by Kayla Oliver
Don’t be stupid, Court, you know better.
But that reasonable part of my brain couldn’t entirely quell the part of me that hoped he did want more. Though I couldn’t fathom why. The whole situation was just fucked-up.
“I’m not going to lie, I’ve thought about it,” he admitted honestly. “But that’s not the only thing I’ve thought about.”
I lifted a brow in question.
“I’ve thought about this. Dinner with you. Being able to talk to you in person, to do things with you.”
I wanted to tell him that he was an asshole—again—and that he was crazy if he thought that I would want something like that, too. Except… I kind of did. No, not with him. Not with a player. But I’d been steadily falling for Malcom, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that now that Malcom was Trent Harvey.
What was I supposed to do with that?
So instead of calling him an asshole, I said, “Guess you’d better milk tonight, then. It’s probably going to be your only shot at any of that.”
He didn’t look scared. Instead, he looked determined. “Challenge accepted.”
We finished dinner and I managed to go almost an hour without calling him an asshole. He paid the bill for dinner before I ever even got to see the bill. Even when I politely asked to pay my half, he insisted that it was his treat.
“Since I’m holding you hostage and all,” he told me with a wink.
I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue.
We got up then, and he directed me toward the back of the restaurant. Just before we reached the kitchen, he turned to the right. A set of stairs seemed to appear out of nowhere. They were narrow, so we had to go up single file. I followed him, because honestly it was starting to freak me out a little bit. I mean, it wasn’t a killer’s basement necessarily, but the vibe was similar.
Until we got to the roof.
The door opened up to reveal that the roof was definitely fenced in by delicately designed wrought iron. At the far end of the roof was a large silk screen pulled taught on either side by more wrought iron. Currently, there was a canopy of green superimposed on the screen, twitching every so often as though by the wind. Except that it was a digital image, so probably not.
There were luxurious chairs and love seats set in front of the screen, some already occupied by gossiping adults.
“What do you think?” Harvey asked as a whisper in my ear.
I answered before thinking. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not half as beautiful as you.”
I pursed my lips together, reminding myself that he was an ass—even as I felt a little flutter of pleasure in my belly. Just because he was an ass didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate a compliment.
“C’mon. Let’s get seats.”
He took my hand, and it was warm. His palms were smooth, soft, his fingertips light pinpoints of pressure on my skin. I felt a tingle race up my arm, sending gooseflesh over my skin.
It was nice and awful at the same time. Get a grip, Court.
He led us to a love seat, and before I could complain about sharing the seat, he plopped down and yanked on my hand to bring me down with him. I dropped on the soft cushions in a highly unladylike manner, complete with a small squeak. But as soon as my ass touched the soft, velvety exterior of the love seat, I wasn’t getting up. I had a full belly, it was a warm night, and the lighting was perfect. If I hadn’t been tucked so close to Harvey, I probably would have fallen asleep right then and there.
Either way, I wasn’t getting up.
We sat there quietly for a little while as more guests came and took their seats. I wasn’t sure if there were reservations, first come first serve, or if you just had to know the secret handshake to get up here. But everyone seemed to know where they were supposed to be and settled down easily.
There were a few muted conversations and giggles, but it was soft enough to be little more than background noise.
In fact, I’d nearly dozed off when the music began to play.
I sat up straight and looked around wildly, wondering how long I’d been catnapping. By the look on Harvey’s face, I’d been asleep for at least a couple of minutes.
My cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but I tried to play it cool. “What’s playing, anyway?”
He leaned closer to me, my body pressed against his. “Being Earnest, remember?”
I winced. Good one, Court. Instead of trying to avoid embarrassment, I completely shot myself in the foot. “Oh, right.”
Thankfully, the movie started playing and I was saved from further stupidity.
The movie was about as expected. The book had been infinitely better, and much of the nuances had been lost in the transition to film. Still, I appreciated the fact that everyone was being stupid—not just the men for pretending to be someone else just for the sake of a name.
The women were being dumb, too. After all, it was just a damn name. It didn’t change who the man was.
And just like that, I talked myself into a corner. Because the fact was, I was being hardheaded, just like they were, all because of Trent Harvey’s name. Well, and reputation. Fact was, I’d been taken with Malcom, and if they really were the same guy… did any of my affection change just because his name was different?
Except Trent Harvey is a player and an asshole, a voice in my head reminded me.
I wasn’t sure what to do with what I knew secondhand about Harvey versus the firsthand information I had on Malcom.
Can I trust anything he says? After all, the only thing I know for sure is that he’s lied to me.
By the end of the movie, I hadn’t come to any sort of definitive conclusion. Instead, I was left mulling over the idea of giving Harvey a real chance. Mostly, that seemed like a stupid idea. But I’d connected so well with Malcom.
“Are you ready?”
I blinked rapidly, realizing that the movie was over and that people were getting up. Lights had come on, though they were soft, and I was the last person sitting. My cheeks burned and I stood quickly.
“Um, yeah, sure.” I let him lead me downstairs again.
He nodded politely to the waiter and the host—I assumed he had tipped generously—then took me out to the front. It was dark outside and cool, though not unpleasantly so. Just like the rooftop, it was softer and sweeter for the darkness. I was all about the summer nights, because we didn’t get a lot of truly good weather in Washington.
Standing on the sidewalk, I spun to face him. “Thank you,” I said politely. “For a nice evening.”
I was ready to start back to my car, but he apparently wasn’t ready to let me yet.
“Whoa, whoa! Hold up,” he called, reaching for me and gently pulling me back around to face him. “You owe me, remember? You have to stay for the whole date.”
I raised a single eyebrow. “Um, yeah. Dinner. Movie. Date is over.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not. We haven’t had dessert yet.”
Rolling my eyes, I said, “Seriously? But we just left the restaurant.”
He waved off my words, then slipped my hand into the crook of his arm. I felt my body react even as I tried to remind myself that this date was the last I would deal with Trent. “The restaurant has great food, but the dessert gets all fancy.”
“Fancy?” I half laughed.
He nodded somberly. “Yes. Fancy. Tiny-ass portions that are as big as your pinky on plates the size of flying saucers, and they think that because they draw on all the extra plate that it means you get way more. It’s stupid. Worse than stupid, it’s just wasteful.”
I did my best to hold in a laugh, but a little chuckle escaped despite my efforts. “Okay, fine. No fancy dessert. So what are we doing instead?”
“You’ll see,” he said, overdoing the mysterious tone by a mile and a half. But it was kind of cute, endearing even how hard he was trying.
I let him lead me down the sidewalk and didn’t pull my arm from his.
“When I was a kid, my grandmother used
to say that the simplest things in life were the best,” he told me as we rounded the corner. “And as a kid, I thought she was crazy.”
I smiled, picturing a young Trent. Probably adorable and cocky as hell.
“But I had this really bad day,” he continued, his tone turning wistful. “I’d been bullied. Torn my favorite pants. Lost my homework. Even got chased by a dog. By the time I got home, I was a sad, soggy mess—did I mention it rained on me, too? Anyway. I got home and Grams was there. She was sitting in that big overstuffed chair, knitting, because she was the kind of grandmother that did that stuff. And when she looked up at me, she just knew, it had been a bad one.”
His story tugged at my heartstrings. Just the idea of this little Trent getting kicked while he was down… it was horrible. “What did she do?” I murmured softly.
He glanced over at me, then grinned, showing those pearly white teeth. “She said, ‘Honey, the best things in life are the simplest.’ Then she got up and went to the kitchen. She opened up the freezer, and damn it all to hell, the only thing we had in there was vanilla bean ice cream. But she gave me two hearty scoops, and we shared out of a bowl. She hugged me and I knew she was right. The simplest were the best.”
And just like that, I melted. My insides got all gooey, my mouth did that little cat-smile thing when I found things too cute for words, and my cheeks burned. I practically had stars in my eyes. I didn’t mean to, but damn I was like butter in his hands right then.
We stopped suddenly and it took me a moment to realize he’d deliberately taken me somewhere. I blinked to see that we were standing in front of one of those food cart vendors. I thought for a second he’d gotten a wild hot-dog craving, but then I realized the man with the cart wasn’t selling hot dogs. He was selling ice cream.
“Two, please,” Trent told the man easily, then paid with cash and tipped as the man offered him a bowl.
Trent grabbed two spoons, then waved goodbye to the vendor. He presented the cup to me. “Two scoops, vanilla bean ice cream. Because there is nothing better in this world.” He paused, then smiled. “Except maybe the company.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but grin in return. I scooped up a hearty spoonful, then popped it into my mouth. “It’s good,” I told him.
“Yes, it is.”
We traded bites as we continued our walk. We passed the dancing statues that were dressed with scarves and hats, their wardrobes changing even as the dancers remained the same. The bridge up ahead went up to let a boat pass underneath, and a streetlight flickered off, then back on several times as we passed.
He told me more about his grandmother. I told him that I’d never known mine. We talked about the movie and the stupidity of being wrapped up in a name.
When we were done with the ice cream, he found a trash can to dispose of the remains, then turned to me. “All right. Next on the agenda—”
I stopped him before he could offer up skinny-dipping in the park or something else crazy and fun. “Wait, no. I’m sorry, but the date has to be over now.” I glanced at my watch. It was almost one in the morning. “I need to go home.”
My words weren’t as harsh as they had been at the start of the date, and honestly, I’d warmed to him in the hours we’d spent together.
But was it enough?
“You’re sure?” he asked softly, taking a small step closer to me.
I didn’t back up but nodded. “Yes. It’s late. I need to get home.”
He didn’t say anything, but his hand lifted and I felt his warm fingers brush against my cheek. His eyes didn’t leave mine, riveted. And when he leaned forward… I let him. His lips brushed over the top of mine as my eyes fluttered closed of their own accord.
When his mouth pressed more firmly, I felt something warm coil low in my gut. My hands found their way to his shirt, gripping the fabric there, and his free hand went to my waist.
I didn’t stop him.
My lips parted when his tongue asked for entrance, and I decided I liked the way he tasted. Sweet like ice cream and a little salty with a hint of spice. It was perfect. The perfect night, the perfect kiss, the perfect everything. Heat slipped over my body like silk, and as I clutched his body to mine, I admitted I wanted more.
I wanted the kiss to deepen.
I wanted his hands to find bare skin beneath my clothes.
I wanted him to take me home.
And that was why I had to break the kiss. We were both left breathless, gasping for air with wide, wild eyes. He looked like he wanted to dive back in, and a big part of me wanted to let him.
But I had to remember that a perfect night and a perfect kiss weren’t the same things as a perfect man. He was still Trent Harvey, the player who had lied to me about his identity.
A perfect kiss couldn’t change any of that.
“Courtney?” he asked, hopeful still.
I shook my head. “I’m going home. Don’t call me.”
Then I walked off, heading for my car. I felt his gaze burn into my back, but I didn’t turn around and I didn’t glance over my shoulder back at him. This was the right thing to do.
You couldn’t trust a man like Trent Harvey.
Chapter Six
Courtney
Monday rolled around and yes, I, Courtney Hughes, was still in my pajamas. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, my hair was not done, curlers still haphazardly wound in my hair, and thank you very much, I was eating donuts. Lots of them. The kind with chocolate frosting and sprinkles and Bavarian filling. The whole nine yards. I was brewing more coffee despite having already had an entire pot to myself, and I was flipping through the horrible TV channels that had absolutely nothing on.
It was glorious.
And horrible.
I stopped my channel surfing on one of the soap opera stations. There was a woman with her identical twin arguing about who was responsible for murdering one or both of their fiancé for cheating with the good and/or evil twin while the other was in a coma.
Seriously, two minutes in and I’d gotten all of that drama. It was a wonder anyone watched, because it was way too hard to keep any of it straight. In fact, it was downright madness.
But it was the only damn thing on, so I left it.
I was debating between another Bavarian donut and one with powdered sugar when my phone buzzed again. It had been doing this all morning.
When I checked it, I saw that I had another text. It was from Marnie. Again. I threw my phone on the cushion beside me and settled back in my jammies.
I’d done the good-person thing and told her that I was taking a sick day today. It was my first one in years of work, so I felt pretty damn justified in cashing it in. Marnie, however, seemed a little freaked-out by it.
Probably because she can’t run her own damn schedule without me, I thought with a snort.
It wasn’t entirely fair. Marnie was an organized, capable person. She just excelled in different things than I did, and God knew that I kept her world in order. But she had to know that even I needed a break.
Was it a coincidence that this break happened after a horribly wonderful date with Harvey, who she was meeting with today to discuss his manuscript? No, it wasn’t. But she didn’t need to know that.
My phone went off again, and I cringed.
Marnie wasn’t the only one barraging my phone with messages. Harvey had been calling and texting a thousand times. He wanted another chance. He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted into my panties.
Okay, he didn’t text that last one, but he might as well have. I had already made it up in my mind that that was all he wanted.
I was trying to ignore my phone by becoming absorbed with the soap opera.
Twin A was talking about getting out of the country, so I assumed she was the murdering evil one.
Twin B decided this was a stupid plan and that they could just make it look like a mugging, so now I wasn’t sure who the murderer was.
Then the doorbell rang and it was actuall
y the guy they supposedly killed, so maybe neither of them was the murderer.
“Jesus Christ, who can keep up with this crap?” I muttered out loud.
I struggled through several more minutes of ridiculous explanation for how he wasn’t dead—can we say deus ex machina?—before I finally gave in to the undeniable urge to check my phone.
Please, call me. Give me another chance.
I sighed. Yep, it was Harvey again. Apparently, they were out of their meeting today, because I’d received a text from Marnie and Harvey. Somehow, I doubted they were texting me together from her office.
Throwing the phone back on my cushion, I tried to bury myself farther into the couch.
“How pathetic have I become?” I asked the TV. Which pretty much answered my question.
The twins were being blackmailed for killing the guy who wasn’t actually dead, and that was around the time I just gave up on the whole ridiculous show. Who wrote this crap anyway?
I flipped the TV off and went to the fridge. Donuts weren’t doing it. I needed the hard stuff. I pulled out a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, planning on mollifying my patheticness with real ice cream. Unfortunately, it reminded me of Harvey.
“Bastard’s ruining ice cream, too.”
In the end, I ordered a pizza. I debated showering before the delivery guy got here, but vetoed that thought. I was doing the sick day right, damnit.
About thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang. I was starving, despite my donut binge earlier, and I headed eagerly to the door. Except that when I got there, it wasn’t the pizza guy.
“What. The. Hell.”
I winced. “Marnie, what are you doing here?”
“I came to figure out how you could have contracted Ebola, since it’s the only damn thing I can think of to make you miss a day of work!”
Sighing, I opened the door wider and let her in. “I ordered pizza. Want some?”
“Jesus, Court, you don’t even do junk food!”
She stepped into the apartment, and I momentarily felt ashamed of how messy it was. But then I remembered that it was my sick day and she was intruding on it. Besides, the couch and a little slice of the kitchen were the only truly messy things in the place. I was a bit of a neat freak, so my apartment tended to be on the cleaner side of things.
