by S. L. Scott
Some of his hair has fallen over his eyes, freed from the gel that held it in place earlier in the day. His jaw is covered with a five o’clock shadow almost as if the hour commanded it. The knot of his tie is loose and the top button of his shirt open.
Pressing my hands to my lap to steady them, I feign nonchalance to how stunningly handsome he is. “I’m starting to think I was set up by a certain driver.”
The right side of his mouth slides up. “Remind me to give Aaron a bonus.”
To distract me from staring at his mouth and the naughty thoughts crossing my mind, I wave my hand next to me. “Have you met my friend, Melanie?”
His eyes leave mine, and he smiles. “Not officially.” They shake hands and he says, “Ethan Everest. It’s a pleasure to officially meet you.”
“Melanie Lazarus, and the pleasure is all mine.”
“May I buy you ladies a drink?”
With the bartender standing by, I reply, “I think I owe you a drink or twenty.”
“Dinner tomorrow will do.” He winks, and I melt a little more into this barstool. Damn him and his sexiness.
Melanie orders, “Dirty martini—vodka, extra olives.”
Although I want to ask her when she started drinking martinis, I don’t blow her cover. “A glass of sauvignon blanc, please.”
Ethan turns to the bartender and says, “Put it on my tab.”
“Gotcha,” he replies and is off to make our drinks.
Pushing off the marble bar top, Ethan looks at me. “I’ll let you enjoy your time with your friend. It’s good to see you.”
I tighten my shabby cardigan around me, well aware that my attire doesn’t live up to the standards of this place and shouldn’t be in the vicinity of the infamous Ethan Everest. “Good to see you,” comes rushing out.
A bony elbow spikes my upper arm that kills my Everest high. “Ouch.”
Melanie asks, “What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you bundled up like it’s thirty degrees in here?”
“Because I feel ick dressed like this. I look terrible. I look like a low-paid secretary.”
“You are a low-paid secretary, but that’s nothing to be ashamed of. You work hard for your money.” I glare at her until she asks, “What?”
“I was waiting to see if you were going to break into song about working hard for your money. And don’t think I didn’t notice the lack of compliment for my outfit.”
Our drinks are set down and we each take our glass in hand. She says, “I’m struggling to compliment that sweater.” She clinks her glass to mine. “But no matter what you wear, you’re good enough for Ethan Everest. No matter how damn sexy and swoon-worthy he is, so don’t doubt the person you are. You’re beautiful inside and out.”
“Thank you.” I take a drink and then ask, “You really think this sweater is ugly?”
“The worst, but I still love you. And apparently so does Mr. Fancy Pants.” After sighing, I vow to donate the sweater to someone who will give it the good home it deserves. I know she cares about me and only wants what’s best. Her gaze leaves mine, and I follow it over my left shoulder.
Ethan is bogged down in what appears to be a serious conversation with two other men, but his eyes are on me.
He smiles.
Just for me.
And I return one.
Just for him.
10
Ethan
There’s something about Singer.
Every damn man in this place is taking notice, too.
I’m no different.
It’s easy to imagine they’re eyeing her friend by the way she looks in her outfit, but I see where their eyes land. Singer doesn’t need tight skirts, low-cut shirts, fuck-me heels, or heavy makeup. Neither does her friend, though every man here appreciates the effort.
But there’s something about Singer.
She’s in a league of her own, and she doesn’t even realize it. Our eyes meet across the sleek marble bar, ten or so people separating us. I smile not only because she makes me grin like a fool when I see her, but because I like to see that delicate blush cover her cheeks when I do.
There it is.
Satisfied for the time being, I mentally rejoin the conversation I really should be more invested in since it’s about my business endeavors. “. . . for tax purposes,” Reegan, my lawyer, says. “Just think about it and let me know what you want to do.” I look at him, and I guess my expression tells him everything he needs to know in return. He laughs and adds, “Has this whole conversation been pointless? How about I detail it out and send over an email?”
“That works,” I reply, not even a little embarrassed to be busted.
Reegan looks behind him, and I use the opportunity to glance back at Singer again.
When he turns back, he says, “Be careful.”
“I don’t have to with her. She’s everything Dariya isn’t.”
“Until she wants her piece of your pie, too.”
“She’s not like that.” I’m defensive when it comes to Singer, a girl I really don’t know that well, but one who deep down I feel I can trust. “I know her well enough to know she’s not like that.”
“Don’t trust anyone, Ethan.” With a finger wagging in front of me, his tone is pointed. “You were fucked over by your best friend. Strangers don’t give a shit about you. They do care about your money though. So protect yourself until the case with Dariya is settled. Shit, protect yourself always. How about that for some free advice?”
I pat him on the back and chuckle. “I like your free advice. It’s the six hundred dollars an hour advice I don’t like.”
Matthews laughs, catching me off guard. He’s my chief financial officer, and the only one who moved over to work with me, other than my secretary. He’s young like me, but he knows numbers and gets shit done. He turned down a partnership with Keith, took a pay cut, and came with me to New York. I don’t trust many anymore. Being burned will do that, but I trust Matthews and Reegan. I say, “I’d almost forgotten you were here. You’ve been too quiet.”
Reegan chuckles too. “Yeah, that’s not like you at all. No smartass comment?”
“I was waiting. You two sure are chatty chicks today.” He finishes his beer and adds, “No one’s saying you can’t”—he clears his throat—“take care of business. Just don’t get involved.”
Reegan adds, “And by involved, no dates. No romancing. Score, then hit the door.”
Shaking my head, I reply, “If that’s Reegan’s version of dating, no wonder he’s alone. You’ve got no game.”
He laughs. “I’ve got more game than you give me credit for.”
Matthews says, “Dude, don’t even go there because then I’m going to have to throw down a bet, and the last thing I want to see right now is you trying to hit up on some chicks. Cuz if that happens, then we’ll be picking you up after they shoot you down, and I don’t have the energy for that tonight.”
Matthews and I bump fists, but Reegan says, “Fuck you. There’s going to be a bet all right, but it starts over the weekend. I need to get home and sleep for a week. This bastard”—he points his thumb my way—“is working me way too hard.”
“You mean earning your pay?” I correct before finishing my beer.
“Yeah, that.”
Matthews eyes his prey, but we need to get rid of Reegan first before we approach. He’s not the best wingman. “Go home. Email me tomorrow.”
Loosening his tie, he says, “Yeah, four nights in negotiations has kept me up. I need sleep. I’ll catch up tomorrow.” He starts to walk away but comes back and signals toward Singer. “Stay out of trouble and steer clear of any photographers in the area.”
“Got it.” I salute.
“Night.”
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Matthews elbows me in the ribs. “Introduce me to the friend.”
My lack of reaction might prove the point I’m making. I just hope he gets it. “One con
dition. Keep your eyes on the prize and don’t let them wander to the other.”
“I get it, Everest. I’ll keep my skills in play on her friend.”
“You sound like an asshole. You know that, right?”
“Pretty much.”
Stealing a glimpse of Singer over the heads of the other patrons, I see two jerks sidled up to them. Fuck that. No use fighting it. It’s only an interest in the woman. Interest is not marriage or anything. “C’mon.” I walk with purpose behind a long row of barstools and work around people standing in groups. When I reach Singer and Melanie, I don’t bother with the asses drinking—oh good fucking grief—Is that a daiquiri? Banana, at that. No. Not happening. I step right in front of them and kiss Singer on the mouth.
This is my first mistake.
When there’s no response or movement, I open my eyes.
Her eyes are wide. Her body is tense. Her lips glued closed.
I lean back to see the horror I felt in that kiss, her shock in the way she’s staring at me.
Geez, it’s not like I shoved my tongue down her throat.
My second mistake—trying to explain, instead of owning it. “Looked like you could use some help.”
She doesn’t say anything. Her lips are parted, her breathing has picked up, but she’s still staring at me. Her arms are in the same position they were when I jumped in here and kissed her like a fucking idiot.
“You kissed me,” she says.
“I’m sorry.” Sort of. Not really at all.
“You kissed me.” Her expression softens and her gaze lingers on my lips. Reaching out, she runs the back of her fingers across my lips. “You have lipstick on you.”
“It’s okay.”
A smile pops onto her beautiful face. “It is?”
I nod, suddenly very aware that my heart is pounding more quickly in my chest. I exhale and she whispers, “Why did you kiss me, Ethan?”
This is starting to get really fucking embarrassing. Matthews is in full laughter mode behind me. Pivoting my gaze a few inches to the right of Singer, Melanie has a raised eyebrow and one of those all-knowing smirks women get when they’re right and they know it.
Leaning in, closer to her ear, I whisper, “Saving you.”
“From what?”
“These banana-daiquiri-drinking fools.”
The softest of giggles fills my ear and I turn to catch sight of her again. Her head is tilted back with her eyes closed. Her neck is lean and so very tempting to kiss.
Singer’s hair falls behind her shoulders in waves, and again, she’s completely immune to the many eyes watching her. I want to cover her with my body, hide her away from the prying eyes, absorbing the sweet sound meant for me alone. When she looks up, her hand grazes across my cheek before sliding down to the back of my neck. My skin is electrified, my body wanting more of her touch, of the warmth of her hands on me. It’s gone too soon when she drops it back to her lap. She no longer looks surprised, but . . . amused. Happy. “What has gotten into you, Everest?”
You, Singer Davis. You. I glance over my shoulder at the chumps who aren’t as happy as Singer that I’m here. When I turn back to her, I grin, liking her attention. “I never took you for a daiquiri girl.”
“You’re probably right, but isn’t that for me to decide?” She bats her eyelashes. “Hint. Hint. You’re scaring away the customers.”
Now I laugh. She’s stinkin’ adorable. I sidestep right out of their way. “My apologies, gentlemen.”
I’m about to take off, but slender fingers wrap around my wrist. “You’re leaving already?”
“I was thinking about it.”
Her green eyes shine in delight, her smile beaming. “Stay awhile.” And my choice is made. Two words from Singer and I stay. What is she doing to me?
Glancing to the daiquiri drinkers, they look annoyed. The taller of the two, and when I say tall, that’s a stretch . . . I laugh at my own pun. He interjects, “Hey buddy, we were kind of here first.”
My head bolts back. Did he just stake a claim on my Singer? “Here first? Like you have rights to the ladies because you were standing here striking out?”
His chest puffs out matching his daiquiri belly. “Get lost, will ya?”
“No. I won’t unless the ladies want me to.” My gaze connects with Singer’s. “Do you want me to get lost?” The question isn’t lost on me. It’s a feeling that’s consumed most of the last year. Being around Singer the last few weeks has me feeling a little more found. So I’m not ready to leave just yet.
Matthews angles his head up, waiting like me.
She says, “I was hoping you’d stay.”
Daiquiri douche hits his friend in the chest, and says, “Dead end. Time to move on,” and they walk away without so much as a goodbye to the girls. Assholes.
Singer’s lips twist. “Bet you’re pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Proud as a peacock.” I point to Matthews. “This is my friend Rhett Matthews.” Looking at the girls, I say, “Singer Davis and Melanie Lazarus.”
He shakes their hands, and I can tell he’s using that voice he thinks is smooth when he says, “What are we drinking?”
We get another round and find a table that’s not in the middle of the crowd. Melanie talks to Matthews about his occupation. As they make the typical conversation, I move the tip of my shoe against Singer’s to get her attention, but leave it there just because I want to. “What are you doing after this?”
Her lips bloom into a smile. “Going home. There’s a Romance Channel movie on tonight I want to see, and then I thought I’d finish reading my book.”
“You still haven’t finished it?”
“No, I’ve been distracted.” She winks. Damn, she’s going to do me in.
“In a good way or bad?”
“You tell me, Everest.”
“I think the wine’s making you feisty, Davis.”
She scoffs, but the smile remains. “I prefer sassy.” Her smile begins to fade as she lowers her chin. Her eyes stay on mine while she takes some of her hair that’s fallen forward and fidgets. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Why does she notice everything?
I grab my beer and take a long gulp. It seems her opinion is something I care about, especially what she thinks of me. When I set the glass down, I reply, “I didn’t know I was looking at you weirdly.”
“I didn’t say it was weird.” She licks her lips, and I lick mine. I want to taste her again. I want her to want me to taste her again.
But I won’t.
“I probably need to go.”
Sitting upright, she’s surprised. “Already?”
Matthews and Melanie stop their conversation abruptly when I stand up. Rubbing the back of my neck, I lie, “I have a lot of work to do tonight.” I look to the bar. “I’ll pay out. Drinks are on me. Stay as long as you like.”
Melanie says, “I can’t stay. I have a date.”
Matthews doesn’t take that news well. She stands, and he stands. He says, “It was really nice to meet you.”
Melanie’s not immune to compliments and seems comfortable in receiving them. “It was really nice to meet you, too. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“I hope so.”
Damn, he’s laying it on thick. It works because she smiles.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say just for Singer.
Grinning, she nods. “Thank you for the drinks and the sweet ride.” But it’s not her truly relaxed grin. It doesn’t surprise me really. I kissed her, for fuck’s sake. Just because I wanted to kiss her and to claim her in a primal way. To her, it was a kiss of convenience to send the assholes away. I hate keeping her at a distance. I don’t want her to think I’m jerking her around. The advice of my lawyer bounces around my head, but it also goes against everything I’m feeling for her. She’s good inside. Genuine. Ah, fuck it. “Sing—”
Matthews fist-bumps my hand as I raise it. “Thanks for picking up the drinks.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” I reply, watching Melanie and Singer hug. I notice she slides Singer’s hair behind her shoulders, and then whispers something in her ear. They laugh, and I can see how much they mean to each other.
It’s probably better I didn’t get to finish what I started. I walk to the bar and hand over my card. After signing the tab, the ladies joins me, and I follow them outside. Out on the sidewalk, I say to Melanie, “It was nice to finally meet you.”
“Yes,” she replies. “We have so many friends in common, I’m surprised it took so long.”
Singer smiles. “Can I hail you a cab?”
She’s a tease. A gorgeous one at that. “I think I can handle it.”
I step off the curb and put my arm up, spying Aaron on a side street waiting a block down. I’m used to having him at my disposal, but he’s Singer’s for now. He gestures a small wave, and I acknowledge him back.
When a cab pulls to the curb, I open the door, and lean in. “Give me a minute.”
“You got it, bub.”
I step back and eye Singer. Her shyness shines through and she looks down. “I’ll see you around?”
Nodding, her smile returns just before Aaron pulls to the curb. I open the door, and add, “Goodbye, Singer.”
“Goodbye, Ethan.” I was as she slips inside.
Before Melanie slides in, she looks up at me. “Singer is special.”
I like her. She’s protective and loyal. I’m glad Singer has a best friend like her, one who has her back. I miss that. “She is.”
“Make sure to treat her that way.”
“I will,” I reply to ease her concerns, and because this time I don’t lie.
11
Ethan
I blame Singer.
She’s got my thoughts all twisted.
If only things had started off differently than they had with her, then I wouldn’t be embroiled in the mess I am.
But Singer Davis stunned me in the most unassuming way.
I’ve already been here an hour and still not had the balls to go up to her, much less talk to her. She’s different from the other women here—quiet, a little reserved, gorgeous with long hair twisted into a ponytail that sweeps back and forth across her neck. Her eyes are the prettiest green, reminding me of brilliant emeralds.
