by Maggie Riley
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked, even as my body screamed at me to stop being an idiot. Every woman in Manhattan screamed at me to stop being an idiot.
“I don’t know,” he sat down in the chair next to mine. “But I feel like we’ve already crossed a line. So why not see where it leads us?”
He had a point. Despite the pep talk I had given myself that morning, I knew it was going to be impossible to see him every day and pretend that nothing had happened. Maybe this would be better. Get it out of our systems. It was a horrible justification, but I didn’t really care. I wanted him. I wanted him badly. Last night had just scratched the surface.
“A date,” I said slowly.
“Tonight?” he offered.
“Ok,” I took a deep breath. “Dinner. But nowhere as fancy as last night’s dinner.”
He laughed, the sound low and deep. Delicious.
“Deal,” he told me. “Why don’t I pick you up at your place at seven?”
“Ok,” I said, hoping that I wasn’t making a terrible, terrible mistake.
I stood, glad that I didn’t wobble as I walked to the door. My knees felt weak. My everything felt weak. What was I doing?
“Libby.”
I turned around, and found myself in Jack’s arms. He kissed me, slow and deep, and suddenly any apprehension I had felt went right out the window. I melted into his embrace, kissing him back, my fingers gripping the lapels of his jacket, pulling him close. After a few blissful moments, he pulled away.
“See you at seven tonight,” he told me, reaching back and opening the door for me.
“Uh huh,” I managed, and practically floated out of the office.
Chapter 16
LIBBY
I had interviews that I could have done around Jack’s office, but I decided to take the day off and work on the book at my favorite coffee shop. After buying a new outfit for my date, of course. And new lingerie. It had cost me a pretty penny, but it would be worth it if things progressed the way I hoped they would. I tried to keep my expectations in check, but I found it hard to concentrate when all I could think about was how much I wanted to be back in Jack’s apartment on my back with him above me. But with far less clothes between us. Or no clothes at all. Even though it was warm out, I shivered with anticipation.
“Libby?” I heard a familiar voice behind ask.
I spun around to find Nancy Sinclair behind me, an iced coffee in her hand, and a smile on her face. She looked just as impeccable as she had looked last night, her gray hair perfectly coiffed, her suit matching her shoes and her purse. I felt a little like Orphan Annie next to her, but I was still happy to see her. I had enjoyed her company last night immensely, and was glad to run into her. She appeared to feel the same.
“Nancy, what a surprise!” I got up to greet her.
“Only in New York, in a city of millions, could you run into someone you just met the night before,” she said, her smile growing. “This is why I love this city.”
“It’s quite a magical place,” I agreed. “Would you like to join me?”
“I don’t want to interrupt your work,” she objected but I had already closed my laptop.
“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “Besides, I always appreciate an excuse to take a break.” I gestured for her to sit, and she did.
Not that I was taking a break from anything. I hadn’t written a damn word since sitting down several hours ago. Nope, instead all I had done was fantasize about a certain sexy millionaire and how badly I wanted to see what he was hiding under his perfectly tailored suits.
“I haven’t see that model in a while,” Nancy observed as I put my battered laptop back into its case.
“It’s on its last legs,” I confessed. “I’m waiting for my next paycheck before I replace it.” I omitted the fact that said paycheck would be coming from the man I was hoping to be getting naked with in a few hours. My life was getting so damn complicated.
“Oh,” Nancy looked surprised. “Jack won’t get you a new one?” she asked.
I paused, knowing that if Jack and I were really dating that he probably would have been horrified to know what kind of computer I owned. Especially since he was a guy who knew and loved his tech.
“Well, I like to be independent,” I told her. “I’m sure he would buy me one if I asked, but I like to take care of those things myself.”
“I understand,” Nancy told me. “It took me a long time to get used to Richard spending money on me. I grew up clipping coupons and trading in cans for coins. That kind of wealth takes some adjusting.”
That morning I had done some research on the Sinclairs. Research I wished I had done before the dinner. That way I would have known exactly how important they were before I blabbered on and on about fricking macramé and crafts. These were people that owned Picassos and Monets. They couldn’t possibly have cared about my little craft books.
But I had also learned that while Richard came from money, Nancy hadn’t. They had fallen in love and gotten married despite Richard’s family hoping that he’d marry some socialite, or someone else they deemed appropriate. They certainly hadn’t expected Nancy, who was a little like me during her youth, though she hadn’t been a writer, she had been a dancer. In the chorus line. It seemed like a pretty fascinating life, and one that I had a feeling would make a pretty spectacular book.
“Jack is very generous,” I told Nancy. “But you’re right. I’m still getting used to his lifestyle.”
“It’s a complicated one,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “Can bring out the worst in people, that’s for sure.” She paused and gave me a sideways glance. “I’ll admit, I was a little surprised to meet you.”
“Oh?”
“Well, I didn’t know that Jack was seeing anyone,” she told me. “At least not seriously.”
Right. The models. All those models that he tended to be photographed with. All those models he claimed in interviews that he wasn’t dating.
“He has a bit of a reputation,” Nancy was saying, and then caught my look. “Oh honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything.” She patted my hand. “You two seem perfectly suited for each other.”
I forced a smile, knowing that she had seen what we wanted her to see. What Jack had wanted her to see. We did have chemistry, that couldn’t be denied, but I had read enough articles about Jack to know that he wasn’t one for relationships. And he certainly wasn’t one for relationships with short, curvy redheads like me.
But he had asked me out. On a date. I owed it to myself to give it a shot. And who knew how much of what had been written about him was true?
I pushed away my doubt, and focused on Nancy. To my surprise, she did seem genuinely interested in what I did, so we talked for several hours about the history of arts and crafts and even made a date to go to the Museum of Arts and Design the following week.
Running into her had provided a great distraction from my upcoming date with Jack, giving me very little time to be nervous about it, or second guess my decision to go out with him in the first place. But by the time I left the coffee shop to go get ready, those doubts had come back in full force.
What if the tabloids were right about Jack? What if I was setting myself up for disappointment? What if I was potentially fucking up a job – and paycheck – I desperately needed, just because I desperately wanted to fuck him? When did I let my libido make financial decisions for me? My vagina was a terrible financial planner, that was for damn sure. After all, it was my vagina that had decided it was a good idea to shell out several hundred bucks on a new outfit and new lingerie. But as I headed home, I realized that if I got to show my latest lucky thong to Jack tonight, it would be totally worth it.
Chapter 17
JACK
I was unfocused all day. There wasn’t much that could distract me from my work, but the anticipation of tonight’s date – and what might come after – had my mind wandering. It also reminded me how long it had bee
n since I’d been on an actual date, one that didn’t feel like I was just going through the motions. The women I usually hooked up with were fairly easy to read – a trait I had purposefully sought out. We both knew what we wanted – a good time, which usually meant an expensive dinner and a couple of orgasms afterwards. It was an arrangement that was simple and effective. And enjoyable.
This felt different. Libby had specifically requested a casual dinner, and I was surprised by how much I appreciated that. It wasn’t that I was self-conscious about my wealth – I had worked damn hard to get to where I was – but it was nice that Libby didn’t seem to care. Just one more thing to like about her.
Now I just had to find a place where we could have that casual dinner.
Apparently my distraction was noticeable because after my third meeting of the day, Mrs. Reynolds came into my office with my coat and briefcase.
“I’m sending you home,” she told me.
I gave her a look – one that would have terrified most of my employees – but Mrs. Reynolds didn’t even flinch.
“It’s one o’clock,” I informed her. “My afternoon is booked.”
“I’ve rescheduled everything,” she said. “You need the afternoon off. To prepare for your, er, meeting.”
That was the trouble with hiring someone as intuitive and observant as Mrs. Reynolds. She saw everything.
I leaned back and crossed my arms.
“Are you going to tell me that it’s a bad idea?” I asked her.
She wasn’t my mother, but as far as parental figures went, she was pretty damn close. I trusted her and her judgement.
“You’re a grown man,” she informed me, as if I didn’t know. “I know you’ll make the right decision.”
“I appreciate the cryptic advice,” I said dryly.
“You know what’s at stake,” Mrs. Reynolds said.
She didn’t have to say it out loud – we both knew she was talking about Ella. There were few people I trusted with knowledge of my daughter, but I had never hesitated to tell Mrs. Reynolds. She understood and was as fiercely protective as I was.
“I know how to keep that part of my life separate,” I reminded her.
She nodded. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I didn’t understand.
She came over and patted my hand. “You can’t keep parts of yourself closed off from people you care about.”
“I don’t,” I objected. Everyone that was important to me – everyone that I trusted – knew about Ella. She was only a secret when she needed to be. For her own good.
“You didn’t,” she countered.
This conversation was getting far more confusing by the minute.
“Go home,” Mrs. Reynolds put my briefcase down next to my desk. “You deserve the afternoon off.”
It was nice to leave the office in the middle of the day, but I didn’t go home. For the most part, I avoided my apartment unless Ella was there. It was too quiet without my daughter, which is why I tended to spend as much time as I could at the office, or the factory, or my third favorite place in New York – Tom’s Bike Shop.
Mac was covered in grease when I arrived, but that was the way it always was. He put down his tools and wiped his hand on a rag before coming over to greet me.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he noted, as I grabbed a pair of coveralls.
“Been busy,” I told him, and then headed into the bathroom to change.
When all else failed, I could always clear my head by working with my hands – especially on some complicated engine, which is what Mac specialized in. There was always something that needed tinkering with, and since Mac was even pickier about his employee than I was, he always seemed to be short staffed.
“What do you have for me?” I asked when I came out of the bathroom, ready to work.
Mac looked around the shop slowly before smiling. “I’ve got a 1959 Bonnie,” he told me, pointing.
I took a look at the nearly pristine vintage Triumph Bonneville and let out a whistle.
“That’s a sweet little bike,” I said, already itching to get my hands on it. “What’s the problem?”
“Weak spark,” Mac threw me a rag. “I’ve got a feeling it’s the pickup coil, but you’re welcome to it if you want.”
I knew that Mrs. Reynolds would never understand why I would leave the office to work on something else – something I wasn’t even going to be paid for – but people who didn’t love bikes, or fixing bikes, or fixing things in general, never really understood how calming that kind of work could be. How relaxing I found it.
Crouching down next to the bike, I peered at the pickup coil.
“How’s the release coming?” Mac was standing behind me. “When does my custom Celero arrive?”
“When you go to the dealership and buy yourself one,” I joked.
As my oldest friend and first investor, Mac got a prototype of everything I made, which meant he had a garage full of fucking nice cars and bikes. He was also probably the one person on the earth that appreciated them in the same way that I did.
“I thought I’d get a test drive first,” he shot back with a smile.
“Name the day,” I told him.
“I’m free tonight,” he said.
“Not tonight,” I fiddled with the bike’s gauge.
“Is Ella staying with you?” he asked.
I should have said yes. It was the one answer that wouldn’t have merited further questioning, but I never lied to Mac. There was too much history between us to keep secrets from each other.
“I’ve got a date,” I confessed.
“A date?” His eyebrows went up. “A real date?”
“Yep.”
I had never called my nights out with other women ‘dates.’ In fact, I was pretty sure the last real date I had been on had been with my ex-wife, Jennifer. I pushed that realization from my mind. The last thing I wanted was to draw a comparison between Libby and Jennifer, even though I could already see Mac doing the same.
“It’s not a big deal,” I told him.
“Sure.” But he didn’t sound convinced at all.
This was different. Libby and Jennifer were different. I was different. I had been in college when Jennifer and I met, and sure, I had been initially draw to Jennifer’s looks, but it had been pretty clear from the beginning that Jennifer and I were not good as a couple.
The problem was that my ex-wife and I were too similar. We were both ambitious and driven, and that didn’t always lend itself to a healthy relationship. We were both stubborn and inflexible. We liked what we liked and we didn’t want to do it any other way. Which was fine when we agreed on things – and worked out great when it came to Ella. Both of us wanted her to have every opportunity in the world, but shielded from the public eye. We wanted her to have the best, but we didn’t want to spoil her. As parents, we were on the same page. As husband and wife, we hadn’t wanted the same thing. At all.
Jennifer had a tendency to act like she knew everything. It was a great trait for business, and served her well in her job, but drove me absolutely up the wall. She never admitted she was wrong, or gave an inch in any argument we had – even if it was about my work, which she knew nothing about. The woman couldn’t tell the difference between a gear shaft and brake pad, yet she acted like she could build a bike from scratch.
Libby was different. She asked questions, and when she didn’t know something, she listened to explanations. She was curious and interested, and I found that surprisingly appealing. She also didn’t seem to take anything too seriously and it was her flexibility and playfulness that I was drawn to.
Mac cleared his throat and I realized that I had been standing with my hand in the toolbox, not moving.
“So are you going to tell me anything more about this date of yours?” he asked.
“Nope,” I told him, kneeling back down next to the bike.
“Come on, man,” he complained.
“I tell you about all my dates.”
“What dates?” I shot back. “You go out even less than I do.”
“Even more reason to tell me about her,” Mac said. “It’s been a long dry spell for me. Besides, if I had a date, I’d tell you about her.”
“Fine,” I looked up at him. “When you manage to convince some poor girl to go out with you, I’ll tell you all about my date tonight.”
I knew that Mac was in a similar boat as me, only instead of a kid, he tended to baby his shop. It was his everything, and not a lot of women liked to come second fiddle to an old, oil-stained building in Brooklyn.
I took a little pity on him.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m taking her out on the Bullet.”
His eyes widened. “Holy shit, dude,” he laughed. “You must really like this girl.”
I didn’t respond.
“Really?” Mac asked. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“You need to know more?”
“You are the worst friend, ever,” Mac told me.
I shrugged, and got back to work on the bike, still trying to figure out where I was going to take Libby tonight.
Chapter 18
LIBBY
I was pretty sure my new jeans had shrunk sometime between buying them this afternoon and putting them on this evening. The black, leather accented pants had looked so cool in the flattering light of the shop, but now I was starting to worry that my legs looks like two pairs of thick, twisted licorice.
Not like I had anything else to wear or time to change. My whole look revolved around these pants – the loose, graphic-printed top and the winged eyeliner that had taken three tries to get right. I wanted to look like a cross between Audrey Hepburn and a biker babe, but I was pretty sure I just looked like a biker babe. One who had been on the road for way too long.
I was still wrestling with my hair when my buzzer went off.
