by Lexi Whitlow
“Tell me about this,” she says, her voice low, catching. “What does it represent? Or is it just decoration?”
When I was in college, in the Buckeye’s program, everyone got ink. It was the thing to do. There was a tattoo shop in downtown Columbus that catered to the Buckeyes players. They gave us free work in exchange for photographs, autographs, and team trinkets. Everyone took advantage of it, even though it was strictly against NCAA rules.
The design on my forearm Bryn refers to is in memory of a teammate who didn’t make it past his sophomore year.
“I had a friend back in college. He went home for summer break and was gunned down in the street by a local cop. It was mistaken identity. The cop got off without even a day of suspension. My friend—my team mate—died at nineteen while trying to bring a liter of Coke and a bag of Cheetos to his little brother in the projects. The cop claimed he fit the profile and was belligerent.” I shake my head.
“There wasn’t a belligerent bone in Jamal Castro’s body. He was a teddy bear. His skin was brown, and he was six-foot-four, tipping the scale at close to two-eighty. The cop who shot him was five foot-eight and one-fifty. Do the math on that. I wear my ink proudly in respectful memory of him.”
Bryn sizes up my response. Her face softens.
“You know, you keep surprising me.”
Good.
There are other stories inked all over me, along with the conference championship wins, the bowl games, the trophies. I have a little bit of ink in commemoration of everything accomplished or forfeited, won or lost, during those fleeting years of my college career.
“Ancient history,” I say. “Another life. I hang onto these so I don’t forget where I came from. But it’s a different world to me now.”
That much is true.
It’s well past midnight by the time our dinner winds down.
“Breakfast in the morning?” I ask her, lingering between our doors in the corridor. “And then the city.”
Bryn nods, her pale eyes questioning, biting her lip. Her body language suggests she doesn’t want us to part just yet.
“I enjoyed this evening,” I say, stepping closer. “I enjoy talking with you.”
She inches forward, meeting me, looking up. “Me too,” she whispers.
Reaching down, I finger the soft turn of her jaw, tipping her lips toward my own. I touch them with mine, grazing, tentative, then, as she responds, with more confidence. Her lips are full and warm, her tongue taught. I imagine the things she might do with them beyond just exchanging nicking kisses in the hotel corridor. Those thoughts, as my free hand reaches to draw her nearer to me, cause my body to ache for her, my belly tightening, my dick firming against the glancing brush of her hip.
I breath her in, her scent filling my head, making it spin. Every cell in me comes alive with the promise of her heat.
But not yet. Not quite yet.
I break the kiss, drawing back, releasing held breath. It’s everything I can do not to throw her over my shoulder, open the door, take her inside, and toss her on the bed. I want to ravage her, own her, make her moan my name while we fuck.
I will. But not yet.
“Goodnight, Bryn,” I whisper, dropping my eyes so she can’t see how badly I want her, how hard I’m fighting. I slip my key in the door, releasing the lock. “See you at breakfast.”
Chapter 11
Bryn
Oh, I’m so screwed.
He’s not just stunningly handsome, and unexpectedly charming, he’s also intelligent, articulate, with a big heart, and a head for social justice.
I am so screwed.
I made it all the way through college and then law school without falling in love. I had a few crushes and more than a few flings, but I managed to keep them in check, ending them before they turned into more. I never met anyone who came close. I did want Logan. I did think about him. But time fades old wounds, and now here I am.
What’s different now?
Logan is different.
I am so screwed.
That’s twice he’s left me dangling off his lip, my panties drenched.
Guys don’t play hard to get. Do they? They play, but it’s always the other way around. I’m supposed to be the one leaving him at the door with a kiss and a put-off. I’m supposed to be the one making him earn it.
When did I go from being the bold, over-confident legal eagle, telling guys like Charles Pearson where to shove it, to becoming this quivering disaster of needy insecurity?
What is Logan Chandler doing to me?
I’ll tell you what he’s not doing to me. He’s not doing the one thing I want him to do. He’s not screwing me. And that is so upside down and backwards, it’s got my head swimming. I’ve never wanted a guy so bad in my entire life. He’s making me crazy.
I am so screwed.
* * *
Rest comes only after an hour or more of tossing, agitated, in bed. My senses are piqued by the novelty of unfamiliar surroundings, the muffled noise of traffic beyond the window, the bright lights of a sleepless city reflecting through them. My head reels with images, motivations, and unanswered questions.
Is he just shy? Is he afraid of me? Is he playing games, trying to spin me up so he can drop me, like I did to him in high school? What’s going on here?
When sleep finally comes it’s fitful, infused with fleeting kisses, extended hands that never connect, words felt but left unspoken. There’s heat, and hunger left unsatisfied. When I wake, it’s early. I’m wet between my legs, empty, aching for Logan’s body to fill me up.
I slip two fingers down, sliding my hand under the band of my panties, parting my slit, feeling my own slick moisture and heat. Circling my clit in the early dawn light, I find my own usually expert touch leaves me cold, feeling ridiculous.
I want him, or nothing.
There’s no cure for this malady except him.
I need to burn this wanting out of me. I need to distract myself from the throbbing knot in my belly.
It’s not even six in the morning yet. Too early for breakfast, but it’s never too early to run in New York City.
I dress quickly, then scrawl a quick note to Logan.
I slip the note under his door then make my way to the elevator and down to the lobby, bouncing on anxious feet. The doorman swings the door wide for me, tipping his hat as I pass, heading out into the cool morning air.
I turn south, crossing Canal Street, then west toward the river, jogging at a warm-up pace. Once I make the Greenway, I pick it up, stretching my stride. The air coming off the river is heavy and alive, rife with salt, seaweed, and the lilting hint of diesel. I run hard, pressing all thoughts out of my mind, hearing only the sound of light morning traffic, the lift of voices, and the heave of air into and out of my lungs. I run feeling the muscles in my legs scream in protest until they’re sufficiently primed. I run until my belly flattens and my shoulders square, my tight fists loosen their grip on pent-up angst. I run until the magnificent wonder of lower Manhattan’s towering glass palaces distract every other thought from my head.
He’s just a guy. He’s just an above-average looking guy with some money. There was nothing special about him before and there’s nothing special about him now. He’s just a guy.
I turn back before reaching Chambers Street, keeping up my pace, breathing hard and deep, repeating my calming mantra, reassuring myself that, He’s just a guy. No more, no less.
Turning north onto the Avenue of the Americas, I begin my warm-down as the hotel comes into view. I jog across the street and start walking a hundred feet from the main door, my chest heaving for air, sweat drenching my hair, my skin, and clothes.
I feel great!
That feeling lasts all of thirty seconds. Passing through the big brass and glass doors, past a different doorman than the one I met earlier, I spy Logan in the lobby, arms crossed over his chest, pacing, his expression rigid with something approaching anger. He’s wearing a faded t-shirt, and snug work-out
pants that show every bow and angle of his tight, defined physique. His tats glisten in the morning light, and he’s even more gorgeous than he was when I left him last night, hanging on his kisses, aching for his touch.
Logan sees me, and in that instant, all the tension coiled in his posture spontaneously releases. His face softens to relief, then to a smile.
“I was so worried about you,” he croons, coming toward me, then inexplicably encircling me in a brotherly hug. “Oh, my God. Don’t do that to me.”
“What did I do, Logan?” I ask, pushing back gently against his broad chest. “I don’t understand.”
He huffs a laugh into my hair. “You scared the daylights out of me.”
I pull back. “I left you a note. I just went for a run. I wasn’t gone long.”
I’m uncertain about this kind of possessiveness, this early in our thing, whatever this thing is.
Logan blinks. “A note? There was no note.” He shakes his head. “I called your room and could hear the phone ring through the wall. I knocked on your door and there was no answer. I called your cell and I heard that ring too. Then I got scared.”
“But I left you a note,” I repeat. “Under your door.”
“When? What time?” His eyes narrow, creeping understanding seeping in.
“I dunno,” I say. “Maybe an hour, ago. A little more.”
He starts nodding, then shaking his head, laughs at himself.
“I ordered coffee this morning, and spilled the pot all over the floor. Made a hell of a mess. Used all my towels to sop it up, then called housekeeping to bring new ones while I went down to the gym and worked out.” He lifts his brows, a humble smile turning his lip. “I came back to my room thirty minutes ago and the mess was cleaned up, the pile of dirty towels just inside my door gone, the floor scrubbed spotless.”
Housekeeping took my note, along with the laundry.
“I’m sorry you were worried,” I say, not quite scolding him. “But really Logan, I’m a big girl.”
He nods, rolling his eyes, sighing. “You are. And you’re also traveling with a guy that’s a target for kidnappers—or worse. I realized your phone was still here. My mind went a little overboard.”
That’s actually kind of sweet, in a perverse way.
In the elevator on the way up, we laugh about it.
“I need a shower,” Logan says, slipping his keycard in the slot on the door lock. “I’ll knock on your door in half an hour?”
I’d love nothing better than to follow him into the shower, lather him up, run my fingers over all those delicious muscles, tasting his tattoos with the tip of my tongue, but I need a shower too. I’m sticky, hot, and gross; anything but sweet smelling. I flash Logan a flirty smile, then disappear into the safety of my own room.
I collapse in a heap on the gigantic, king-sized bed, spent from my run and overcome with the vision of Logan pacing in circles in the hotel lobby, his brain racked with concern.
Not only is he hot as molten lava, smart, and easy to talk to, he’s also a guy who—though he doesn’t know me well at all yet—has genuine concern for my well-being, and shows it without reserve.
Oh, good Lord. I am so screwed.
Chapter 12
Logan
Amsterdam Avenue and 86th,” Bryn says to our grizzled driver, who’s peering at her in his rearview mirror. “You know Barney Greengrass’s?”
Our driver nods, smiling. “Everybody knows Barney Greengrass’s.”
The place she’s taking us to for breakfast is way north of our hotel. We pass by mile after mile of city blocks lined with skyscrapers and squat brick tenements, shops and every manner of distraction. It’s early on Saturday and the city is only just waking up, but the streets bustle with cars, the sidewalks peppered with people out for a jaunt, or dutifully walking their dogs and children.
“I hope you like bagels,” Bryn says slyly. “This place has the best bagels and lox in the city.”
“Humm…” I reply. “Like Bruegger’s?”
Both Bryn and the driver scoff at my question.
“Nope,” she quips. “Not a thing like that.”
The building is a shabby, 19th century brick pile with a storefront deli at street level. It’s crowded inside, and noisy. Judging the décor, I figure they haven’t upgraded a single furnishing since the mid-1960’s. The air smells of fresh bread, strong coffee, and salty fish.
“Barney’s is famous,” Bryn informs me (as if I haven’t figured that out already). Her expression turns serious. “If you don’t like bagels and lox, we can’t be together. It’ll have to end here.”
I frown, wondering if she’s serious. Then I see her lip curl deviously.
We get a table near a window where we can people-watch.
Bryn orders for both of us, peering up at our waiter, who’s a balding, round man in his sixties who seems bored.
“Two house-smoked lox bagels with cream cheese,” she says smartly. “With cucumber, and Cole Slaw on the side. Hold the scallions, add tomato. Two waters. Two coffees.”
The waiter nods, walking away without a word.
“Warm personality,” I observe, then note her forthright manner placing our order. “You know your way around.”
“New York is cut-to-the-chase, avoid the bullshit. They think Southern manners are cute, until they become tedious. The gap between the two opinions is about thirty seconds.”
Okay.
“So, what’s so special about this place?” I ask. “We probably passed a hundred bagel shops getting here.”
“You’ll see,” she promises. “Barney’s invented the concept. Even if you don’t like bagels, or smoked salmon—which is a tragic character flaw—you’ll still probably love Barney’s version of it, because it’s… heavenly.”
She gives me a rundown of Barney Greengrass’ history, beginning with its founding in 1908, then passing through the hands of successive generations who have steadfastly refused to change a thing since their grandparents’ reign.
I remain unconvinced until our waiter returns with our breakfast. In appearance, it’s unassuming; merely a bagel sandwich. One bite, however, and I’m a convert. House-smoked gravlax on a Barney’s bagel is manna from heaven, with crispy cukes and tomato. Even the Cole Slaw is borderline supernatural.
Two minutes in, while I’m still processing the culinary phenomenon with grunts of approval and apologetic gestures, Bryn grins at me like a happy kid.
“Told you,” she teases, wiping a smear of cream cheese off her chin. “Best ever.”
It really is.
And that’s how our day together, exploring her city, begins.
After breakfast we take a cab all the way back down to Union Square, spending the morning at The Strand bookstore. I’ve never heard of The Strand, but according to Bryn it’s legendary, and once again, I’m converted to belief. It advertises ‘8 Miles of Books.’ Something tells me they’ve underestimated the scope of their own vast inventory.
I drop some serious coin in that establishment for myself and for volumes Bryn wants, but is too frugal to buy. We leave the books to have them shipped home.
From there we make our way toward the lower west side of Manhattan, dropping into shops and art galleries as the mood strikes. We take in a late lunch at a fantastic sushi place on Commerce Street, then Bryn hails a cab. Our destination? The Chelsea Market. Shopping there is fun. Along with enjoying exotic finger food, we eye kitschy fashion and some nice custom jewelry.
I think about buying something shiny and metallic for Bryn, but she never pauses over anything long enough to give me the opportunity. She doesn’t seem like the kind who would need something like that, anyway.
She spends the afternoon in tour-guide mode, showing me all the cool places she used to haunt when she had the time during school breaks.
We’re tired and footsore by the time the sun sets on the city.
I slip my arm around Bryn’s waist as we stroll the sidewalk, bags in hand from our pu
rchases. It’s the first time all day I’ve been bold enough to attempt getting close, as she’s been so enthusiastic about showing me everything in this city she knows so well.
“Let’s have dinner at the hotel,” I propose. “The restaurant is good, and I think I need to chill after this big, adventurous day.”
“Perfect,” Bryn replies, leaning into my embrace. “I want two cups of coffee, and a glass of wine, in that order.”
