by Cole McCade
Her eyes narrowed. “So now I’m frumpy.”
“That’s your word.” He shrugged. “But if you want that promotion, you need to look good, not just good enough.” Pale green eyes raked over her, lingering on her chest. “I’m sure that blouse looks great on your mom.”
Why that fucking—“Why did I even stop?” Hissing, she thrust past him and yanked the door open. “You are such a dick.”
“You haven’t even seen me get started.”
“I’m leaving,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“Suit yourself,” he said—before anything else was cut off as she stalked out and slammed the door behind her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DOOR WAS STILL VIBRATING with the force of her departure when Evan slumped against it with a groan—and thumped his head against it a few times for good measure. Stupid, stupid, stupid. God damn it. Why could he never ever shut his mouth around that woman? It was like the second he saw her his brain-to-mouth filter shut off.
Either that, or it was too busy keeping him from blurting out all the things he wanted to do to her to stop him from being a complete and total asshole.
Who was he kidding? He was always an asshole. A professional asshole. He signed his checks A. Hole, Esq. and laughed all the way to the bank.
She was just the first to make him think it might be a problem.
Evan dragged his hand over his scalp and sank down the door, propping his elbows on his knees. God, he was so full of shit. All his lines about not wanting to get close to people, about getting to be himself with her instead of a—what had she called him? A douchenozzle? That sounded about right. Only he’d spent so long being the douchenozzle while telling himself he was something else underneath…that he’d started to believe his own lies.
He raked his fingers over his face. This was not the time for an existential crisis. It just wasn’t. His life had been easy. Simple. He made good money, and he found his pleasures where he needed them. He didn’t need some kind of self-analytical crap about the man under the mask, or some kind of bullshit about personal fulfillment. He wasn’t that kind of guy.
A one-night stand shouldn’t change that.
And neither should this nagging sense of guilt.
He pushed himself away from the door and dragged the mini-bar open. Empty. Right. Well. He’d just have to find his comfort somewhere else, tonight.
A pair of jeans and a half-hour later found him prowling the New York bar scene. Flashing lights and loud music and slinky dresses and skinny jeans; tight asses and perky tits and inviting smiles and God, hair he could just bury his fingers in and pull to drag the right girl close for the kind of slow kiss that would end in one hell of a fast night. Any other night he’d have found someone by now. Eye contact across the room, a drink sent to her table, a name he’d forget by the time he was at the next airport gate for his next flight to nowhere.
But tonight every time he looked at smiling, inviting lips, he saw only that sardonic little smile he’d hardly ever managed to earn, and that flash of blue eyes that promised if he came near her again, he’d hurt for it—and it would be worth it. Love like a goddamned bloodsport, and she’d make him fight for it all the way down.
Love. He laughed to himself, bitter and more than a little drunk. He didn’t love. He couldn’t love. And he sure as hell wasn’t falling in love with that acid-spitting little minx after one hard fuck and a few days of fighting.
So why the hell was he out here living the high life…and completely miserable?
“Hey.” A woman slid onto the barstool next to him, a tall leggy drink of water with a tumble of hair the color of burnished bronze. Soft voice, softer eyes. Brown. Such a pretty shade of brown, dark and enticing and nothing like Zoraya’s snapping midnight blue. Eyes that smiled at him, wanted him—instead of eyes that accused, that asked what the hell he was doing with his life, that made him want to have an answer worth bothering with.
God, he was just staring at this woman like an idiot. He dredged up a smile that felt like it had been chiseled into his face, blocky and stiff. “Hey.”
“You look pretty miserable over here alone.” She leaned on her arms with a lovely smile that lit up her face. “Like a wet puppy. Thought I’d come over and cheer you up.”
Well if this wasn’t fucking irony. “Do I look like I need cheering up that much?”
“Like you’re trying to forget a girl in the bottom of a bottle,” she said dryly, then leaned closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “Here’s a tip: it doesn’t work.”
“I’m picking up on that.” He lingered on her, on the pout of her lips and the cat’s-eye makeup that made those pretty eyes glow. “You got any better suggestions?”
“Time. And distractions. I’d have to say I wouldn’t mind distracting you for a while.”
Any other time he would have responded with the perfect line. He had thousands, and he knew how to play them to get what he wanted. Or what he thought he wanted. A week ago what he wanted would’ve been right here, right now, with an easy diversion and lush lips already primed for a kiss.
For some fucking reason—a reason named Zoraya Blackwell—that wasn’t what he wanted anymore.
He laughed, harsh and short. Her lips curved in a sulking pout and he raised a hand, shaking his head. “No. I’m not laughing at you. I’m sorry. You’re beautiful and any other time, I swear…”
She smiled wryly. “I get it. No, I do. It’s okay.”
“Thank you.” He slid off the seat. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Good luck,” she called after him, but he was already gone, spilling out into the street and into the crisp cold scent of winter snow, the night air cutting into his skin like a fine-honed edge of steel.
He just stood there for a moment, his hands hanging at his sides helplessly. Where did he think he was going? It was nearly ten o’clock at night. Was he just going to show up on Zero’s doorstep?
Hey, don’t slam the door in my face. I know I’m a dick. I know I’m doing this all wrong. I know I can’t figure out how the fuck to talk to you when I’m being myself instead of the slick-talking asshole I pretend to be for a paycheck. But I like you. I like you and I want to know what this can be, if you can ever not hate me, if you can ever forgive me. If you can ever give me enough of a chance to find out what we could be, if I didn’t do everything wrong.
If I didn’t do everything I could to run away.
Yeah. Right. Like she’d believe a word that came out of his mouth.
He didn’t even realize he was moving until he was halfway down the subway steps to the turnstile, and reaching into his pocket for his transit card. He stopped just short of swiping it, staring down at his hands. What was he doing?
Being a fool, that’s what he was doing. Chasing after Zero when she didn’t want him. She hated him. And this wasn’t like him. Nothing he’d done since he’d met her was anything like him.
Or maybe it wasn’t anything like the man he tried to be. A man, he was realizing, he didn’t like very much.
With a groan, Evan swiped his card and pushed through the turnstile, toward the tracks. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. She couldn’t possibly hate him more, so he had nothing to lose by taking a risk except his pride.
Because while what he was thinking wasn’t quite as bad as standing under her window with a boombox blasting Peter Gabriel…it was pretty damned close.
* * *
He hadn’t expected her to actually answer the door.
Evan stood in the hallway outside her cozy little apartment, just looking at her framed by the warm golden glow of lamplight—that particular sweet, soft amber luminescence he’d always associated with home. He’d come home to that color in his parents’ house every night, before everything had fallen apart: the living room all in shades of liquid honey, his mother reading in the easy chair, his father fussing over his coin collection with weathered hands scarred from handling nets from dawn ‘til dusk. He hadn’t seen that color
in over twenty years, save for as faint dots of gold from the safe distance of an airplane window. Yet as he looked at Zero, vivid in her brilliant red tank top against that glowing cinnamon skin, he found himself aching for a place of his own to fill with the golden color of home.
Zero cleared her throat. Evan snapped from his daze, ignoring the odd, tight ache in his chest to look into her eyes. Her lips thinned; one sharp brow rose as she folded her arms over her stomach in a tight, protective shield.
“I’m not talking to you,” she said.
Right. He’d come here for a reason. Might as well dive right in. “Too bad. You still need work clothes. Come on.” He offered a hand. When she only looked at it, he sighed. “I’m not apologizing again. I can say I’m sorry a thousand times, and you’ll still be pissed—and rightfully so. Just get your coat.”
She eyed him. “Are you drunk?”
“Sobered up about halfway here.”
“And you came anyway?”
“Already spent the fare.” He grinned. “Come on. Free clothes. Just look at it as using me. Payback, right?”
“Asshole,” she growled, but snagged her hoodie from the hook behind the door.
“You’re the only girl I’ve ever met who’s mad at me for buying her clothes.”
“Then you probably haven’t been paying enough attention.”
“You’re right.” He pushed his hands into his pockets with a shrug, then blinked when she looked at him oddly. “What? You are.”
She frowned, brows knitting, and shrugged into her hoodie. “Nothing.”
He waited for more. For her to bite his head off, for…something. But she only continued to look at him strangely. He wished he could tell what she was thinking, but he still couldn’t read her nearly as easily as she could read him. He shook his head at himself and turned away, heading for the stairs.
“We don’t have much time.” He stepped out into the foyer and opened the front door for her. “Everything’s going to close soon. We’ll get locked in a department store or something.”
“And it will be your fault.”
“I’m getting used to that refrain.”
“You can’t buy forgiveness.”
“I’m not trying to.” He followed her out into the street, then fell into step at her side. Snowflakes melted on his cheeks like biting little kisses of cold. “Zero, look. I’m leaving once this job is over. I keep sticking my foot in my mouth with you, then trying to fix it, and then you set my temper off and I go fuck it up all over again.” He glanced at her sidelong, but she wasn’t looking at him—instead turning her gaze up to the sky, expression strange and remote. It made it easier, somehow. Easier to speak. “You turn me inside out until I don’t know what I’m doing. And I keep trying to plan, and failing. So I’m not planning anymore. No more manipulation. I’m just doing what feels right. This feels right.”
“Dragging me to a department store in the middle of the night feels right?”
“I never said I had to make sense.”
A reluctant smile cracked the withdrawn mask of her face. “You make it sound like you ever did.”
“I always thought I was pretty straightforward.” With a chuckle, he leaned over to nudge her with his elbow. “Look at it this way. I’m out of your hair soon, but I’m leaving you with nice work clothes that will either make sure you keep your job, or leave you well prepared for the next one.”
“Where are you going next?”
“Boise.” He shrugged. “I know. Potatoes and industry. But someone out there needs downsizing.”
“You don’t sound very happy about that.”
“Funny how that works.” He trailed her down the steps into the subway, and followed after her through the turnstile. “Wouldn’t have thought twice about it a week ago.”
She settled to lean against a pillar and watched him curiously, peeling him open with her gaze. “What changed?”
“You.”
Color crept high in her cheeks. She blinked, then turned her face away, groaning. “Please don’t tell me you’re having some kind of epiphany.”
“Feels more like a midlife crisis.” He settled on a bench nearby, propping his elbows on his knees. “It’s not your problem, Z. Don’t worry. I only brought you here for clothes. Nothing else.”
Another of those odd looks. Why did she keep looking at him that way? He supposed it was better than glaring fit to skin him, but it left him at a loss for how to read her. How to guess what she was feeling, when all she said was, “Sure…okay.”
Not very encouraging. But she was still here. That was something. He glanced up as the train came grinding into the station, the wind off the tracks slapping across his cheeks. “Then let’s shop.” He stood, offering his hand with a smile. “C’mon.”
* * *
The train let them off in SoHo close to ten p.m., with half the shops already darkening their windows for the night and locking their doors—but the streets bustled busily, trendy people with their shopping bags strolling through the snow, draped in designer scarves and practiced laughter. Evan blinked as Zero huddled closer to him, her arm bumping and brushing his. With a frown, he glanced down at her.
“You okay?”
She bit her lip. “This really isn’t my kind of place.”
“It’s SoHo, not Rodeo Drive. Trust me, no one’s judging you.” He hesitated, then rested his hand gently atop her head, lightly stroking her hair; snowflakes dotted the soft strands, and melted cool and damp against his palm. “You fit right in.”
For just a moment, she leaned into him. And for just a moment, the pit of his stomach clenched painfully. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched someone without wanting something from them. A handshake to seal a deal, to instill confidence with a firm and commanding grip. A clap on the shoulder to say we’re all friends, I’m one of you, not the guy here to rip your job out from under you. A brush of fingers across a soft cheek, a hand to the small of the back, a graze down a pretty throat—the dance of seduction, all a means to an end. They meant nothing. Just a numbing filter between him and real human contact, emotion.
But this—this one simple touch for Zoraya. This one simple need to offer her a brief respite through companionship, warmth, reassurance. It cut him open, left him bleeding, and left him wanting so much more.
Then she pulled away, stiff and proud. Always so proud, this one. So stubborn. It made him smile, even as the wrench of loss pulled inside him when his hand fell back to his side.
“I’m fine,” she said flatly, and strode ahead of him with her head held high. “Let’s just find somewhere open and get this over with.”
He followed her for a few more steps, then took the lead as they made their way down the sidewalk until they found a shop promising open hours until midnight. More than enough time, as long as she wasn’t a choosy shopper. He studied the window displays—crisp smart suits and delicate, gauzy scarves, killer heels and designer handbags. Entirely not Zero, but he wasn’t here to make her look like herself.
He held the door open, then ducked inside after her, brushing snow off his shoulders. “Business clothes are this way.” He tossed his head toward one section. “You’ll need a mix of business casual and business formal. You don’t need to dress like a high-powered lawyer taking clients to ten thousand dollar lunches, but you don’t want to go down the ‘khakis and pocket protector’ route, either.”
“Like I can tell the difference.”
“Which is why I’m here. Just consider me your personal image consultant.” He stopped at a rack of smart-looking black jackets and thumbed through them, checking tags. “Anything you want to try first?”
She stared at him, eyes wide, looking more than a little lost. “I…have no idea.”
“Then you’ll have to trust me. Petite small, right?” He pulled a jacket off the rack, then threaded through the aisles toward a stand of red sateen blouses. “Don’t look so scared. I know what I’m doing.”
“That’
s what scares me.” She let out a shaky laugh as she trailed in his wake. “How do you know so much about women’s clothing?”
“On weekends, I wear skirts. And fishnets. It’s a bitch finding heels in my size, though.”
“…what?”
Evan burst into laughter. “It worries me a little that you look like you believe that. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but…not that kind of guy. To each their own.” He snagged a blouse, draped it over the growing pile on his arm, and went hunting for the skirt to match the jacket, turning sideways to fit through narrow rows that hadn’t been planned with him in mind. “I know business, Z. I know what makes a good impression and what doesn’t. That goes for everything from your resume to your outfit to your business proposals, performance, and team behavior. It takes more than a good work ethic to succeed. You need the whole package. So I learned what it takes—for men and for women. I’ve taught more than one person how to play the game. Make their mark. Leave an impression.”
“So is that what you’re going to teach me? How to play the game?”
“I,” he said, “am going to teach you how to fake the game.” He winked and added a few more things to the growing pile in his arms. “Wouldn’t want to kill that creative spirit.”
“I get the distinct feeling you’re mocking me.”
“I’d never.” He dumped the entire pile into her arms—and grinned when she staggered back, struggling to catch it. “Now get into the fitting room, Cinderella. Clock’s ticking to midnight.”
Zero tossed him a filthy look and stalked off, muttering under her breath the entire way. Laughing to himself, Evan settled on a bench to wait. God, he couldn’t believe he was out here doing this—but it felt good. Here he was, dragging a woman around a department store, shopping for her, waiting for her to try on her clothes like a good little boy…and he was happy.
Instead of pretending to be happy with the life he’d bought for himself at the cost of other people’s joy.
Stop that. He wasn’t considering a career change now. There was nothing else he could do, really. This was what he was good at. He’d never really specialized in any field, and being a jack of all trades and master of none meant one’s best skill was telling other people when and where they’d fucked up.
