What’s he like?”
