by Liv Morris
I mouth, “Thank you,” and twirl a loose strand of hair around my finger—a nervous habit I’ve had since before I can remember, and one that makes me look childish. I tuck my hands under the table to control my errant fingers.
He grins at me with a quick nod, but there’s something sweet in the way he looks at me. It calms me even though my heart is racing. When he pushes back from the bar and stands up with his drink in his hands, his clothes seem to magically fall in place around him. He doesn’t need to even straighten his tie.
My breath catches as he moves toward me, and my heart rate hits aerobic levels. Could he actually be coming over to my table?
The idea both excites and freaks me out. Everything about him shouts worldly and refined, while I sit here in my Forever 21 dress looking like I just graduated from college … which I did.
Before he can take two full steps my way, a woman moves in front of him. Dammit. She’s dressed in high-end couture with a tight black pencil skirt and a white silk blouse tucked in at the waist. Her dark hair is twisted into a high bun on top of her head. I can’t see her face, but I watch her kiss him on the cheek, and sadly, he does the same to her.
They exchange a few words, and he glances over her shoulder to look at me. Our eyes lock, and he smiles while tilting his head, almost like he’s trying to apologize. For what, I’m not sure. The woman turns her head, following his gaze to meet mine.
And of course, she’s drop dead gorgeous, and closer to his age and level of sophistication. Perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect clothes—the perfect polished look I’ll never have this side of a Tim Gunn makeover and total submersion at Sephora.
With a knowing look in her eyes, the woman inspects me with that instinctual female once-over, then says something to him. He nods at her—or is it at me?
In complete shock, I can’t seem to close my mouth. Here he is with a woman he’s more than air kissed, and he’s still flirting with me. What a player. A drop-dead gorgeous one, but a player is a player all the same.
The handsome jerk gives me a quick wink, then places his hand on the small of his date’s back before guiding her out of the restaurant, making me question the short interaction I had with him.
I watch the cozy pair until they disappear into the lobby. It’s a good thing his date arrived before he made it to my table. I’d rather know the truth from afar than have it blow up right in my face.
I take a deep breath and try to exhale all the crazy feelings this guy stirred up inside me. No man has ever gotten me this hot and bothered– or angry before. After two more breaths, I feel less revved up and notice Jeffrey heading toward me with a tray in his hands.
“Your lentil soup, my lady,” he says, placing the steamy bowl down in front of me. “A basket of bread. I threw in a few extra pieces,” he whispers.
“Thanks,” I say, ready to dig in.
“And another prosecco from an admirer at the bar.” He turns to where the man with the wandering eyes was sitting. “Well, looks like he’s left. Odd.”
“Yeah, very. Since he left with his date.”
“Do you know who he was?” Jeffrey leans down closer to me, like he’s telling me something he shouldn’t.
“He buys me a drink before leaving with his date. I’d say he’s a cheater.” I cross my hands over my chest with a huff. Just thinking about the gall of this stranger has me getting worked up all over again.
“No kidding?” Jeffery sets the tray down. “I’ve known him a few years. Actually, he owns this hotel … well, his family does, and they’re amazing to the employees here.”
“Wait, he owns this hotel?”
“Yes, the Hammond family does. You know, the same ones who own Hammond Press?”
“What’s his name?” I ask, because I’ve been trying to get this publisher to respond to my five hundred emails with my résumé attached. I think I’ve applied for every job they’ve posted online, even ones requiring ten years’ experience. I want a job there badly.
“Barclay Hammond,” Jeffrey says.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. I thought he was like seventy.”
“Barclay Hammond Senior is, but the guy at the bar is his son, Barclay Junior.”
“Wow.” I’ve been reduced to one word, which is pretty sad considering I graduated with honors in English.
“Listen, I need to get back to my six-top.” He picks up the tray and tilts his head to the right. “They keep looking my way and frowning.”
“Sorry. Sorry,” I say, shooing him away with my hands.
“Oh, by the way, he paid for your dinner.”
“Really?”
“You must have made quite the impression on him,” he adds, a sparkle in his eyes.
Even though this small bowl of soup and drink are double what it costs at home, it feels wrong accepting Barclay Hammond’s payment knowing he’s a typical Manhattan playboy.
I wish he’d come back so I can tell him what I think of him, then throw my prosecco in his handsome face and watch the drops dribble over his Armani tie. But it would be a shame to let my favorite drink go to waste.
3
Barclay
“Barclay.” My sister, Victoria, sits across from me as we eat dinner at the Four Seasons in Midtown. I glance up from my now empty plate and see her regarding me with squinted eyes as she leans in her chair, her plate pushed toward the middle of the table. “You haven’t said a thing to me in fifteen minutes while you inhaled your steak and frites.”
“Sorry, sis. I’ve had a lot going on at work.” The lie slips off my tongue.
I barely remember eating the food served to me and my distraction has nothing to do with work. It’s the gorgeous creature I saw at the hotel bar after leaving the office. She reminded me how much I love the initial attraction and flirtation of meeting a woman—the addictive desire to pursue her and see if she feels the same electric chemistry buzzing between us.
My mind’s been replaying the vision of the pink bombshell. It’s a continuous loop that slows during my favorite parts, like when she looked over her shoulder in disbelief that I was paying attention to her. How could I not notice her fresh beauty in a sexy pink dress? It exposed the creamy skin of her shoulders, the blond waves tumbling over them. Damn, she was a sight.
I smile, thinking about the blush on her cheeks when she realized I was eyeing only her. I can’t remember the last woman I saw blushing from simple eye contact.
She was old enough to drink, but way too young to handle a man like me. I’d likely break her heart and hate myself for it later. And the fact is, I don’t have time to invest in a relationship. My every waking minute is spent working.
“Hmmm. I see,” she says, gazing over her wine glass at me. “You know you just smiled—something you haven’t done in months around me.”
Damn, she caught me. I wipe the grin off my face as Victoria searches my eyes for the truth. My expressionless cover-up is likely useless, since I’ve never been able to hide anything from her, which gives her an unfair advantage. God knows I don’t have a clue what’s going through her mind, though I’m certain she’s about to tell me.
“When was your last date?”
“I’m not ready for a relationship.”
“I’m not talking about a girlfriend. A simple date. You know, those adult get-togethers for two that usually center around a meal and conversation?” She releases a frustrated sigh, setting down her wine glass. The topic belongs to her now, dammit.
With her black hair atop her head, serious blue eyes, and nosy questions, she resembles my mother, making me wonder if dear old Mom is somehow responsible for this intrusive discussion.
“How about dessert? They have a delicious flourless chocolate cake.”
I could always distract her with sweets when we were growing up. If I hung a bag of gummy bears in her face, she’d forget about the heirloom china or crystal I’d break.
“Nice attempt at evading my question, but I worry about you not having a life ou
tside the company.” Her eyes soften, and she tilts her head. “It’s been two months since you and Amanda split up. It’s time to move on.”
“It’s weird. I really haven’t felt any of the normal broken heart pains that go along with a breakup. After four years together, I should feel the loss, right?”
“Maybe you just didn’t feel the right thing for her. After all, she gave you an ultimatum and you couldn’t agree to it.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to get married. It’s just …” I trail off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.
“That’s what I’m getting at. She wasn’t the one for you. It’s not your fault. We can’t help who we do and don’t fall in love with. It either happens or it doesn’t. But it won’t ever happen if you don’t date.”
“My lack of dating has nothing to do with Amanda. It’s more time related. I promise.” I raise my fingers up in Scouts’ honor. “I’m dedicated to taking Hammond Press to the next level in publishing. The book world is changing, and I don’t want what Dad built to be left behind in the dust.”
“Neither do I, but don’t let work rule your life. You see what happened to Dad. At least he has us around for support.”
I cringe at the topic. My father left Hammond Press a year ago when his doctors said his forgetfulness was more than him just getting older. I’ve tried to step in and take his place as CEO, but I have big shoes to fill. So far, the board of directors approve of my actions, and I plan on keeping them and our investors happy.
“I promise I’ll get back in the game this summer. Maybe I’ll meet someone in the Hamptons.”
“Oh please, none of those phony types.” My sister rolls her eyes, and I can’t say I disagree with her. I want the woman I fall for to be genuine—not full of pretense and social climbing. Those kinds of women bore me after the first sip of champagne.
“You know me. I’m always looking for the diamond in the rough. And by rough, I mean the shallow pond of Manhattan’s dating pool.”
“Okay, you win. Let’s change the subject. Mother wants you to join them in Greenwich for Father’s birthday in three weeks.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll call her tomorrow with the news.”
“Better get ready for her to grill you on bringing a date.” Victoria laughs, but I know she’s right. My mother wants what’s best for me, and in her eyes, that’s a wife and two kids.
“On second thought, why don’t you just tell her I’m coming?”
“Not on your life, Barc. You need a little push. After all, you’re inching closer to forty. And you know what they say about never-married men in their forties.”
“No, but I’m sure you’re about to inform me.”
“They’re commitment-phobes.”
“Fine. I’ll bring a date to Saturday’s Warwick Awards and prove you wrong.” My hands perspire as I tap my fingers on the table. I don’t have time to worry about this, but my mother’s persuasive tactics are worse than my sister’s. I need the server to bring something sweet for Victoria to eat this instant. It’s my only hope. “Just please tell Mom I’ll be there in three weeks.”
“I’ll give you a pass this once, but if you’re dateless, I’ll pick a date for you for Dad’s birthday party.” She giggles, and I know I can’t face whatever doomed date she’s concocting, which will likely be with one of her friends. “Oh, there’s one stipulation to this Saturday’s date. She can’t be anyone you already know. I want you to work for this one.”
I’ve never been desperate enough to call an escort service, though my lifelong friend, Trevor, swears by them. He uses the services when he needs a date to an event or a discreet hookup. If push comes to shove, I could call him for the number, but the thought makes my stomach turn.
You can’t be more phony than a fake date, and knowing my sister, she’ll see right through my ruse.
Basically, I’m screwed.
“One more thing. My and Danton’s three-year anniversary is next week, and our nanny’s mother has surgery. Can you watch Beatrice for us?” Her smile has a side of glee with it, meaning she already knows she’s won this round too.
“I thought you wanted me to settle down, not scare the shit out of me. Hell, I’ve never changed a diaper in my life.” My three-month-old niece is an adorable mini version of my sister, which means she also has an attitude. Heaven help me. “You can be quite evil.”
“It’s just a little reality check.”
4
Tessa
When my phone alarm blares, I reach out from under the covers and search the nightstand in hopes of silencing the obnoxious sound. Without opening my eyes, I hit the screen a few times before the noise stops. Hallelujah. I hate mornings.
After a couple minutes, I open one eye as my sleep-infused brain tries to fire up. An unfamiliar gray wall with chrome fixtures fills my view, and it hits me: I’m in New York City.
I sit up straight in my bed and glance out the window. Last night, I left the curtains open with the twinkling lights of Manhattan serving as a nightlight. Now, my view is filled with shiny buildings catching the first glimpse of the sun.
I throw the covers off me and jump out of bed, heading toward the bathroom and getting my morning routine underway.
Forty-five minutes later, a doorman dressed in a tuxedo and top hat opens the door for me as I near him in the lobby. “Good morning, miss,” he says with a serious expression. How can he be so somber on such a beautiful sunny morning?
“Thanks, sir.” I can’t hold back my smile, giving him a full-on grin, and the corner of his mouth twitches up. Got ’em.
I head outside the hotel onto the green-carpeted entrance. In front of me, a sophisticated woman climbs into the backseat of a shiny black town car and is whisked away. Cabs fly by with their honking horns. Even at this early hour, the city’s energy is organized chaos.
Caffeine is my first priority, and according to the app on my phone, there’s a Starbucks five hundred and thirty feet away. I love how the city measures distances to life’s conveniences in feet versus miles. I won’t even need a car to get around here.
I follow the little blue dot moving on my screen, making sure I’m heading in the right direction. When I pass by a mirrored storefront, I catch a full-length view of my reflection. My pink pencil skirt and white blouse combination may not be as tailored as the woman with Barclay Hammond last night, but it’s not too far off. Thankfully, Maggie made me buy a few essential pieces for my job search, but I wouldn’t budge on buying black. It may be the standard here in New York City, but it’s also the color people wear to funerals back home.
The green goddess sign of caffeine appears ahead of me, and I pick up my pace. Once inside, I find the line ten people deep. The baristas are all business behind the counter, so the line moves quickly. Most of the customers exit the store, which leaves plenty of empty tables. Since I don’t have a job to run off to yet, I find a seat by the window and text Maggie.
Call me if you’re up.
Up.
I have to tell you about last night.
You met someone?
Maybe.
OMG. Calling.
“Hello,” I answer after one ring.
“Who is he?” Maggie rushes out, and I can hear her coffee maker brewing in the background.
“Good morning to you, too. By the way, where were you last night?” I ask, because I called and texted her several times without a reply.
“On a date.” She sighs. “I don’t think he asked me a single question the entire night. I give up on finding a decent guy our age. They’re consumed with making it big. All he talked about was making partner and buying a sports car.”
“Tell me you didn’t sleep with him.”
“Nah. Just an oral exchange. It was a Tinder date.”
“Maggie,” I whisper-scream into the phone. “What were you thinking?”
“That all his talking gave him a wonderfully strong tongue.”
“I can’t believe you.”
We are such polar opposites in the sex and dating department. She’s liberated and free thinking, whereas I’ve been stuck somewhere between second and third base since my senior year of high school.
“Hopefully you will understand what I’m talking about soon. Tell me about last night.”
I recap the entire evening at the restaurant with Barclay Hammond. How he wouldn’t stop staring at me, bought my dinner and drinks, then left with another woman. I leave out his connection to Hammond Press, and that I stalked him, for at least an hour, online after dinner.
The society pages mentioned he had broken up with a longtime girlfriend a couple months ago and he was one of New York City’s most eligible bachelors. Oh boy, did he seem overly eligible last night.
“Damn, girl. What would you have done if he came to your table and his date never appeared?”
“I don’t know. He was way too old for me.”
“Like how old?”
“Maybe thirty-five or a bit older?” My voice trails off at the last part.
“Wow.” She sounds as shocked as me. “That’s the exact type of man you need for your first time. Someone with experience, who knows how to make love to a woman. If you think those stares were too much, imagine what he could do in the bedroom.”
“You have such daddy issues,” I tease, but it’s true. She would always point out the hot older man in the bars we snuck into in college.
“Remember that date I had with the silver fox?” Her dreamy voice floats away on a sex cloud.
“How could I forget?” My tone doesn’t hide the irritation I still feel about listening to her brag. I tried to be happy for her, but I’ve never even had one orgasm with a man, let alone the scores she claimed occurred with a seasoned lover.
“Take it from me, Tessa. Older is better. They’ve learned their way around the equipment.”
A shiver runs over my skin as I remember Barclay’s eyes and how they bored into me. They had the look of knowing things about me even I wasn’t aware of.
I imagine his full lips on mine, our tongues mingling while his long fingers touch me in places and ways I’ve longed to feel from a man.
