Impossible (Romance on the Go Book 0)

by Allyson Young

  “Ms. Hill.”

  Pivoting on one of those impossibly tall heels she affected, she said, “Mr. Godwin.”

  They’d both laughed and he could peg that musical trill anyplace, anytime. She’d imprinted on him in other ways, too.

  “Celeste.”

  “Elliot.”

  The formality dealt with, he’d said, “Would you care to join me for dinner?”

  A faint curve of her full lips snagged his attention. “A date or a business meeting?”

  “A date.” A strange response, considering he was curious about her presence at the meetings at city hall and such, but he found he didn’t want to consider business when it came to her.

  “When?”

  “Friday. Seven. I’ll pick you up.”

  “That works.” She gave him an address he typed into his phone, adding her to his contacts.

  The memory of those first few sightings, the arranging of the date, shouldn’t be arousing, but his cock was taking notice. It hadn’t been up for much of anything not Celeste-related for nearly two months if he’d been counting. Or noticing. Which he hadn’t. Wasn’t. When had he become such a facile liar—to himself?

  He cataloged that dinner date, creating a mental spreadsheet.

  -She’d been ready on time, a plus

  -Wore a demure yet sexy dress in a shade of gold that made her eyes shimmer

  -Accepted his bouquet with a sultry smile

  -Didn’t pick at her food but ate with enjoyment that spoke of other appetites

  -Focused on him when he spoke, no need to posture and be seen by all

  -He focused on her, the way she held her head to listen, her blonde hair sifting around her shoulders, catching all available light

  -Her smile, the real one, the deep sadness in her eyes when he really looked, not that he thought he recognized the emotion anymore

  He supposed he could go on, but realized he was breaking what they had down into palatable pieces he could handle, the empty fool that he was. He sighed. They’d talked for hours about anything and everything—other than work—and little bits and pieces had emerged.

  She had a sister and her reserve melted away when she spoke of that woman, love, and affection spilling over for her and her family. He’d probed, wondering at his daring—and his reasoning—to elicit a few hesitant confidences about relationships. She didn’t need to say it. She was terrified of trusting herself to another—he knew another survivor when he met one—and how much had he given away?

  He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He’d learned how bright she was, how contained, and he’d wanted to peel back that reserve and look deeper, except that would mean quid pro quo. They’d already started the cautious process and he’d flirted with taking a chance when—

  “Mr. Godwin?” A tapping on the door made him flail a hand.

  Hoisting to his feet, he approached the exit and cracked it open. “Yes?”

  “You’ve been in there for some time.”

  “And?” Fuck, was there some other poor bastard waiting?

  Pink slashed her cheekbones. “Well, that is, there’s no time limit but we have … aids.”

  He realized it wasn’t glee in her dark eyes but sympathy, maybe even empathy. He had to let go of his cynicism. “I’m thinking.”

  “Fine. That’s fine.” She forced a smile, unable to maintain it as her lips turned down. “Children are such a blessing. Dr. Ackerly helped us.”

  Okay. So he was having an epiphany about himself, probably several, but he couldn’t deal with a support group. Anybody, as fucked up as him, could only start small, and that was with a sample. “Good. Good. Excuse me.”

  He gently shut the door and again locked it. Christ. He had to face her when he left. If he left. His phone chimed and reminded him of his other life, the one where he didn’t have to do any soul searching but merely worshipped the almighty dollar. Rebuilding one’s fortune took time and perseverance, but, in truth, he could leave off at any time. He shut the damn thing off.

  He and Celeste hadn’t dated again. Unbeknownst to him, their … connection had an expiry date, long before he’d offered dinner. Celeste had her future mapped out and an amazing position was in the offing. One she’d angled for, over a long period of time. Long before she’d met him, and he’d given her no reason to think differently. Yet she hadn’t mentioned it…

  Elliot could admit to reading material past the financial news and journals. He perused some of the bestsellers, fiction even, but hadn’t given any thought to who put those books out there, polished and pristine. A whole team of people and she’d chosen to be a small cog in that machine. It was obviously important to her and stupid for him to feel like she’d chosen it over him.

  Nope, no more dates, though he’d been about to call her for one. But instead she’d run into him—or him into her—at a club shortly after the dinner. A couple of drinks, a couple of dances and she’d come home with him. The way most of his connections happened. And maybe that had set the tone, perhaps he’d devalued what they might have had. Hadn’t made the emotional effort, at least not enough for her to confide. Before.

  It was timing. They’d fucked—no, that was like saying a blizzard was a gentle flurry. They’d devoured one another as though there’d be no other opportunity. And there hadn’t been because she left for Manhattan the next day. The club had been her farewell party. And he’d felt like he’d been her sendoff hump.

  Boohoo. Poor him. Got laid within an inch of his life, ruined him—for only a period of time, he’d hoped—for all other women. Been given all the sweetness and light and passion hidden behind Celeste’s brittle exterior… Dammit, he knew it was a mask to protect her because he wore one himself.

  With a curse, he unzipped and hauled himself out, his cock already anxious and twitching. Her scent, the sensation of her heated, silky flesh against him seemed to assert itself immediately, and he closed his eyes the better to savor.

  Kissing at the door as it creaked open, him blindly kicking it shut as he tasted the sweetness of her mouth, their tongues gliding, now fencing, learning and stroking. His hand winding into all that pale, soft hair to hold her steady for his sensual assault.

  The little dress she wore in another shade of golden brown, drifting to the floor in response to his busy fingers, the same fingers that freed her perfectly round breasts. Their sweet, plump weight in his hands. Plucking the beaded tips as he bent forward, Celeste lowering to the floor at his feet, her little hands working feverishly at his belt.

  Cool air as she opened his pants and found him, replacing the chill with a nuzzle against her cheek, turning her head to sweetly engulf him, a heated, wet suction over his tip drawing a pained groan from his lips.

  “So fucking good, Celeste. So good.”

  Her intense efforts to take him deep, to the back of her throat, whimpering around his length, her little tongue lavishing licks of ecstasy in its wake.

  Looking down at her, her curvy form, on her knees, hair spilling down her back, face taut with desire and effort, a study in eroticism as she swallowed…

  He shouted, made a noise, and registered his wet fist, wracking his brain for the instructions, even as the vial teetered perilously. He somehow grabbed the thing and awkwardly placed a sample within, hoping he got it right while fixing the stopper in place, gingerly setting it down.

  When his heart rate slowed, he cleaned up with half the box of tissues and wished for another vial to fill. To remember returning the favor of driving Celeste up and over the edge in tasting and licking her sweet pussy. And making his place between her widespread thighs to drive deep within that silken clasp of her body, coaxing her orgasms and to spend himself—three times…

  Using the attached bath, he washed up and then snagged his sample, carefully tucking it into the cabinet in the wall as instructed. When he shut the door on it, he waited, fingers still on the knob. It wasn’t too late. He could snatch it back. Because if he was fertile, how was h
e going to fix what he’d done? You already know the truth, so man up, asshole.

  A whisper of sound and a rattle put paid to his waffling. He eased the little panel open and saw only empty space and the solid silver of the small panel on the opposite side. Sample collected and off to the lab. He’d been told to expect the results in three days and wasn’t sure he could wait that long.

  Leaving the room, he approached Marcie, who gave him a cautious smile. “Done?”

  Jesus. “Done.” Success. Whatever.

  “Is there a way to put a rush on the results?”

  “Unfortunately not. That’s express as it is.”

  Unlike him, who’d spent over an hour in there. She didn’t need to say it, he’d checked the time. Marcie probably thought he couldn’t get it up. Funny how his well-ordered, scheduled life no longer mattered. Or his ego.

  Chapter Four

  “Pregnant?” Cynthia breathed the word, but it sounded like a shriek, accompanied as it was by her raised brows and defined pallor. “Pregnant?”

  “Six weeks.” First babies were usually late, according to that book, but she was always impatient, so people wouldn’t question her being a week off of her due date.

  “Pregnant.” Her sister swallowed. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. You never … see anyone.”

  True. She hooked up. On occasion. Discreetly. “I obviously saw someone, Cyn.”

  Hectic color now painted her sister’s cheeks. “When do we meet him?”

  She had her shit tighter today, the Ronnie test behind her. “You don’t. He doesn’t want any part of this.”

  “But… But it’s his baby.” Cynthia’s lashes fluttered in a vain attempt to hold back tears. Celeste’s welled in sympathetic reaction. Dammit.

  “Some men just aren’t … paternal.” She couldn’t fucking well breathe.

  “You’re crying. Oh, my God. Your heart’s broken.” Cyn lunged forward and gathered Celeste close, and for a precious second, she allowed it, scenting her sister’s familiar Patchouli, the welcoming swell of her chest.

  Her stomach rebelled and she struggled free. “Sorry, I can’t do smells.”

  “What? Oh. Oh. Okay, no more perfumes. Everything unscented.”

  “You do that now, Cyn. For the kids. Patchouli’s your rare indulgence. I’ll get past it.” And have a reason to avoid hugs.

  Instantly, she chastised herself. She had to get over this thing she had about allowing touch. She wasn’t averse, simply unworthy. That thought smacked her upside the head like a metaphorical brick. She most definitely was worthy. Maybe her parents didn’t think so, but her sister did, and Ronnie, and a couple of other folks she knew. Her baby didn’t need that vibe. She channeled Cyn’s earth mother. Breathe in. And out.

  “How’re the kids?”

  Cynthia embarked on a discourse of school and daycare and extracurricular activities. As far as Celeste could tell, even the baby had special events to attend. No one would know Alex and Taylor weren’t theirs, the way they were included. Culturally, yes, because people saw physical differences, but those kids were family in every other way.

  She listened avidly to take mental notes, also pleased she’d diverted her sister from the question of the baby’s father and the state of her heart. She’d walled off that sadness into its own little section, determined not to let it encroach on an innocent’s life.

  “What’s his name?”

  Crap. “Who?”

  “The father, Celeste. And don’t give me that look. I know that look. I used it on you growing up. It’s that how can I distract from the question look.”

  “I’m keeping that to myself.” She held up a hand. “So give it up.”

  “I don’t want to know out of prurient interest, sis. Just to … I don’t know, get a picture of my niece or nephew.”

  She was having a girl. That would reduce the likelihood of anyone seeing the child and somehow making a connection between her and the father. She’d also decided not to use his name even in her own head for fear of it slipping out.

  Not to say she hadn’t wakened this morning with it on her lips, her hand again between her legs. But then he’d been her fantasy in Manhattan too, something to ease her at night when she stumbled home after a twelve-hour day of meetings and screen time.

  “Okay, you aren’t talking. Fine. But he’s a jerk.”

  “We call him Asshole.” Ronnie sauntered in, having given them privacy.

  “I can’t call him that. I’d say it in front of the kids.”

  Laughing, at least on the outside, Celeste urged her sister to the living area. Girlish confidences were over and it was time they hung out over herbal tea and whatever bland substance Ronnie had put on the plates.

  “Are you sick?” Cynthia surveyed the spread. “Crackers and ginger ale, keep them by the bed.”

  If anyone would know… “I’ve found certain foods I can keep down. It’ll pass, supposedly. But you can help me find an OB-GYN. I need to get going on prenatal care.” The book was very specific on that point. Prenatal vitamins were already a staple.

  She let her baby sister organize her for the next while, picking at the hummus and crackers, smiling at Ronnie’s hope she could make it back for the birth.

  “When is that?” her friend asked.

  “Mid-February, as far as I can calculate.”

  “So, just over … seven months’ time, then.” Maybe it was her imagination, but her friend shot her a sharp glance.

  “I’m sure the ultrasound will confirm it.” She wasn’t giving anything away. Especially when Ronnie knew about her and Elliot, at least about that date they went on. The one where she’d actually regretted not having more time to get to know him, but New York was already in the cards. Maybe that was why she’d been on him like white on rice after running into him at the club… Shit. Oops, crap. Time she followed earth mother example. If only she hadn’t thought his name.

  “Maternity clothes, baby stuff.” Her sister was enthused. “I still have a lot around I can share. We hoped for another baby but I’m not supposed to, so I’ll just have to mother yours.”

  An inexplicable cold fist curled around the center of her chest. She took a breath. “You’ll figure out how to be an aunt, sister mine. This is my child.”

  Whoa. Two sets of wide eyes peered at her, one dark, one similar to her own. Cynthia recovered first. “Of course. Oh, Celeste, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I’ll seek your advice,” she replied, trying to lighten the moment. Possessive wasn’t in her vocabulary, though it could have been added, had she stayed, not left … him behind. This was just a double dose she was feeling, now he’d eschewed any responsibility.

  “You’re okay financially? New York had to be expensive.”

  It had pinched, that first and last month’s rent, the move, but a little pinch. And she’d found another approved tenant immediately to take over the lease. He’d given her the deposit willingly. “I’m fine. You’ve had more cause to spend Grandmother’s legacy.”

  Cyn waved a hand. “That’s a start for college money. And sometimes extravagances. Tom makes a good wage, and we have the house.”

  Right. The family home. Well, their father couldn’t stay in it and Celeste didn’t want to, so it was a good use of the space. In addition, the sisters were to inherit a healthy chunk of change from Dad’s mother, a woman she didn’t recall meeting. His mental state meant her evoking power of attorney and she’d invested both of their inheritances, soliciting advice from all those advisors she met in the course of her job.

  Turned out it wasn’t rocket science and she had an income off the interest she could rely on for years. Her last investment had been risky but turned out well. In fact, she needed to move that portfolio in the next few days. No sense in tempting fate.

  And she planned to return to work at some point, in any event. Maybe when her baby was thirty. She took a moment to appreciate her favorable circumstances, knowing many single mo
thers found themselves in dire straits.

  ****

  Famous last words. Thoughts. Whatever. While she was silently congratulating herself on her investment acuity, her stocks had tanked. Not Cynthia’s, thank all the credit gods. She’d taken a little detour with most of her own portfolio, having heard a vague tip, but hadn’t had the time to get her sister’s signature.

  Staring at the screen, she assessed the damage. Significant. Oh, she wasn’t broke, but it had changed things considerably. She needed to get cracking on insurance for sure, seeing as she was no longer employed, and the insanely luxurious baby suite she’d considered was out of the question. On a deep breath, she forced herself to relax and face the fact she’d been overcompensating. This was a well-timed dose of reality.

  “Everything okay?” Ronnie was about to leave for work, going by her clothes and the purse hanging off her shoulder.

  “Oh, sure. Just getting my ducks in a row.”

  “Good thing. I’m shipping out a couple days earlier than I expected.”

  “I can’t say I’m not disappointed.” Though she felt a little relief too. No need to come up with excuses about a lack of spending, not that she should be going full bore yet. That three-month, first-trimester thing was niggling in the back of her mind.

  But she wasn’t going to dwell on it. If anything, stress was horrible for babies in utero and out of it too. She could do this, witness how she hadn’t thought about him but a few times. And then only with pity.

  “See you at dinner.” Her friend sauntered out, leaving Celeste to her thoughts. About the one person she shouldn’t be thinking about.

  How well did she know Elliot? Beyond that poised, controlled, arrogant exterior, past that breathtaking handsomeness. Tall and dark and aloof, ying to her yang. For sure, her reserve had cracked, starting with that dinner date. She’d talked her fool head off, enticed by his intent regard.

  Maybe it was because she knew was leaving, so letting him see into her, past her mask, was no threat. It certainly hadn’t felt like one, being that she wouldn’t have to follow up or do any repairs. And she’d seen past his, to a seemingly decent guy who’d been brought up in a manner similar to her. He smacked of someone who’d been unwanted too. Rejected, even. Strong enough not to measure his worth against that, maybe, but it had to impact. Like his belief he was sterile…