Hard Rules

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “You’re in luck considering it’s been a busy Wednesday night,” she says, grabbing two menus. “We just had one open.”

  “Excellent,” Shane says, and with his approval given, Susie motions for us to follow her.

  Shane urges me forward, his fingers flexing where they’ve settled on my lower back, and we round the leather wall to a rectangular room with fully occupied high tables in the center, a bar to the right, and cozy booths set on high pedestals to the left.

  Susie directs us to the fourth booth of eight lining the far wall. “Can I get anything started for you?” she asks before we sit, her gaze falling on me. “Wine or a cocktail, perhaps?”

  “Wine would be great,” I say. “Can you suggest something sweet?”

  “I have an excellent German white I recommend often,” Susie replies.

  “Perfect,” I say, and she immediately eyes Shane.

  “Cognac?”

  “You know me well,” he confirms, shrugging out of his jacket and proving his crisp white shirt is indeed hugging the spectacular chest my hand had promised was beneath. “And let’s break out the good stuff tonight,” he adds. “I’ll take the Louis XIII.”

  She holds out her hands for his jacket and he removes his cell phone, sticking it in his pants pocket before allowing her to take the jacket. “I’ll hang this up by the door as usual,” she informs him, “and I won’t ask if the expensive cognac is to celebrate a good day or drive away a bad one.”

  “That answer changed when Emily joined me.”

  “Oh,” Susie says, giving me a curious, pleased look. “Thanks indeed, Emily, because I have been witness to this man after a truly bad day and it’s not pretty.”

  Shane directs a playful scowl in her direction. “Begone before you scare her off and you’re stuck with me alone.”

  She laughs, rushing away, and Shane refocuses on me. “Apparently you saved Susie from my foul mood,” he jokes.

  “But who’ll save me?” I tease, trying to be as ladylike as possible as I attempt to climb into the high, half-moon-shaped booth.

  “Me,” he promises, gently gripping my waist to help me into the seat.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, and when I expect him to move to the opposite side of the booth, he instead slides in beside me, forcing me to scoot around. I make it to the center before he says, “Oh no you don’t,” and the next thing I know, his fingers have closed down over my knee, my sheer pantyhose the only thing between his palm and my skin.

  He scoots closer, aligning our legs, tilting his head in my direction. “You’re still running.”

  Not from you, I think, but I say, “Not anymore, but I admit, I did judge you at first.”

  He inches back to look at me. “Did you now?”

  “I did. I mean, that cup of coffee said a lot about you,” I say, calling on the skills I’d once thought would serve me well in a career that now seems lost. “I’m very good at reading people.”

  His eyes light, the shadows nowhere to be found, and it pleases me to think I’ve made them disappear. “What did my coffee tell you about me?” he asks, resting an elbow on the table, his body still angled toward mine.

  “It was strong and no-nonsense, meant to get a job done, without any fluff about it.”

  “That still doesn’t tell me what you think it says about me.”

  “Of course it does. You’re a workaholic.”

  “A workaholic.”

  “That’s right. It was a large triple shot. That says you are running on fumes and trying to stay focused. Oh. And you don’t take no for an answer.”

  “The coffee told you I don’t take no for an answer?”

  “No. That part I gathered from you not taking no for an answer.”

  We break into mutual laughter that fades into a hint of a smile on his lips, the air shifting around us, thickening. There is a pureness to our shared desire that I decide is created by us having no past to color the way we feel about each other.

  “Let’s talk about your coffee,” he says, putting me in the assessment hot seat.

  “You didn’t drink my coffee,” I point out.

  “Actually, I did.”

  “What?” I ask in disbelief. “Wait. You drank my coffee after I left?”

  “That’s right.”

  “On purpose?”

  “On purpose,” he confirms.

  “Why?”

  “Because I was left curious about the woman who ordered it and your drink, like mine, says things about you.”

  I can’t believe he drank my drink after I left or that I’m about to invite him to look deeper into who I am. “And what exactly did it say about me?”

  “It said—”

  “I have a cognac and a wine,” a waitress announces, leaving me hanging on his words.

  “Wine for the lady,” Shane instructs and we both lean back to allow her to deposit our drinks in front of us, giving me the opportunity to discover our waitress is a gorgeous redhead, with deep cleavage exposing DD breasts, which make my D cups feel like As.

  “Are you ready to order?” she asks.

  “I haven’t looked at the menu,” I say, reaching for it, and glancing at Shane. “You probably know what you want.”

  “Indeed,” he says, the look in his eyes sizzling, as he adds, “Very decisively.”

  I flush, quite certain that yes, he has noted my brief walk down insecurity lane, and while I’m embarrassed, I am quite charmed at the way he’s made sure I know my concern was without merit. I shut the menu again. “What do you recommend?”

  “They’re well known for their brown butter ravioli,” he replies, “which I have every time I visit.”

  “It’s amazing,” the waitress interjects. “Melt-in-your-mouth good.”

  “You had me at brown butter,” I say. “And anything with pasta and cheese makes my favorite foods list.”

  “Three check marks on the list,” Shane says, gathering our menus and offering them to the waitress. “Two of the house raviolis it is then.”

  “Got it,” the waitress confirms. “Any drinks, aside from what you have, with your meal?”

  I shake my head but Shane motions to my wine. “Try it and make sure you like it.”

  It’s an order, which seems to come naturally to him, but it’s also him actually caring that I’m satisfied. I take a quick sip, and the fruity sweet liquid is pure perfection. “It’s great,” I tell him, and eye the waitress. “I love it.”

  “Well then,” she says. “I’ll put the order in to the kitchen.”

  She departs and Shane reaches for the glass I’m still holding, covering my hand with his. “May I?”

  Heat rushes through me, the idea of his mouth where mine had been more than a little sexy. “Of course,” I say, sounding and feeling breathless. And when I would offer it to him, he covers my hand over the glass, his eyes capturing mine as he tilts it to drink, then savors it a moment.

  “Sweet, like your coffee.”

  “And you think that means what?” I ask.

  He considers me a moment, before releasing my hand and reaching for his glass. “I drink my coffee the way I see the world. Harsh and brutal. And I drink my booze with a smooth kick, the way I try and face my adversaries.”

  This is a silly game that has suddenly made my world feel upside down and I laugh without humor. “I don’t see the world as sweet, if that’s where you’re going with this.”

  “No. No, you don’t. But you do compartmentalize the bad stuff, while I force myself to stay in the thick of things no matter how bad they are. I’m not sure which is worse.”

  I’m not sure if I’m more stunned that he’s nailed me so well, or that he’s actually shared something I find quite personal about himself. “And I make this assessment not from your drink, but the way you handle yourself and the look in your eyes.”

  The look in his eyes, I think. I was right. We’re drawn together because we’re both dealing with a demon or two that won’t let us go.

&
nbsp; “Am I wrong?” he asks.

  “No. You pretty much nailed it. If I don’t compartmentalize, I worry and obsess. It’s just who I am. It started young. My mom said I could fret over my Barbie losing a shoe for hours.”

  “That fits the profile of someone who compartmentalizes to survive.”

  “And you stand in the fire and let it burn you.”

  A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I stand in the fire,” he says, lifting his glass and taking a drink. “I don’t let it burn me.”

  “Because you’re good at whatever you do.” It’s not even a question.

  “Yes,” he says. “I’m good at whatever I do.” It’s confident, maybe arrogant as well, but it works for him. “What about you?” he asks. “Are you good at what you do?”

  We just entered dangerous territory and I reach for my wine. “Let’s hope so, since I’m on an unplanned job search.”

  “Unplanned?”

  “Right,” I say, glad to share one piece of truth. “Unplanned.” I take a drink, steeling myself for his questions and my lies.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he says, obviously reading my discomfort.

  “It’s fine,” I say, setting my wine aside. “I relocated here from Los Angeles to work for this very rich man, a stockholder of a big holding company.”

  “For him or the holding company?”

  “Him. I was to be his assistant, but the job was bigger than the title. I saw it as a chance to learn at the highest level of the corporate world. He said he’d mentor me. It was exciting and the pay was spectacular. Unfortunately, two weeks after I arrived, one of his companies folded and he filed for bankruptcy.”

  “Now that’s a fucking bad break.”

  “He paid me a month severance—”

  “A whole month. That’s generous of him.”

  “Hey. It’s better than nothing, and like I said, my pay was spectacular.”

  “What did you do back in Los Angeles?”

  “I was a paralegal chasing a bigger dream,” I confess, and there is at least some truth to the statement, but here comes the lie. “Every time I thought I’d make it to law school, I hit a bump in the road.”

  “And yet you took a job that wasn’t leading you to law school at all.”

  “I did,” I say, not having it in me to say more.

  His eyes search mine, probing and far too aware. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven. And you?”

  “Thirty-two. Do you have family or friends in Denver?”

  I twirl the base of my glass. “No family or friends.”

  “You moved here with nothing but a job?”

  Not by choice, I think, but I say, “Just ambition.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “I don’t have a job,” I remind him, wishing I deserved the admiration I see in his eyes.

  “Anyone who dares to do what you have will come out on top. That takes balls very few men or women possess.”

  I grab an opening to turn the conversation back to him. “And you do?”

  “Yes. I do.” His reply is quick, but he is quick to turn the conversation back to me. “Aren’t you just a little tempted to go back home?”

  Home. I almost laugh at that word. “This is where I live now.”

  “Surely leaving has crossed your mind,” he presses.

  “No, actually. It didn’t and it won’t.” I cut my gaze reaching for my wine, stunned when he catches my wrist before I succeed. I try not to look at him, but somehow I find myself captured in his far too astute stare.

  “You’re alone,” he states.

  “I’m with you,” I say, cringing inwardly at the obvious, nervously spoken statement so ridiculous that I’ve invited further probing.

  His hand curls around mine and he drags it to his knee, and the way he’s looking at me, like the rest of the room, no, the rest of the world, doesn’t exist, steals my breath. I haven’t allowed anyone to really look at me in a very long time.

  “Emily,” he says, doing whatever he does to turn my name into a sin that seduces rather than destroys me.

  “Shane,” I manage, but just barely.

  “Did you say yes to dinner because you didn’t want to be alone?”

  I am not sure where he is going with this, if it’s about reading me or if he needs validation that I am here for him, so I give him both. “I like being alone,” I say, and on some level, it really is true. “I said yes to dinner because you are the one who asked.” My lips curve. “Actually you barely asked. You mostly ordered.”

  “I couldn’t let you say no.”

  “I’m actually really glad you didn’t.”

  “And yet you say you like being alone?”

  “It’s simple and without complication.”

  “Spoken like someone who’s lived the opposite side of the coin.”

  “Haven’t we all?”

  “Who burned you, Emily?”

  I blanch but recover with a quick, “Who says anyone burned me?”

  “I see it in your eyes.”

  “Back to my eyes,” I say.

  “Yes. Back to your eyes.”

  “Stop looking.”

  “I can’t.”

  Those two words sizzle, matching the heat in his eyes, and my throat goes dry. “Then stop asking so many questions.”

  He reaches up, brushing hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek, and suddenly he is closer, his breath a tease on my cheek, his fingers settling on my jaw. “What if I want to know more about you?”

  “What if I don’t want to talk?”

  “Are you suggesting I shut up and kiss you?”

  Yes, I think. Please. But instead I say, “I don’t know. I haven’t interviewed you as you have me. I know nothing about you. I want to know if you—”

  He leans in, and then his lips are on mine, a caress, a tease, that is there and gone, and yet I am rocked to the core, a wave of warmth sliding down my neck and over my breasts. He lingers, his breath fanning over my lips, promising another touch I both need and want, as he asks, “You want to know if I what?”

  Everything. “Nothing.”

  “The food has arrived,” our waitress announces, and I jolt, tugging my hand from Shane’s and feeling like a busted schoolgirl and bringing attention to myself I don’t need or want.

  “Here you go,” she says, setting a plate in front of me, the scent of butter and spices teasing my nose, but I am suddenly no longer hungry. In fact, I feel a little queasy.

  Noting the way the waitress has set her stand in front of Shane’s side of the table, I grab my purse and round the seat opposite him and murmur, “I’m going to the ladies’ room.” I don’t look at him but I feel him watching me, willing me back to my seat, while he remains somewhat, thankfully, trapped.

  “In the back of the main dining room,” the waitress calls after me.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, pretty sure it’s not loud enough to be heard, already almost to the bar exit. I pass the leather wall and I stop, my gaze landing on the front door and an easy escape.

  “Bathroom?” Susie asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Please.”

  “Behind me and all the way to the back and left.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Following her directions, I cut left, away from the exit, relieved Shane hasn’t shown up, and actually thankful I haven’t made it out the door. If I’m to start a new life, I can’t hide in my apartment out of fear. I have to pay the bills, which means navigating Shane and every other person, and situation, I might face. This is my life now and I have to learn to cope with questions I don’t, and won’t, answer.

  I pass through the dimly lit dining room that is far too long, giving me way too much time to think and yet I can’t think. I reach a long hallway that cuts left. I’m almost at the bathroom door when suddenly my wrist is shackled, and another second later, I’m against the wall, with Shane’s big body crowding mine.

  My hands land on the hard wall of his chest, his legs f
raming mine. “What are you doing?” I demand.

  “You’re upset.”

  “You just shoved me against a wall in a hallway,” I say. “Yes. I’m upset.”

  “That’s not why you’re upset.”

  “I’m a very private person.”

  “Good. So am I.”

  “You have me shoved against a wall,” I repeat. “In a public place. And you kissed me. In a public place.”

  He cups my face. The act is possessive, a claiming driven home by the way that autumn scent of his teases my nostrils. “That wasn’t a kiss,” he declares, his mouth closing down on mine, his tongue pressing past my lips. The instant it finds mine, the taste of spiced cognac fills my senses. Another lick and I moan, my fears, the public place, and my secrets fading away, for the first time in an eternal month. This, him, is what I craved this night. Not brown butter ravioli and fancy wine. I don’t fight to remember the privacy I’ve declared I value. My fingers curl around his shirt, and suddenly I am kissing him back, my body swaying into his, the warmth of his seeping into mine, but it doesn’t last.

  As if he was waiting for my total submission, he tears his mouth from mine, denying me his kiss, and I’m left panting. “That was an appetizer,” he declares, his voice a low, sultry rasp. “And you were right. Alone is better, which is exactly how I planned to spend this night. Until I saw you and alone wasn’t better anymore. And now I know why. You want what I want.”

  “Which is what?”

  “No complications.”

  Relief and the promise of the escape I now know I’d hoped for rushes over me. “Yes. Yes, but you keep—”

  “Thinking about kissing you. That’s all I could do sitting at that table. And I should warn you. When dinner is done, I’m going to do my damn best to convince you to go somewhere else with me where we can be alone.” He covers my hand with his. “Come. I’m going to feed you, because if I have my way, you’re going to need your energy.”

  He starts walking, taking me with him, and I grab his arm. “Wait.” He pauses and turns to look at me, those intense gray eyes of his stirring a giant dose of nerves in my belly that I shove aside. “I don’t want to go back out there.”

  He narrows his gaze on me, his big hands settling on my shoulders. “What are you saying?”