by Julie Olivia
And I picture ice blue eyes staring right back at me.
15
Ian
Six years ago
“I’m tired,” Cameron says. “Please let me go home.”
My long arm blocks the aisle leading away from Cameron’s desk. A couple months ago, he negotiated with the former desk occupant to get the coveted corner area. Although he says it helps him focus more, it’s also working against him in this moment as I passively block his route out. Unless he barrels through me—which he could—then he’s staying right where he is.
“I’ll buy you dinner,” I say, hoping this will convince him because he’s a damn cheapskate, but he only shakes his head in response.
“No,” he says. “I’m already working late, and Abby is pissed she has to take Buddy on a walk as it is.”
“Come on,” I plead. “A steak.” I’m shuffling side to side as he tries to move past me, blocking every attempt he makes to slip by. “I’ll buy you a steak at that fancy-pants place. You know the one.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Cam stops trying to dodge me, adjusts the strap of his work bag over his arm, and then smirks. “Promise steak.”
“I promise.”
“Fine, just let me call Abby first,” he says, pointing at me and using his shoulder to push past as I pump my fist in the air in victory.
I’m not exactly holding Cam hostage from his girlfriend and puppy, but I selfishly kind of am. I just don’t feel like going to my house yet. While Cam rents a place with his small family, I decided to be a big boy with my big boy lawyer money and purchase a fancy new townhome…and now I’m just a poor lawyer with his entire savings shot to shit. Because of this, I have an undressed mattress plopped in the center of my living room and a mounted TV over the fireplace. Not exactly the most exciting place to call home.
Mostly I’m tired of going back to the same oversized townhome only to lie on the bare mattress and stare at the vaulted ceilings and think.
I hate just thinking. It leads to places I’d rather not go. You would imagine that, after a few years, certain memories would no longer haunt me. You would be wrong.
I’ll splurge for a steak if it will keep my mind off of a swerving car and the bright lights of a hospital room, blurred from tears.
Cam and I pull up to the restaurant and he whistles low. I realize this place never lost its luster. It’s not exactly a large building, and it’s a bit secluded from the restaurants surrounding it. It’s not much to look at from the street, but once you get closer, the ornate decorations on the outside and large wooden double doors—which must be a couple inches thick—show the quality of the square footage over quantity.
My parents used to take my sister and me to this steak restaurant when we were younger. We really had no idea we were eating such luxury food until we were old enough to try to go on our own with our silly college jobs. Yes, a forty-dollar steak will humble you real quick.
The valet takes the car from us while Cam runs his hand through his hair, slicking it back and almost stumbling over the curb once the car drives away.
“You’ve got to call me ‘Daddy’ while we’re here if I pay for your meal,” I joke with a grin.
“Sure, Daddy,” he deadpans.
We walk in and easily get a table because who else is at this place on a Tuesday night? While we’re being escorted back, I see a shock of white-blonde hair appear out of the corner of my eye. Two white-blondes, actually. One of them is a bulky woman with shorter hair and the figure of an Olympic athlete, and across from her is undeniably our HR manager, Nia Smith, sitting with an elegant smile across her face. The heels of her palms meet at her chin as her fingers splay across her cheeks. Her hair is twisted into a bun, and she wears a modest, flowing short-sleeved top.
Wow, she’s stunning.
“Nia!” I yell over to her. The sound of my voice causes her eyes to widen and her back to arch like a cat. I walk to her table, abandoning Cam and the hostess in favor of getting closer to Nia and her blonde friend.
“Oh, Ian.” She still seems to be in some shell-shocked state. “Hi.”
“What brings you and your friend here tonight?” I ask, turning to direct my smile at the woman across from her. I realize my mistake immediately.
As it turns out, the bulky girl across from her is actually a dude with incredibly good hair that hits just below his ears. However, despite his naturally luscious locks that could rival Fabio’s, he also wears an ill-fitting turquoise polo that has small smears of…what is that? Grease? Dirt?
I tense. Is Nia on a date? With this guy?
“I’m at dinner, Ian,” Nia says, her voice stilted and terse. “What are you doing here?” I’m still looking at her date, who has a good-natured smile on his face with kind eyes that already seem to be laughing before his body can catch up.
“I’m Harry,” he says, standing and leaning over the table with his hand extended.
“Ian,” I respond. His eyes widen as if my name means something to him. He even passes a glance over to Nia, whose mouth is in a permanent straight line. Jealousy zaps through my muscles as I shake his hand.
“Nia, what a surprise!” Cam calls from behind me, jogging up to greet the table.
Nia’s face drops more. “Crazy,” she says with zero enthusiasm. Maybe this was a much more intimate dinner that we interrupted. Third date, maybe? My chest feels like it’s curling in on itself, and I do the only thing I can think to do.
“Two chairs over here!” I yell out.
“Oh, no, we were just…” Nia starts, but the muscled surfer-looking dude across from her waves his hand in protest.
“Sure!” he bellows, picking up his glass of wine from the table and raising it toward us. “The more, the merrier! We’re celebrating anyway, aren’t we?”
Nia buries her face in her hands, and in thirty seconds, two new chairs are added to this already crowded round table, much to the chagrin of an uncomfortable server who can tell this will never work with plates. I nestle in between Nia and Harry with Cameron situated across from me, immediately engrossed in the menu.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask. Engagement? A baby? Maybe he just lost his court case and this is their last meal before he’s locked in jail for a few years? One can hope.
“She just passed her certification exam,” Harry says, reaching across the table and slapping Nia’s wrist to coax her out from behind her hands. She peeks through her fingers and I see a slight smile forming on her face.
“That’s great!” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “What’s it for?”
“Human Resources Senior Certification,” she mumbles through her hands, as if trying to hide from the embarrassment.
“It’s a big deal,” Harry says out of the corner of his mouth, the back of his hand slanted against his lips as if sharing a secret even though he is not speaking quietly at all. The small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth again.
How does he keep making her smile? What type of unseen power is that? It irks me even more that he knows her well enough to take her out to a celebratory dinner. New boyfriends don’t do that.
“That’s awesome!” I toss my hands in the air in a touchdown-style pose. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” she grumbles with an awkward laugh, sipping at her glass of wine and looking around the restaurant, almost as if to assure herself nobody is watching this charade.
“So how do you all know each other?” Harry says, pointing between the three of us.
“Work,” I respond. “Yeah, Polly and I have been working together…how many years again?”
Harry spits against his glass, sputtering red wine against the other side. I get a small ounce of joy at how silly this makes him appear. He wipes his chin with a nearby napkin. “Apparently long enough for you to call her by a nickname.” He looks at her. “You hate nicknames.”
What nicknames has he tried to call her? Baby? Dearest? And what does she call him? Big
daddy?
I shudder.
“I don’t like it,” Nia insists, leaning forward to hiss the words at the table as if daring anyone else to use that nickname. Or maybe she’s avoiding the potential for a precedence to be set with this guy. Good; I like being the only one to call her Polly.
The server lifts the wine bottle from the middle of the table and displays it to me, but I shake my head and point to another choice on the menu.
“Oh, no, you shouldn’t,” Nia protests once her eyes spot the name. Sure, it is a bit more expensive, but who needs furniture for a townhome when you can treat a woman to some damn good wine? It’s not like I’m trying to one-up her date, but fuck it, maybe I am.
“My treat,” I insist, gesturing for the apprehensive server to continue getting the bottle, much to Nia’s dismay. “It’s a celebration!”
She leans back in her chair with her arms crossed. “Why are you two here?” she snaps, making Harry’s eyebrows rise.
“That’s rude, Nia. He just bought us wine,” he says. If only he knew.
I respond with a wave of my hand. “I’ve gotten used to Nia being irritated by me.”
“I thought you liked work,” Harry says with a smirk. A pink tint crawls up Nia’s neck and cheeks. So, she does like us.
“We test her limits, I think,” I say, tossing her a wink. Her face progresses to a deeper pink, stark against her ivory skin. “In truth, I just had a long day. Needed some relaxation.” I shrug, throwing my arms up and behind my head to lean back in my chair in some relaxed pigeon pose or whatever. (I’ve only done yoga twice. I don’t really know what it’s called.)
Nia’s mouth gapes open for a second until she regains the composure to close it again. Harry’s eyebrows are raised almost to his white-blond hairline, but he still wears a lopsided smile, as if amused by my answer.
“Wait, so you’re saying you just come here on a whim?” he asks. “This place?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Why not?”
I look between the two and it dawns on me that this was the incorrect answer if there ever was one. His ratty shirt, her hair in an uncharacteristically elegant top knot, the wine bottle that is definitely one of the less expensive selections on the menu…I’m suddenly embarrassed.
“Are you guys getting steaks too?” Cameron asks, laying his menu down on the table with a toothy grin.
Damn it, man. Read the room.
“Uh…” Harry says, peering down at the menu again.
“Haven’t decided, huh?” I jump in with a quick laugh, trying to cover my ass as best I can, but I’ve already made my obvious privilege apparent, and I’m cringing internally. He laughs back, clearing his throat and tossing a glance over at Nia, who is now shooting daggers in my direction.
I feel absolutely horrible. This schlub just wanted to take a beautiful woman out to dinner for a huge accomplishment, and I’m the entitled asshole who ruined that. Hell, I wish I had thought to take her out to dinner first, although that would have required me even knowing she was studying for some big-shot test.
“They have good sandwiches,” he says offhandedly, perusing the menu and clearing his throat again. “Isn’t tofu your favorite?” He flattens his menu to the table as she narrows her eyes at him.
“Hush, you,” she shoots back.
“Tofu?” I ask, shaking my head. “I didn’t know you like tofu.”
“I don’t,” she says, lifting her menu again. I hate feeling out of the loop, but it’s clear they’ve got their own language going on. My hair stands on end and chills run down my spine in irritation.
“How long have you guys known each other?” Cameron asks before I get the chance. Probably for the best. I’ve been dominating this conversation and I know it, but I’m desperate to know the answer as well. I can’t tell if I’ll hate him more or less if I find out they’re in a long-term relationship.
I shouldn’t be the jealous one here. He should be shaking in his work boots. Aren’t I the man who visits her office first thing in the morning five days a week? Aren’t I the man she kicks out thirty minutes later? He should be so lucky to be the guy she loves to hate.
“You could say we’ve known each other a while.” Harry laughs, staring me right in the face.
My blood boils. He’s just so damn chill about this whole thing. Is that what the kids say now? Chill? Maybe not, but how does someone have that much chill?
“Great,” I say, drawing the word out. “And by ‘a while’…would you say that’s like…five years? Ten?”
“How long, Nia?” he asks, as if consulting her on their intimate history. She starts to smile back at him, and I just imagine they’re loving this game. They won’t tell me. Why won’t they tell me? What is it about their relationship that makes them seem like they can’t tell one simple date in time in which they met? Was it in college? Was it last year? Did I know her first? And why does that seem like an important detail?
“Weird how time flies by, right?” she says, a smile tugging at her full lips again. They’re sharing some secret. They’re looking at each other in that way, the way that implies they’re lost in each other—or teasing me.
“Weird how?” I ask. Am I out of breath? Is my heart pounding? Just fucking tell me how you guys met. Why is this a secret? I don’t understand these cute glances at each other. Is it really that special? “Did you meet at a bar? A club? Website?”
Across the table, Cameron is lifting an eyebrow at me. I can practically see the thoughts of Dude, what the hell written on his face. I might be sweating.
“He’s my brother,” Nia groans loudly, leaning her head back in frustration. “He’s my brother, Ian. Geez, stop with the inquisition.”
“Oh.”
Right. The identical white-blond hair. The inside jokes. The celebration dinner.
“Pleasure to meet you, Nia’s brother,” Cameron says with an exhalation, shaking hands with Harry over the menu. He shoots a wide-eyed look at me as if the entire interaction exhausted him beyond belief. Harry takes the hand then chuckles, also tossing me a look.
He’s laughing at me. I have clearly been very jealous of this innocent dinner with his sister, and everyone at this table can glean that. I look like a fucking idiot.
His sister.
Jealous.
The pure rage I just felt at Harry, such a relaxed, down-to-earth guy with his long hair and easygoing demeanor…it was uncalled for. I’ve never had that type of reaction. Is it because she’s out of my league? Because she so clearly is. She’s interesting, and I’m just a lawyer. She’s still getting certifications while I just passed the bar and called it a career.
No, it’s the look she gives me—the one she’s shooting in my direction right now—that sets my soul alight. My reckless behavior doesn’t make her swoon like it might other women. Instead, she builds walls between us—not just walls, but houses, buildings, neighborhoods, cities constructed through sarcasm and contempt.
I didn’t realize until this moment just how bad I want to see through the stucco.
16
Nia
Present day
I’m hot.
Really hot.
Seriously—why is it so hot?
I’m in hell. It’s happened. I masturbated to Ian Chambers. This is a very real thing.
Beads of sweat run over my head, chest, and stomach, and not in an attractive way. I open my eyes and immediately shut them when I’m greeted by the glare of the sun trying to blind me. Ow.
The bed and I are like ants under a magnifying glass in the window-filtered sunlight. Rolling my body over to the other side of the bed, I feel the coolness of the now shaded sheets, smooth against my shirtless chest. Much better. I flop onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.
So, am I really in my bed? Well, of course I’m not in my true bed, the one with numerous pillows and a fluffy cat, but am I still in a hotel bed under my name, one that’s…not Ian’s bed?
It’s surreal that I am actually concerned thi
s may be an issue.
I slowly sit up on my elbows, cringing at the effort of it all while trying to ignore my nauseating headache, and look around. All the blankets are bunched near my feet with only the fitted sheet clinging on for dear life; my shirt is tossed a few inches away from me, also crumpled into a mess; and a DVD case is teetering on the edge of the TV stand with very naked people on very full display.
Oh.
I lower myself back down—making sure to keep one eye on the DVD just in case because I’m fairly sure it’s taunting me now—and rest my hands on my stomach as I try to parse through the events of last night.
“I’m no different.”
“Yes, you are.”
It would have been all too easy for me to waltz back into Ian’s hotel room last night. Just one hand placed on the correct spot on my lower back or only a few more sweet, well-placed words, and I might have been a goner.
Oh god, I was a mess.
I throw my hand over my face and groan. I don’t know the last time I was that drunk. In college, I was never much of a drinker or a partier. I wanted to study, save money, and make sure those red pens scribbled shiny As on all my essays. Did it sometimes stop me from having a healthy, normal-twenty-something social life? I like to think instead I just experienced an alternative route to my thirties that involved fewer hangovers and more worry-free visits to the gynecologist, but this life also prevented me from building up my alcohol tolerance and learning how to deal with confident, sexy men like Ian Chambers, and I’m feeling the brunt of both now.
Congratulations, Ian Chambers. You won. And what do I get now? A hangover and a full day of guilt.
Thanks a lot.
As much as I would love to sit here and wallow in self-pity, complaining about how I gave in to some wild, gorgeous man’s wishes, there’s no point in doing so. The best thing to do now is to move forward with my head held high and to see that the naughty DVD is thrown out. I swear the actors on the case throw me a wink like, We know what you did, you naughty bitch.
