by Cat Carmine
“Great! I'll forward you the event details. The dress-code is formal, so you'll need an evening gown, but knowing you, I'm sure that's not a problem.” I can almost hear her grinning on the other end of the line.
“No, no problem at all,” I assure her. But as soon as I get off the phone I hobble over to my closet and stare in horror at everything hanging there. There's nothing there that's good enough. If I'm going to go to this, I need a killer dress — one that's good enough to make Tyler's father forget he ever saw me in such a compromising position. And one that goes with Crutches Chic, of course.
Twenty-Two
Why in the hell did I agree to this, again?
That's the thought that's running through my mind the entire time I'm getting ready for the gala. I think it when I’m hobbling out of the shower and when I'm awkwardly hopping into the long black dress I bought and again when my crutch slips and I almost stab myself in the eye with my mascara wand. I'm a frazzled mess, and I’m about to call my sister Rori and tell her that we both should just stay home when ... my phone rings.
I feel a leap of hope in my chest that maybe she’s calling to tell me she has to cancel. Maybe if I’m really lucky she’ll tell me she's come down with the plague and can't make it — after all, what kind of sister would I be if I didn't go to her and take care of her? So I wouldn’t be able to go to the gala either, and oh, what a shame that would be.
But when I glance down at the screen, it isn't Rori, but Blake. My other sister.
“Hey Blakey,” I say, holding the phone to one ear while I fish around for the pair of earrings I'd planned on wearing tonight.
“Hi Emma.”
She doesn't say anything else. I triumphantly pull the earrings out of my jewelry box and pop the back off one of them.
“So ... what's up?” I prod.
“I’m bored.”
“Um. Okay. Why don't you go watch a movie or something?”
“No,” she huffs. “I mean, I'm like, existentially bored. Or whatever.”
I snort, and then cough to try to cover it up. “Existentially bored? What does that even mean?”
“You know ... I'm bored of my life.”
“Your life is fine, Blake.” And I'd happily trade with you these days, I think, only a tad bitterly.
“That's just it. It’s fine. Don't you think life should be more than fine?”
I don't answer right away, partly because I'm busy shoving the other earring into my earlobe, and partly because I'm actually considering her question.
“I don't know, Blake,” I finally sigh. “That's a pretty deep question for a Saturday night. And unfortunately, I have a gala to get to.”
She moans. “See? That's exactly what I'm talking about. You and Rori have these exciting lives in the city ... and what do I do? I work at our parents' flower shop. What do I do on Saturday nights? I come home and eat Chinese take-out — again with our parents — and watch reruns of NCIS.”
I don't tell her that, right now, that sounds pretty damn appealing. “Blake, there's nothing wrong with your life,” I repeat, instead.
She grumbles something unintelligible, then squeals. “I’ve got the best idea!”
Her shriek is so loud, my eardrum almost bursts. “What?”
“I’ll come into the city tonight! I'll be your date for this gala!”
“Blake, don't be crazy.”
“Come on ... it's only a two-hour train ride. I could be there by ... nine-thirty, ten at the latest. That's plenty of time. Then we could go out for a real New York City hangover breakfast tomorrow morning. Do you know how long it's been since I had a good bagel?”
I suppress a smile.
“Honestly, I'd love to have you come visit. Anytime you want. But let's not make it so last minute, okay? Besides, Rori's already coming to the gala with me.”
Blake groans. “See? You two have all the fun, and I'm stuck here in Bumfuck, Connecticut. It's not fair.”
“Next weekend," I promise her. "You can come up and you, me, and Rori will all do something fun together. Maybe see a show or hit a club or something. And the next day's hangover brunch is on me.”
“Fine,” she says, but I can tell she's still pouting.
Being the baby of the family, Blake is used to getting her way. But I'm already stressed enough about this gala; I don't need to worry about my sister showing up and deciding tonight is the night to let loose and go crazy. Blake has always been the wild child in our family, and once she gets going, well ... let's just say, you can't put Baby in the corner.
I finally manage to get her off the phone, then finish up my hair and make-up and admire my reflection in the mirror. I guess it’s not too bad. I mean, if you ignore the crutches and the fact that I can only wear one ballet flat while my other foot is wrapped up nice and tight in an oh-so-attractive tensor bandage. At least the dress I picked out hides the fact that I've probably gained ten pounds in the last month. If nothing else, I can be thankful for that. Empire waists for the win.
Less than an hour later, Rori and I are walking up the front steps of the Plaza. She looks effortlessly fabulous as usual, with her auburn hair pinned up and a figure-hugging, royal blue dress. She must sense my nervousness, because she keeps up a long stream of conversation the entire time, keeping me at least somewhat distracted.
Still, as soon as we're inside, I start scanning the room for Tyler. As we walk through the lobby, back towards the ballroom, as we step under the twinkling lights of the chandeliers, my eyes are roving over every single tuxedoed man in the place. I don't know if I'm hoping to spot him — or if I'm hoping not to.
I didn't tell him I was coming tonight. I guess maybe I should have, but I haven't been able to bring myself to return his calls. Or his texts. Other than a quick message to tell him my ankle was doing okay, we haven't spoken since he left my house last weekend.
“This is quite the production,” Rori says, scanning the room.
“Yeah.” My voice is flat. I keep scanning the room. There are already a couple hundred people in the place, even though it's still pretty early, and all of them are in formal evening gowns and black ties. There are even a few men prancing around in tails.
I smooth down my dress, trying to balance on the crutches while I do. I'd kill to be in a pair of heels right now. I feel shrimpy and doughy compared to everyone else in here, and nothing lifts and tightens better than a good pair of stilettos.
“Do you want a drink?” my sister asks.
“A drink sounds great, actually.” I smile. I'm so relieved to have her here with me. Thank God for sisters. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, you stay put. Here, sit. I'll be quick. Champagne?”
“Sure. Thanks.” I slide into the seat she pulls out for me at one of the round, white-cloth-covered tables that line the left side of the room. She disappears into the crowd, heading to the bar area to get our drinks.
She isn't gone more than two minutes when a voice cuts through the air. A voice that rolls my stomach, that lifts the tiny wispy hairs on the back of my neck.
“Emma.”
I turn. Tyler is standing there, wearing an expensive-looking tuxedo. His normally unruly dark hair has been slicked down into submission, but his grey eyes still sparkle playfully.
“Do I have a flashing neon sign over my head?” I ask, pretending to look around. “I’ve been here less than five minutes.”
“No. Just a general hotness that lures men like moths.”
I bite back a smile. “Oh, okay. I wasn't sure.”
He slips into the chair next to me.
“You haven't called,” he points out.
“I know.”
“Or answered my texts.”
“I know,” I say again, somewhat sheepishly.
“So ... what's up with that?” He grins.
I shrug. “I’ve been busy. I was trying to get ahead on my work — you know, after I blew that deadline.” I try to make my voice sound pointed.
; “Right.” He looks around for a minute. “So, how'd you end up here tonight? Don’t get me wrong, I'm glad you did. I was actually going to invite you. You know, if you'd returned any one of my many calls.”
I twist my hands in my lap. “I was invited by your company, actually. Solange asked me to come.”
“Oh?” He seems surprised by this. “Solange, huh?”
“Yes. Well, I think she said it was your VP's idea.”
“Diana?”
“I don't know, I think so. Maybe.”
“Hmm,” is all he says.
Silence descends on us. The rest of the room is bustling with laughter, music, the low hum of conversation. All I can do is stare at Tyler's lips, at the way they part as he breathes, at the way they twist up into a grin when he catches me staring.
I try to think of something to say, but I'm saved by the return of my sister. She drops a glass of champagne on the table in front of me as she takes a sip of her own.
“Hi Tyler,” she says, when she spots our new friend. “I wondered if we'd see you here.”
“Of course.” He grins easily. “I’m neck-deep in the family business now, so I'm expected to come and put in an appearance at these things.” He stands up, straightening the slim-fitting jacket that does nothing to mask the broad, hard expanse of his chest. “Speaking of which, I should make the rounds. Rori, nice to see you. Emma ... maybe we can talk more later?”
“Maybe,” I say nonchalantly, sipping my champagne.
He hesitates for a minute, as if he might say something else. Then he shakes his head lightly and parts his way through the crowd.
“So,” Rori says, plunking down into his newly vacated seat. “What was that about?”
“What was what about?”
“You and Tyler. This is twice now that …”
“Nothing's going on, if that's what you're suggesting.” I cut her off. My voice sounds indignant, and I applaud myself on my acting skills. “He just came over to say hello.”
“Right.” Rori doesn't look like she believes me, so maybe my acting skills aren't quite as amazing as I think they are. She's studying me so intently that I have to look away. I down the rest of my champagne.
“We're just friends. Barely even friends, actually. Acquaintances, really.”
Rori's frown deepens. It seems like the more I insist, the more she doesn't believe me. Maybe I should take a hint and shut-up.
I didn't even tell Rori how I really hurt my ankle — nothing about the trip to the Catskills or my naked run-in with Tyler's dad or anything. I told her the same thing I told Solange, that I'd tripped going up some stairs. Of course, Rori being Rori, she hadn't let the issue go as easily as Solange did. She had a thousand follow-up questions, like where I was when it happened and how I got to the hospital and why I didn't call her to come help. I bluffed my way through some of her questions, and then feigned a codeine fog and hastily got off the phone. Now I pray that she doesn't start another interrogation.
Thankfully, she seems to be staring at something off in the distance.
“What is it?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Just thought I saw someone I went to college with.”
“You should go say hi, then,” I say, trying not to sound too enthusiastic about the idea.
Rori looks skeptical. “I didn't come here with you just to abandon you in the first ten minutes.”
I wave off her comment. “I should go find Solange, anyway. I have to at least let her know I'm here.”
Rori still doesn't look convinced, but when I hoist myself up and wedge the crutches under my arms, she seems to realize I'm serious. We part ways, and I hobble through the crowd, scanning the room for my publicist. I spot her near the front, chatting with a small group of people.
“Emma!” she calls when she sees me. “Come here. I want to introduce you to some people.”
Solange is so animated and cheerful that for the first time, I actually feel happy to be here. I shake hands with her colleagues and stand up a little straighter when she introduces me to Diana Cunningham, the company's vice president.
Diana asks polite questions about my book and as I answer, I feel like myself for the first time in weeks. This is the stuff I'm good at. Small talk. Networking. Being charming with people I don’t know that well.
When Diana asks me if I've given any thought to a follow-up book, a thrill runs through me. “I hadn't thought of it, no, but it's an intriguing idea.”
“You should give it some real consideration,” she says thoughtfully. “Your book is our top seller this season, and you should always strike while the iron is hot. That's the best business advice I've ever gotten — so consider this me, passing that advice on to you.”
“I’ll keep it mind,” I assure her. “You've definitely given me something to think about.” Even though I have no idea what I’d write about, and oh, I’m doing a pretty piss poor job of living up to my first book as it is.
“Good.” She nods, then glances around the room. “Well, it looks like they're getting ready to start the speeches. I'm going to go see if I'm needed. Emma, it was nice meeting you. I hope I'll catch you again later — I have something a little more ... delicate ... that I'd like to talk to you about.”
My eyes widen in surprise. I can't imagine what the vice president of Good Grant Books would want to talk to me about, but she drifts away before I have time to answer. I glance at Solange, who shrugs.
After a couple more minutes talking to my publicist, I excuse myself, figuring I'd better hit the ladies’ room before the speeches and the rest of the evening’s festivities get started. Especially since it takes me about three times as long to do anything with these damn crutches. I slowly pick my way out of the ballroom and start down the hall.
“Emma!” The voice stops me in my tracks. I don't even have to turn around. Even without seeing his face, my arms speckle with goosebumps.
“Fancy meeting you here again,” Tyler says, catching up to me. He grins. “Okay, that's a lie. I totally followed you on purpose.”
I bite back a smile. Even when I don't want to, Tyler always seems to make me laugh.
“You did, did you?”
“Oh yeah. What can I say, I see that ass, and I'm like a fish on a hook. A pervy fish, you might even say.”
This time I laugh out loud. Tyler reaches out and touches my jaw. The sudden intimacy takes me by surprise and buckles my knees.
“You have no idea how much I've missed that sound,” he says. His voice is hoarse. I swallow thickly as he studies my face. “Why didn't you answer my calls? The real reason. Honesty, okay?”
“Honesty? Well, honestly … I was scared.” The words are out before I have time to censor them. I clap my mouth closed, but Tyler’s brow is already furrowing.
“Scared of what?”
I shrug, looking up at the ceiling for a second. “Everything. You. Me. This.”
The answer sounds stupid to me, but Tyler nods as if he understands completely. He runs his thumb along my jaw as he looks into my eyes.
“So it's not just me,” he says. “This is ... there's something here.”
“Yes. Maybe. I don't know.” Nice, Emma. Very articulate. Why does being around Tyler turn me into a pile of mush? With Solange and Diana, I was charming and witty, and now I’m acting like a total ditz.
But Tyler is still smiling. “It's a fair answer. But let's try to figure it out together, okay? No more avoiding my calls.”
“Fine.” My lips are twisted up into a smile. No matter how I try to fight it, Tyler makes me feel light. Stunned and slightly braindead, too, but also light and free and … happy. And maybe that's a good thing.
“Come with me,” he says suddenly. His hand goes to my lower back, and he ushers me through a door in the hallway. It’s white and paneled, and it matches the walls so well I wouldn’t have even noticed it.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere we can be alone.”
We step
into a dark room, and Tyler lets the door swing closed behind us. I can still hear the hum of the crowd and the tinkle of the string quartet from the ballroom, but the sounds are muffled.
I squint as I try to figure out where we are. It's dark, but I can make out a large projection screen on one side. The other side of the space is swathed in darkness. Some kind of presentation room, maybe.
“Um, don't you remember what happened the last time we tried to sneak into a private space?” I point out, shuddering as I remember the incident at the Kinsmen.
“Good point,” Tyler grins. He reaches out and twists the lock on the knob of the door we entered through. “There. Problem solved.”
“Now why didn't we think of that last time?” I grin.
“I blame your distracting beauty.”
I giggle. “Well, I think your tongue might have to share some of the blame.”
“Hmm, I'm glad you feel that way.”
He swoops in and kisses me, and all my thoughts and worries go magically sailing back out the locked door behind us. The only thing I can do is feel, and the only thing I can feel is Tyler. The intensity of his kiss shocks me, and so does my reaction to it. I stumble backwards, catching myself on one of my crutches, but Tyler keeps me braced firmly against his chest. His lips devour mine, and I let myself be devoured. I could spend forever kissing this man. Doing literally nothing but kissing him. His lips against mine are like fresh air on the face of a coal miner. They’re everything. They’re life itself.
My hands roam across his chest, dancing over the buttons of his shirt. I tug the shirttails out of his pants, desperate to feel the smooth, warm plains of his chest under my hands again. My crutches tumble to the floor, but all my weight is braced against Tyler, and I don’t worry about him letting me fall. I know he never would.
Tyler’s hands are in my hair, tugging out my neat chignon, but I don’t care about that, either. A week without seeing him has turned me into a pent-up mess of longing and desire, and there’s only one cure for that kind of affliction.
Tyler groans, and his palms slide down over my back to cup my ass. His hands are strong, firm, and the way he kneads them into my flesh ratchets up my desire.
