~ ~ ~
I look up at the tall building. Well, it’s tall to me. To everyone else, it’s nothing. Barely a blip on their radar. I get dizzy thinking about going to the top. This was a bad idea—for more than one reason.
“You look nice,” he says behind me.
I turn around and see Brett wearing khakis and a dress shirt with the top two buttons undone. My heart may skip a beat. I’ve seen him in his uniform. I’ve seen him in jeans. Heck, I’ve seen him naked. But Brett Cash dressed for dinner might be my favorite look of all.
I smooth my sundress. “So do you.”
“Are you nervous?”
I hold out my hand to show him it’s shaking. “Not at all.”
“It’s okay to be nervous, Emma, but don’t let it stop you.” He gestures to the sign for a first-floor lounge. “We’re early. Our reservation isn’t until seven-thirty. How about we stop here for a drink?”
“You think I need to get drunk to go up there?” I ask, craning my neck to look up twenty-one floors.
“I didn’t say let’s get drunk. I said let’s have a drink. As in one. It can help relax you.”
I give him a hard stare. “I’m not sleeping with you again.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not trying to get you into bed. I’m just trying to get you to the twenty-first floor. I hear they serve a mean filet mignon.”
“What if I’m vegan?”
He looks a little green. “Are you?”
I chuckle. “No.”
He opens the door for me. “Shall we?”
I glance up at the top floor again, and my heart races.
“We’re going into the lobby,” he says, seeing my reaction. “Baby steps, remember?”
I raise an index finger. “One drink.”
Inside he pulls out a barstool for me. It’s nice to know chivalry isn’t dead even though this isn’t a date.
I think of the four outfits and three pairs of shoes I tried on before settling on the sundress. I’ve never put so much thought into what I’m wearing. Not even for actual dates I’ve gone on.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks.
I order the house chardonnay, and Brett asks for a Crown and Coke. “Have you ever been to Seasons Twenty-One?” I ask.
“No. But my friend, Bass, and his wife go there a lot. He’s the one who recommended it.”
“Do you go out much?”
“Some. A night out with the guys here and there. Sometimes we go to a baseball game.”
“But not to dinner?”
He takes a sip of his drink, eyeing me over the rim of the glass. “Are you asking if I go on a lot of dates?”
“Of course not,” I say, taking a drink of my wine. “But now that you brought it up, do you?”
A smile spreads across his face. “I just got my final divorce papers a few weeks ago, so no, I don’t date a lot. How about you?”
I shrug. “A little.”
“When is the last time you went on a date?”
“About a month ago I guess.”
“Didn’t work out? Did he have bad breath? A third nipple? A hairy back maybe?”
I laugh. “No, no, and no. I just rarely go on second dates.”
“Oh.” He looks at me sideways. “Well I know you don’t have bad breath or a hairy back. And I definitely would have found a third nipple. So I doubt the issue is with you. They must all be duds. Are they teachers?”
“Some.”
“Some? Just how many dates do you go on?”
The conversation is getting too personal, but I can’t think of anything to say, so I blurt, “Are you hungry? Should we go eat?”
“You’re ready? You’ve barely touched your wine.”
I bring the glass to my lips and gulp the rest. Then I leave a twenty for the bartender. “There. Ready.”
Brett gazes at the money I left on the counter. I can almost see the battle going on in his mind. “Fine. But I’m paying for dinner.”
“I thought dinner was payment for you fixing my sink.”
“Going to dinner was payment, not paying for it.”
“You can’t buy my dinner, Brett. This isn’t a date.”
“I get that I haven’t done this in almost ten years, and maybe times have changed, but date or not, I’m a guy and you’re a girl, and I’m not letting you pay for dinner. If you think that’s somehow sexist of me, then I’m sorry, but that’s how I roll.”
I have a hard time not smiling. He’s pretty handsome when he’s demanding. “Fine. Pay for dinner. Jeez. Did you always get your way when you were married?”
As we step inside the elevator, I think that maybe Brett was right. Having a drink before going up does help.
“Amanda,” he says angrily and moves to the back wall.
“Yeah, did you always get your way with Amanda?”
He nods to the person walking up to the elevator. “No, that’s Amanda.”
Oh, God. His ex is about to get on the elevator with us.
Two beautiful women, one blonde, one brunette, get in the elevator, both of them oblivious to Brett and me. They are chatting away about a “spring line” when Brett interrupts them.
“What the fuck, Amanda?”
They stop talking and the blonde turns around and looks at Brett and then at me. She looks at me the way someone might look at a piece of gum on the bottom of a shoe.
“Brett,” she says in a high-pitched voice that can’t possibly be real. “How nice to see you.”
“You’re kidding, right?” he barks. “I haven’t heard from you since Leo’s birthday and you just step in this elevator like you live here and not three thousand miles away. Were you even going to tell me you were in town? Were you going to take two fucking minutes out of your day to come and see your son?”
“I literally just got into town,” she says.
“Yet you had plenty of time to get all gussied up for a night out,” he says.
“I was going to call you tomorrow.”
“It’s good to know you have your priorities in line.”
“This is my job, Brett.”
The woman Amanda is with is wearing a flashy skirt and low-cut top. He sticks out a hand. “Brett Cash. You’re obviously someone very important. President of the company perhaps? Is this a business meeting to save the fashion industry from imminent demise? It must be if it keeps her from picking up the goddamn phone and calling her son, who she hasn’t seen in months.”
The woman has no clue what to do. She shakes his hand. “Uh … hi. I’m Victoria.”
“Brett, quit it,” Amanda scolds. “It’s not that big a deal. He’s two. It’s not like one day will make a difference. I was going to call tomorrow. I promise I was.”
He laughs. “As if your promises mean anything.” He’s fuming inside.
Amanda apologizes to Victoria and then gives me the once-over, as if I’m her competition or something. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your little friend?”
Little friend? I’m not sure if it’s her condescending tone, the complacency she expresses when it comes to her child, or the mere fact that she seems like a cold-hearted bitch, but I make a split-second decision to stick it to her.
I scoot over next to Brett and take his hand. “Actually, we crossed that threshold long ago. Didn’t we, babe?”
He’s taken aback to see me looking into his eyes, batting my eyelashes, but he recovers quickly and tries to suppress a smile. “This is Emma,” he says, lifting my hand to his mouth and kissing it.
“Emma,” Amanda says flatly, sizing me up like a predator considering its prey. “How long have you been fucking my husband?”
I smile and push a stray hair lovingly off Brett’s forehead. “Don’t you mean ex-husband?”
She huffs as the elevator doors open. They walk out ahead of us and Brett beams. “That was awesome,” he whispers.
“Oh, you thought we were done?” I ask.
He looks sideways at me.<
br />
We patiently wait for Amanda and Victoria to check in with the hostess and then, while they are waiting for someone to escort them to their table, I walk up to the hostess stand and say loudly, “Please don’t forget about the romantic table for two my boyfriend requested for our very special occasion.”
“Uh, of course not,” the hostess says, clearly confused as she scrambles to find the nonexistent notes on our reservation.
Amanda’s back is stiff as a board when they are led to their table. I fight a grin. I’m having so much fun.
I whisper to the poor hostess caught up in our dramatics, “I was just messing with that woman. We didn’t really request that.”
She sighs. “Oh, good. I thought I messed up. Between you and me, feel free to let me know how I can help. That woman is awful.”
“Really? What did she say to you?” I ask.
“Nothing tonight, but she comes in a lot. The waitstaff hate her.”
Brett joins our quiet conversation. “She comes in a lot? Which one, the blonde or the brunette?”
“The blonde.”
Brett looks like he’s about to blow a gasket. “Do you recall the last time she was here?”
“I can tell you exactly when it was because she got my boyfriend fired. It was last Saturday. She sent her food back three times. He got fed up and read her the riot act.”
“Last Saturday,” Brett says, gazing at Amanda across the room as if he’s going to kill her. He takes a step in her direction, but I hold him back.
“Nothing you say to her will make a bit of difference. But I know for a fact that what you do might just drive her crazy.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s his ex-wife,” I say to the hostess. “If you really want to help, seat us where she can have a clear view, then give us the VIP treatment. We’ll give her an Oscar-worthy show that will have her throwing a temper tantrum for sure.”
The hostess laughs. “Gladly. Give me a few minutes to set it up.”
Brett looks at me thoughtfully. “Emma, not to freak you out or anything, but we’re on the twenty-first floor.”
My stomach rolls for a moment as his words sink in. I’d forgotten why we’re even here. I cross to the windows and look at the street below, then locate all the exits in the room. I look at Brett and know he’ll protect me at all costs. After all, he already has.
An hour and a half later, while we’re killing the last of the expensive bottle of champagne the hostess sent over, I find myself getting too much into the part I’m playing. For the last ninety minutes, Brett and I have been flirting incessantly to make his ex jealous. And he’s very good at it.
He touches me when he talks. Sometimes it’s my hand or my arm. He leans across the table and caresses my face. He removes a dab of sauce from my lips—licking his finger after.
I find myself squirming in my chair. We’re doing this for Amanda’s benefit, but I’ve never been so turned on.
After our dessert comes, he moves his chair closer to mine so we can share the chocolate delight. He goes all out, spooning bites into my mouth. I go all out, exclaiming at the decadence before I kiss him.
I kiss him right here in the middle of the restaurant. When I accidentally brush his lap, I feel what this night is doing to him. He’s as turned on as I am.
“Is she looking?” I ask, when I pull my lips away from his.
“Who cares?” he says, gazing into my eyes.
“Brett,” I say with a sigh. I pull back, realizing what a bad idea this was.
“Emma, don’t push me away. Not because she’s watching, but because you know we are great together.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I say, with less conviction than I meant.
His hand finds its way under the hem of my dress, and he caresses my thigh. I don’t push him away because I’m still playing a part. Or am I?
He leans close. “I want to make you come,” he whispers. “I’ve seen your face when you do. When my tongue circles your clit, you claw at my hair because you love it so much. When I suck on your nipples, you arch your back into me because you want me. When you hold my cock in your hands, it takes everything I have not to explode. And when I’m inside you, Jesus, it’s perfection.”
He’s still ten inches away from touching me there, but I’m ready to detonate from his words alone. I close my eyes in defeat. “Not to sound cliché or anything, but … check please.”
He laughs, his hot breath flowing over my ear.
And for the rest of the evening, I’m pretty sure neither of us can even recall his ex’s name.
Chapter Nineteen
Brett
Emma nudges me when I start to fall asleep. “You have to go.”
I look at the clock. It’s just after midnight. “You’re not a cuddler, are you?”
“No, so if that’s what you want, you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“I’m not sure what I want,” I say. “It’s been a long time since I did this.”
She rises on an elbow. “Are you telling me I was your first since Amanda?”
I nod. “How long has it been for you?” I quickly put my finger to her lips to stop her from speaking. “Wait—I’m not sure I want you to answer that. I think I’d like to remain blissfully unaware.”
“Shh,” she says when I get too loud.
I sit up and pull my pants on. That's when I notice the pile of clothes draped across the chair in the corner. Nice stuff, like the sundress she wore tonight. It makes me smile to think she couldn’t decide what to wear for our non-date.
She gets out of bed, puts on a robe, and eases open the door. She listens for a moment, then goes into the hall and looks down the stairs. “The coast is clear. Please be quiet. And lock the door on your way out.”
“You’re not walking me to the door?” I whisper.
“I’m pretty sure you don’t need an escort, Brett.”
“When can I see you again?”
“When you look out your window,” she whispers. “Now go. They’ll hear us.”
I hesitate, wanting to get a better read on the situation, but now is not the time for that conversation. I lean in and give her a peck on the cheek. “Bye, Emma. Thanks for tonight.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. Once again I wonder if she regrets sleeping with me. After she sees me descending the stairs, she shuts her bedroom door.
I don’t get it. One minute she’s telling me she can’t date a firefighter, and the next we’re in bed together. Maybe she doesn’t want to date. Maybe she just wants to fuck. If so, am I okay with that?
As I’m pondering my question, I reach for the front door. But then I catch movement to my left and look over to find a girl staring at me from a doorway. Shit, Evelyn.
She knows I’ve seen her. I can hardly walk out without acknowledging her. “Hey there,” I say quietly.
She opens her door fully and steps into the moonlit foyer. “Are you my mom’s boyfriend?”
I nod to the stairs. “I don’t think you were supposed to see me.”
“So, you’re not her boyfriend?”
Something about this girl is familiar. “Do I know you?”
She flicks on the light, and I look apprehensively up the stairs.
“Don’t worry. She’s in the shower,” the girl says. “She doesn’t ever come down after.”
I try to ignore the implication of that statement when I recognize this is the girl I saw with the Pop-Tarts and coffee at the store a few weeks ago. It dawns on me that’s also why Emma looked familiar. She was the one staring at Leo. “You’re Evelyn?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She steps forward and offers me her hand. “Evie. My mom’s the only one who calls me Evelyn.”
“Evie. Right.” I shake her hand. “We met before. At the corner store.”
“You’re Leo’s dad,” she says. Then she motions up the stairs. “I’m going to assume he doesn’t have a mom or you’d be a pretty terrible human.”
I laugh. “Leo’s mom and I are divorced. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Evie takes a seat on the bottom step. “It’s the stairs. They creak when someone comes down, and my bedroom is right under them.”
“Ah, so you’re not a heavy sleeper.”
“Is that what my mom told you?” she says, laughing quietly. “She thinks I don’t know things, but I do. Please don’t tell her we ran into each other.”
“You don’t want her to know?”
She shakes her head adamantly. “First off, she’d be mad at you. And I don’t want her to be mad at you. I like you. Secondly, she’d think I was disappointed in her, and I wouldn’t want her thinking that.”
“Are you?” I ask. “Disappointed in her?”
“Of course not. I just want her to be happy.”
I look up the stairs to make sure Emma isn’t standing in the hallway. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with her daughter. “Do you think she is?”
Evie shrugs. “I think she’s … content.”
“Are you sure you’re only twelve?”
“Twelve going on thirty,” she says. “At least that’s what Grandma always says.”
I chuckle.
“You’re the only one who’s ever stopped to talk to me,” she says.
I try not to think of the others who may have snuck down these stairs before me. “I am?”
“Yup. They look at me and then go right out the door. They completely ignore me, like I’m not even here. Why do you think they do that?”
“May I?” I ask, gesturing to the step.
She scoots over and makes room for me.
“First off,” I say, using her words, “they probably have no idea what to say to you. They’re trying to sneak out of your house undetected. Secondly, you’re pretty intimidating for a kid.”
She giggles. “But you talked to me. Are you a teacher?”
“I’m a firefighter.”
“Shut up,” she says in disbelief. “You’re a firefighter? Wait—are you the one who was at the school with my mom and that guy who got shot? Is that how you met?”
“Guilty,” I say.
She bounces. “I like you even more now. You’re like my mom’s hero.”
The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 70
