“Do you ever think maybe you’ve wasted some of your best years in boardrooms instead of bedrooms?” Hallie asks.
“No.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It is not!” I laugh. “How do you know what I’ve thought about or what I feel?”
“Because you answered too quickly.”
“Immediate responses are always a sign of dishonesty.” A voice rumbles behind me, just loud enough for me to hear. I jump at the sound. My gaze trained on Hallie, I feel my body responding to Carver’s presence like a dinner bell.
The scent of his cologne, a crisp, linen-y scent with a hint of musk, fills the area surrounding the table. Every female in a half-mile radius is staring just over my head regardless of whether they’re sitting with a man or not.
“That’s not true, Carver” I respond, but not bothering to turn around. “My response was immediate because I didn’t have to think about it.”
“Good thing I didn’t hear the question or we could really do some sparring,” he says, coming into view.
A crisp white button-up is tucked neatly into a pair of dark denim jeans, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A sparkly gold watch glitters under the lights above. His feet wear a pair of white sneakers, giving his sophisticated look a playful edge.
He motions, asking Hallie if he can have a seat at one of the empty chairs between us. She nods slowly, a little sluggish on the uptake between the effects of the alcohol and the Carver charm. I kick her under the table, motioning to wipe the drool off her chin.
“I didn’t know you were coming here,” he says, looking at me.
“I didn’t know you were either or I would’ve selected another bar.”
He grins. “And here I thought maybe you’d be a little less hateful outside the office.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, wrapping my lips around the straw and sucking the last drops of margarita from the glass.
Despite Felipe standing at his side, asking him if he would like to order, Carver doesn’t take his eyes off me. They’re glued to my mouth as I work the straw with my tongue and he shifts in his seat as I release it.
My stomach flip-flops from the dissection, the heat of his gaze as he lifts it to mine burning straight through my libido. I blame it on the tequila. Shoving the glass to the center of the table, I look at Felipe.
“Can I get a glass of ice water, please?” I ask.
“Sure. Anything for you, sir?”
“Jack and Coke. And get her another one of those too.”
“Absolutely.”
He settles back in his chair, grinning at me. “So, what was the question?”
“What question?”
“The one you answered quickly.”
“Nothing,” I scoff, surprised to see another drink in front of me so soon.
Hallie leans forward, bringing herself into the conversation. “I asked her if she felt like she regretted spending so much time on her professional life as opposed to her personal one.”
Carver’s brow arches. “What was your answer?”
“I said absolutely not.” The band changes songs as I try to decide whether to attempt a reasonable conversation with him.
Hallie excuses herself with an impish grin, leaving Carver and I alone.
“So,” I say, forcing a swallow, “what about you?”
“What about me what?”
“Do you feel like you’ve had to sacrifice your personal life for your professional one?”
“Not really. I’ve done what I wanted in both parts of my life.”
“Oh.”
“I was engaged once.”
My glass nearly slips from my hand. I catch it just seconds before I’m wearing a reddish-pink liquid down the front of my shirt. “You were engaged?”
“Yeah,” he says, looking down. “For just a few months right after college. Her name was Tish. Marcus introduced us. There’s not a lot I can say about her. She was a sweet girl.”
“What happened?”
He shrugs in a way that tells me he’s not completely sure.
“Tish was a people pleaser,” he says finally. “She said all the right things, did all the right things. There wasn’t a bad bone in her body.”
“So, what was the problem?”
“There wasn’t one,” he laughs. “That’s why I liked her. She knew the things to say. She made me feel a certain way and I really liked that.”
“I still don’t see the issue,” I grin.
He takes a long, measured drink before setting his glass down. He looks at me.
“Oh, I get it,” I tease. “You couldn’t argue with her. I know how you love a good fight. That must’ve driven you crazy, didn’t it?”
His chuckle washes over me, fertilizing a little seed of happiness buried in my gut.
“We had nothing to talk about,” he says simply. “Our interests were completely different. Could I have married her and been happy? Yeah, I guess. I didn’t question her loyalty or her kindness. My family loved her. Hers tolerated me. But would I have been excited to go home to her at the end of the day?”
“Yeah,” I nod, downing half of my drink and feeling the tequila rip down my throat. “It must be easier to just go home with whatever girl you pick up at the bar, right?”
The grim set of his lips catches me off-guard. He tilts toward me, his eyes steeling. “I know you think a lot of shitty things about me.”
“You’re right. I do.”
“That’s fine. Maybe even deserved. But I don’t tear through women, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I haven’t given it much thought at all.”
That’s a total, blatant lie. The status of his love life has been a popular topic in my brain over the last couple of days. How could a guy like him—fine as hell, wealthy, president of a successful company—not be taken? Or at least occupied by a harem? It seems impossible. But yet …
“I do appreciate you thinking I could just line ‘em up and have my way with them,” he grins.
“I’m sure you have.”
“Maybe.” He eyes my empty glass and signals to Felipe to bring me another.
“Oh, no,” I say, waving him off. “I’ve had two. That’s about my limit.”
“Don’t get her to four,” Hallie warns with a giggle, popping back to our table. She grabs her purse.
“What happens at four?” Carver inquires.
“At four she gets a little …”
Felipe sits another beverage in front of me.
“She’ll have one more,” Carver laughs, looking up at the server.
“No, Felipe,” I say, looking him in the eye. “That’s it. No more. Okay?”
I’m not sure Felipe is going to heed my request as he takes off across the room. I look at Carver. He’s relaxed, his thick forearms on the table, wearing a lecherous grin. It sears a direct path to the center of my libido, sending my entire body up in flames. Although we’re surrounded by a couple hundred people, it feels like it’s only the two of us in all of Manhattan.
“Hey,” Hallie says, touching me on the arm. I jump at the intrusion. My head feels foggy, the tequila adding up quickly. “Camryn just called and is having an emergency, and I told her I would—”
“Go,” I say, trying to wave her off.
“Are you sure? You took a cab here, right?”
I nod, my head feeling heavy. “I’ll be fine. I’ll cab it home.”
My eyes flutter closed as I try to get my bearings. I hear Carver and Hallie exchanging words, but I can’t make them out over the roar of the crowd cheering for the band. When I open my eyes, I see Carver watching me carefully.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m a lightweight,” I hiccup. “I don’t get out much.”
“Two margaritas did that to you?”
“I had a glass or two of wine before I got here,” I admit. “I drank those pretty quickly.”
“Have you eaten today?”
I attempt
to retrace the day’s steps, but it’s a giant blur of images.
“You have to eat, Amity. Stay put.”
He’s gone for a few minutes. More people pack into the bar and I feel a line of sweat forming across my forehead. My water is gone and the only thing in front of me is the margarita. I down it.
By the time Carver is back with a plate of cheese fries, I’ve happily forgotten all about the temperature. I’m swaying back and forth to the music when he takes his seat.
“You drank the other one?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say pointedly, not keen on the hint of accusation in his tone. “It was delish.”
“Delish?” he chuckles. “Here, eat some of these.”
My nose wrinkles. “Everything on that plate is probably processed.”
“So? Are you a food snob?”
“No,” I laugh, thinking how handsome he looks with the top two buttons of his shirt undone. “But I learned a lot about farm-to-table in California. It changed the way I eat.”
“Is farm-to-table where you eat locally?”
“Yes. It is, but not just locally. Also seasonally and often times organic.”
“Sounds great,” he winces, picking up a fry and shoving it in his mouth. “This tastes great.”
“Have you ever had free-range chicken? Or local honey? Or strawberries picked the morning you buy them?” I ask, the words not coming out as fast as I’m thinking them. “In Santa Monica, there’s a place off the pier that serves all their dishes based off what they can get locally from farmer’s markets or farmers or some of the stuff they grow themselves. It’s fascinating, Carver.”
“It sounds it.” He tilts his head. “I’ve never seen you talk this way about anything.”
Picking up a fry, I take a bite. “On Sunday mornings, Hanley’s, that’s the name of the restaurant I was telling you about, used to take all their extra food from the week and prepare it and have a soup kitchen of sorts for the homeless. I would volunteer there almost every week.” I take another bite, not even tasting it. “There was such a sense of camaraderie amongst the people, of community. I really miss that.”
“Maybe you can find something like that here,” he offers.
“Maybe.”
We share a few fries and a few more smiles but keep to our own thoughts. Finally, as the music turns to a more rock style, we find ourselves wincing.
“I think it’s time for me to go home,” I say, fumbling for my purse on the seat next to me. “Where’s Felipe?”
“Stay here, okay?”
Nodding, I work my fingers over the zipper trying to find my wallet. Before I can get it out, Carver is back. He stands next to me, an energy rolling off of him that almost knocks me over. “You ready?”
I start to get up, wobbling a little on my heels. He takes the crook of my arm in his thick hands and helps me to my feet. Panting, I wait for him to release me. He doesn’t. Instead, he guides me with one hand on the small of my back to the doorway.
“I didn’t pay Felipe,” I remember as we step into the warm evening air.
“I took care of it.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“Sure.” He hails a cab and, in a few seconds, he’s sliding into the seat next to me. “What’s your address?”
He repeats my information to the driver and we lurch into traffic.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I sigh, my head resting against the seat. “I’m a big girl, you know.”
“I’m very aware.”
The car jostles through heavy traffic, the smell of some kind of incense almost lulling me to sleep. The tequila is dense in my stomach, clouding my mind from logical thoughts.
And actions.
Yawning, my head falls to the side and rests against Carver’s shoulder. A niggle in the back of my mind screams at me to pull it up, but I don’t. It feels too nice. Holding my breath, I wait for his reaction. His body shifts ever-so-slightly in his seat, but that’s it. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shrug me off.
His cologne mixes with the perfumed smoke from the front of the car, and I find myself on the verge of snuggling into his chest.
“I’m so sleepy,” I say softly.
“You’ve probably got jet lag. When did you get here?”
“A few days ago. That is probably it.”
“Make sure you rest and drink a lot of fluids.” He shifts so he can see my face. “But not tequila.”
“I don’t usually drink tequila. Or anything, really, other than a glass of wine on occasion.”
“I don’t drink much either,” he admits. “A beer here and there is about the extent of it. There’s just not time to go out and do those things.”
“Don’t I know that …”
The cab lurches forward, nearly knocking me out of my seat, before screeching to a stop.
“Easy there,” Carver laughs, steadying me. He’s handing the cabbie a wad of cash before I can even find my purse on the floorboard. He opens the door and offers me a hand. I study his face, angular and striking as the lights behind him cast him in a glamorized shadow. With an ounce of trepidation, I look at his outstretched palm.
“I can pay for my own ride home,” I point out.
“There’s little doubt,” he grins. “Now come on before the driver takes off with you in the car.”
Holding my breath, I place my hand in his. The warmth and sturdiness cause me to nearly gasp, the skin-on-skin contact—even if it is just our palms—enough to make me wobble as I stand. I’m aware that the cab takes off behind me, but I can’t look away from Carver.
“You okay?” he asks. His eyes are without the humor I’m used to seeing. Instead, they’re filled with something that makes me sway again. “Here. Let me help you inside.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure you will. But, here’s the thing: as much of a dick as you think I am, and maybe I am, I do have a conscience.” My hand is still firmly in his and he gives it a gentle squeeze. “Let’s go.”
The air is balmy as we walk a few feet to the building door. Ralph, the bellman, greets us as we enter. Carver leads us to the elevator across the nearly vacant reception area and with the quick press of the arrow, the doors swing open to whisk us upstairs.
Once inside, I lean against the mirrored wall and remove my heels.
“Don’t worry,” I say, resting my head against the glass. “I’m not disrobing.”
“Sorry about my luck.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and focuses on the numbers above the door. “I don’t think I’ve had a chance to say it, but it’s nice to be in your orbit again.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs. “It’s just nice seeing you again, Amity.”
“Yeah, well, it’s nice having these shoes off,” I mutter, stumbling by him as the doors open.
Heels in hand, I move the few feet to the door to my apartment with much less grace than I care to admit. My shoes hit the floor with a thud.
“Tell me I didn’t leave my keys in the bar,” I moan, rifling through my purse. “Damn it.”
“Guess you’ll have to go home with me,” he teases.
I fire a look his way as I make it to the bottom of my bag. “Here they are!”
“Unlucky strike number two.”
My hand drops to my side, the keys jangling together. He’s leaned against the wall, one leg crossed in front of the other. I consider what I’d think if I looked over and saw him there and didn’t have all this baggage piled around us.
The answer is simple. I’d lose way more clothes than just the shoes.
His jaw is set, his eyes almost wicked. The corner of his full lips curls into a half-smile so devilishly suggestive that the last piece of the barrier not eroded by the tequila washes away.
I attempt the lock once. Twice. Three times before he snatches them out of my hand. He sticks it in and the handle turns.
“You inserted that easily.” I bend down to pick up my heels, full
y cognizant of my choice of words.
“What can I say? It’s a gift.”
My bare feet slap against the marble entryway as I enter my home. I get halfway down the hall when I realize I didn’t hear the door shut. I turn around. Carver is standing at the doorway, firmly on the other side of the threshold.
“Want to come in?” I ask.
He watches me for a long minute before sliding his hands back into his pockets. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”
I drop my shoes to the floor. “Really, Carver?”
“You hate me.”
“So?”
“I’m not beyond a good hate fuck, but I’d like to experience your full hatred while you’re one hundred percent sober.”
“I’m not drunk,” I attest.
“I know that. But you’re also not sober.”
My anger-filled laugh echoes through the room. “I get it. I’m sorry. Just close the door behind you.”
“Amity, wait—”
“No,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I forgot who I was dealing with. You’re the guy that needs a good dare to mess with a girl like me.”
“Amity—”
I take the three steps towards him and grip the side of the door. “Goodnight, Carver.”
The door shuts, leaving him standing on the other side. I wait for him to knock, but he doesn’t.
Sliding down the wall, my skin squeaks against the marble as I sit on the cool floor. Alone.
Sorry about my luck.
Eight
Carver
* * *
“I’ll be ready.”
“I hope so.” Salvo stands, grabbing his briefcase from the floor. “The Board is interested in hearing both of your plans, and from what we’ve heard so far, it seems you both have very different visions for the future of Jones + Gallum.”
“I bet we do,” I say, following him to the door. “But we both know I have the experience and dedication to this company. My ideas don’t come from some textbook I learned in California. Mine come from real life, hard data, and years following the trends in this sector specifically.”
He nods, stepping out into the hallway. “I know that. That’s why I’m interested to see what you put together.” With a tight smile, he makes his way down passed Marissa and into the elevator.
Battle of the Sexes Page 4
