by A. J. Pine
“This is so. Not. A date,” he said, softer this time, his voice growing hoarse.
She shook her head. His hand still rested on her neck.
“But we can pretend it is,” he added. “For the sake of the ex, I mean.”
Annie bit her bottom lip and grinned.
“What’s in it for you?” she asked.
Being here with you.
“A story,” he said instead. “I’ve uh—I mean, I’ve been—”
Okay, so this was harder to say out loud. Like speaking the words would actually make them real. But the truth was, the only thing that made this real was his inability to do anything else.
“Writer’s block,” he admitted. “I haven’t written anything worth passing on to my editor in months. And if I don’t get her fifty pages by Monday, well—I’m gonna be a one-hit wonder. Being here, I can observe humanity in all its basest forms because, let’s face it, weddings bring out a certain kind of crazy in everyone.”
She nodded. “Agreed—like that crazy kiss.”
“So what if we make a story tonight?” he asked. “One for you to tell and one for me to write? Everything is fiction, which means no matter what happens, I’m not violating guy code or anything, and you’re not jumping into any sort of rebound situation.”
She took a step closer, and he inhaled the warm scent of vanilla and, maybe, a hint of cinnamon? He’d been too caught up in the moment to notice before. But now he began to feel drunk, wondering if one glass of wine could knock him on his ass. But he knew it couldn’t have. It was this woman.
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
“Jesus you smell good, Annie.”
She leaned closer. Because apparently she was trying to kill him.
“What would the line be—if you wrote it in your book? How would you describe my scent?”
Uh, he could describe the agony of the erection straining against his pants, but somehow he thought she wouldn’t appreciate that.
Christ. Words. She wanted words, now? After he told her he was blocked? But he had to prove his plan would work, that they could use this evening—and each other—to their advantage and neither of them be worse for the wear.
Fine. Words. The girl wanted words, so he would deliver.
“He grew drunk,” Wes said. “Drunk on the nearness of her, on the warm, sweet scent of home. Because that’s what she was to him. She was home. And until he kissed her, he hadn’t known what that meant. Home wasn’t a place. It was a state of mind. It was her, the intoxicating scent of her skin, and his lips pressed against it.”
He hadn’t realized until he spoke the last of it that his eyes were closed. Maybe hers were, too, because she wasn’t saying anything. All he heard was her sharp, shallow breaths. All he felt was his forehead pressed to hers. How the hell did they get here?
“I think your writer’s block might be cured,” she whispered. “That was way more romantic than an ice sculpture.”
Wes laughed softly.
“I don’t write romance,” he said.
“Whatever,” she countered, but she was still smiling.
“How about your ex situation? That cured yet, or do we want to give them more of a show?”
She cleared her throat. “I think the jury’s still out.”
Okay. They were on the same page—so to speak. He wanted this night, whatever ended up happening, and Annie seemed on the verge of jumping off this cliff with him.
He straightened and took a step back so his eyes could find hers. She chewed her bottom lip.
“One night, Annie. Whatever you want out of this evening, I’m your guy. And when we go home tonight—”
“Tomorrow,” she said, and Wes’s brows drew together. “When we go home—tomorrow…”
In his head, he had just run to the top of the steps leading to the Philadelphia Museum of Art—the Rocky Steps—and pumped his fists in the air. But Annie wouldn’t know that.
He nodded slowly, making sure not to betray his thoughts with any movement that might seem too eager.
“It’s—”
But she didn’t let him finish.
“It’s not a date. I know. Neither of us wants that. But I want a night without rules. A night where I don’t have to worry what comes next. Just fun, Wes. That’s all I want. I’d resigned myself to believing this night would amount to nothing more than an abundance of wine and possibly sleeping like a starfish in a king-size bed if I spent the night.”
Wes scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “You can still do both of those things,” he said.
She bit her lip again. He’d have to warn her soon that if she wanted to drive him mad right here in the ballroom, she only had to do that a couple more times. But like Rocky on the steps, he could write this scene the way he wanted it to go, so he offered her an easy grin.
Annie leaned forward and cupped her hand over his ear. He felt her warm breath on his skin before she spoke.
“I plan on it,” she whispered. “But I also plan on doing a lot more before I pass out in that bed.”
He swallowed hard, his laid-back facade disintegrating.
“Stay with me tonight,” she said. “You write your story. And I’ll write mine.”
“But Jer—”
“He doesn’t have to know,” she said. “Tomorrow we head back to the city and go our separate ways. You don’t have to worry about any sort of bro code or whatever. I’m not looking for anything beyond tonight, and neither are you, right?”
On any other day he would have been quick to answer. But he hesitated. He hesitated because he was violating his best friend’s wishes. He hesitated because something about being with Annie made him want to think beyond tonight. But who was he kidding? Girls like Annie Denning knew better than to get involved with an emotional mess like him. The women he dated wanted to fix him even though they knew they’d never succeed. It was the game they played. But he wouldn’t play that game with Annie.
“Okay, then,” he said.
She beamed at him.
“Okay.”
Chapter Eight
She’d made it through dinner and had taken ample photos of the ice sculptures and general decor for a blog post later. Doug and Dan were kind enough to not seat them with Tabitha and Brett. That was either some really intelligent forethought on Doug and Dan’s part or just plain luck. Either way, Annie was grateful. But the out-of-town older cousins they dined with were a boozy bunch, having already depleted both the red and white wine.
She turned to Wes, interrupting his conversation with Cousin Gary about whether or not his book was anything like that Fifty Shades they’d turned into a movie.
“Actually,” Wes was saying, “I do have a producer interested in Down This Road, but I don’t think it’ll be quite like that Fifty Shades.”
“I’m gonna head to the bar,” she interrupted. “Want anything?”
She stood and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll—I’ll come with you,” he insisted, eyes wide and pleading. But Annie couldn’t help herself.
“No, no. You stay.” She patted him gently on the back, then leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “I think Gary has more questions, and I wouldn’t want you to miss a single one.” She straightened and winked at him, and he mouthed, You owe me.
She laughed as she backed away. She did, in a way—owe him, that is. Now that she thought about it, it was really thoughtful of him to come here at the grooms’ request. She’d read the stupid book, so yeah, she knew Wes Hartley had no trouble finding a woman to spend an evening with. And judging by the decidedly female crowd on Thursday night, he probably didn’t have to do much looking as it seemed like they simply flocked right to him.
The other man nodded eagerly, his comb-over threatening to go back to where it came from with every tilt of his head.
“Heck yeah, I’ve got more questions!” He slapped Wes on the knee, and the poor guy’s shoulders slumped as he admitted defeat.
“Some
thing strong,” he called after her. Then he raised his brows.
She stifled a grin and weaved in and out of the path of tables until she finally made it to the bar.
“Great,” she mumbled under her breath. “A line.”
The woman in front of her spun on a silver stiletto to face her. Correction, to tower over her with her long, willowy frame. Severe black bangs hung just above her equally dark brows, and she smiled at Annie with bold painted lips and teeth that were a perfect white.
“Open bar,” she said, her voice throaty and deep, tongue rolling on the R. “Always a line with the open bar.”
Was that a Russian accent? Good God, it made her throaty voice even sexier than it would have been on its own. Though she sucked at mimicking them, Annie adored accents. She felt it came in handy in her line of work—which was basically reading. Every voice of every character she’d ever read had its own place in her imagination, replete with accents. This woman’s was going in her repertoire for later use.
“I do love an open bar,” Annie said with a smile.
The woman’s brows furrowed beneath her bangs.
“I have seen you tonight, yes? You are here with the author, Wes Hartley? I hear the grooms are fans.”
Okay, so maybe referring to himself as a celebrity guest wasn’t really off the mark. Still. Ego.
“Um, yes,” Annie said. “I take it you’ve read his book?”
She scoffed out a laugh, which made Annie flinch.
“Of course I have read it, darling. I am chapter six.”
No. Annie cleared her throat. “You’re…Natasha—the model Ethan meets in his photography class who agrees to be the subject of his final project?”
The woman laughed again and bent down to kiss Annie on both cheeks.
“Oksana. He does not use the real names in his book of fiction,” she said. Then her lips curled up.
For a second Annie felt light-headed, even though she’d cleaned her plate of salmon, green beans, and mashed potatoes because she was squeezing every penny out of this evening. And that included the open bar.
“Do you…live in Chicago?” she asked, but Oksana shook her head.
“Paris. Milan. But my agency has me stationed in New York. The groom, though, Douglas—he is my cousin on my father’s side—Ublyudok.”
Annie’s brows pulled together.
“Sorry,” Oksana said. “Bastard. My father, he is a bastard. But what were we discussing?”
“Can I help you ladies?”
Oksana pivoted toward the bar where there was no longer a line, just the bartender dressed in a white tux waiting for their order.
“Give us two shots of vodka, but don’t tell me the brand. Nothing you have in your open bar is truly Russian. I will just pretend.”
“Oh, I don’t drink hard—”
Oksana slapped her hand on the top of the bar.
“Na zdorovie!”
She handed a shot glass to Annie, who shrugged.
“When in Rome,” she said, raising her glass. “Or—when in Chicago with a Russian, I guess.”
“Na zdorovie,” Oksana said again, slower this time, so Annie assumed she was supposed to repeat.
“Nose…diving?” Annie said. Ugh. She sucked at foreign language as much as she sucked at accents.
“Good enough.”
Oksana tossed back her shot and didn’t even flinch.
Annie followed suit.
And then thought she should probably call 911 because there was a fire—in her tonsils. But shit if she didn’t leave her phone at the table, so she had to go with plan B.
She reached over the bar, ignoring the bartender’s shout of What the hell are you doing? and grabbed the soda gun from its holster. Not bothering to check which button she pressed, Annie aimed the gun at her open mouth and sprayed.
Hmmm…Sprite. Good choice.
And thank the freaking stars for the chilled liquid to soothe her burning throat. Mission impossible? No way. More like mission accomplished. Except now she was standing there with soda dribbling down her chin and Oksana and bartender guy staring at her wide-eyed.
Annie grabbed a cocktail napkin from the bar and cleaned off her face. Then she gingerly offered the soda gun back to the guy who was licensed to use it.
“A red wine, please?” she asked as he re-holstered the device. “Oh, and maybe some of whatever that vodka was on the rocks.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, and she crossed her arms over her chest.
“Not for me, mister. My date said he wanted something strong, and I can verify that the vodka is, in fact, strong.”
Oksana snorted, the first unmodel-like thing she’d done so far.
“Enjoy your date,” she said with a sly grin.
Drinks in hand, Annie took a step back toward the tables and dance floor and her so not-a-date companion. “Wait!” Annie said, stopping mid step.
The woman raised her perfectly arched brows.
“Why don’t you come back to the table and say hello? I’m sure Wes would—”
Oksana tilted her head toward the ceiling and laughed. “You are sweet, but no. That is not his way. He gets what he needs for his story, and then he has nothing left to give back.”
“So—he’s a jerk,” Annie said. She should congratulate herself for being right, for assuming Wes was his main character, and having the fact so easily corroborated. But her chest felt tight. The guy in the car—the one enduring drunk Cousin Gary’s questions at their table—he was funny. And charming. And okay, really easy on the eyes. It didn’t add up, and Annie’s eyes widened as she realized she didn’t want it to. Oksana smiled, and there was nothing sly or knowing or remotely model-like in the expression. It was real. Annie was sure of it.
“The passion is there when he is creating art. He dabbled in photography—with me. But when the project was over, he put the walls back up.” She shook her head. “He is lost,” she said. “At least that is what he was when I knew him. Does being lost make you a jerk sometimes? Yes, of course. But you go back to your table, and you look at him. Ask yourself if he will be the jerk to you, and if the answer is yes, then you either run the other way or know what you’re getting into and suffer the consequences.”
Annie sighed. She was already planning to run the other way, but for tonight she wanted to believe he wouldn’t treat her like that—as just another page in his book.
Oksana sighed. “You cannot find the man who wants to stay lost,” she said. And with that, she walked away.
Annie felt like this was some weird, other dimension sort of place where it was virtually raining exes.
So Wes had an ex-girlfriend. Who was a gorgeous, exotic model. And was represented by a whole chapter of his book.
No big deal, right? It’s not like Annie hadn’t just run into her own ex as well. The odds of this sort of thing happening weren’t exactly in their favor, but it wouldn’t ruin the evening, right? Just for one night, she wanted what Wes called fantasy—the happily ever after. Was it so strange to think that he could give it to her? She wasn’t trying to find Wes if he was, in fact, lost. Because there he was, at the crazy cousin’s table, still talking to Gary, except now Wes was wildly gesticulating and grinning like the most adorable goofball she’d ever seen.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” she said, offering him the rocks glass as she took up residence in her seat again. “And speaking of sweethearts…” she said, her voice teasing as Wes excused himself from Cousin Gary to face her.
He lifted his drink to his lips and took a long sip. “I see we both have some…old friends at the wedding tonight. Do Doug and Dan know everyone?”
She nodded. “They really do. But I want to talk about who you know,” she said.
He shrugged. “Ask me anything you want.”
Annie pouted. “That’s no fun. You’re supposed to be closed off and evasive.”
He laughed. “I’ve been known to be both.” He leaned forward and spoke softly so only she could hear.
“But for you I’m an open book.”
Her breath hitched. “Maybe you should go say hello to her,” she said, despite Oksana wanting nothing to do with him.
“I should,” he said. “It would be the non-closed-off and non-evasive thing to do. Wouldn’t it?” He stood from the table and brought his drink with him. “I’ll be right back, and when I return—you, beautiful, are dancing with me.”
She swallowed and nodded as he slipped away to do what she rationalized as the gentlemanly thing in saying hello to a former lover.
She shook her head and laughed to herself. Her story tonight did not end with jealousy. It ended with a man who’d just told her the barriers were down for her tonight. They’d be back up in the morning. She was sure of it.
She watched as Wes found Oksana a few tables from the bar and kissed her on the cheek. His eye caught hers, and she quickly turned away as if he hadn’t just busted her staring. After a few seconds, she couldn’t take it, and she glanced his way again. Oksana’s back was to her, but Wes faced her head on, looking past his ex and straight at her.
A lost man who does not want to be found, she reminded herself. Nope. Not trying to find anyone at all. Annie was just here to have fun without expectations. That was all Wes Hartley had to offer, so tonight it would be enough.
Chapter Nine
Wes had sipped his vodka slowly, so much so that it was now mostly water from the melted ice. But he wanted to stay in as much control as possible. Even more, he wanted to remember. He’d already typed a note into his phone recreating the line he’d given Annie about how fucking good she smelled.
Here was the thing, though. It wasn’t a line. Something about being with her—about the familiarity of someone who knew him before he was this caricature of himself—was freeing. Well, except for her hating his book, but he could tuck that away for the night, for the girl he twirled in his arms before she spun back to face him, her free hand finding his shoulder. His landed on the small of her back.
“So,” he said. “You’re cool with the whole Oksana situation?”
Annie shrugged.
“You’re cool with the whole Brett situation?”
