by Sierra Hill
Traveling cross-country is never at the top of my favorite things to do list, but in this case, it was well worth the time and fatigue. A new client in San Francisco requested my presence at their quarterly board meeting, at which I outlined just how fantastic their portfolio was doing. I walked away from that meeting a very happy man.
Or at least as happy as I can be when I wake up every day with a sense of dread and deep regret following me around like a dark, ominous cloud.
But the trajectory of positivity I’d amassed from the meeting promptly ended there.
When I arrived at the airport for my return flight to New York, I learned it was delayed. Which then turned into canceled because of the severe summer weather across the Midwest. Fuck global warming.
My only option was to stay overnight at the airport Hilton. It wasn’t so bad at first. I had a place to stay and a decent dinner accompanied by a pint of Guinness, but then I was propositioned by a tranny prostitute named Stella in the lobby bar.
Which, hey, I hold nothing against anyone if you’re into that. To each their own. But things got really weird after politely turning Stella down. She kept grabbing for my hand and trying to get me to squeeze her breasts, suggesting how real they felt and all the amazing things she could do with them. And that’s when I called it a night.
My flight this morning was on time, and I spent most of the five-hour trip catching up on some work with my inflight WiFi. The minute I touched down at JFK, I cabbed it back to the office to make a staff meeting scheduled at four p.m., which because of Graham’s absence, I was in charge of running. I finished the night with a seven o’clock business dinner with Tommy, a client who likes to drink. And when he gets a good buzz on, he likes to sip old, expensive scotch and shoot the shit.
Our meeting ran well over five hours until I finally ordered him an Uber to take him home and cabbed it back home myself. All I want to do now is strip off this suit and tie, slip into some athletic shorts and have one more drink before hitting the hay.
A sticky note with a smiley face on the outside of my door draws me to a stop. With the keys in my grip, poised to unlock the door, I cock my head at the little yellow paper, tearing it off with more force than necessary and giving it a read.
Miles,
Hi! To say thank you for your help retrieving Blackie the other night, I made you a special dinner. Stop by anytime to retrieve it.
Sutton (the Morgan’s dog sitter)
I read it curiously, her unusual name niggling at something in the back of my mind. It’s different but also familiar somehow. Either way, it’s late, and I’ve already eaten tonight, so I crumple up the note, unlock my door, and then drop it in the wastebasket.
Suspicion trickles down my spine. Have I slept with this woman before? Maybe that’s why she seems familiar.
Based on my memory of her the other night, however, and the sexy body of hers in that tiny sleep set she wore, she seems far too young for the likes of me. I would put her around college age, maybe a smidgeon older, but definitely younger by at least five years. It’s probably a good guess that we didn’t attend college or business school together.
Perhaps she worked for Morgan Financial in the past as a student intern. Graham hires a gaggle of interns every year, providing them great opportunities to learn the investment business. He’d mentioned she’s our marketing manager, Ben’s cousin, so perhaps there’s a chance she’d been in the office, and I’ve passed her in the hallways.
Who knows? Regardless, I have no time or desire for her antics or niceties. If my suspicions are valid, she’s likely trying to butter me up and bribe me so I’ll keep my mouth shut and not mention the temporary misplacement of Blackie to Graham.
Honestly, ratting her out was the furthest thing from my mind since the night of the fire alarm, and now that I’ve had time to reflect, I don’t see a point in stirring up trouble. I’ll just keep a watch on things and keep an ear to the ground—or the wall—to make sure she’s not getting out of hand. If she throws even one party, I’ll be up in her ass so fast. . .
The thought about her ass and being up in it has my dick twitching at the prospect. Shit, I’m not only tired, but I need to get laid soon. I shouldn’t be thinking about the hot young dog sitter next door.
Tearing my clothes off and throwing them in the hamper, a whiff of my undershirt suggests I am badly in need of a shower. I take a quick one, ignoring my aching cock, before pulling on my light gray lounge pants, forgoing a shirt, to allow my body to cool down.
After my shower, I pour myself a scotch, neat, and plop down on my sofa with a sigh of contentment. Reaching for the remote next to me, I turn on the television and flip through a few stations until I come to the hockey game highlights.
Nice. I can catch up on the Rangers and then head to bed.
The knock on my door is both alarming and annoying because I have an inkling I know exactly who it is.
Fuck, was she waiting to pounce the moment I returned home?
Christ almighty, all I want is some uninterrupted downtime. Is that too much to ask for?
Swinging my legs off the couch, I rumble with anger as my feet meet the soft wool of the rug, landing harder than necessary. I took no part in decorating my place. When I purchased it two years ago, I hired a high cost and well-known designer who took care of everything for me. She also took care of me—in the bedroom—during the redesign phase. If I recall, she was very competent in all that she did to and for me.
Now turned on once again, I realize the last time I got laid was the night with Margo, and lack of sex has me even surlier than I typically am on any given night. Let’s face it, the woman standing on the other side of this door will catch hell from me tonight because I am not in the mood for company.
Unless she’s offering that ass.
Then I might reconsider. I’ll have to see how things go.
With a snarl, I unlatch the locks and punch in the security code, swinging the door wide to find just who I expected standing outside the doorway.
“What?” I bark, gaining an evil satisfaction knowing I’ve startled her as she jumps back a step.
Sutton regains her balance, fumbling with a tower of food containers in her hands, working to ensure they don’t topple over. I lower my head, my menacing glare penetrating her soft features, the tight muscle in my jaw twitching as she chews her lips nervously.
Her eyes slowly drift down my bare chest, and then a little lower, before she swiftly lifts her gaze back to meet mine. Her wide-eyed expression is almost comical enough to make me smile because it’s obvious she noticed my semi pressed firmly against the thin material of my sleep pants. Good.
For some unknown reason, I enjoy making her feel uncomfortable. She’s easy to rile up and agitate. It brings back memories of being a kid and teasing my little sister and her friends, getting them to shriek and laugh and run away as I chased them around the house.
Maybe it’d be fun to chase this hot girl around the bedroom.
My icy glare cuts into her more, and she sways a bit under my scrutiny.
“You realize it’s after midnight, don’t you? I could’ve been sleeping.”
The covered dishes wobble again in her nervous hands, another Jenga-like jiggle, as she inhales a sexy gasp, her face covered with a sudden blush. Which I dare say, despite the interruption, is rather cute.
She’s actually rather cute. No, not just cute. She borders on beautiful.
Pouty, full lips, with an indentation in the bottom center that looks like someone at birth left a thumb in the plushy softness just for fun. A pretty nose that slopes a bit at the tip, making it adorably kissable. Deep hazel eyes that extract more green than gray, with flecks of gold scattered about that seem to express sincerity and honesty. As if they’ve never held or told a lie.
And her slender neck exposed because her rich auburn hair is piled high in a messy bun, beckons to be skimmed with my fingers and sucked by my lips and tongue.
My body inconv
eniently reacts even further. My erection grows hard and hot with seething want. Placing my hands in front of my crotch, I do my best to appear bored and irritated with her arrival, as I mentally reprimand myself for taking notice of her physical beauty.
Nope, nope, nope. Not happening, dude.
“Oh. . . hi, Miles. I know it’s late. . .” she stammers, her lashes blinking furiously, teeth scraping over her bottom lip again.
My aggravated sigh turns soft, much to my chagrin. “What do you want?”
I hope she’ll get to the point quickly if I continue acting like a dick, sending her scurrying away whence she came. I now want more than ever for Sutton just to leave me alone so I can forget the way she seems to bubble hot over my skin, heating me like an icy-hot ointment.
I don’t want anyone to get close. It’s the way it’s been for years and the way it has to remain—the only way I can survive. If being a bastard and a prick is how I accomplish that goal, then so be it.
I am not a man deserving of homemade meals, sweet, apologetic gestures, or kindness. Not after what happened with my Mel.
Not after what I let happen to my baby sister.
Sutton stands in front of me, uncertainty flickering through her eyes as she shifts the dishes to balance in one hand and gives a tiny wave with the other. “Um, so did you get my note?”
I feel a bit of guilt when I roll my eyes and reply with harsh sarcasm, “Yeah, I got it. What are you, like, in high school or something? Needing to pass notes in the hallway?”
Sutton chuckles nervously, perhaps misunderstanding that my mocking criticism is meant to be unkind, not humorous.
“No, of course not. It’s just that I couldn’t get ahold of you any other way. I made all this food and didn’t want it to go to waste.”
She shoves the stack of containers toward me, and I stare down at it, unmoving and unwilling to take the bait. My hands clench in fists at my sides before I purposely cross them over my bare chest in defiance.
But this doesn’t deter her one bit, and I don’t know if that makes me like her more or less or find her more attractive. It’s a toss-up at the moment.
Hesitating only for a moment more, she pinches her brows together and frowns disapprovingly before clutching the food to her chest, then skirts past me through my open doorway. Right into my apartment.
I gawk at her audacity but say nothing. I turn to watch her over my shoulder as she makes her way into the kitchen. Finding space on the counter, she sets the containers down before opening the fridge and rummaging around for God knows what.
“Please come in and make yourself at home,” I deadpan. “But I’ll have you know your efforts are for nothing and the food will just go to waste. I already ate dinner tonight, and I rarely eat meals at home.”
She bends over at the waist, the position lifting the bottom of her shorts, so a peek of curvy ass winks at me, as if to say, “you know you want it.” It begs the question of whether it’s the food or the woman I might crave later.
She arranges the containers in the fridge, tilting her head toward me to the side, a smile edging at the corner of her mouth, pity lacing over her pretty lips.
“Well, that’s just sad, Miles. Everyone should have home-cooked meals every once in a while. My family used to have Sunday dinners, and we’d eat leftovers for days.”
Out of nowhere, a pang of grief hits me squarely in my chest. The memory of my baby sister standing on a stepstool at the stove, Granny next to her in her apron as she instructed Mel on the finer points of making her famous fried chicken. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever found a replacement for Granny’s food.
“Miles, are you okay?”
I blink, startled that Sutton is now so close, the warmth of the memory immediately fading and turning cold. My gaze drops to where Sutton places a gentle hand on my forearm, where the soft brush of her fingertips sends darts shooting up my arm and into my chest.
This does not help matters one bit. I don’t need her kindness, and I don’t want her pity.
Wrenching my arm away from her, I once again cross my arms at my chest. Her smile dims. No longer is there empathy or sympathy in her bright eyes, now they’re flooded with sadness.
Fuck me, I’m such an asshole.
Clearing my throat, I shake my thoughts free. Goddamn, this woman. She’s making me out to be the bad guy here. I never even invited her in. She’s an uninvited interloper, forcing me to feel things I don’t want to feel.
But the warmth still lingers where her fingers wrapped around my arm. Human touch—at least the type that doesn’t lead to sex—is something I haven’t had for months. Maybe even years.
Ever since Mel died.
“Yeah, yeah. . . I’m fine, just tired, Sutton, and I want to go to bed. I was on a business trip and have had a busy day. I just really need you to go home.”
Disappointment clouds her pupils, and her cheeks flush pink. Her hand flits in the space between us.
“Oh, oh, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impose. I just really wanted to express my gratitude for your help the other night finding Blackie. And I swear, I’m not usually that irresponsible. It’s not an excuse, but with the chaos and circumstances—”
I interrupt her, circling back toward the door, hoping she’ll get the hint and follow. “Whatever. No need for explanations. It’s over and done with.”
I hold the door open for her and turn to find her still rooted in the same spot, and I groan, dropping my chin to my chest. She’s stalling and obviously wants to say something else but hesitates.
“Miles, I um, I also wanted to talk to you about—”
I know what she’s about to say, so I interrupt her again. “Sutton, it’s cool. I didn’t and won’t mention anything to Graham about Blackie running off. And unless something else happens, I don’t plan on getting you fired.”
She blanches, either not expecting me to say that or surprised I would protect her in that way. Whatever the case, I wave my hand and work to usher her out the door.
Taking a few steps forward, she pauses, biting down on that full lower lip again, which I can’t stop staring at, then she finally makes her way to the doorway. As she passes, I catch a whiff of her light, sweet scent. A lemony-fresh soap smell and something sweet. Like a sugar cookie.
Another memory jostles loose in my head, taking me back to the day of Mel’s funeral. I was standing over her casket, my eyes red-rimmed, and my body filled with rage and anger. Someone came up behind me, as my head fell between my shoulders, and I felt the gentle pressure of a hand on my back. It was warm and provided a sense of peace. And somehow her scent evokes that same feeling.
Odd. I fucking need some sleep.
“Thank you, Miles. I appreciate that. I really need this job. And thanks again for your help.” She takes a step and stops, turning to look over her shoulder at me. “I left reheating instructions on the lids and my number in case you have questions. Feel free to leave the empties outside my door whenever you’re done. Good night, Miles. I hope I’ll see you around.”
I close and lock the door behind her. Leaning against the doorframe, my body and mind weary from the exchange.
There’s something so familiar about Sutton, but I just can’t place it. Somehow her presence has evoked strange memories from the past.
The memories of my sister keep popping up more frequently for some reason. And then it dawns on me. I rush over to the wall calendar, flipping over the page from last month that is still displayed and see the July date.
Sure enough. It’s not Sutton that’s manifesting all these recollections. It’s because next week is Mel’s birthday.
The date hits me like a semi-truck, plowing through my head, crashing into the pit of my stomach.
July sixteenth.
Next week would have been my baby sister’s twenty-fifth birthday.
But, just as I’ve done for the past seven years, I’ll be celebrating her alone.
The sister I left and walke
d away from.
Another family member I couldn’t save.
6
Sutton
Throughout the next few days, I’ve only run into Miles three times during various encounters around the building. Each one has been awkward, at best, and humiliating from my perspective.
And at no point in those impromptu run-ins have I been able to tell him about our history and my friendship with Melodie. And it feels like I’m lying to him because of it.
Speaking of awkward, I see Miles again this morning when Blackie and I are out in front of the apartment building.
While I’m not a morning person, I’ve become accustomed to getting up early to take Blackie outside for his morning constitution. I never realized what a hassle it is to be a city dweller and own a dog.
Where I grew up, we had yards for dogs to run around and areas they could go to do their business. Not city sidewalks where the moment you bend down to clean up doggie doodie, you get bumped in the ass by a passerby and inevitably find your hand covered in poo.
Trust me, it happens.
“Come on, Blackie. Please just poop already,” I prod, as Blackie takes his own sweet time sniffing every tree stump and piece of land covering the entire block. “It’s not like this is unfamiliar territory for you, bud. Been there, done that. Now, can you get on with it? I have to go to work.”
We generally stroll up and down the block first thing in the morning before breakfast. Then I take Blackie out again before heading off to my job at Rags & Tags. In the evenings after his dinner, we take a long walk down to the park, just a few blocks away. This neighborhood is conveniently located in the Upper West Side with Central Park practically right down the street.
The area also boasts some pretty nice restaurants—including a fancy Italian place which is way out of my price range—and a few fun and not so fancy pubs and cafes.
Just the other night, I shamelessly flirted with the bartender, Russ, at the Horse and Carriage. After one-too-many margaritas and strong encouragement (a.k.a. pressure) from Christiana and our other friend, Taylor, I struck up a conversation with Russ, and one thing led to another, and I gave him my number.
