by MK Schiller
Libby had definitely gone all out. The swanky hotel was right off Broadway and everyone in New York from the Bohemian-chic Greenwich crowd to the power-hungry Wall Street types were dying to get in. We’d been able to snag a reservation in the five-star restaurant because Libby’s brother was a food critic at the The Times and had connections.
“Julie, darling, over here,” Libby greeted from the plush settee in the hotel lobby. She motioned to me, showing off her interesting French-style manicure, done in two shades of lime green. She was definitely a personality.
I walked over with slow, steady steps, telling myself to take in the sumptuous surroundings, but really it was because my heels scared me to death and Libby seemed miles away. Although I was nervous, I had to admit that I felt sexy for the first time in a long time. The fancy chignon actually worked well with my long brown hair, making every wayward wisp appear accidental, when in fact they’d been planned with painstaking precision. The low cut black evening dress I’d almost taken back because it was too daring clung to my curves just enough to be seductive without giving away the goods. What the hell—I looked hot for once and needed to hold my head up high.
I squared my shoulders, increasing my gait, and returned the smile of a beautiful young man who stood with his hands on his hips. He was wearing an expensive black suit and a silver diamond-pattern tie that was modern, but also seemed reminiscent of an earlier era. There was something suggestive in his sexy grin and as I neared him, my anxiety increased exponentially with each step. His intense gaze swept over my body in a stimulating way, pausing on my come-fuck-me heels.
Then my foot faltered. I went hurtling, my feet rolling on a collision course I had no control over. I crashed into a muscled wall of impenetrable black suit. He must have shifted to catch me. Shit!
He pulled me away by my arms. “Are you all right, miss?” he asked in a sexy British accent.
Miss and not ma’am—I liked that and it didn’t hurt that the voice was deep and unmistakably British, causing every word to drip with an air of intelligence that made it downright sexy. I stared up at him, completely embarrassed, but also mesmerized. The voice fitted the man. He was young, tall, with dark hair that was short enough to be professional, but long enough to tug. He had thick lips…the kind you could kiss for a long time without chapping, and sapphire-colored eyes that were so bright, they were brilliant.
He looked at me with genuine concern, and I tried like hell to make some sort of feeble attempt to respond before he got the impression I was mute.
“It was my fault. I lost my balance,” I muttered.
“No, It was my pleasure,” he replied without pause. “Would you care for a seat?”
“No really, I’m fine.”
“Yes, you are,” he said, lowering his voice and it took me a moment to recognize the come on. It had been so long since I’d heard one. Thankfully, I was smart enough not to read into it. “Are you dining or staying here?”
“Dining,” I replied, trying to keep my breath steady as his masculine scent washed over me. It was fresh linen, but heady like musk—clean, pleasant and complexly feral at the same time. He was still holding my arms in his strong hands, circling his thumbs over my skin, slowly caressing me. I backed away, trying to maintain what little dignity remained since my graceless act.
“May I escort you?” He held his arm out in a gesture I’d only seen in old movies and episodes of The Love Boat. Was he for real? This was New York, not New Amsterdam. Plus, he was like half my age. Okay, maybe half was an exaggeration.
“Thank you, but I think I can make it on my own now.”
“I’d hate to have this fine establishment’s reputation tarnished by a slip and fall.”
So that was it. He was just being friendly. I wished he hadn’t told me that part.
“I assure you it’s not the floors, but rather my clumsy feet. This hotel is perfect, and the last thing I would do is mar its pristine reputation.”
He shrugged, smiling for the first time, showing off a set of gleaming white teeth that made him look menacing…in a good way. “The great advantage of a hotel is that it is a refuge from home life.”
I nodded, matching his smile. “George Bernard Shaw couldn’t have said it better. In fact, I believe he did say it.”
His grin widened and there was a glint in his eye, as if he enjoyed being called out. “Ah, so you’ve caught me pilfering another man’s words. Beautiful and smart—an irresistible combination.”
I took in a deep breath, surprised by his arsenal of compliments. “It’s an occupational hazard.”
“Oh, you’re a writer?”
“No, a reader, but books are my business.”
“Then please join me for dinner. We can discuss our favorite Shaw characters, and I can continue to get lost in those big brown eyes of yours. I think they’re really quite unique.”
He thinks my eyes are unique?
“Brown is the most common eye color.”
“There is nothing common about you.”
“I don’t even know your name,” I whispered, realizing Libby was probably staring at me so hard she was burning a hole in my dress.
“Let’s remedy that. Victor Ivanov.” He reached out his hand to shake mine.
I clasped it, and as soon he curled his fingers around mine, he flipped my hand before brushing it under his lips. The surprising act combined with the supple curve of his mouth caused my traitorous body to shiver.
“Julie Brenan.”
He arched his eyebrow as if awaiting more information.
“Julianne Brenan,” I corrected, not sure why I wanted him to know my full name, but it slipped out of my mouth, hanging in the thick air between us.
“It’s as lovely as its owner.”
I swallowed, wondering if my underwear would sustain any more of his flattery. “You have a Russian name and a British accent. There must be a story there.”
“There is, but I would rather use it to lure you into accepting my invitation.”
“I cannot join you, Mr Ivanov. I’m meeting someone.”
“It’s Victor. Who is getting the pleasure of your company tonight? Another man?” he asked with an amused smirk, but his eyes grew darker and narrowed at the same time. “Boyfriend, husband, or inconsequential date?”
“Why do you want to know?” I batted my lashes, hoping it looked beguiling and not like something had flown into my eye. I couldn’t believe I was actually flirting back. If the art of seduction were equated to paint on a canvas, I’d end up with stick figures at best. He made it easy though, like it was a natural predisposition of my thought process.
“I prefer to verify the stakes before placing any bets.”
“And what are you wagering, Victor?”
He pulled my hand with just enough force that my feet followed. He bent, tilting his head so his sweet mouth hovered next to my ear. “That you’ll end up in my bed tonight with your tongue, hands and all your other delicious parts entangled with mine.”
A flush of heat coursed through my body so fast, I thought I was having a hot flash for a second. I sucked in some air and tried desperately not to fan myself.
“Do you need a room, because it’s a good thing we’re at a hotel.”
The voice was familiar, but I wasn’t able to register it since I was in a dream-like trance staring at the beautiful lines of Victor’s face. It was Victor that broke our contact and smiled at Libby. Damn…I’d actually forgotten about her. I’d forgotten about everything, except for the tall, muscular man in front of me who filled out a suit perfectly. Libby gave me an impish smile and shook her head. I knew this little exchange would be the fodder for our dinnertime conversation.
“This is my friend, Libby. Libby, this is Victor Ivanov. He just rescued me from splitting my head open.”
Victor was completely composed, while I was a quivering mess. He shook her hand, and I was extremely happy he didn’t kiss it, surprising myself with my sudden possessiveness.
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He turned back to me, placing one of my strategically placed wisps of hair behind my ear. “I was doing a public service. A head as beautiful as yours should be preserved at all costs.”
My heart beat so wildly, I was sure the sound was echoing much like my heels had.
“Nice to meet you, Mr Ivanov,” Libby replied, giving him an up-and-down stare that lasted far too long to be decent. “Would you care to join us for Julie’s birthday celebration?”
I grimaced, silently cursing Libby for mentioning it, but Victor kept smiling.
“I’m sure he’s busy,” I said, with panic. The last thing I needed was this gorgeous hunk of a man sitting across from me as I chomped down on filet mignon.
“I’m afraid I must decline, but enjoy your evening. Happy birthday, Julianne. I hope you fare better with the food than the floors.” He nodded before walking away.
Hearing him say my full name caused a slight pounding in my chest. First, he was eliciting hot flashes and now he might cause a heart failure. Either way, I might just die a happy woman.
“Did I cock block you?” Libby said, giggling like a schoolgirl, pulling me toward the restaurant entrance. I laughed so hard my shoulders shook. Fifty-year-old Libby using that expression was priceless.
“He’s far too young for me.”
She looked back once. “Honey, all you need are a bat and two balls and you have yourself a game.”
“Libby!” I yelled, but it was lost as she opened the doors to a private room in the restaurant and a half-dozen people shouted ‘Surprise!’ at me. Damn, Libby!
I stared at her, in shocked confusion. I recognized the people but they were all Libby’s friends. I knew why she’d done it though. I’d been a complete recluse since my divorce, and she tried like hell to get me to socialize again despite my steadfast philosophy to live the rest of my life like a nun without a church.
“Don’t be mad. You only turn forty once.”
“I’m forty-three.”
“I know, but we have some making up to do.”
I put on my best tight smile and greeted all the guests. Jeff actually stood up to kiss my cheek, which was awkward. Libby had set us up on a date—my first and only since the divorce. We hadn’t clicked at all. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t talk about John and I hadn’t. But it was Jeff, who’d spent the evening rehashing the pain his ex had put him through, as if she’d personally accosted him in a dark alley, leaving him injured and penniless, to die alone. The bitterness in his voice had reminded me that I needed to move on before I sounded like that. The problem with men my own age was that they were all divorced and disillusioned, and if you found one that wasn’t… Well, there was a reason he’d never gotten married in the first place.
Looking back, in some ways it was good that John and I never had kids. We’d wanted to once, when we were young and heartsick. We’d both been able to, but ironically, the combination of us wasn’t compatible. We’d talked about adoption and surrogates, but somehow time had slipped through the hourglass, and John had found excuses why we shouldn’t. That should have been my first clue our marriage was doomed to fail. Funny, I could pick up any small tidbit of foreshadowing in any novel I read, no matter how well the author tried to hide it, but I was completely oblivious when it came to my own life.
I chatted amicably with everyone, staying on light topics. Almost every single person told me I looked fetching for my age, which seemed like a backhanded compliment of sorts, but I smiled and nodded graciously just the same. A great deal of fanfare was made when a bottle of fine wine was delivered to our table as our dinners arrived, compliments of Mr Ivanov.
Libby studied the label intently, smoothing out her salt-and-pepper hair before holding it up like a game show hostess. “Jesus, Julie! This is at least eight-hundred bucks.”
I did a double take, knowing she was probably very accurate in her pricing. Her parents had owned vineyards, and she’d grown up with an education that rivaled most sommeliers.
“Who’s your secret admirer, Julie?” Myrna Kemp asked.
I shrugged. “Just a man I bumped into.”
“I wouldn’t mind bumping into him. He has good taste,” she said, downing her glass.
“It’s more like fell,” I explained. “I fell into him.”
“Lucky fall,” Myrna said with an air of cool, hostile smugness that only women were capable of.
“It’s kind of showy in my opinion,” Jeff replied, studying the bottle.
“You know, Sandy and John are having a wine-tasting party.”
And there was the reason I didn’t like Myrna Kemp. She wasn’t even friends with my ex, but she was just a little too happy to mention him in my presence. It was as if she enjoyed my discomfort.
“Well, bully for them. Jesus, Myrna, it’s one thing to invite yourself, but there’s no need to be such a catty bitch.” Libby never was one for mincing words.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she slurred slightly, letting me know she’d had one too many.
“Should we send it back? It’s far too expensive.”
Libby grabbed the bottle, pouring a quick glass. “You can’t. It’s opened, and even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t let you.”
“It’s very gracious of him.”
Libby winked at me, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He can afford it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wealth is a physical trait in some people, like hair color or limp knees. He wears his wealth well, like some men wear ties. Or were you too busy eyeing his biceps to notice?”
“Very funny.”
“So are you going to thank him personally?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
I gently slapped her arm. “Stop it. I told you, he’s too young.”
“Jesus, Jules, when did you get so boring? You’re not in the grave.”
She stood up then and proclaimed a toast to the table. “To my best friend, Julie. The only person I know that’s not only read, but claims to understand James Joyce. The kind of girl that can tackle Faulkner for breakfast and enjoy Kid Rock at lunch. You are an inspiration to us all.”
I held up my glass, clinking it with everyone else’s. Thankfully, Libby was being discreet about my run-in with Mr Gorgeous. Everyone was having side conversations so Libby and I had privacy to speak openly.
“I’m not boring. I’m just smart enough not to read anything into it. He was being nice.”
“Being nice would be asking if you were all right. It’s more than that when he’s staring at you like you’re the last bagel in Manhattan.” Libby should write a book called Libbyisms—she had a million sayings no one else was likely to get. She leaned in, lowering her voice, “Don’t let his betrayal impact your self-esteem.”
My jaw dropped. “How can it not? What’s worse than your husband trading you in on your fortieth birthday for a twenty-year-old?”
Libby smiled crookedly. “He could have traded in for two twenty-year-olds and gotten even change for his money.”
I almost spat out my wine as a result of my completely unladylike laugh. Libby could always lift my spirits.
Then the birthday cake came and all I could do was scowl. It looked like a floating, blazing inferno with all the colorful glowing wax sticks perched on it. I counted quickly. Forty fucking candles… Was she crazy?
“I hope you got the fire marshal’s approval for this,” I said. I noticed that even the waiter was holding it nervously away from his body before he set it down with apparent trepidation in front of me. I felt the heat on my face like I was in front of a roaring fire, but there was nothing cozy about his cake.
“I thought it would be fun,” Libby said, clapping her hands.
I shook my head. I blew out the candles, hoping I had enough breath in my lungs for this exercise in embarrassment. I didn’t. They all flickered, went out then came back on.
Libby giggled with a child-like glee. “Trick candles.”
I shot her a venomous
glare. “You know I’m forty-three and not three, right?”
“Sorry, it might have been too much,” she said, looking contrite.
I couldn’t stay mad at her. She had spent too many nights pulling me out of dark places. A person has to be willing to go to hell to save someone from it, and Libby had done that for me.
“Help me out before we burn the place down,” I said, putting my arm around her. We managed to blow out all the candles after three attempts.
A heavy, festively wrapped box was thrust upon my lap. I looked up to see Jeff standing there, running his hands through his thinning hair, covering the beginnings of a steep widow’s peak. “I was in charge of buying the present. I hope you like it.”
I smiled. “You guys shouldn’t have gotten me anything.” The dinner was extravagant enough and the last thing I wanted was a present.
“We didn’t. That’s from Jeff,” Libby said.
“Thank you.” I was both surprised by and uncomfortable with the gesture. I carefully tore through the wrapping paper, ripping at the corners.
Libby leaned in, whispering in my ear, “I bet you wish you were unwrapping Mr Tall, Dark and Sexy back there.”
I giggled, shaking my head and tore off more of the paper. As soon as I read the flourishing script on the box, I decided to refrain from opening the whole thing.
“It’s very nice. Thank you so much, Jeff,” I said, hoping it sounded sincere.
Libby peered over my shoulder to get a better look. “I don’t even know what it is.”
“It’s a doughnut maker,” Jeff responded with pride. “I know how much she loves doughnuts and now she can make her very own.”
