Charming You (Thirsty Hearts Book 1)

by Kris Jayne

  "I'm sorry. I've had a long day," she said, hoping that alone would account for her craziness. It wasn't like her to go from zero to bitch in two seconds.

  "Something on your mind?" he asked.

  "Just work," she answered. That wasn't entirely untrue.

  She'd wandered into the break room and heard a couple of her coworkers speculating about a rumored merger with a competitor. She filled her cup with her company's substandard coffee and scooted out as quickly as possible. The transition from cog to manager in the know stressed her out. Still, she knew that wasn't the reason for her short temper. Something about being in proximity with Nick rearranged her molecules. He had magnetism, and he tossed it around so easily. He irked her as much as he compelled her.

  "Well, if you are up for it, how about a friendly drink?" he asked.

  Nick looked like he'd surprised even himself with the proffered invitation.

  "I don't know."

  "Just friends. I'll even let you pay again," he proposed.

  Micky couldn't suppress her smile. "We'll go Dutch."

  Nick had intended to go straight home. Then, he saw Micky, and figured he should take another shot at gathering information.

  Plus, she looked damned sexy when her hazel eyes flashed with anger, turning amber. That look made his stomach clench. He wanted to fix whatever had gone wrong in her world and put that gorgeous smile back on her face. Nick assured himself that could be a friendly impulse and nothing else.

  Not wanting to venture far, he suggested the hotel bar down the street from their office. Walking in, Nick pointed a booth in the corner, and the pair grabbed a seat. Nick motioned for the waiter.

  "Slightly dirty martini, right?"

  "Normally, yes, but I think I'll stick with a glass of wine. The house red is fine," Micky responded. Nick ordered her red wine and a Scotch for himself.

  "What's tying you in knots?" he asked.

  Micky rolled her eyes. "Just work stuff. It's hardly worth rehashing. We're walking a tightrope on the budget for our annual sales meeting in Paris. We have some big announcements and some complications. My friend and I are just marching forward. This time of year, before the conference, the office is buzzing, and then the rumor mill churns up."

  "Rumors?" Heat crawled up Nick's neck.

  "You know how offices are. The rumor mill is always in overdrive," she said and waved her hand in dismissal.

  "Are people expecting big changes or something?"

  "We've been growing and are focusing on gaining new clients in new industries. Everyone knows that's going to take some changes. A lot of this has been in the trade press. People don't like change."

  "No, and you've mentioned that you've already gone through several acquisitions."

  "Yes. It's stressful and boring." Micky's eyes wandered over his shoulder, distracted.

  "When did you say you were leaving for Paris?" he asked, bringing her attention back.

  "Our event is the first week of November, and then my friend and I are staying over for a few days after to sightsee. Have you been?"

  "Yes. Quite a few times." Vivienne made frequent trips to visit some luxury home goods suppliers, but Vivienne was far from Nick's mind. Micky's eyes brightened, and she leaned in, excited.

  "I'm completely jealous. I'd love to be able to travel more. I'm not going to have much time there. Our event is Monday to Wednesday. I fly home Sunday morning. I have no idea yet what all I'm going to do. Taryn has an activity list on a spreadsheet, but no agenda yet," she said, laughing.

  "If I were you, I wouldn't put too much pressure on myself to see everything. It'll be impossible in three days. Each of the big museums can take an entire day on their own. The Louvre could take a week. Plus, it's the kind of city where you can do nothing, and it's something. Where do you have your event?"

  "The Palais de Congrès. On the west side of the city."

  "Near the Champs-Elysées."

  "I think so."

  "If you can get to some of the other neighborhoods, do it. You'll find fewer tourists and more local flavor."

  "We're changing hotels after the conference, switching to the left bank. I'll be there with Taryn, my good friend from work, but her fiancé is flying over so they'll be doing a romance tour, I'm sure. I want to hit the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay. Other than that, I'm sure they'll want some alone time, and I'll be exploring on my own."

  "Depending on the weather, you can just sit at a café and watch the world go by for an entire afternoon and not feel like it was a waste," Nick explained.

  He could imagine Micky walking down the streets of Paris. She had an exotic look about her with her dark wavy hair and light eyes fringed with long, fanning lashes. Judging from the excitement in her face over the thought of going to Paris, she'd be positively ecstatic the first time she saw the Eiffel Tower.

  Nick wished he could see her taking in the city for the first time. He could show her all of his favorite spots, like the tiny out of the way bistro on the Left Bank that had the best duck confit and crispy potatoes, or the romanticism of the Ile de la Cité in the heart of the city. With Vivienne, trips to France were old hat. Micky was right. Paris was supposed to be a romantic adventure.

  The thought pained him. That kick of jealousy he felt the other night flooded back, confusing him. He couldn't lose focus.

  "I'll text you some of my favorite places. A lot of them are out of the way from the typical tourist areas."

  "Thanks. When were you last there?"

  On his last trip to Paris, Nick had proposed to Vivienne on New Year's Eve.

  "The holidays," he said. Nick drained his scotch and let the weight of the glass drop from his fingers onto the table.

  The thud of his glass hitting the table made Micky straighten in her seat.

  Uh-oh. Nick's demeanor shifted in front of her. She'd wandered into forbidden territory. Micky tilted her head and examined the handsome, in-control man sitting across from her.

  His lips pressed together in dismay. Something about his past relationship had gotten away from him. She wondered what kind of woman it would take to make a man like Nick polish off an ounce of Scotch in less than nanosecond. She'd never had that power over a man. She should let it go, but she couldn't help herself.

  "Christmas in Paris? Must be nice. Didn't your family mind your being away?" she asked and then waited. Nick shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  "We left after Christmas and just spent the New Year there," he replied.

  "We?" Micky inquired.

  "My fiancée and I," he admitted.

  Micky took a deep breath to settle the anger that popped up inside her. She dug her heels into the floor and pressed against the padded back of the booth.

  "Not 'ex-fiancée?'"

  Nick looked away from her and sighed.

  "She broke things off. I tried talking to her, and she wouldn't even return my phone calls. That was months ago. Then, suddenly this week, she surfaces again. We're supposed to have dinner to sort things out. I don't know," he said and shrugged.

  "Yet, you're here with me," Micky bit out, hoping she could keep her temper in check. These men and their prevarications got her hackles up.

  "Having a drink." A smile tilted his full lips.

  "Don't you think it's kind of shitty to be having drinks with one woman while you're still engaged to another?"

  "You looked upset in the elevator, and I thought it would be nice to have a friendly drink. We're going Dutch, remember? I can have female friends. What have we done that's inappropriate? Nothing."

  Confronted with Nick's matter-of-fact assessment of their meet-up, Micky had to admit that, for her, it wasn't nothing. And she doubted that the pull of attraction went one way. She contemplated grabbing her purse and stalking out of the bar.

  "We've flirted," she admitted, which only served to amuse him further.

  "Really? You seemed pretty pissed off the other night even though I'm not entirely sure why."

 
; "That's funny because the thing that pissed me off then has turned out to be true. You casually talked about being into all manners of women. So many women, so little time, I guess. Now you tell me that your called-off engagement might not be called-off. It makes me wonder if that's all some elaborate tale to keep me thinking you're available when you're not," Micky snapped, the control she had over her ire dissipating.

  "Believe me, I'm not one to date more than one woman at a time. Most guys may say they want lots of women in their life, but trust me, I don't need the drama."

  "Women bring drama?"

  "Not necessarily, but I've found that the level of crazy in a man's life rises exponentially with the number of women." He sighed and started to speak again, but Micky cut him off.

  "I see," she said, looking around the bar for the waiter.

  "No, wait. I just mean that juggling women is a bad idea and a habit that I broke myself of a long time ago."

  "Have you? Because I don't care what you say. I've seen the way you look at me, and it is most definitely inappropriate if you're promised to someone else. Is it so hard to wrap up one relationship entirely before looking for your next conquest?"

  The green in Nick's eyes deepened. He leaned over the table.

  "You're right. I'm attracted to you. I'd love nothing more than to drag you upstairs to one of the rooms in this hotel and strip those uptight business clothes off of you so that I can finally know what color your nipples are. And what they taste like."

  Micky dropped her gaze to the drink in front of her, unable to look Nick in the eye. The hairs on her neck rose and vibrated. His words scalded her.

  As infuriated as she was, she couldn't deny the twist she felt in her belly as her insides turned liquid. The thought of his mouth on her breasts with his hands roaming over her naked flesh infused her with want. She squeezed her eyes shut, only opening them when she heard Nick continue after a heated pause.

  "But I haven't even come close to doing it. I know my situation is complicated right now, and I wouldn't start something I couldn't finish."

  Micky looked up at him again. He clenched and released his fists, then pulled his splayed hands slowly toward him across the tabletop. His breathing hitched.

  The waiter came to the table, and Micky handed him her credit card without even seeing the bill. Nick did the same. They sat in silence and waited for the bow-tied server to return with their split bill. Micky's heart kept pounding. Signing the bill and slipping her card back into her purse, Micky knew…she couldn't see him again.

  Chapter Ten

  As Micky got into the elevator to head back to the office after lunch the next day, she exhaled, relieved.

  The shock of Nick's confession clung to her. Every time the elevator doors opened, she feared she'd see him. His green eyes would fix on her, and she wouldn't know what to do or say that wouldn't betray her attraction to him. His directness had surprised her, but not as much as her reaction to it.

  She walked into her office, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. His words should have repelled her. He'd said he wouldn't start something that he couldn't finish. Now, Micky couldn't shake the desire to see how Nick finished, and that was a problem. He'd basically admitted he still had a relationship with his ex. Being the other woman again was not in her plans.

  Micky flopped into her chair, hoping to avoid an emotional display at work. She'd done that before, after she and Eric planned a big trip to Italy that never came to pass.

  They'd picked out a rental house and planned a yacht tour. He'd sent her links for Michelin-ranked restaurants and found an old church where singers performed operas once a week.

  "Just think, listening to Verdi or Puccini in Italy with a gorgeous woman on my arm? Absolutely amazing," he said.

  Then, one day, she called him, and he didn't call her back. Then, more days went by. Finally, he called, distracted and sounding strange, but insisting everything was fine and not understanding how he'd upset her. The only one Micky told about the ordeal was Taryn.

  "Have you heard from him?"

  "Kind of. He called last night and said he didn't understand why I was flipping out just because I didn't hear from him for a few days. A few days? It was a week. Over a week."

  Micky felt like bursting into tears, but she'd be damned if she let herself ugly cry at work over a man.

  "Listen. I don't think asking about what's going on constitutes flipping out. One minute you're planning a romantic vacation to Italy and putting a deposit down on a rental, and then he disappears on you. That's weird. All you did was ask if he was getting cold feet. He should at least talk to you, email you, text you—something."

  "Exactly. I mean, I gave the property manager a thousand euros for a non-refundable deposit."

  "Look. We both know this isn't about the euros. There's something going on."

  "I know. I can always go to Italy by myself. That wouldn't be depressing." Micky pressed her fingers to her eyes.

  "I'll go with you. You can go with Pete. You'll get your money back. Whatever. You will be okay. You're okay now, right? And you will be." Taryn's pixie looks hid an iron will. A few nights later, Micky got the call.

  It was almost midnight when her cell phone rang. Eric King. Maybe he'd finally decided they needed to talk.

  "Hello."

  "Hello," echoed an unfamiliar voice. A female voice.

  "Who is this?"

  "Who are you?" the woman said, stridently.

  "I'm a woman who answered my cell phone when Eric King's name popped up because I was expecting Eric, my boyfriend, to be calling with an apology. Clearly, you aren't my boyfriend."

  "My husband is not your boyfriend," the woman bit out. Micky had nearly thrown up. Why argue with her? She was right. No woman's husband could ever be her boyfriend.

  "I didn't know. He never said anything that made me think he was married."

  Even as Micky said the words, she felt like a liar. His being married made sense. The hesitation she felt from him. The blowing hot, and then cold, and then steamy again. Eric was sometimes all over the map, but she had ignored the signs because when the hot was hot, it was hot. The Eric amusement park ride had spun her completely around.

  She hadn't known he was married, but she'd known something wasn't quite right.

  "Well, bitch, he is married. He's married. He's a father. He has a family. And you are just some whore. Some stupid whore who will never have with him what we have."

  "I'm not a whore," Micky screamed into the phone. "Listen, you don't know me. I'd never get involved with a married man. Not if I knew he was married. He's a liar. A scheming liar. That, you and I both know, and I know I'm no whore. You believe whatever you want. It doesn't concern me anymore."

  With that, Micky pressed END on her phone, wishing she had an old-time receiver to slam down and dispel the vibrations of anger rippling through her. Never have what she had? Micky hoped not.

  She stood up and got a throw blanket from the trunk at the foot of her bed. Wrapping the soft cashmere knit around her shoulders, she climbed back on the bed, curling up into a ball.

  The flood of tears swept down so fast, Micky didn't bother to wipe her face. How dare he make her the whore? How dare he turn her into a side dish? Some home wrecker? She had been good to him. Understanding. Sympathetic about his mother. Micky's sobs had hitched as self-incriminating thoughts crowded her head. Was his mother even sick?

  I am a whore. I'm a slutty woman who was so desperate for a little dick that I turned off my common sense and climbed into bed with some lying snake. What a fool.

  Her phone rang. Again? Micky had ignored it. Then, a text from Eric and another phone call.

  "What?"

  "Micky. It's Eric." It was him, but it wasn't. The woman was talking in the background, "Tell her. You have to tell her. Right now. In front of me."

  The woman's voice was clear, but echoing. He had the phone on speaker.

  Micky wanted to tell him it was ove
r, but why let him off the hook? He should have to say the words, but she shouldn't have to hear them.

  "I won't be coming to Dallas next week."

  "That's what you have to say?"

  "I can't let you come between me and my wife. I have to turn my attention to my marriage."

  "You are a sad coward, Eric. Hiding behind a wife and a marriage that you fought hard to hide from me."

  "Don't you say a fucking thing!" The woman yelled once, then twice.

  "Shelly!" Eric exclaimed. So, that was her name. Shelly.

  Micky just screamed into the phone. "I don't want your husband. I don't want him. If I'd known…" Micky began, but then stopped.

  Eric's wife yelled. In return, he yelled for her to calm down. Micky wanted out. She needed out of this drama. She pressed the button on her phone once more. Then, she erased Eric's number.

  She jumped up, wondering what evidence of Eric's presence needed erasing from her house. Truthfully, there wasn't much. A couple of T-shirts. A button-down shirt and pair of chinos that he left in her washing machine once. Some DVDs he'd loaned her. A toothbrush. A bottle of Tylenol. Micky didn't take Tylenol, but Eric preferred it and had bought a bottle once when he had a headache. A stupid coffee mug with a longhorn on it that he bought at the airport and brought to her house so he could have something that was "his" in her kitchen.

  She held up the fucking burnt orange coffee mug with "TEXAS" emblazoned on the side. What kind of man buys some bullshit tchotchke to leave at his mistress' house? She was the mistress of a douchebag asshole. Micky ran to the garage.

  Where did she leave it? Micky suddenly remembered. She ran back into the house and into her spare bedroom where she'd hung a picture the weekend before. The hammer sat on top of the dresser.

  As it turns out, airport tchotchkes are pretty shabbily constructed. A couple of good smacks and pieces of longhorn went flying all over her kitchen—despite her having wrapped it in a towel first. Micky searched for ceramic shards and tossed much of the liar-tainted junk into the trash.

  Then, she boxed up his clothes, the DVDs, and his toothbrush, and slapped on a UPS label addressed to his company offices. By the time she finished, a numbing fatigue had knocked her into bed. Douchebag asshole.