“It’s not. But Germaine or Wilson—it doesn’t change a thing. I’m still married.” I smoothed a hand over my hair. “I’m making it official soon anyway.”
“Five years later?” He smiled into his menu. “I’d say it’s about time.”
He saw right through my fib. Well, just for that, maybe I would finally start the paperwork and even send out an office-wide e-mail to start addressing me as Mrs. Wilson. She sounded like a better fit for the suburbs anyway.
“You’re obviously a regular here,” I said. “What’s good?”
“I know just the thing.” He took my menu and set it on the edge of the table. I was about to object, but the excitement in his eyes stopped me.
While he ordered for us, I took a large gulp of water, hoping it would extinguish the heat David’s nearness inspired. Ice water coated my insides. Suddenly, my white, form-fitting blouse didn’t seem so conservative. Nor did my skirt, as I remembered how David had scanned my bare knees and followed my curves with his eyes.
I swallowed, my scalp warming. I had to remember why we were here—business. “So, David. Tell me about yourself. What do you do in your spare time?”
“I keep pretty busy with work.”
“But you must blow off steam somehow?”
“I sail,” he said. “And swim whenever I get the chance.”
Wet. Shirtless. I shook my head. Was there a swimmer’s body under that perfect suit?
He leaned his elbows on the table. “How about you,” he paused, his eyes concentrated on me, “O-liv-ia?”
“This interview isn’t about me.”
“I didn’t realize the interview had begun.”
“We’re on the record,” I said, reaching into my purse for a pen. “Are any topics off limits? Work, travel . . .” I kept my eyes down to hide my reddening cheeks as I broached the aspect of his life that—infuriatingly—most interested me. “Love?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, his eyes narrowed as I opened my notepad on the table. “You can ask me any question you want. No restrictions. All in the name of research.”
I bit my lip. Where my interview process ended and my personal interest in him began, I had no idea. This meant I wouldn’t have to make that distinction. “What’s the catch?” I asked.
“You have to answer the question, too.”
Ah. For David to offer that deal, he must’ve seen how uncomfortable his questions made me.
I realized I was playing with my earring when he glanced at it. He reached out and took my wrist, tugged my hand away, and placed it on the table. “I don’t want to make you nervous.” His palm warmed the back of my hand. “I’m just curious about you. So, I told you a couple of my hobbies. What’re yours?”
I could so easily flip my hand and take David’s, link our fingers together, smooth my palm over the calluses I was sure he had from his hobbies and profession.
Those were all reasons to pull away. I slid my hand from under his and picked up my pen to make notes.
Maybe David could see I didn’t open up easily, but what he didn’t know was that I’d worked hard to build these walls around my heart, and nobody, not even him, could bring them down over one lunch. “Also work,” I answered.
“I didn’t say work was my hobby, although I love my job. If work is yours, why? Do you ever write for the magazine?”
“When I need to,” I said. “I prefer editing.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I almost laughed. “Are we? Why?”
“Most people I know want to be writers. It’s romantic, esteemed. Writers get the glory—but editors . . . very rarely do they get the credit they deserve.”
I glanced at the table. David had unknowingly just described much more than my career. That was my life. My mother, a combustible artist, an award-winning novelist, loved the spotlight and knew how to put on a show, even when things crumbled behind the scenes.
That would never be me.
I held concepts and storylines and sentences together. Yet, I’d been unable to keep my family from falling apart.
“Or maybe there’s more to it than that,” David suggested, staring at my mouth. He didn’t hide his longing. What was it he craved? Did he want to . . . kiss me?
He licked his lips.
No.
This surpassed want. He yearned. What for?
A peck on the cheek? To slide his tongue along the seam of my lips?
Maybe it wasn’t that innocent. Maybe he imagined my nude lips wrapped around his finger. Or my plump, dark, Ruby Red mouth, my Malbec-coated tongue, sucking until lipstick smeared all over his . . .
I vaulted back in the booth, knocked breathless by my uncharacteristically sordid thoughts. I wasn’t the type to get caught up in a fantasy, even in the dark. Much less in the middle of the day.
I forced myself back to our conversation—equally dangerous, but less likely to spur one of us to jump across the table and devour the other.
Something told me that the more I withheld from David, the harder he’d pry, so I volunteered something harmless. “Editing is methodical,” I explained.
He nodded, but his eyes remained on my mouth.
“Like a puzzle. There are rules, and—do I have lipstick on my teeth?”
His eyes darted up to mine. “No. Sorry. I heard every word. Editing soothes you. Writing scares you.”
“That’s not what I s—”
“What do you do for fun, Olivia?”
I sighed, slightly frustrated, mostly resigned. “I also volunteer at my local animal shelter most weekends.”
He crossed his arms on the table. “Do you have a pet?”
“No, I just love animals.” I bit my lip as I gave in to a smile. “I want a dog, but it’s not the right time.”
“Maybe in the suburbs,” he said evenly, not quite serious, but not teasing, either.
I nodded slowly. “Maybe. How about you?”
He glanced into his water glass, then picked it up. “Our family dog, Canyon, is sick. It’s been tough on everyone.”
So David was close enough with his family to share concern over their pet and possibly consider it his own. “I’m sorry.”
I wanted to ask more, but getting deeper into topics irrelevant to the article meant getting to know him better for no reason. And answering more questions about myself, too.
The waiter set down two stacked burgers with leafy side salads. My stomach grumbled, and I wasted no time diving in. I’d almost finished my salad when I glanced up.
David grinned. “You eat salad like it’s your last meal.”
“My dad always made me eat my salad before I got to the good stuff, so I’m used to inhaling it.”
“You know your dad isn’t here, right?”
“It sounds stupid when I say it out loud. But it’s a good habit, so why break it?”
“Italians often serve salad after the main courses,” he said.
“Doesn’t work for me,” I said, chewing. I shook my head. “After a burger, I usually just want a nap.”
He laughed. “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“Just soaking up everything I can before you cut me off.”
I paused and casually stabbed the last bite of lettuce with my fork, suddenly conscious of my eating habits. My notepad still had only three words.
Hobbies: sailing, swimming,
“You’ve worked at Pierson/Greer eight years, right?” I asked.
“Ah, so you at least looked me up this time.”
I took a bite of my hamburger, and my eyes rolled to the back of my head with a mouthful of juicy patty, grilled onions and mushrooms, creamy avocado, and tangy sauce. “Wow.”
“That’s a look of pure satisfaction.” Before I could stop him, he reached over and swiped a smear of sauce from the corner of my lips with his thumb. “Sweet,” he murmured.
My cheeks warmed at his overt display, and I picked a paper napkin from a di
spenser to wipe my mouth. “Is Arnaud married?” I asked to keep us on topic. “Single?”
David licked his thumb. “Why? Are you considering him for the article also?”
I almost choked. Creepy lingering stares didn’t sell magazines. “God, no.”
He laughed. “Arnaud’s single. Eternally.”
“Must be a hazard of the job,” I said, chancing a glance at David from under my lashes. He’d said something similar on the balcony about not having time for women. If I could get him to open up without technically asking, then I wouldn’t have to reciprocate, right?
“It is,” he said. “We work constantly. Developing a meaningful relationship takes time we don’t have.”
“I get that,” I said. “The firm’s always sending Bill out of town since we’re in the no-kids club.”
“Right.” David glanced away. “Women say they can handle my schedule, but they always want more.”
I tilted my head. “We should leave that out of the article. If you’re not ready to give more—”
“I am.” His eyes returned to mine with renewed heat. “Like I said in the car, I’m not just ready to give more. I have everything to give—to the right woman.”
To a lucky woman.
The unbidden thought disturbed me. I was lucky. I’d found everything I’d wanted in a partner in Bill. He was what I’d asked for. Calm. Safe. Easy to get along with. Thoughtful. Loving. And David was everything I pushed away. Passion. Heat. Unknown. Risk.
“Is that why you agreed to do the issue?” I asked. “To find something . . . meaningful? Someone to give your all?”
He examined his plate and looked up. “No. That’s not really why I decided to play along . . . there was a much larger factor.”
His expectant look dared me to ask what that was. Would he go through all this just to spend time with me? After his forwardness at Lucy’s party and since, it wouldn’t be far-fetched for him to admit that.
But if so, it was better left unsaid.
I continued chowing down, eschewing any chance at keeping it cool. It was too hard not to make a spectacle while plate-licking-good sauce dripped down my hands, and I chased slippery avocado into my mouth. “Next, I’d ask about college,” I said. “You went to Yale for undergrad, then Architectural Association in London.”
He nodded. “And you?”
“That wasn’t a question—I already knew.” I smirked. “So I don’t have to reciprocate.”
“Notre Dame,” he said.
I stopped chewing and swallowed. “When you take an interest in something, you don’t really hold back, do you?”
“Now you’re catching on.” His eyes gleamed. “I know where, but I don’t know why. What took you there?”
“Legacy,” I said. “I grew up in Dallas but my father went to Notre Dame.”
“Mine, too. What are the chances?” His dimples deepened with a large smile. “Wonder if they know each other. And your mom?”
“A novelist,” I said. “Or she was. She hasn’t put a book out in years. I’d assume her publisher dropped her, but if they had, my dad and I would’ve heard about it non-stop.”
He inclined his head to catch my eye. “Divorced?”
I nodded. “Right before I entered high school.”
“That must have been hard.”
Hard didn’t begin to describe. My father couldn’t leave Dallas because of work, but he’d relocated us to a different part of the city immediately, practically overnight. I’d started high school with no friends, no mom, and no understanding of my social status. I’d had no one to show me how to pick out clothes as my body changed or apply makeup to my angry, teenage skin. All the while undergoing a six-month-long custody battle where lawyers probed at me, child protective services asked questions I didn’t know how to answer, and people tried to make me choose between my parents.
I shrugged as casually as I could, wiping away the threatening memories as I dabbed my mouth with my napkin. “Is high school easy for anyone?”
David cleared his throat. “I suppose not.”
What was I thinking? He was not my audience. I couldn’t imagine someone like David Dylan ever experiencing an excruciating lunch period of not knowing where to sit or who to avoid. Of finally sitting down and being asked by a group of strangers if the rumor was true that my own parent had tried to murder me.
And then, upon learning that wasn’t true, watching as the excitement in their faces had quickly turned to boredom.
“High school was a breeze for you, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“I have only fond memories,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be a good listener.”
“A good listener?” I asked.
“What was it like for you? Not easy. I can see it on your face.”
Damn it. He picked up on too much. I wasn’t used to that. I had to be vigilant about schooling my expression around him. “I have fond memories, too,” I said. “My best friend convinced her mom to let her and her older brother transfer to my high school during my sophomore year. Their parents are divorced, so they understood. The three of us are still very close.”
David tapped his chin. “Since Lucy told me you two met at Notre Dame, you must be talking about Gretchen.”
Nothing got by him. Then again, Gretchen was hard to forget. I wondered if he’d noticed her at dinner, too. I still hated the thought of them hitting it off, but I had no claim over David, and he would’ve been a good match for her. “I can introduce you if you want,” I said.
“I’ve met her.” His gaze intensified. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you choose?”
“My turn again? I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not writing this article about myself, anyway, and so far you’ve only told me things I could’ve found online.”
As if he hadn’t heard the second half of my statement, he half-smiled. “You do know where you’d go,” he said. “Where?”
“I don’t have time to think about that.” I shifted in the leather booth. “Bill doesn’t like big vacations.”
“That’s a shame. He’s missing out on surfing perfect breaks in Bali, gorging on oysters in Montauk, late-night, winter-time hot-tubbing with a view of the Swiss Alps . . .” He sighed happily. “Nothing to dislike about my vacations.”
Wet. Shirtless. Surfboard. Aphrodisiacs. Snowy mountains through the steam . . .
What girl could resist any of that with a god like David? But that was clearly a fantasy. No way he’d done all that. What about work? Obligations? Money?
Were there places I wanted to see? Of course. Bill and I really hadn’t taken an international trip in years. There was no use in daydreaming about it now, though.
“Whatever place you’re hiding in your head, you’ll get there,” David said. “You seem like a girl who knows what she wants.”
“I’m hardly a girl,” I bristled.
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Well, Mr. Dylan.” I moved my elbows to the table. “I reckon that’s not a very polite question.”
“I see. Is politeness something you look for in a gentleman?”
I twisted my lips. “Is that not a defining characteristic of the gentleman?”
“Touché. Is politeness something you look for in a man?”
My smile wavered. He was a man if I ever saw one. Unruffled by anything, chivalrous, inquisitive. He’d barely taken his eyes off me the entire meal, not even when the red-lipped hostess had stopped by to check on us.
“Come on. I’m here to find out what you’re looking for in a woman,” I reminded him, folding my hands. “Not the other way around.”
“I could tell you, down to the color of her eyes, my perfect woman,” he said, shifting to get out a leather billfold. “But that would end the interview here, and we’re just getting started. Let’s head over to the hotel.”
“I can expense lunch—Beman’s delighted we’re doing this,” I said, reaching into my handbag.
His ex
pression sobered as he picked up the check. “Lunch is on me. This time together is ours, and only ours. When you’re with me, no other man will ever pay my bill.”
My heart skipped with his declaration. By no other man, I suspected he didn’t mean Beman. And he didn’t mean money literally, either, but time.
My time with David belonged only to David.
He had a possessive side, and over someone who didn’t even remotely belong to him.
It should’ve opened my eyes to the fact that even a simple lunch was dangerous territory for us. David’s company today had been far too natural, his questions too spot-on, his observations welcome when with anyone else, I would’ve shied away.
It was just one more thing to feel confused about.
12
David’s hotel overlooked the Chicago River. He and I walked from the restaurant, winding our way along the water in easy silence.
Fluffy, dense clouds spotted the sky, passing over the high sun. The river gleamed with the reflection of light, as if covered in gold sequins.
You are KILLING me in that gold dress, honeybee.
David’s inappropriate text about my dress shivered through me. I’d been likened to an owl before by my father, for wide, curious eyes he’d said I’d had since childhood. But I’d never had a pet name like honeybee. Innocent—yet sexy, only because it had come from David.
“That’s it,” David said, nodding ahead. I tilted my gaze back and took in the imposing building. Gray slate made up the lobby’s exterior, while the guest rooms from that point up were silver, mirrored glass. The building defied physics by curving outward along one side, dipping in, and then bowing out again slightly in the shape of the letter “B”.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Wow,” I murmured. “It’s something else.”
“Is that good?”
I turned to face him. There was no humor in his expression. “Do you really need me to tell you it’s good?” I asked.
“I really need that, yes.”
I looked back, squinting against the sun. “I love how the glass reflects the blue of the sky and the water, but also the sun. Against the stone slabs—both smooth and sharp, it’s almost—fluid? It’s perfect for the waterfront, yet it stands out . . .” I blinked rapidly, no idea what I was saying. I didn’t really have the right vocabulary for this. “But you’re the architect. You should be the one telling me.”
Cityscape Affair Series: The Complete Box Set Page 13
