by J. Kenner
Since Selma fully intended to go home with Easton, she’d taken an Uber to the house as well.
The ride downtown was quick, and Selma barely had time to pull herself together before the car stopped in front of the museum and she found herself standing on the sidewalk with a bad case of nerves.
What if Easton felt differently? She was assuming he wanted something more permanent between them—and that her presenting herself conservatively in public would be a good idea.
But what if he hadn’t really meant what he’d said? What if despite everything, he wanted to just keep going on as fuck buddies?
Honestly, the possibility was too depressing to consider. A fact that only confirmed to Selma how far gone she was for the man. Because not too long ago, she would have run from anyone who suggested anything more than random, no-strings sex.
Yet here she was, afraid that he didn’t want to commit.
She wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. Probably better not to do either considering the amount of mascara Elena had put on her lashes.
“Now or never,” she murmured to herself, then smiled at a passing stranger who gave her a curious look.
She entered the museum, was given directions to the event, and headed that way.
She saw him immediately. He stood at the far end of an open area lined with science exhibits. He looked like a celebrity in his suit, his chin lifted confidently, his gaze taking in all of the people around him. She wasn’t convinced he wanted to be a judge, but in that moment she knew he had it in him to be elected.
Then he looked up, and his gaze landed right on her. And in that moment, all the air was sucked from the room. There was nothing left but him and her. She felt like Maria in the dance scene in West Side Story where everything faded away except her and Tony.
Hopefully her story and Easton’s would have a much happier ending.
She stood transfixed as he moved to her and didn’t breathe until he took her hands in his. “You look stunning. Hell, it’s even more sexy knowing that under that suit you’re hiding all those tats. Not to mention what I’m sure is some very sexy lingerie.”
She smiled so wide that it hurt. “True. And thank you.”
His eyes roamed over her for a few more minutes, then he shook his head, seeming to clear it. “Come on, I’ll introduce you around. Judge Coale is here. I’d like you to meet him.”
The butterflies that had kicked up a storm in response to that announcement wouldn’t let her agree aloud, but she nodded, and they walked hand in hand to a distinguished octogenarian who held court by a pendulum. He paused as Easton approached, his smile as paternal as if Easton were his son.
“Judge Coale, I’d like you to meet my date, Selma Herrington, the owner of Austin Free-Tail Distillery.”
“My dear, it’s wonderful to meet you.” The judge’s grip was surprisingly strong, and it was clear to Selma why he’d been successful in politics. By the time they left she was not only charmed, but had no idea at all what the man thought of her. He was completely impossible to read.
“There are a few other folks I want you to meet,” Easton began, but she cut him off with a hand to his arm.
“I want to, but I need to tell you something first.”
He led her toward a hallway that appeared to lead to public meeting rooms. “What is it?”
She swallowed. “I want to cancel the deal. I don’t want to sell. I don’t want to go to Scotland.”
“I see.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not sure you do.” She drew in a breath. “What I do want, is you.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek, but otherwise, he didn’t react. For a moment, she feared that she’d gotten everything wrong. That this was not good news to him, and that she’d just made a huge fool of herself.
Then he grabbed her hand, squeezing hard, and hurried down the hall as if they were escaping a fire. He pushed open one of the meeting room doors, kicked it shut, then slammed her up against the wall.
“Christ, Selma, do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“I—”
“What hearing you say that does to me? Seeing you dressed like this, knowing you’re doing it for me. I mean, pearls. Baby, you’re amazing.”
His fingers closed over the pearls. He was breathing hard. So was she.
“So this is good? You’re not—”
“I’m not anything but turned on. You couldn’t have said anything better to me. Christ, when I get you home tonight…”
“Yes,” she murmured as his hand cupped her breast.
And then, without warning, he said, “Fuck it.” Using the pearls as leverage, he pulled her toward him. The cheap strand snapped, sending white beads everywhere, but she didn’t care.
“Ignore it,” she said, pulling his head closer and opening her mouth to his. He kissed her hard. Tongue and teeth and the taste of blood. His hands seemed to be everywhere. Her hands, her thighs. She realized he had her skirt up, his hand between her legs, his body pressed close.
“Now,” he said. “I have to be inside you now.”
“Easton, the party.”
“The door’s locked. We’re fine.”
She moaned as his fingers slid into her.
“The door’s not—”
And then the door burst open.
He tugged his hand free and moved to shield her with his body even as she blinked from the camera flashes that suddenly and completely filled the room.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’m so damn sorry. So goddamn, fucking sorry.”
Easton had been repeating the same thing over and over again all the way back to her distillery. She knew he was mortified, but she was all right. She wished he’d just talk to her instead of apologizing repeatedly.
“I lost my head,” he said. “And now your reputation, my reputation.” He pulled in behind her building, then slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Shit.”
“Just come on up. We’re tired. We’ll sleep. We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”
He shook his head. “And then Marianne standing right there with the press, telling them that I was some asshole who couldn’t control himself, and you’re just some skank who’s been following me around until I finally gave in.”
She tensed. When Marianne had blurted that out as Selma had been jerking her clothes back in place, she’d had to use all of her self-control not to throw a shoe at the bitch.
“She’s just jealous that you’re the candidate and she’s not.”
“I’m not the candidate anymore, though, am I? One night with you actually as my date, and it all goes to fucking hell.”
She froze. She just absolutely froze. “What did you say?”
He dragged his hands through his hair. “I’m just angry.”
“Do not blame this on me. I came there wearing what I was supposed to wear and acting the way I was supposed to act. You’re the one who decided a fast fuck in the back room sounded like a good idea.”
“And who do you think planted that seed in my head? The first time I see you after a decade you’re groping me at my office or The Fix or in the ladies room of The Winston.”
She swallowed, anger boiling so hot she thought her hair might catch on fire. She opened her door. It was the only thing she could manage. “Goodnight, Easton,” she said as she got out, her eyes held wide as she fought tears.
He leaned toward her, calling something as she slammed the door shut. It might have been I’m sorry. But she couldn’t hear him. And by that time, honestly, it was too little, too late.
“Wow,” Hannah said as she peered at Easton’s face. “That’s quite a shiner. When did you get that?”
“Yesterday,” he said. They were eating sandwiches in her office at the financial management firm where she worked. For the time being, he was avoiding eating out.
“Who?”
“That would be Matthew.”
Hannah’s eyes went wide. “Selma’s brother?”
<
br /> “I asked him to intervene for me with Selma. He punched me. Guess I know where he stands.”
“Hmmm.” She leaned back in her chair. “And where do you stand?”
“Well, I’m out of the judicial race. Judge Coale is officially disappointed in me.”
“I’m sorry. I know you two were close.”
“We’ve smoothed it over. I explained that I’m in love with her.” Just saying the words made him feel good. What would make him feel better is if he could say them to her.
Selma, however, was avoiding him. And he’d never felt more useless, horrible, and generally downtrodden in his life.
Hannah sat up straighter. “Oh?”
“Not that it matters. She doesn’t know how I feel. I was hoping Matthew could help me out. No such luck.”
“So you haven’t told her yet?”
“After what I said the night of the museum party, saying I love you in an email or a voice mail or a text seems tacky. And I haven’t managed to talk to her in person since she stormed out of my car. Honestly, I deserve the smackdown. I know I do. I just want the chance to talk to her. Got any ideas?”
At this point he was open to most anything. He missed her so much his chest ached. And he was kicking himself on a daily basis for saying such stupid things to her. He’d been mad at himself, and he’d taken it out on her.
Honestly, though, he should have been thanking her. Because the very best thing that had come out of the whole fiasco was the certainty that he didn’t want to be a judge.
He wanted what he’d always wanted—what he’d been sidetracked from. He wanted a small firm where he dealt with real people.
Hopefully, those real people wouldn’t mind that he’d been caught feeling up his girlfriend in public. Idiot.
“So what are you doing now? Did you lose your job?”
“Remarkably, no. They’re keeping me on conditionally. I think they’re uncertain whether my notoriety will draw clients or push them away.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“What choice do I have?”
She smiled wide and pointed to herself. “Offer still stands.”
His brows rose. “You don’t want to. I’m pretty sure at this point I’m toxic.”
“The hell you are. This will blow over. I promise you. Especially once you and the supposed skank are back together.”
“If,” he said. “I’m honestly not sure we’ll ever get back together.” The thought made his gut clench. Surely he’d find a way…
“From what you’ve told me, you haven’t tried groveling.”
He cocked his head, trying to read her mind. “What are you thinking?”
“That tomorrow’s Wednesday,” she said. “And I have an idea.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Wednesday night of the Mr. September contest at The Fix on Sixth was even more crowded than usual, probably because Hannah had leaked to the press that Easton was going to be there. She’d also told Selma that she should come, and now Selma sat on a bar stool, wondering if this was a good idea or a very, very bad one. Not because Easton apparently wanted to talk to her desperately, but because the press kept surreptitiously snapping pictures of her.
“I thought you said he wanted to talk to me,” she said to Hannah as they sipped Loaded Coronas.
“He does. He will.” She leaned closer. “Are you any less mad at him?”
Selma sighed. “I don’t know. He hurt my feelings—a lot. But he was partly right. I did do stupid things early on. We could have just as easily gotten caught the time I made him go down on me in the ladies’ room at The Winston.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “You do know that I can’t un-hear that, right?”
“Hey, he’s going to be your law partner. That’s like a marriage, right?”
Hannah grinned. “You are less mad at him.”
“I just—he blamed me. And it didn’t feel good.”
“I promise you, he feels terrible about that. He knows it was a dick move. He has no defense.”
“Then what does he want to talk about?”
But Hannah only lifted her shoulder, which meant that Selma had to wait until she found out. And Selma wasn’t in the mood to wait.
She wanted to talk to Easton.
The truth was, as furious as she’d been after the museum, the bottom line was that he’d gotten into her heart. She wanted him. Hell, she needed him. And she was more than ready to talk to him.
So where the hell was he?
The music started for the contest, and she cast her eyes around, looking for him in the audience. But he was nowhere to be found, so she sighed and settled in to watch, figuring she’d find him after when the crowd thinned out.
The contest positively dragged for her, however, because she wasn’t interested. And when the final contestant came on stage, she leaned over and told Hannah that she was going to the ladies’ room.
“No, wait.”
“I really need to get out of this crowd.” She slipped off her stool before Hannah could protest again, and was fighting her way to the back when the emcee, Beverly Martin, told the crowd to “give it up for our unexpected bonus contestant—Easton Wallace!”
She froze by the hall, then turned to see Easton strutting down the red carpet, looking more than a little sheepish.
He took the mic from Beverly, then looked out at the crowd. “Those of you who don’t know me will probably Google my name after this announcement, but here it is. First, I’m officially pulling my name from any judicial races. Not just because of the recent scandal, but because it’s not my dream. I got caught up in the frenzy and forgot to think about my real goals.”
The crowd had gone silent. Selma stepped closer.
“I’ve always been a little scared to follow my dream. What I wanted to do seemed impulsive. But I’ve learned a bit about not being scared of making a leap. Not everything I do needs to follow lockstep on the corporate or legal path. And every once in a while I need to look around and see if I’m living the life I want … or someone else’s that I put on like a suit jacket. Because even if it fits perfectly, that’s not my jacket.”
He cleared his throat and searched the crowd—and the instant his eyes found hers, she felt the heat of connection. “I also learned that sometimes you need to make the grand gesture. To really throw yourself out there. Selma, baby, this is for you.”
And then, with the audience howling and clapping, he yanked off his slacks—obviously the velcro kind that strippers wear—then repeated the process with his shirt until he was standing there in only his loafers and briefs.
She clapped her hand over her mouth so hard she almost bruised her lips, and as she tried to hold back laughter, she saw a dark line on his chest, but couldn’t make out what it was from so far away.
“I walked away from one election today. Now I’m going to walk away from this one. Vote for me, don’t vote for me. I’m done campaigning. There’s only one person I want to win over. And I’m going to go see if I can do that right now. And I hope that this is some tiny bit of proof that I mean what I say.”
He pointed to the dark line, and camera flashes popped.
“I had it done today. It’s a tattoo. It says please.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and she gasped.
“I got it for you, Selma. It means this—please let her be the one. And please let it last.”
He inclined his head, and as the crowd started to applaud, he walked back down the red carpet, grabbing a duffel bag from next to the wall before turning toward her.
She met his eyes, nodded, then walked into the hallway, her heart pounding in her chest.
“I should get dressed,” he said when he found her by the shelves of paper products outside of Tyree’s office.
She shook her head as she looked him up and down, fighting her smile. Then she stepped forward and put her hand on the tattoo. “Scandalous,” she said.
“I’m so goddamn sorry.”
T
he apology filled her, and she smiled.
“I was an idiot,” he continued.
“Yeah, you were.”
“But I have something going for me.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I’m a hard worker. And right now, my number one priority is you.”
“Oh, really?” She forced herself not to smile. “How’s that?”
“I’m going to convince you to stay with me. That you belong with me. That I’m a man who will never stop doing whatever I can to make you happy. To make every day together an adventure.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips, trying to stave off tears. “How are you going to do that?”
“Not sure, but I know I’ll never stop trying.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“And there’s one other thing,” he said, then cupped her chin. “I love you, Selma Herrington.”
Happiness flooded through her. “I love you, too,” she said, then grinned as she bit her lower lip.
“What?”
She reached for the door to Tyree’s office, then pushed it open. “I’m feeling a bit scandalous. You?”
His chuckle filled the hall. “Always,” he said, then tugged her inside the room and shut the door.
This time, she noticed, he locked it.
Epilogue
Matthew was filling his plate with sliced brisket and potato salad when Hannah stepped up beside him, her mere proximity sending awareness coursing through him. She pressed her palm against his back, then leaned close, her manner so casual it almost seemed as if they really were dating.
She was good at deception, that was for sure. Matthew, however, was not. About the only thing he was managing to pull off successfully was an air of being head-over-heels for the woman who was his pretend fiancée. But since Hannah Donovan had mesmerized him from the first moment he’d met her, that really didn’t strain his meager acting skills.
“Hey, stud,” she said. “If you get the food, I’ll get the wine. I grabbed us a table near the band. And after the bride and groom do the first dance, we can go out on the floor, too. Less talking to people about our engagement if we’re lost in each other’s arms, right?”
