by T Gephart
I reached into my back pocket, her eyes tracking my movements carefully as I pulled out my wallet. She didn’t seem convinced but was curious. And if there was one thing I knew about her, it was that curiosity was like foreplay.
“My driver’s license.” I held up my ID, letting her see it clearly. “And unless you think I’ve defrauded the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, you will see that Lincoln is my real and legal name.”
She snatched it out of my hands, studying it for irregularities or signs of tampering.
“You want to search my registration with the bar?” I offered, irrationally jealous my ID was still getting so much attention. “I passed it in Mass and New York, so it won’t be hard to find.”
“Overachiever,” she huffed under her breath, handing me back my license.
My smile got wider, no longer attempting to hide it. “Did I just impress you again?”
“No, no you didn’t.” She folded her arms across her chest which unfortunately drew my attention to her cleavage.
She had a beautiful body, soft feminine curves that were the perfect fit for my hands. I’d liked touching them, and wanted the opportunity to touch them again.
Kissing her again was out of the question.
Not unless I wanted to be gargling my testicles.
But even though the possibility was remote and unlikely, I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth.
“I’m still mad at you.” She licked her lips, hopefully having the same thoughts I did.
“I know. Rightly so.” I moved closer.
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Again, not news, Zara.”
She had a point to prove, and no matter how badly she might have wanted it—wanted me—she wouldn’t give either of us the pleasure.
And fuck me, did it just make me like her even more.
“Here’s what I’m proposing.” I cleared my throat, my voice a little lower and huskier than I’d intended. “Why don’t you tell me why you need to find this guy so badly, and I will locate him for you.”
She coughed out a laugh, putting her hand in front of her mouth when she saw I was serious. “There’s over eighteen million people in New York City.”
“True, but he’s not exactly John Smith. So, tell me why and I’ll give you something to really be impressed about.”
She wanted cocky, she’d get cocky. And it wasn’t just posturing either, I knew I could back it up. I wouldn’t even need Nate who, bound by HIPPA, probably couldn’t tell me shit even if he did know. Lots of public information out there, and I was more than just a little cozy with most of the department clerks in Manhattan. It was why Locke and Collins continued to send me instead of one of the other senior associates, my track record for results speaking for itself.
Besides, part of me was curious why she was so compelled to see this guy. Who was he? And why did he matter? And more importantly, was she intending on kissing him like she had me.
And yes, maybe it gave me the excuse to stay in the picture, let her see I wasn’t some desperate deviant who needed to trick women to get them into bed.
It seemed we both had a point to prove, and if I was to hedge a guess, I’d say neither of us were willing to concede.
“No.” Her mouth moved slowly, extending the word a little more than was necessary.
“No?” I asked, wondering which part she was objecting to.
“Look, whatever you think you are trying to do, don’t. If I wanted to find someone, I would.” Her words were measured, and if she was worried about showing weakness, she didn’t have to.
Five minutes with her and I could tell she was a force to be reckoned with, which was part of the reason why I just couldn’t walk away. And even though I knew it would probably be the smart thing to do, I was seeing it through for as long as I could.
“Zara, I have no doubt that you could and would. But since I was the reason you missed your first opportunity, it will be my way of making a mends.”
That was partially true.
I was the reason she hadn’t had her rendezvous with the real Edwin Carlisle. But getting them together so I could get back into her good graces wasn’t my motivation.
Nope.
Altruism was a nice trait but sadly not one I possessed. Neither was just being “a nice guy.” But what I did want—and the reason I suggested the crazy idea—was to find out what exactly made that beautiful mind tick. And if her icy feelings thawed and we got back to the place where I was kissing her, then that was even better.
She blinked slowly, hopefully considering my offer. “I’ll take it under advisement, but now, I’m going home.”
Okay, again, not unexpected.
I wasn’t so conceited to think we were just going to pick up where we left off, although I expected some additional questions.
“Sure.” I didn’t bother trying to argue. “Let me call my driver, he can give you a ride home.”
“That won’t be necessary. I can just call a cab.” She straightened, adjusting her clothing.
There was a very real chance that if she walked out of my hotel room, I’d never see her again. I didn’t have her number, or know where she lived, so other than going to her place of employment, my options would be limited. And while I was positive I could find a plausible and legitimate excuse for walking into the law offices of Bally and Cobb, it wasn’t the move I wanted to make.
“It’s just a ride, Zara. No strings.”
“No strings?” she asked, almost not believing it was a genuine offer.
I nodded, accepting whatever opening she was giving me. “Yep, he’ll take you either back to the hospital to be with your sister or to your apartment in Greenwich, whichever you prefer.”
“And what . . . then he’ll run back to you and tell you where I live?”
“You think I need my driver to find out where you live?” I laughed. “Zara, I just told you I could locate a guy with nothing but a name, give me a little more credit.”
She rolled her eyes, grabbing her bag and her gavel. “If that was supposed to convince me you aren’t a stalker, you failed.”
“I figured you’d appreciate my honesty.” I watched as she shifted on her feet but didn’t move toward the door. “But it doesn’t make it any less true.”
“Fine, call your driver. But I’m leaving alone.” She held up her hand, pressing it against my chest.
It was the first time she’d touched me since she’d found out I was Lincoln, and it wasn’t to inflict grievous bodily harm.
“Whatever you want.” I looked down at her hand, the attention I’d paid it causing her to pull it away. “Give some thought to my offer.” I reached back into my wallet and pulled out a business card. “I’ll call my driver.”
It wasn’t my smoothest move, but I had to work with what I had. And while I had no doubt she would be capable of tracking me down, I wanted to make it as easy as possible. After all, I was planning on seeing her again. And unless I wanted to be on the wrong side of the courtroom, defending a stalking charge, our next interaction would be initiated by her.
Was I worried she’d toss the number and forget about me?
Not a chance.
We’d be seeing each other sooner or later, and for both our sakes, I hoped it was sooner.
She took the card, tossing it into her clutch with little interest. But she’d taken it, and at that moment, that was all that mattered.
“Thanks, I’ll go wait in the lobby.” Her hand reached for the door handle, looking over her shoulder at me one last time. “Bye.”
I nodded, knowing it wasn’t where the story ended for either of us.
“Bye, Zara.”
Zara
I’d never thought I’d be one of those idiots.
You know, the kind you see on a daytime talk show, who believed they were in relationships with famous people. Or the ones who got catfished, thinking they had met their soulmate through an email. And if only their betrothed could pay off the pesky est
ate charges for their dead uncle, you could live happily ever after in millionaire bliss for all time.
But no, it turns out, I wasn’t that smart.
Because as much as I wanted to blame the “miscommunication” on him, he was right in that he never actually confirmed who he was. And as an attorney, I knew better than to accept anything at face value. Not that I’d be confessing to any of that, happy to live in indignation, letting him believe that I did think he was wholly responsible.
And let’s face it, a man like that could probably use a shot of humility.
Uhhhhhhhh, I was so mad.
Mad that I’d let myself believe in what was nothing more than some stupid carnival bullshit.
I should’ve known better.
Lincoln’s driver had met me in the lobby, and with very little small talk—something I appreciated—led me to the car and drove me home.
There were no judgmental stares through the rearview mirror.
No asking me about my evening.
No rudeness of any kind.
He was the perfect gentleman and when we arrived at my Greenwich apartment, he hopped out of the car, opened my door and told me to have a good evening.
I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d been expecting. Part of me assumed he’d treat me like some cheap whore who had been Lincoln’s booty call. Or there was always the possibility Lincoln had told him I was some uptight cock-tease and I wanted to go home.
But whatever conversation had transpired between the two of them, it had either not been derogatory toward me, not painting me in a bad light, or the driver was the best actor in NYC.
Thanking him—because I saw no need for rudeness on my part either—I said my goodbyes and let myself into the main doors of our apartment building. It was quiet, my footsteps creaking against the old, carpeted stairs as I climbed to our first-story apartment.
Belle was at the hospital, the birth of the baby taking a little longer than expected, leaving me an exclamation mark heavy text demanding a status update. I shot back a quick reply telling her I was home, alone and I’d fill her in later. Secretly, I was relieved I didn’t have to go through it all again so soon, knowing Belle would want every single insignificant detail to analyze. And while I was a fan of postmortems—watching the game-day footage and seeing where it all went wrong—my heart and my head wasn’t in it.
Why couldn’t I hate him, damn it?
Everything told me I should not only be seething mad, but should tear up his business card and never give him a second thought. Was I that hard up for affection and attention that I’d entertain getting to know a conman? And semantics or not, he let me go for hours calling him Edwin without correcting me.
But for all the logical, reasonable debate as to why he was the Devil’s spawn of which I wanted no part of, there was an equal rationalization that he was sweet, and funny, and so goddamn good-looking.
No.
No, no, no, no, and no.
I didn’t care how funny, sweet, good-looking and charming he was, it had bad idea written all over it. I had more important things to worry about. Like impressing the partners. Being a badass in the courtroom. And when the time was right, ascending to the highest court in the country. I didn’t have time for stupid, complicated relationships that started with lies.
Then why was I so disappointed?
Ignoring my mood, I decided the best thing to do was to have a soak in the tub, listen to the serial killer podcast I was currently bingeing, and have a big glass of wine. Which is exactly what I did, leaving my clutch and gavel, peeling off my clothes as I moved to the bathroom. I’d forgotten the glass of wine, deciding I could get it later as I turned on the faucet and let the tub fill with warm water.
Steam rose in the small, confined space, my body breaking the water’s surface as I slid in, and I felt my body let out a long, exaggerated breath. It had been a long hard week, and I was happy, so I wasn’t going to let an unfortunate hiccup ruin what had otherwise been a monumental time in my life.
So with talk of murder and mystery coming out my Bluetooth speakers, I relaxed and closed my eyes. In the morning all thought of Lincoln Archer would be long gone, and I was never going to even mention the name Edwin Carlisle ever again.
“Jesus!” I woke up to find Belle perched on the edge of my bed, looking at me like a deviant. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Serial killers before bed?” Belle asked, noticing one of my headphones still tangled in my hair. “When I saw the trail of clothes out in the living room, I assumed you got lucky.”
“So you came in here to confirm?” I asked, mildly horrified. I say mildly because it was Belle and it was on-brand for her to be nosey even if slightly inappropriate. “And I’m not going to bring some guy I just met to the apartment I share with my sister. If it’s one thing those serial killers all have in common, is they like nothing more than hacking people up in their own beds.” Well, not all of them, but there was overwhelming evidence to suggest it was a thing.
Belle rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you didn’t wait up for me. I came home, all excited to hear about your big adventure and you were already asleep. I want details. All of them. And don’t leave out any of the good parts.”
I knew it was coming, the inevitable info dump Belle would require, but honestly it was too early, and I wasn’t caffeinated enough.
“Ummmm, don’t you have some of your own big news to share? Did Hayley have the baby? Or did you tap out and leave the poor girl to deliver by herself,” I scoffed, knowing the chances Belle would leave anyone high-and-dry were remote.
“Fiiiiiiinnnnnnne. But then I want all the details,” she sing-songed with a smile. “Hayley delivered a beautiful—well, it actually wasn’t but I didn’t have the heart to tell her—baby girl at three this morning. She was all squished and loud, but super healthy and we both cried. Me, because I can’t believe something that big could come out of your vagina and her, because her little daughter finally made it into the world. Her family are with her now so I decided to come home and change. And of course to check on my big sister who hopefully got oodles of orgasms last night from her soulmate.”
Uhhhhhh, poor Belle.
She was going to be even more disappointed than I was.
“Well, it turns out that he wasn’t Edwin Carlisle. He was just some jerk who clearly was having a slow night and decided to use me as entertainment.” There was no easy way to put it, and telling her I’d dumbly fallen under his spell was just adding insult to injury.
“What?” she coughed out, her face displaying the same wide-eyed expression she’d had when she found out Santa Claus wasn’t real. “No, he’s the guy. They said his name over the speaker.”
“Belle, he played me. It wasn’t him. I don’t know who Edwin is or if he was even there. In any case, the guy we met last night was Lincoln Archer. A shark lawyer from Boston who is probably allergic to the truth.”
My assessment was probably harsher than what was needed but I was still feeling like a dumbass. Besides, it was mostly true.
“He’s a lawyer from Boston? He didn’t sound like he was from Mass.” She looked confused, rubbing her chin and ignoring the more important parts of my conversation.
Like him being a fraud and a liar.
I blew out a breath, rolling my eyes as I filled in the blanks. “That’s because he’s originally from New York. He just lives there for work. Or at least that’s what he says. He could have ten wives all in different states for all I know, and Boston is just his address of record.”
I didn’t really believe that.
Mainly because as much as I hated feeling deceived, he had stopped and come clean before we’d had sex. And let me be clear, I was soooooo ready to have sex with him last night. It might not have been typical Zara behavior but that didn’t make it any less true.
So had he been a complete jerk, con-artist, hustler—choose your favorite category of lowlife—he’d have let me make that mistake and then
told me who he was. Not like I’d asked to see his ID before he’d offered it, the voluntary proof of his name and address, initiated by him.
“No, this doesn’t make sense,” Belle protested, forever living in the delusion that most people had good intentions. It was something I both loved and worried about when it came to her.
I shook my head, wondering why on top of everything I’d been through last night—the embarrassment, the disappointment, etc.—I had to somehow be comforting someone else. “Belle, sometimes things don’t make sense. It doesn’t make them any less real. But that guy I was supposed to meet and have an epic love story with—doesn’t exist. And if anything, last night should prove that. Now tell me more about the squishy, ugly baby. I need to be prepared for when I visit and have to lay on the fake pleasantries.”
Hearing about Hayley’s baby was the last thing I wanted to do, but it would take the focus from me and that was what I wanted. Besides, Belle would probably have a million and one questions about Lincoln I couldn’t answer, and I wasn’t in the mood to feel dumber than I already did.
It had felt so . . . real.
The attraction, the ease of our conversation, how amazing it felt when he’d kissed me—all of it had been so effortless. Which was why I guess I still felt weird about it. Mourning the loss of something I hadn’t even had.
Thankfully, Belle took the hint and launched into a full, gory description of the birth and the baby. I could’ve probably been spared all the details about the episiotomy and subsequent stitching but whatever helped me get through the morning was welcomed.
After Belle had successfully convinced me never to have a child of my own, we moved out of my room and into the kitchen where we had breakfast. It was still early morning but Belle was tired from her eventful night so decided to go to bed and sleep. Meanwhile, I decided to gather my collection of strewn clothes from the living room, which had given Belle the wrong idea.
It wasn’t like me to be lazy or messy, which was probably why she’d assumed it had been done in the throes of passion. But, no, I’d just been tired and was giving myself permission to act like a normal twenty-eight-year-old.
