Beautiful Stranger

by Christina Lauren

  “I will,” she said. “But Max?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you think your team will win? I don’t want to be drinking with a bunch of depressed, muddy Brits.”

  Laughing, I assured her we were going to crush them.

  We kicked their asses. I rarely ever felt bad for the other team—most teams we played were American and, although it wasn’t their fault they didn’t have rugby in their blood, it usually felt great to tromp them. But this may have been an exception. We stopped trying to score about halfway through. I had to attribute my generosity in part to knowing that Sara would meet us after. But only in part. By the end of the match it felt like we were beating up ten-year-olds in the mud, and I felt a twinge of guilt.

  We roared into the bar, carrying Robbie on our shoulders and yelling the words to a rather filthy version of “Alouette.” The bartender and owner, Madeline, waved when she saw us, lined up twelve pint glasses, and began filling them.

  “Oi!” Robbie shouted to his wife. “Whiskey, lass!”

  Maddie gave him the V-sign but grabbed a handful of shot glasses anyway, mumbling something about Robbie’s drunk, muddy ass sleeping alone.

  I scanned the room for Sara and came up empty. Swallowing my disappointment, I turned to the bar and took a deep drink of my beer. Our game had started late; it was already close to five and she wasn’t here. Was I really surprised? And then a horrible thought occurred to me: had she been here, waited, and left?

  “Fuck,” I muttered.

  Maddie slid a shot of whiskey to me and I downed it with a wince, cursing again.

  “What’s wrong?” a familiar husky voice asked from behind me. “Looks to me like you dirty bastards won.”

  I spun around on my bar stool and broke out into a grin at the sight of her. She looked like a cake topper, in a pale yellow dress and a tiny green pin in her hair. “You look beautiful.” Her eyes closed for a beat, and I murmured, “Sorry we’re late.”

  She weaved a little where she stood, saying, “Gave me time to have a few drinks.”

  I hadn’t seen her drunk since the night at the club, but I recognized a familiar light in her eyes: mischief. The thought of that Sara reappearing was fucking fantastic.

  “You’re pissed?”

  Her brows pinched together for a brief pulse and then smoothed as she smiled. “British for drunk? Yeah, I’m tipsy.” She stood on her toes then . . . and kissed me.

  Holy. Fuck.

  Beside me, Richie chimed in. “What the . . . Max. There’s a girl on your face.”

  Sara pulled back and her eyes widened in realization. “Oh, crap.”

  “Calm down,” I told her quietly. “No one here gives a fuck who we are. They hardly remember my name every week.”

  “Patently untrue,” Richie said. “Your name is Twat.”

  I tilted my head to him, smiling at Sara. “Like I said.”

  She held out her hand and gave Richie her wide-eyed smile. “I’m Sara.”

  He took her hand and shook it. I could see the moment he really looked at her and registered how ridiculously pretty she was. He immediately checked out her chest. “ ’m Richie,” he mumbled.

  “Nice to meet you, Richie.”

  He looked at me, eyes narrowed. “How the fuck you land that one?”

  “No idea.” I pulled her closer, ignoring her mild protest that I was going to get her dress dirty. But then she wiggled free and turned to Derek, on my other side.

  “I’m Sara.”

  Derek put his beer down and wiped a grimy hand across his mouth. “Fuck yeah you are.”

  “Sara’s with me,” I muttered.

  And like this, Tipsy Sara worked her way down the bar, introducing herself to every single one of my mates. In her, I saw the politician’s wife she’d almost been, but even more than that, I saw that Sara was just a really fucking sweet girl.

  When she returned to me, she kissed my cheek and whispered, “Your friends are nice. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I lost my ability to form coherent thoughts. Almost nothing in my life made me feel the way she was making me feel—so bloody good. I wasn’t full of self-loathing, but I’d been a bit of a slut, worked in investments that, let’s be honest, relied on people losing money as much as others making it, and I’d fostered few deep connections since I’d been stateside. My closest friend was Will and most of the time we just called each other names that were all variations on the word pussy.

  Tell her, you dick. Pull her to the other side of the room, give her a good snog, and tell her you love her.

  “Take this old blues shite off the speaker, Maddie,” Derek yelled across the bar.

  And just as I was about to touch Sara’s elbow, ask her to come talk to me, she straightened. “This isn’t blues,” she said.

  Derek turned around, eyebrows raised.

  “It’s not. It’s Eddie Cochran. It’s rockabilly,” she said, but under his continued inspection she seemed to shrink a little. “They aren’t the same at all.”

  “You know how to dance to this rubbish?” he asked her, looking her up and down again.

  To my surprise, Sara laughed. “Are you asking?”

  “Fuck no, I—”

  But before he could finish his sentence, she’d jerked him to his feet, and all 115 pounds of her was dragging his enormous frame to the dance floor.

  “My mom is from Texas,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Try to keep up.”

  “You’re kidding,” he said, looking over at us. The entire bar full of Brits had stopped talking and was watching them with interest.

  “Go on!” I yelled.

  “Don’t be a pussy, Der,” Maddie yelled, and everyone began clapping. She turned up the music. “Give us a show.”

  Sara’s smile grew, and she placed his hand on her shoulder, shaking her head when he protested. “It’s the traditional pose. You put one hand on my back, the other on my shoulder.”

  And while we watched, Sara showed Big Derek how to do a dance across the floor: two quick steps, two slow steps. She demonstrated how he was to quickly spin her counterclockwise around the room. Within one song, they were moving pretty good, and by the middle of the second, they were both cracking up, dancing together like they’d known each other for years.

  Maybe that’s what it was about Sara. Anyone who met her wanted to know her. She wasn’t just appealingly sweet to me, with her innocence pushing through even given her basest fantasies. She was irresistible to everyone.

  And in that moment, there was nothing I wanted to do more than punch Andy’s smug fucking face. He’d wasted his time with her, wasted her.

  I stood, moved to the dance floor, and cut in. “My turn.”

  Those deep brown eyes of hers darkened, and instead of posing my hands like she’d done with Derek, she slipped her arms around my neck, stretched to kiss my jaw, and whispered, “I’m pretty sure it’s always your turn.”

  “I thought there was supposed to be a little more distance between us when we dance to this,” I said, smiling as I bent to kiss her.

  “Not with you.”

  “Good.”

  She broke into a drunken, playful smile. “But I’m starving. I want a burger the size of my head.”

  A laugh burst from my throat and I bent to kiss her forehead. “There’s a place near you that fits the bill. I’ll text you an address. Shall I head home to shower and meet you there in an hour?”

  “Dinner two nights in a row?” she asked, looking more carefully eager than anything. Where was the cautious, distancing woman I knew only days ago? She’d evaporated. I suspected Distancing Sara had always been a bit of a fantasy.

  Hers, not mine.

  I nodded, feeling my smile slip away. I was done with the pretense that we had any boundaries left. The single expectant word came out hoarse: “Yeah.”

  She bit her lip to hold back the smile, but it was impossible to miss.

  Thirteen

  I’d been in New Yor
k for two months and had no real sense of what I was doing when I wasn’t at work. I ran. I had a few friends I would meet for shows, or coffee, or drinks. I talked to my parents a couple of times a week. I wasn’t lonely; I certainly had a fuller life here than I’d had by the end of my time in Chicago. But most of my life outside of work had become Max.

  How in the hell had that happened?

  Casual Sex: You’re Doing It Wrong.

  Then again, for his part, Max never seemed surprised by anything that happened between us. Not when I coerced him into having sex in the club, or when I came to his office offering sex and nothing more, and not even when I sought him out only to break down in his shower, begging him to just take me and make everything else go away.

  Even his friends were amazing. Derek was possibly the largest human I had ever met, and though he was not exactly light on his feet, dancing with him had been some of the most fun I’d had in ages . . . other than every time I was with Max.

  I waved goodbye to Derek and he winked at me, reminding with a nod to where Max sat at the bar about what he’d said on the dance floor: “He’s a prick, that one.”

  Under the single light of the dance floor, Derek had looked even muddier than he had when I’d introduced myself. I’d glanced down at my dress and noted a few handprints near my shoulder. “He’s not so bad.”

  Laughing, Derek had patted my head. “He’s the worst, nice to everyone and never fucks up. Always there for his mates, never comes off like an arsehole.” He’d winked. “What a fucking nightmare.”

  Thanking Maddie as we left, I heard the team’s continued drunken singing from behind me in the bar as Max hailed a cab and held the door for me as I climbed in.

  “See you in a bit,” he said, before closing the door and giving me a small wave through the window as we pulled away from the curb.

  I looked out the back window. Max stood still, watching my cab disappear down Lenox.

  We’d decided on something simple for dinner: burgers at a small, quiet place in the East Village.

  Quiet was good. Quiet would help drown out the mayhem in my brain. My plan to have fun, be wild, and keep things compartmentalized had gone to hell.

  I went home and showered off the mud from dancing with Derek and Max, and put on a simple blue jersey halter dress. The songs from the bar echoed in my ear, and I let myself imagine seeing his friends again: curling up with Max on a friend’s couch and watching a movie with them, or cupping my hands around a mug of coffee on the sidelines of a rugby match. Each fantasy felt like a given, but I stopped thinking about any of them when the tendrils of my mind began to analyze, worry, play devil’s advocate.

  I walked out into the hall and locked my apartment, reminding myself, One thing at a time. No one is making you do any of this.

  Even on this Saturday night, with people out enjoying the lazy evening sunset, it was less hectic in the Village than it ever felt in midtown. When had this place started to feel like home? Max chose a restaurant within walking distance of my building; I no longer needed to read every street sign to find my way there.

  Strands of tiny lights glowed yellow and warm above the entrance, and a small bell rang as I opened the door. Max was already there, cleaned up and seated in the back reading the Times. I gave myself this stolen moment to take him in: deep red T-shirt, worn jeans with a rip in the thigh. Light brown hair almost gold in the light. Fancy Brit-looking sneakers at the end of his long, stretched-out legs. Sunglasses on the table near his elbow.

  Just your average godlike fuck buddy, hanging out at the burger place, waiting for you.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and walked over to him.

  The lines had blurred. After today, I couldn’t pretend I wanted nothing from him beyond orgasms. I couldn’t pretend that my heart didn’t twist deliciously when I saw him, or twist with discomfort when I left. I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t have feelings for him.

  I wondered if it was too late to flee.

  It was only when I heard his laugh that I realized I’d been staring, my mouth open slightly, and he’d been watching me for . . . I have no idea how long. A smile tilted up half of his mouth.

  “You look pretty excited for this beer.” He pushed a pint across the table and held up his own. “I took the liberty of ordering you a burger the size of your head, and some chips.” He grinned and then clarified, “A.k.a. ‘fries.’ ”

  “Perfect. Thanks.” I set my purse on an empty chair and sat across from him. His eyes smiled, and then dipped to look at my lips.

  “So,” I said, sipping my beer and assessing him over the rim.

  “So.”

  He looked positively amused with this turn of events. I wasn’t a control freak, but I was used to having a pretty predictable life, and in the past two months, I hadn’t been able to anticipate anything that had come my way. “Thanks for inviting me to the bar today.”

  He nodded, scratching the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Your friends are nice.”

  “They’re a bunch of arseholes.”

  I laughed, feeling my shoulders slowly relax. “That’s funny. That’s what they said about you.”

  He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “I have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are we on a date?”

  I nearly choked on the sip of beer I’d just taken.

  “For the love of God, woman, don’t have a fit. I just wonder if you’d like to reestablish ground rules. Should we review our previous set?”

  I nodded, pressing a napkin to my lips and mumbling, “Sure.”

  He set his drink down and began ticking my rules off on his long fingers. “One night a week, no other lovers, sex preferably in public—definitely not in my bed—pictures are requested, but no faces, no publicity.” He lifted his glass, took a deep drink, and then leaned forward again, whispering, “And nothing between us other than sex. Scratching an itch and all that. Did I capture it all?”

  “Sounds about right.” My heart thundered under my ribs as I realized how far we’d strayed from that in only a day.

  A college-age kid brought over two baskets with burgers bigger than any I’d ever seen before and enormous piles of fries.

  “Holy crap,” I said, staring at my food. “This is . . .”

  “Exactly what you wanted?” he asked in return, reaching for a bottle of vinegar.

  “Yes, but way more than I can eat.”

  “Let’s make this interesting, shall we?” he said. “Whoever eats more of their burger can set new ground rules.”

  With a smile, he screwed the cap back on the vinegar and set it down. We both knew he was almost double my weight. No way could I eat more than him.

  But was he hungry? Maybe he’d had enough beer to fill up and knew that I would eat more than he would? Or did he want to make the rules?

  “Christ, woman. Stop thinking,” he said, lifting his burger and taking a gigantic bite.

  “Fine. Deal,” I said, suddenly dying to know what Max’s rules would be.

  I stared at Max as he wiped his hands on a napkin and then balled it up, dropping it into his empty basket.

  “That was good,” he mumbled, finally looking up at me. He cracked up at the pathetic progress I’d made. I had managed to polish off only about a quarter of my burger, and it looked like I had barely touched my fries.

  Dropping the burger back into the basket, I groaned. “I’m so full.”

  “I won.”

  “Was there any question?”

  “Then why’d you take the deal?” he asked, pushing his chair away from the table. “You could have said no.”

  I shrugged, then stood, turning to leave before he pressed me to answer. I could be curious about what he wanted between us, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to admit it.

  My beer buzz from earlier in the day was wearing off, and with the weight of the burger in my stomach I could have curled up on the sidewalk and gone to
sleep. But it was only half-past eight, and I wasn’t ready for the night to end. The idea of waiting until Friday to see him felt impossible . . . unless he changed that rule.

  The East Village was crowded with twenty-somethings out for Saturday night drinking and music. Max reached for my hand, slipped his fingers in between mine, and squeezed. Out of habit I started to protest that we were not going to walk down the street like this, but he surprised me by pulling me into the dimly lit bar next door.

  “I know you’re full, but sit in here, sip a cocktail, and you’ll wake up. I’m not nearly done with you.”

  God I liked the sound of that.

  Squeezed tight together in a booth, we sat in a dark corner, me sipping vodka tonics, Max drinking a few beers and telling me all about growing up in Leeds with Irish Catholic parents, and born smack in the middle of seven sisters and three brothers. They’d lived three kids to a bedroom, and it was so different from my childhood that I barely blinked the entire time he regaled me with stories of the time they decided to form a family brass band, or when, at eighteen, the oldest sister, Lizzy, was caught in the family Volvo having sex with their local priest, consensual sex. Max’s oldest brother, Daniel, left after high school to go on a Catholic mission to Myanmar, and had come home a Theravada Buddhist. His youngest sister, Rebecca, married right out of college and, at twenty-seven, already had six children. The others had stories just as riveting: the brother born just ten months after Max, Niall, was second in command at the London Underground; one of the middle sisters was a chemistry professor at Cambridge and had five children, all boys.

  Max admitted that sometimes he felt mediocre compared to his siblings. “I studied art at uni and then got a business finance degree so I could sell art. In my father’s eyes, I was a miserable failure, both in my choice of career and in my failure to produce Catholic babies before I hit thirty.”

  But when he said this, he laughed, as if being an absolute failure wouldn’t have really mattered that much to his parents in the end. His father, a lifelong smoker, died of lung cancer the week after Max finished graduate school, and his “mum” had decided she needed a change, so she moved with him to the States.