Everest

by S. L. Scott

  “No. Do you have anything designer?”

  Tilting my head, I glare at him. “I have a dress.”

  “Perfect. What if I let you leave early?”

  I grin so big, it’s almost unbearable even to me. “Deal.”

  “That was easy. I was going to let you out of getting my coffee from down the street too, but you drive a soft bargain.”

  “Damn it. Agreed too soon,” I joke. I reach for my wallet, but he takes my wrist. “I’ll buy yours today.”

  “Wow, speaking of soft.”

  “Just don’t tell anyone. Okay?”

  Laughing, I agree then take his money and my phone before heading for coffee. On the way to the coffeehouse, I text Aaron to pick me up at four instead of five. He’s quick to respond, but I still need to text Ethan. It’s my job or dinner, so I’m sure he’ll understand. It’s disappointing I won’t get to see him and ask him about his late-night visit. Shaking my head, I’m still surprised he came by so late.

  A booty call?

  Really? I would have never thought him the type, but he’s a man, so maybe I’ve been giving him too much credit.

  Touching my lips, they tingle under my fingertips, his kiss still lingering. Who cares if it was for show or staking some claim? I liked it.

  His jealousy clearly got the better of him, but yet, his complications are the sole cause of us not dating.

  And who is Ethan Everest to judge who I spend time with or have sex with? Does he have no faith in my taste? The second they ordered those drinks, the option for anything further was automatically off the table.

  I open the door to the coffee shop and get in line to order, finishing my recap of last night. Looking down, I’m in a different sweater, but it’s still pilling at the sides and inside the elbows. No matter how I attempt to justify it, my wardrobe has become shabby. I don’t want to be seen as shabby or easy and desperate. Mel has been dying to take me shopping. Maybe it’s time I give in.

  When the barista calls out, “Singer,” I pick up my order and head back to the office. After delivering Chip’s coffee and his change, I sit at my desk, pull my phone out, ripping the Band-Aid off and text Ethan: Hi, it’s Singer. I need to reschedule dinner. I had something come up.

  Seconds. It’s only seconds before I see the three little wavering dots appear and my heart starts to race waiting for his reply. That’s too bad about tonight. I was looking forward to it.

  Me too, but I wonder if it’s for the same reasons. Another message pops up from him: How does your schedule look tomorrow?

  Is he asking me to take him out on a Saturday night? Is this a real date or a booty date? Is there such thing as a booty date? How did we go from just friends to . . . my spirits perk up—to friends with benefits? Maybe I rushed to judgment, so I type: You want to go out on a Saturday night?

  Ethan: Pen me in.

  Cocky. So cocky with the permanent ink. I reply: I’ve penciled you in.

  Ethan: Faith, my dear Singer.

  After my tummy stops somersaulting from him calling me “dear,” I type: I have plenty of faith. It’s hope I’m currently lacking.

  The dots don’t come. Another message doesn’t appear. I’m left hanging. Should I have not been so honest? Is it too soon for that? This is what I’ve been afraid of. He has me all mixed up inside, second-guessing everything when it comes to him. Cautious. I need to be more cautious when it comes to Ethan Everest.

  I set my phone on the desk and turn on my computer. The first email opens just as my phone buzzes across the beige laminate desktop. Caution flies out the window, and just like that, my hopes leap right back into the front seat.

  Ethan: I have enough for the both of us. See you tomorrow, Singer.

  I’m a fool for allowing hope back in, but, like Melanie, deep down I’m a fool for love and those damn happily ever afters as well. I’m not a teenager or in college, dating boys anymore. Smiling, I close my eyes and daydream of the man himself.

  Ethan Everest is no boy.

  He’s all man.

  And it doesn’t matter what’s happened in the past. Love is worth the risk. There’s no way to find out if there’s more to us unless I step up to the plate.

  Batter up.

  Running my hand over a few loose threads, I worry about the seam. “This dress is starting to show some wear and tear.” A year ago, Melanie and I decided to put our money together to buy a designer dress, one that would last years instead of wearing it once and tossing it. We’ve both worn it at least twice, if not more when I include New Year’s Eve last year when she wore it the last minute.

  Black satin with folds that accentuate curves or creates them if you’re lacking. Fortunately, I’m not. The sweetheart neckline highlights my cleavage while still coming off as classy. It’s perfect for tonight’s event.

  She bends down and carefully tucks the threads in. “Hold on.” Disappearing from the bathroom, she runs to the kitchen. I can hear her digging through the junk drawer, then she’s back in a flash. “Let me trim these.” After she performs minor surgery on the dress with scissors, she admires her work. “There. Perfect. Like you.”

  I’m accosted the second I walk into the restaurant. While we walk to the private dining room in the back, Chip is speaking at the speed of light, “There’s something I haven’t told you, and I need you to be open-minded.”

  He doesn’t even acknowledge how I look, or that I dressed up for dinner as he requested. “I’m always open-minded.” I’m not sure that’s entirely true, but I try to be. “What is going on?”

  I wait for him to say whatever it is he’s trying to say. “This dinner is important. He’s brought his team together along with some other people. I need to make a good impression. There are account opportunities in this room tonight, so do your best to land them. My father is expecting a big fish to come tonight.”

  My glare goes flat. “I know how to behave.”

  “I know you do. That’s why I invited you.” His hands go up. “I’m just nervous.”

  “Speaking of behaving, am I your fake date or your assistant tonight?”

  “How about both? Just have my back. I talk too much when I’m anxious.”

  The door is opened, and we step inside. “It will be fine. I promise.” I instantly recognize Umberto, one of our larger clients. We handle his holdings here and in Italy. He’s gorgeous and very memorable. Every girl at work makes sure to have on fresh lipstick and look their best when they know he’s coming into the office.

  He greets us with a smile and open arms. “Buona sera.” He kisses me on each cheek before turning to Chip. His tone turns, the happy held captive in his eyes as he says, “Buona sera.”

  Chip says, “Buona sera.”

  Umberto turns to me, his smile returning. “Bella Singer. So glad you could join us tonight. Prosecco is being served. I hope you like bubbles.”

  “I love Prosecco. Thank you.”

  “The waiter will bring you a glass,” Umberto says, his voice formal, stiffer as he looks Chip over. “It’s good to see you, Chip. I think we shall have business to discuss further, maybe over Scotch later?”

  “I’m free. Yes, business later.” Chip is reserved, not like himself at all.

  “Enjoy dinner.” Umberto excuses himself to greet more guests, and I turn to Chip.

  “Grazie.” Chip’s accent is on point.

  “Wait a minute.” I gasp. “Your ex is a man?”

  Nodding, he says, “Yes, and he’s gorgeous.”

  Holy wow is Umberto ever so gorgeous. “Incredibly,” I reply, turning my gaze back to Chip.

  “Yes, he’s all man.” Chip rubs his temples and closes his eyes.

  Again, I’m quick to note, “He’s a man.”

  When he returns my gaze, he whispers, “You’re quick with the two plus two, Singer.”

  “I think we’re talking about one plus one. Are you gay?”

  He exhales a long breath, his eyes admitting the truth before he says, “Do I have t
o answer?”

  “No,” I whisper, leaning closer and rubbing his arm. “You don’t have to hide who you are from me.”

  “I hide who I am from everyone except . . .” He glances to Umberto.

  “Why were you always talking about women if you’re not into them?”

  “A cover,” he replies.

  I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. Then I realize why he lied—the owner of the company. “Your father doesn’t know, does he?”

  “No,” he scoffs. “He’d disown me.”

  “You’re living a lie for what? Money?”

  “I’m living, and very well-off I might add. That’s the most important part. I’ve got it made at the company, and what my father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  My heart hurts, sadness swarming my chest. “What about love?”

  He sighs. Taking me by the elbow, we turn our backs to the other guests. “Love is nothing. I can find happiness without dragging unwanted emotions into it.”

  “Chip, you dragged me here as a front because of those unwanted emotions you think are so unimportant. You care about him more than you’re willing to admit.” I take a deep breath after that long-winded response.

  “Look, Singer, I need your help tonight. If you’re not willing, you can go and I won’t report you for the lateness. But if you’re willing, I’d appreciate it.”

  Our eyes stay fixed as seconds tick by, and I debate what is best to do. I look over my shoulder and see Umberto laughing with an elegant lady in a silky burgundy gown. I also see Chip’s eyes glued to them, an uneasiness in his ex’s eyes when he glances our way. It makes me wonder if he’s feeling the same about Chip right now. I’m a sucker for a love story, so I make my decision. “I’ll stay.”

  That arrogant smile Chip does best appears. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We pick up our glasses, and I remain against the red velvet upholstered wall while Chip, in work mode, walks around the table like the shark he is. Who will his prey be? While everyone else in the room is mingling, he switches three nametags opposite ours as the maître d’ rings a small silver bell and announces, “Dinner is served.”

  The table is set for ten and covered in deep red roses, crystal glasses, and gold-edged plates. Chip joins my side and says, “We’re over here.”

  We’re seated next to each other at the center of the table that Umberto heads. After I take my napkin and drape it across my lap, I look up and right into the stormy greens of Mr. Booty Call himself.

  13

  Ethan

  Is this a coincidence or a setup?

  I doubt it could be a setup, considering Umberto is hosting the dinner. If it’s a coincidence, have I screwed up royally by showing up here with Nicolina? It doesn’t look good that I’m here, last minute, with another woman. It sure as fuck doesn’t look good that she’s here on a date with some asshole that’s not me either.

  Trying to control a deep exhale, I steady myself after seeing Singer—surprise in her eyes she tries to hide, black dress that hugs her curves in all the most enticing ways, lips the color of ripe strawberries.

  Fuck.

  Some things need to be clarified before we both jump to the wrong conclusion. I’ll try to give her the benefit of doubt, but I’m not sure she’ll give me the same. I may be a plus-one tonight, but Singer needs to know I only have eyes for her.

  If only I could tell her why I’ve not kissed her with passion, kissed her deeply until we roll into bed, kissing even more. Fuck. I’m sitting here with Nicolina like I can’t go one night alone. This looks really fucking bad.

  Lifting my eyes to the woman seated across from me, her eyebrow rises and a grin tickles across her lips as she attempts neutrality. She’s not upset with me?

  She’s amused?

  Who is this goddess?

  Singer Davis.

  I let one side of my mouth ride up and lower my voice. “Good evening.”

  “Good evening,” she replies in a whisper just for my ears alone.

  The sexy siren.

  The combination of that black dress and those damn tempting red lips, teases my cock, making my pants feel tighter. Despite the vixen image she’s exuding, I want to see that demure smile that drives me wild. I’d do anything to watch it grow just for me. It’s become my night’s new goal.

  My attention shifts to her left when a man breaks our connection. “Mr. Everest, it’s good to finally meet you. I’ve been meaning to contact you. I’m Chip Newsom of Newsom Manhattan Financial.”

  “About?”

  “Handling your finances and looking into your assets and holdings.”

  I glance to Singer who is attentive to the conversation. All business. I hate it. I want to hear her laugh over baseball metaphors. I want to see her look at me like she did after I made that guy apologize for running into her, that delicious mix of seeing the me I used to be and the predator looking upon its prey. It’s heady and levels me every time because I can’t act on my feelings for her.

  Chip goes on, “I’ve called your office, but unfortunately, you were traveling at the time. Maybe we can schedule something now?”

  My assistant had the portfolio on Chip Newsom delivered right before the drive over—Singer’s boss, old money from Dick Newsom, his father, and Richard Newsom, his grandfather. Not impressive on paper and a class-A jackass on the social scene. I glance at Singer, who is still focused on him and a growl rumbles through my chest. I can see now that this is a work dinner, so I shouldn’t feel put out. But yet . . .

  I want her time.

  I want her eyes on me.

  I want her smile, and I don’t want her to learn about who I really am from this guy. I just want to be Ethan to her Singer. “Give Rhett Matthews a call. He’s the CFO.”

  Chip puts his elbows on the table while the first course is being set down. “Great. Does next week work for you and Mr. Matthews?”

  I try to keep from sounding curt, but I’m not sure if I succeed when I say, “As I said, contact Rhett. He takes the initial meetings on behalf of the company.”

  Singer’s slender fingers reach over and touch his forearm, and a breath fills my chest. Fuck. I hate feeling jealous, and that’s all I feel when she touches him. She should be touching me. She whispers to him, “You have the name of the CFO. Let Mr. Everest enjoy his meal.”

  Chip nods and removes his arms from the table as his soup is served. As hungry as I was, my jealousy is spiking to another level. Is she on a date with her boss? I told her to date others . . . Fuck. I hate feeling confused.

  It’s hard to play it cool. It’s even harder to not lunge across this table to pummel him. My ego is dented and my pride is wounded. I should have never fucking told her to see others. I thought she should count me out until my case is settled, not rely on me for more than a few friend hangouts. But this won’t do.

  She’s mine.

  Motherfucker.

  Chip is engaged in a conversation to his left, going through his cheap spiel again, but this time, she lets him. An opportunity arises. He becomes secondary to my main concern, which is Singer. The beautiful woman across the table won’t look at me, and I’m struggling to read her mood. She seems discontent.

  “Pasta e Fagioli is one of my favorite soups,” I say, making small talk, saying anything to bring her attention back to me.

  She bursts into sweet laughter, seeing right through me, until Nicolina, who is sitting next to me, comments, “Mine, too.” Singer’s laughter comes to an abrupt halt.

  Nicolina is stunning and from a family of well-known blue bloods, but she has one dirty little secret—a penchant for a blue-collar construction worker in Brooklyn who likes to get as dirty in the bedroom as he does at work. She told me about him one night when she was wasted on dirty martinis. The drink apparently reminded her of him. Although she keeps him under wraps from the public, she’s always very open with me.

  Her brother, who has a closet of his own secrets,
bailed on her and hopped a flight to Mexico with his new boyfriend. She told me he was interested in our host, but Umberto isn’t open to new relationships at this time. Since she hates breaking her commitments, she called me. We’re only friends, the spark never there for me. We enjoy each other’s company, so here we are.

  How Singer and Chump play into this night, I have no idea, but I plan to find out. Nicolina introduces herself to Singer. “We were not introduced. I’m Nicolina Luchesa.”

  “Hello.” She sounds meek, and it’s all wrong on her. Come on, Singer. Show her the woman full of moxie and fun. Then she adds, “I’m Singer Davis.”

  “What a unique name.” Nicolina sets her sights on Singer, narrowing her eyes.

  “It was my mother’s maiden name.”

  “Oh.” Nicolina voices her disappointment with a sigh.

  I’m quick to say, “It’s unique like Singer herself.”

  “You know each other?” Nicolina’s gaze bounces between Singer and me.

  Singer’s are set on me, a slow blush blooming. I add, “We’ve met before. She has a quick wit and a creative sense of style.”

  Nicolina’s smile is tight. “You seem to know each other quite well to know such details.”

  She doesn’t ask the question, but it’s inferred. My legal team has “approved” Nicolina as someone to be seen with. She’s a socialite and someone Page Six loves to write about, but she’s scandal free and apparently makes me look good.

  I would think by that definition, Singer would make me look like a saint. But it’s not about how she’ll make me look, but how I’ll make her look. Fuck. I should have kissed her last year when I had the chance.

  Singer shifts in her seat, readjusting her napkin in her lap. I slide my feet forward until they bump into the tips of her shoes. Nicolina is pulled into a conversation on the other side of her, so I speak only to Singer, “You cancelled on me.”

  Taken aback, she whispers, “I had to. I was given no choice.”

  “You had a choice. You chose him.”

  “No, it’s my job.”

  “What is?”

  “Can we talk about this later? Please?”