by Lauren Runow
“Ladies,” Ryan drawls out, stopping next to the redhead. “How are we doing tonight?”
The short-haired beauty turns away from him just to roll her eyes. The action makes me smile. Her friend hits her in the arm and gives her a wide expression, as if telling her not to be rude.
“What’s the matter? You don’t want to be approached tonight?” Ryan asks.
My muse lets out a sigh. “Not by a Joey Tribbiani wannabe.”
Ryan’s brows dramatically curve in, and he starts to recoil. I can see the redhead’s mouth start to open, probably to tell us thanks, but no thanks, so I offer my best wingman skills.
“You’ll have to excuse my friend. He’s actually pretty shy.”
The redhead raises a brow at him. “You don’t seem like it.”
“I am.” He grins. “I’m the worst with opening lines.”
“He is,” I agree.
“I get tongue-tied when I meet a beautiful woman.”
“It’s true.”
“I usually say the wrong thing.”
“He does.”
“I’m a great closer though,” he says, and I hit him on the back of the head. “Ow.” He rubs the spot where I just hit him. “Like that. Apparently, I shouldn’t have said that.”
The redhead laughs loudly. She extends a hand to Ryan. “You could use some help on your opening argument. I’m April.”
Ryan is elated that Jessica Rabbit has given him attention. As he reciprocates the greeting, I step to the side and lean against the steel bar, happy to be a wallflower as he does the absolute worst at flirting.
The blonde is next to me, surveying the bar on the other side of the room, looking anywhere but at me, as I’m obviously staring directly at her.
“You come here often?” I ask, trying to get her attention.
She glances over at me, her eyes landing on the three buttons at the top of my shirt. “Aren’t you a bit underdressed for this place?”
“The way I see it, everyone else is overdressed.”
Her lip rises just a touch before falling down, as if she’s remembered she doesn’t want to be charmed tonight. The way she keeps her attention on the crowd, she appears to want someone in particular who’s not me.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I ask.
“No,” she replies without turning my way.
I let out a laugh under my breath and say to myself, “Okay then,” before I take another sip of my beer.
Her shoulders broaden as a man walks through the crowd. Her eyes inspect him from top to bottom, taking in his Armani suit and Italian loafers. I know the threads because my family wears them on a daily basis.
She slides away from me, obviously casting some distance so that no one mistakes us for being together.
I put my beer down on the bar and cross my arms toward her. “You know, I am a phenomenal wingman.”
She gives me the side-eye.
“I’m serious. Look what I did for my friend. Tell me what guy in here you fancy, and I’ll help you land him.”
With her mouth poised to tell me something—probably to tell me off—she turns toward me with intention. What that intention is, is beyond me because she barely lets out a squeak. Her mouth is open, but she says nothing as her gaze lands on mine, and I swear, she stops breathing. Those blue eyes light up as she looks up at me—really looking at me—her eyes traveling from mine and over the angles of my face, landing on my mouth that widens into a smirk.
Her gaze moves lower to my shirt and then my jeans, and as soon as she sees my boots, she snaps out of her daze and quickly resumes her position to peer around the room.
“I don’t need a wingman,” she says curtly, sounding short of breath.
I might be young, but I’ve been around women enough to know when one is attracted to me. I’m not conceited. I’m observant. Yet she’s still scanning the room, looking for a man. The only difference between me and most of the men in this room is my attire. This girl is in the market for a suit, which means she’s looking for a meal ticket.
My brothers warned me about girls like this. That’s why I decided to go to college on the opposite end of the country. Here, only those close to me know about my family and what we’re really worth.
Back home, I’m a Sexton, heir to a billion-dollar media conglomerate. I have an annual salary of a million a year, and I’m not even working yet. Here, no one knows or cares about the Sextons or the vast empire we run. On the West Coast, you can’t say our name without someone bringing up scandal, death, power, or dollar signs.
Ryan and Chris know about my family. It’s not like it’s a secret. They’re my friends and confidants; they should know where I come from. They are discreet with the information, knowing how I enjoy my anonymity. That doesn’t stop them from getting a free round or two out of me though.
I order more drinks for us and then send another over to Chris and the women he’s flirting with. He seems to have caught the attention of one of them. I give him a nod to let him know I ordered drinks for him. He raises his beer in thanks.
The blonde takes her freshly poured wine and takes a sip. “Thank you,” she says politely and then adds, “I’m not going home with you.”
“Good thing I wasn’t asking.”
Her eyes light up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Now, I’ve got her attention. “It means that I’m here, trying to make conversation, and all you can do is ignore me because I’m not dressed like a banker.”
Her jaw drops at the insult. “You make me sound like a shallow twit.”
“If the Louboutin fits.” I lean back and take a swig of my beer with a smile.
She looks down at her shoes, probably shocked I even noticed what she has on her feet. Her shoulders fall as she shakes her head. When she looks back up, it’s to plead her case. “Fine. I’m here to pick up a suit, but it’s not because I’m a wallet-chaser.”
I quirk a brow.
“Don’t look at me like that. You came into an after-hours joint, dressed like you’re going to sing karaoke. If you wanted to be noticed, you could have put on a pair of slacks.”
Despite how rude she is, she’s ridiculously adorable with the way her mouth is pursed in defiance. It’s obvious she doesn’t tell off too many people and needs some practice.
“On that note, I bid you a good night. And I hope you land the biggest douchebag in here.”
I start to turn away, but her eyes grow shockingly wide at the sight of something behind me. Her face is pale and her back straight as a rod. She grabs April’s arm to get her attention and then motions toward the door. I look in the same direction and see a group of men—in suits, of course—enter the bar.
“What is he doing here?” April speaks through a clenched jaw.
The men head straight for the bar closest to the door. While they order their drinks, I watch her as she zeroes in on a guy with jet-black hair and tan skin. His tie is off, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks like he’s been hitting the bars for a few hours and is as relaxed as a guy can be on a Thursday night.
She, on the other hand, is as frigid as a taut rubber band. If I flick her, she might snap and fly across the room.
“I’m leaving,” she says, putting her drink down.
April pulls her back. “No, you’re not. Don’t give him that satisfaction.”
She ignores her friend and starts to leave just as the group of guys begins heading in this direction. The guy with the black hair looks our way, and she stops. I don’t know if he’s seen her, but he’s walking this way. If he didn’t see her a minute ago, he will in a few.
When she notices, she turns quickly and lands right back in front of me. I see the panic in her eyes as she faces me.
“What is your name again?”
We haven’t exchanged names.
“Tanner.”
She nods as if she heard my name, but her attention still seems fixed on the man who’s just a few feet away from us.
“What did you ask me earlier?” she asks with her head turned to the side. “You come here often?”
I smirk, knowing the game she’s playing. “Not my scene. You?” I watch as her eyes roam, seeing if he’s still coming toward us.
He is.
She places a hand on my chest. It stills for a moment as her fingers absentmindedly splay to feel the hardened muscle. She pauses to stare at her hand like it isn’t part of her body.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She looks up like she forgot I was a person and had a voice. “Harper.”
I smile. “Harper, love, I’m going to put my hand on your waist,” I tell her just as I move my palm to the curve of her body and slide it toward her back.
This gets her attention. Her brows curve in confusion.
I raise my other hand. “This one, I’m going to place on your neck.” I do so, weaving my fingers through her hair as I pull her in.
Her chest heaves with a sharp breath. Her pupils dilate.
While her heart is beating a million miles a minute, there’s a surrender to her body. It’s in the way it molds to mine, her soft parts against my hard ones, proving it wants to be as close to me as possible.
Her body is doing one thing while her head is doing another. Her eyes are having a hard time deciding if they want to be fully fixated on mine or drifting toward the man who has thrown her into a frenzy.
So, I do the only thing I can think of.
I kiss her.
Our lips crash with a burst of fire.
I dart my tongue out and run it along the pink of her lower lip, savoring her, tasting her. Her lips part, and when our tongues collide, we are a thrashing of lust and need.
Putting on one hell of a show, I change my grip to her cheek and pull her in as I kiss her like she’s the air I need to breathe. I put so much passion into our kiss that, for a moment, even I lose track of where I am, who I am. All I can think about is … her.
When I feel my cock twitch, I pull back, remembering this is only for show. My hand is on her cheek as I gently push her away. Her eyes are closed, and her lips are parted.
I watch her lids open with a flutter.
Slowly, I lean in and whisper in her ear, “You’re welcome.”
She blinks a few times and then looks at me with a small scowl.
Lowering my hand from her face, I grab my beer, take a swig, and then put it back on the oak with a heavy tip for the bartender. When I face her again, she’s staring at me with doe eyes and glistening lips.
I lean in close to her ear, so close that my mouth grazes her skin. “I know you just wanted your ex to see.”
Her jaw drops for the second time this evening.
With a wink, I salute her. Then, I nod my good-bye to my friends and walk out the door.
3
HARPER
What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened?
My brain is mush, and my body is putty. I’ve been kissed many times in my life. I’ve been kissed poorly, and I’ve been ravaged. But I’ve never in my life been kissed with as much passion and conviction as I just was by a complete stranger.
I raise my hand to my lips that are still tingling.
How did I go from worrying about Aaron to kissing another man?
And liking it?
I look at April, who’s just as shocked as I am, and then to the guy she’s talking to, who is also staring at me like I have three heads. It’s not me he should be staring at this way. His friend is the one who just kissed me and walked away.
What was his name again?
“Harper?” A deep voice barrels through me.
My eyes widen for a different reason, and April is now giving an evil glare to something … someone behind me.
I turn around and look at the man who had me crying into my pillow every night.
“Aaron.” My mouth is a quivering mess from the mix of hurt and anger.
His hair is combed back in the way I absolutely hate. He looks like a sleaze-ball, but it’s the way he dresses now that he’s been promoted at work. Still, he smells like the cologne I bought him for Christmas, and he’s wearing the tie I once wore with nothing else to help him get over a bad day at work.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
What am I doing here?
Trying to get over you, I want to say. Getting off the futon for the first time in a month.
What am I doing here?
Looking for a “suit” to bring home for a one-night stand, so I can get over your sorry ass.
What am I doing here?
Getting kissed by a man who, for the first time, made me think that maybe, just maybe, there is life after an awful breakup.
“I’m leaving,” I say with a nod and then search around me—for what, I’m not sure. It’s like I have to get my bearings.
“The 4 train,” the guy behind me says. Ryan, I think his name is. I turn around to hear him say, “He’s probably walking toward Lexington.”
April grabs my clutch off the bar and pushes it into my chest.
Right. Okay.
I brush past Aaron and scurry through the crowd and out the door. Outside, I have to decide which direction he could have walked toward Lexington. I choose the nearest corner and cross the street, more hazardously than I usually would. My shoes aren’t meant for walking quickly. I am going to have blisters in the morning.
I see his tall frame ahead of me. His blond hair is pulled back in that man bun, and his hands are buried deep in his pockets. He’s walking down the stairs toward the subway going uptown. I follow him down.
He swipes his subway card in the turnstile and goes through. I start to go through myself, but I realize I don’t have a MetroCard.
Crap.
“Wait!” I call out to him, my belly hitting the metal of the turnstile barrier.
He hears me and slowly turns around. His eyes crinkle at the sight of me standing here … stuck.
“You need to pay to get through,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I know that. Hold on. Let me get my card, and then I’ll come through.” I step back to go to the nearby machine to get a pass, but he starts walking away. “Where are you going?”
He turns around again. “The train is coming. I’m going to get on it.”
“No. Wait!” I call out. “I want to talk to you.”
A slow, closed-mouthed smile builds on his lips, and he laughs lightly to himself. “Oh, so now, you want to talk. Sorry, babe, go find a suit who cares.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask in disbelief.
He walks closer, just to the other side of the barrier. “I get it. I’m not your type. You want a meal ticket, a guy in a suit, not a guy like me.”
Why, I’ve never …
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“You wouldn’t give me the time of day in there.”
“Fine. Whatever. I was looking for a particular type of guy tonight but not for the reasons you’re insinuating. It was more of a rebound thing.”
He crosses his arms in front of him. His biceps curl with the action.
I continue, “My ex is a power-suit-wearing, wealth-management asshole. He wasn’t always like that, but he morphed into one over time. I hate that about him. I hate his money and his friends and his hold over me when I realized everything I had was his. My friend wanted me to come out tonight and have some sort of angry fuck with a guy in a suit, which—if I’m being totally honest—I was never going to go through with. Maybe a hook-up or some over-the-shirt action, but I was seriously not going to go to bed with a stranger. A kiss was all I needed.”
“Looks like you got what you wished for.”
“Yes. About that. You can’t just go around kissing girls like that.”
“Like what?”
He leans in, and I’m overwhelmed. There’s a metal bar between us, yet I feel like he’s right on top of me. His presence, his energy, his heat … it sears through me. I’m like a magnet for wh
atever it is this guy possesses.
“What kind of kiss do you think that was?”
How do I explain my thoughts without sounding like a total lunatic?
My mouth opens to speak, but the horn sounds, alerting us to the train’s approach.
The air grows thick, and the rush of it becomes loud to our ears. I look behind him as the train appears, and I have a sense of panic. He’s going to get on, and I won’t ever see him again.
He snakes his hand into his back pocket, takes out his wallet, and swipes his card in the turnstile before walking toward the train. I push my way through and then follow him onto the train, taking a spot by the doors.
The car is decently packed but not too bad. I see him standing in the middle with his arm up, holding on. The train begins to move, and I walk toward him, careful not to wobble into anyone. I stop right in front of where he stands and grasp on to a pole in the middle of the aisle.
It’s bright in here. Brighter than the bar and the subway entrance. In here, I can see him in full view. He’s one of those impossibly handsome men, the kind you see in Abercrombie and cologne advertisements with his sun-kissed Grecian skin, masculine jaw, and straight nose.
He’s tall, about six feet, and he has the build to go with it. Clear-cut muscles, lean and strong, show with his stretch. And his eyes are this intense color that doesn’t know if it wants to be green or blue. I feel like I could stare at them forever and never know which color they are.
What kind of lunatic lets a strange man kiss her in a bar and then stalks him onto a train?
Me.
That’s who.
I’m certifiable.
“Was he worth it?” he asks.
I look up to him and wonder what he’s talking about.
“Your ex-boyfriend. Was he worth the heartache?”
“Um … no. Yes. I mean … I don’t know.”
“He probably wants you back after seeing you kiss another guy.”
“About that—”
“You wanted your ex to see you talking to someone else. I upped the ante.” He swings forward, leaning into me. “You’re welcome.”
