Could his hostility have led him to make the wrong assumption? His parents were still sought after professionally, but they were getting older and he’d been surprised to notice how much more time they spent traveling. Was it possible they actually wanted to spend some time with him?
“Martha’s Vineyard Magazine has been after us for an extended family profile and . . .”
Heaviness settled on his chest like a weighted blanket. There it was. They were interested in him . . . for promotional purposes. Would he ever stop being that little boy, constantly getting his hopes up only to be disappointed?
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. “I’ve been busy.”
His mother scoffed. “I doubt this little accounting firm of yours kept you busier than any of us and we still managed to show up.”
Her derision stung.
“At the time, ‘this little accounting firm’ seemed to benefit from my time and attention more than anyone in the family.”
“Apparently. Since I heard about your trip from Dina Yates, I assume Davis is going, too?”
“Yes,” Ben said shortly, checking the time.
“Dina can’t stop talking about how well Davis is doing. It’s her favorite topic of discussion.” Fallon rolled her eyes. “You’re much smarter than he is. Always were. What does he do, decide whether to renovate or construct another building in Manhattan?”
Despite her words, he knew his parents’ social circle placed a high regard on offspring who took over the family business. They revered the notion of perpetuating their legacy. Children who lived like they had no job, who spent money like it was a never-ending resource?
An embarrassment.
Children who turned their back on the family business to start their own?
Just as bad.
“What day do you get in?” Fallon reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll call ahead and have your suite of rooms readied.”
“I’m staying with Palmer.”
She brightened. That got her approval. “How is he? I haven’t seen his parents in ages. He went into engineering, right?”
“Yes. That’s part of why we’re all getting together. Palmer and his wife, Bronwen, are heading over to participate in a construction and infrastructure program in East Africa.”
Her appreciation dulled. “I enjoy travel as much as the next person, but your generation takes it to the extreme. It’s not enough to go to Kenya and enjoy the scenery and culture. You’re too busy hurrying off to help the rest of the world. What about here? There are people in this country in need. I’m not sure Sybil and Howard would’ve spent all that money on an Ivy League education for Palmer if they thought that’s what he’d do with it.”
“If Palmer’s parents have an issue with his career, I’m sure they won’t hesitate to inform him. You don’t possess any qualms on that front.”
Fallon leveled a displeased glance at him and he knew she’d probably reached her limit. He figured she was a second away from leaving, but she surprised him by changing the subject.
“So, your entire group of friends will be getting together?”
“Yes.”
“What about Tinsley?”
“What about her? We broke up years ago,” he said cautiously.
“I always liked Tinsley. Ambitious, beautiful, and from a great family. When you announced your engagement, I was certain you were finally making a smart decision.”
As opposed to the other ones you’d made.
The words didn’t need to be said aloud. They hovered in the air, like gathering storm clouds.
His parents’ approval was part of why he’d stayed with Tinsley long after he knew things weren’t going to work out. It had been strange but heady to receive his parents’ esteem for something in his life. And it made family social engagements more tolerable.
But even that benefit hadn’t been enough after a while.
“I’m not getting back together with Tinsley.”
Fallon waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Of course not. That, like coming back to run the foundation, would make sense.”
He was a grown man. He owned his own home. He’d single-handedly started an asset management firm that was consistently lauded as one of the best in the state.
And yet, he could still be affected by his mother’s opinion of him. If Nic was here, she’d tell him to get over it. She didn’t take shit from anyone.
Speaking of Nic—
“Mother, do you know a James Newman? He’s in Ortho at Duke.”
“Ortho?” She tapped a manicured finger—buffed, no polish—against her chin. “Your father and I don’t deal much with that specialty. But if he’s any good, I’m sure I could get his information. Why?”
“Just something for a client,” he murmured, the genesis of an idea forming in his mind.
He’d been right about his mother’s tolerance for chitchat once she’d achieved her aim. Five minutes later, she was gone, having revealed a prior dinner engagement with the director of the Department of Medicine. Putting the drama and tension of that visit aside, he concentrated on drafting proposals for several of his clients.
He loved his work, appreciated the precision of numbers. Accounting was black-and-white; digits either added up or they didn’t. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t able to exhibit a bit of creativity. That’s where the financial planning came in. What to invest in, how to spend money, the best way to save; all strategies that were unique to each client and their specific goals.
He stretched and attempted to ease the ache in his neck. Glancing at his phone, he was shocked to find he’d been working steadily for over two hours. It was almost nine o’clock! He’d gotten a lot done, but he wasn’t ready to leave, still feeling wired from the work and his conversation with his mother.
Turning off the harsh overhead lighting, he opened the bottom drawer of his antique, kidney-shaped executive desk—something he’d inherited from his grandfather—and pulled out a bottle of tequila and a tall, narrow shot glass. He poured himself a drink and swiveled in his chair to stare out of the window at the nighttime Inner Harbor view. He took a sip from the glass, enjoying the aroma and the flavor. Damn, that was good! There was nothing like the taste of high-quality tequila. He leaned his head back and let the alcohol work its magic, smoothing out rough edges, paving over uneven surfaces, until he was level. Fluid. Relaxed. He took another sip. Interacting with his mother wasn’t pleasant, but the real reason he hadn’t been in a rush to get home was he knew Nic wouldn’t be there.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d been looking forward to seeing her until he’d received her earlier text. She’d decided to meet her co-worker Amalia for a drink to discuss what she’d heard last night and to come up with a strategy to handle it. Nic was one of the most determined people he’d ever met. She hadn’t responded well to the news that her coveted fellowship could be in jeopardy, but he knew she wouldn’t accept defeat. She’d fight with everything she had. And he wanted to help her. He needed to find a way to make it all better.
When he’d been talking with his mother, he’d come up with an idea. Ordinarily, he’d hurry home to run it by Nic, but knowing she wasn’t going to be there bothered him more than he’d expected. He’d gotten used to her presence. Even when she was on call, he’d known it was only a matter of time before he saw her.
Not anymore. This time next month, she won’t be here.
He’d known that, but for the first time, the reality of her departure loomed large. After three years, Nic would be gone. No more eating dinner together, teasing her about her bougie soaps and lotions or watching basketball games and house-hunting shows. No more bright smiles, side glances from her amazing green eyes, or pulling on her soft, bouncy curls.
He’d offered to let her and her mother stay in one of the numerous condos his family owned in the Durham area. Maybe he could look into their availability on a longer basis? See about offering her one to live in during her fellowship?
Is that what you're reduced to? Offering her places to live so you won’t lose her in your life?
His phone dinged and, without turning away from the view, he reached for the device where it sat on his desk. His stomach flipped in anticipation when he saw Nic’s name on his home screen. He clicked on the message.
She’d typed: What u doing?
He smiled, set his glass on the desk, and dashed off a response: Nothing. Sitting here, having a drink.
What a coincidence. So am I.
He entered a smiley face emoji.
She responded: I’ve had a hellacious few days & I was wondering if you could help me with that?
Of course he would. Nic was his friend and he knew how much this situation aggravated her. He’d do anything to help.
What do u need?
Her response was almost immediate: U.
He froze, unable to believe what he’d just read. If any other woman had responded to his question in that manner, her intent would’ve been plain. But this reply from Nic? She didn’t see him that way.
Did she?
The capital letter loomed large and bright in the light gray bubble. Tone didn’t always come through in text. The “U” could preface an action she wanted him to take, like “U” please bring me my wallet. Or, she could’ve meant it literally, “U” let’s chill, hang out, and watch a movie. Before he jumped to any conclusions, although the blood vacating his brain and making its way south had already made its mind up, he should offer her the opportunity to elaborate or clarify her answer.
Excuse me?
Three dots, the longest delay in his life, and then—
A picture of pale golden skin and perfect, pert breasts with erect light brown nipples appeared on his screen.
The remaining blood fueling his common sense executed a fast break straight to his dick. What the hell?
There was no question about her intent, but this had to be a mistake, right? Or a prank? There’s no way Nic would send him a sexy selfie . . .
Where are u? he typed, though it took his suddenly clumsy fingers several tries.
The bathroom at The Taphouse. It was too loud, too crowded for what I want.
Though he was reading the words, he could hear her voice in his head, and it cast a spell on him, entangled him in a web of intimacy. He licked his lips and leaned back in his chair, adjusting his slacks.
And what do u want?
Your hands, lips, tongue, dick. Doesn’t matter. I need at least one of them on me, stat.
Fuck!
He’d fantasized about doing all of the above and more to her for years. From the moment they’d first met. And though he was grateful for the friendship they’d formed, one he’d protect at any cost, he hadn’t been able to completely snuff out his attraction. He scrolled back up to the picture she sent. Though her face was cut off, he knew it was her. He’d seen her chest countless times when she wore a sports bra to work out or a tank top on warm days. He was familiar with the smooth expanse of skin, the little mole just below her clavicle.
His mouth watered in anticipation. And now he was being invited to partake of it. Hell, she wouldn’t have to choose between the four options. He’d give them all to her, if that’s what she wanted.
His fingers flew over the keyboard. What if I start with my hands? Gently cover those breasts, then press them hard against you, as your nipples pebble against my palms?
Hmmmmm . . . What else?
I’ll use my tongue.
You know my nipples are supersensitive. I can come just from you pulling & sucking on them.
He didn’t know. But now that he did, he’d never be able to forget it. Or think about anything else.
Then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll swirl my tongue around them, savoring their feel & taste. But I won’t take it into my mouth until you’re moaning loudly & your hot body is writhing against me.
Yesssss. It’ll feel so good. God, my skin is tingling & I’m so wet.
He closed his eyes and flexed his hand, already able to imagine it sliding against her torso and down into her welcoming heat.
He typed: Can I feel?
My pussy can’t wait!
Damn. He licked his lips. She’ll have to. I won’t be rushed.
Can I come over?
“Can I come over?” Four words that took this from merely talk to action. He shook his head, straining for clarity, knowing there would be serious consequences if—
Please?
Her plea was like a steel door slamming shut on any attempts to be careful or thoughtful. He wanted her more than his lungs wanted fresh air, but if they were finally going to do this, he didn’t want some quickie in his office.
How about I meet you at home?
He pressed the blue arrow and waited, anticipation and desire strumming in his blood, roaring in his eyes, drowning out everything save the bright rectangular screen on the device in his hand.
Three dots.
They vanished.
His stomach clenched. Son of a bitch!
Three dots and then—
Ben?
Wait, what? Ben, question mark? Was she rethinking the situation or was it . . . oh no, don’t make it be—
Shit! I’m sorry. I thought u were someone else.
Disappointment doused his desire like an icy bucket of water and his heart threatened to shatter into pieces.
Goddammit! He scrubbed a hand down his face. It had been too good to be true. Of course those messages weren’t for him. He’d sensed that the moment he’d received the first text. But he’d allowed himself to pretend, to imagine she’d wanted him as much as he’d always wanted her.
Three dots, and then—
Can you delete that tit pic?
He scrolled back to the photo she’d sent. The picture wasn’t for him; he shouldn’t keep it. But damn . . . Even in the limited light, against the dark walls of the bathroom stall, it was a stunning image.
One he’d never have again.
What if he saved it? He could have this piece of her forever, could indulge in his desire for her safely and from a distance. He wouldn’t lose his friend even as he stroked himself to completion thinking of her.
Ben?
He held his breath and let his thumb hover over the image . . . before he exhaled and pressed the screen, erasing the picture as she’d asked.
Chapter Eight
Awareness sprang forth like a steamroller, flattening Nic like the filling in a smushed ice cream sandwich. Her head felt as if it had been decapitated, stuffed with cotton, and glued back on while her mouth was drier than an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus.
It didn’t take long to diagnose her condition. Veisalgia. The medical term for the disagreeable physical effects that occurred following the excessive consumption of alcohol. And though she knew what was going on with her body, it didn’t make dealing with her hangover any easier.
She took a moment to take stock of her situation. She was lying on her belly, her cheek flat on her mattress instead of on a pillow. She flexed her fingers and the nails of her right hand grazed the hardwood floors and got tangled in some rough fabric.
Getting drunk wasn’t something she did. A glass of wine. A beer. A cocktail. One was usually the extent of her drinking. She rarely had the time off to indulge without the possibility of it affecting her work.
And she’d let nothing affect her work.
But last night, she’d decided to meet up with Amalia to discuss the whole Whitaker debacle and get the specifics of what the other doctor had observed regarding Whitaker Sr. and his meeting with Agner. Ava would’ve been proud of her, because Nic had questioned the other woman like she was Annalise Keating reborn.
“Where did you see him?”
“What did he say?”
“How did he look?”
She’d been determined to get all of the facts. Treat it as a medical issue she needed to diagnose. Nic was so close to all of her dreams coming true. With the successful
completion of the Duke fellowship, she’d be able to write her ticket. And she wasn’t going to let some insecure, privileged, lazy asshole and his blowhard father take it away from her.
She hadn’t intended to get rip-roaring, panty-melting drunk, but Amalia had bought a round of shots, suggesting a Slippery Nipple might get their creative thoughts going.
A Slippery Nipple. Nic had giggled like a prepubescent schoolboy.
And thus began their journey through suggestively named shots land, that took them from Blow Jobs, to Screaming Orgasms, to Circle Jerks to Cunnilinguses. Each progressive shot made ordering the next even funnier, until she was laughing so hard her cheeks ached and she couldn’t catch her breath.
Would it still have been funny if she’d known she would end up in hangover hell?
Rolling over onto her back, Nic grimaced as the contents of her belly shifted and the light in the room pushed to get past the barrier of her closed eyelids. With effort, she lifted one hand to lay across her eyes, delaying the inevitable pain she knew would come.
She took a breath and lifted her lashes. Agony sliced through her and instinctively, she slammed them closed again.
Damn you, Sex on the Driveway!
But she couldn’t go around with her eyes wide shut and years of an intense work ethic made lying in bed all day a nonstarter. So she sucked it up and opened her eyes again, allowing the agony to infiltrate until she could actually see the ceiling. The three wooden blades on the modern ceiling fan confirmed she was in her bedroom and sent relief coursing through her. She knew she’d come home, but there was a brief chance she’d imagined that.
What she hadn’t imagined were the pictures she’d taken in the bathroom of the bar and the drunk sexting to Carlos and . . .
No, that wasn’t right. She hadn’t texted Carlos, though that’s what she’d intended. She’d texted—
Like Lovers Do Page 8
