“Um . . . yeah. How’d you hear about it?”
“Word gets around fast. Was he the date you said you had?”
“No!” I say, too loudly. “He’s my neighbor!”
Several people look at us from their cubicles as we storm past. He nods at one of them, ignores the rest. “So you said.”
I have no response to that, not understanding if it’s a challenge or what. Does he think I’m lying? “He’s just helping me with a . . . um . . . project. There’s nothing going on between us.”
We turn a corner, almost colliding with someone coming from the other direction, but quickly regain equilibrium and continue our strange walk-run, looking straight ahead.
“So you two made up?”
“Huh?” I am a sparkling fount of intelligence.
“His music. You said he was disturbing you with his music.”
“Oh. Right. That. Yes, we made up.” That sounds too lovey-dovey, like a lovers’ reconciliation, so I quickly amend it. “We called a truce, I mean. And then, uh, he needed help shopping for his, uh, girlfriend. In Scotland. For a Christmas present.”
For the love of God, Joellen, just stick your entire leg in your mouth and get it over with!
Michael adjusts his tie, yanking at it as if it’s strangling him. He’s in a beautifully fitted navy suit, his skin glows with health under the florescent lights, his face is clean shaven, and his hair is perfect. Everything about him is so perfect.
Too perfect?
Disturbed by my betrayal, I stumble on nothing but quickly right myself.
“Meet me after work for a drink.”
Now I almost fall flat on my face.
“Six o’clock. The Liquid Kitty on Fifth.”
He’s oblivious to my sudden catatonia. Not waiting for a response, he makes a right turn abruptly and stalks off down another corridor, leaving me gaping after him.
Is this a date? Did Michael Maddox just ask me on a date?
Before I can faint into a gelatinous pile of limbs, I glimpse Portia headed toward me. My heart sinks. It’s too late to run away, because we’ve made eye contact, so I pretend I’m coming back from some nonexistent meeting and stride forward with a plastered-on smile and a purposeful walk.
She cuts me off just as I’m turning a corner, stopping in front of me so my path is blocked.
She rests her hand on my forearm and digs her fingers in. “Be careful,” she says softly, blue eyes glittering. “Be very careful, Joellen.”
Before I can answer, she’s gone, clicking away on five-inch heels, leaving me wondering why her words felt less like an enemy’s threat and more like a comrade’s warning.
I spend the rest of the day in terror, wearing out my antiperspirant and feeling as if I might keel over and die at any moment. My adrenal glands are hysterically pumping stress hormones into my veins, and it takes an enormous amount of self-control not to let loose the lunatic scream throbbing inside my chest.
By the time I get home, I’m a mess.
“I’ve only got thirty minutes to get ready,” I tell the cat breathlessly, slapping cat food into a dish. “What should I wear? Should I shave my legs?” Mr. Bingley stares at me with a judgy face. “You’re right, that’s just inviting trouble. But wait—I want trouble, don’t I? This is Michael Maddox we’re talking about here. I want all the trouble I can get!” The cat’s eyes narrow to slits. “No, you’re right, play it cool, don’t be overeager, focus on the long run. If I shag him in the bathroom of a bar called the Liquid Kitty the first time we go out, we’ll never be able to tell anyone our first date story.”
It’s a testament to my crazed state of mind that Michael and I are already married with children and giving each other sly glances over dinner as we tell the rehearsed lie we’ve made up when some nosy relative wants to hear about our first date.
I shower, dress, and attempt to blow-dry my hair but end up winding it into a messy bun because my hands are shaking too hard to keep the dryer steady. I apply a coat of the mascara Mrs. Dinwiddle gifted me in her bag of beauty goodies, then consider applying lipstick but decide it will probably only end up all over my front teeth, making me look like I’ve eaten a crayon. I put the tube away and slick on a coat of clear lip gloss instead.
Then I look at myself in the mirror.
My color is high. My eyes are wild. Rebellious little tufts of hair have escaped from the bun and float all around my face like fuzzy clouds. I look like I’ve recently escaped from a mental institution.
“Screw it,” I mutter. “This is how I look. If Michael doesn’t like it, he can suck an egg.”
Cam’s positive body image rhetoric must be having some effect, because a few weeks ago those words would’ve been heresy.
I don’t have enough time to take the subway uptown, so I hail a cab. I do deep-breathing exercises during the ride, which does nothing but make the cabbie look worried. By the time he drops me off in front of the Liquid Kitty, I’m teetering on the edge of hysteria.
This is a moment I’ve dreamed of for a decade. Ten years I’ve been in love with Michael Maddox. Ten years I’ve pined and daydreamed and longed for him to notice me, and now here I am, standing on the sidewalk in front of the bar where he asked me to meet him for a drink.
Well, technically ordered me to meet him, but this isn’t the time to split hairs.
A doorman in hat and tails opens the door for me, nodding solemnly as I pass. I find myself in a dark anteroom lit by a garish red chandelier that throws prisms of scarlet light over the plain black walls. The effect has a startling resemblance to dripping blood.
It seems the Liquid Kitty is, in fact, a portal to hell.
“Good evening,” says a voice to my right. I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Oh. Hello.”
A tall, bald man with linebacker’s shoulders wearing a tuxedo has materialized from behind a black velvet curtain. His gaze flicks over me, quickly assessing. “Are you here to meet a member?”
I looked up the address on my phone but didn’t realize this was a membership club. I thought it was just a regular old bar. Silly me. “Um . . . Michael Maddox?”
He inclines his head. “Very good. Please allow me to take your coat.” He extends his hand, which is the size of a dinner plate.
“Thank you.” I shrug off my coat and hand it over, then hug my handbag to my chest like it’s a life preserver.
Tuxedo Man smiles, amused by my obvious discomfort. He disappears behind the curtain for a moment, then returns without my coat. “This way, miss.”
He motions for me to follow him. I do, pleased that he called me “miss” instead of “ma’am.” It’s the little things.
We pass through another black velvet curtain into a large sitting room decorated by someone with a fond nostalgia for nineteenth-century French bordellos. Red velvet divans are scattered about, fringed with tassels. Elaborately carved gilt mirrors decorate the walls. A fire crackles in a fireplace against one wall, lending the room a warm glow.
I try to ignore the oil painting above the fireplace of the voluptuous nude woman lounging on a sofa with a white dog, but it’s so large it’s impossible. Her sly smile is vaguely disturbing.
We cross the empty sitting room and go through another curtain, and I’m wondering if the interior designer got a bulk discount on velvet drapes.
We pass through a bar and lounge that looks like something right out of an Edith Wharton novel. Everything supple leather, gleaming wood, and polished antiques. It reeks of upper-class privilege. So do the clientele: well-dressed gentlemen and ladies mingling with cocktails in hand, laughing quietly or engrossed in conversations. No one glances at us as we pass, which I’m grateful for, because I’m embarrassed by my outfit.
I’m sure I’m the only one here who shops at The Gap.
Finally we enter a large dining room. The main floor holds dozens of tables and quartets of large leather chairs. On one end of the room is a stage. The other three walls have private booths of
tufted carmine leather, set into large niches with curtains on either side held back with gold tassels.
At one of the booths sits Michael, drink in hand, watching the door.
We make eye contact across the room, my heart leaps into my throat, and I’m terrified all over again.
God, if you like me even a little, please don’t let me screw this up.
TWENTY-ONE
“Miss,” says Tuxedo Man, bowing. When he gestures toward Michael, I understand I’m to make the rest of the walk to his table alone.
“Keep it together,” I warn myself through stiff lips as I approach Michael’s table. “Don’t say anything stupid. Let him do the talking.”
He doesn’t take his gaze off me as I walk. By the time I reach him, my face is throbbing with heat.
“Hi,” I say shyly.
He stands, kisses me on both cheeks, and smiles down at me. “Hi yourself. Sit.”
I do, only it’s more like collapsing. He kissed me! On both cheeks!
“Do you like bourbon?” He pushes his drink across the table toward me.
No. Gross. “Yes! I love it!” Relieved to have something to do other than drool at him, I guzzle the drink. And immediately regret it.
I cough as fumes sear my nose and throat. My grimace of disgust could win an award.
Michael chuckles. “How about a glass of wine instead?”
I’m so embarrassed I could wrap myself in one of the stupid velvet curtains and spend the rest of eternity cocooned under the table, but I nod because a rational answer is expected. “Thanks.”
Michael signals for a waiter, who materializes from thin air. “Sir?”
“A bottle of the 2000 Romanée-Conti.”
The waiter bows so low it’s comical. It looks like a yoga pose.
“Right away, sir.”
He vanishes as quickly as he arrived, leaving me, Michael, and my raging insecurity alone.
Michael leans against the booth, stretches one arm along the back, and smiles. “You came.”
I know it’s just me, but that sounded super sexual. “Um. Yes. I c-came.”
He stares at me until I want to squirm. Then he reaches out and softly touches my cheek. “Your cheeks are burning, Joellen.”
So are my panties, sir. “I’m a little . . . this is all a bit . . . surprising.”
I worry that’s the wrong thing to say, because his smile fades. He drags a hand through his hair, props both elbows on the table, and looks at the tablecloth. He’s wearing a jacket that matches the color of his eyes, a white shirt open at the collar, tan slacks, and a huge chunky gold watch that glitters under the lights. I think it has diamonds.
Cam would probably snicker at a man who wears a watch with diamonds.
Why am I thinking about Cam?
I sit up straighter, push McGregor out of my head, and focus on Michael. Beautiful, elegant Michael, who now looks like he’s about to cry. “Michael? Are you all right?”
He clears his throat and turns to me with a smile that looks forced. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive me—it’s been a rough couple of weeks. This divorce . . .” He makes a dismissive motion with his hand. “Enough about me and my problems. Let’s talk about you.”
I don’t want to talk about me because I’m boring, but mostly because his show of emotion has made me bold. On impulse, I touch his arm. “It’s totally normal to be upset when you’re going through a divorce. You don’t have to pretend everything’s okay.”
Who am I now, Dr. Phil?
Michael gazes at me with a look of intense concentration, a little furrow between his brows. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. I’ve always liked that about you, Joellen. You’re kind.”
He lightly rests his fingers on the back of my hand, and I have to force myself not to suck in a breath at the jolt of lust that zings through me.
We stare at each other in silence until the waiter reappears, then we break apart like we’ve been caught having sex in public.
I fan myself with my napkin while the waiter opens the bottle and pours two glasses of wine. This is hell on my nerves. If I get out of this club tonight without having a total mental breakdown, I’ll count myself lucky.
When the waiter leaves, Michael lifts his glass. “A toast.”
I lift my glass, too. “What are we toasting?”
Michael’s lips lift into a small, seductive smile. “New beginnings.”
A faint wheeze passes my lips. I repeat, “New beginnings,” in a strangled voice, and chug my wine in a few short gulps.
He doesn’t look at all disturbed by what most people would consider strong evidence of a drinking problem. He simply takes a sip of his own wine and refills my glass.
“You’re nervous.” He looks at me from the corner of his eye as he pours.
I exhale hard and close my eyes. “It’s that obvious?”
“Don’t be embarrassed. I’m flattered.”
I open my eyes and stare in disbelief at his handsome profile. “You’re flattered?”
“That,” he says with a chuckle, like he’s pointing something out. “I really like that.”
Now I’m confused. “What?”
He sets the bottle on the table and turns to me, blasting me with the full paralyzing effect of his baby blues. “You’re oblivious to how charming you are. It’s very appealing.”
It’s all I can do not to fall over dead. I swallow more wine and whisper shakily, “Thank you.”
After a moment where I refuse to look at him because I’m too afraid of what he might see on my face, he asks, “Do you find me attractive?”
I honk out a laugh that would sound at home coming from a goose. “Attractive? Are you kidding? I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen!”
Except for Cam.
I’d like to slap whoever that little voice belongs to inside my head, but I don’t have time to dwell on it because Michael has settled his hand on my knee, causing my leg to erupt in flames.
I wore a skirt, one of the few I own. It’s a simple black thing, but it fits well. I did end up shaving my legs because I thought what the hell, if we end up shagging in the bathroom at the Liquid Kitty, my life will be complete.
But now that Michael has his hand on my bare skin—hopeful slut that I am, I didn’t wear panty hose—I think it might have been a bad idea, because the effect of his warm palm on my knee is what I imagine the three wise men felt when they first glimpsed the baby Jesus in the manger.
Namely, rapture.
“Thank you,” says Michael, his voice husky, his gaze on my lips. “I find you very attractive, too.”
He leans in until he’s so close I can smell his breath, sweet and aromatic with the dry spice of wine. He’s going to kiss me. Oh God. Oh shit. It’s really going to happen!
But then it’s not happening, because I’ve flattened my hand on his chest and held him back.
He stares at me. I stare at him. We’re both not sure what’s happening.
“Um . . . you’re technically still married, right?”
He blinks. Frowns. Shakes his head. “We’ve filed for divorce.”
Right! He’s a free agent! Get in there, girl!
My inner slut seems to have no conscience, but apparently I do. “I mean . . . it only just happened. Like, last week. Maybe you should . . . give yourself a minute to . . . adjust.”
His heart thuds hard and fast under my palm. I find it exquisitely erotic. Also I’d like to punch myself in the face.
“You’re probably right,” he says reluctantly, as if he doesn’t think I’m right at all. He pulls away slowly, looking confused.
I’m sure the man has never been denied anything in his life, but for some reason, here we are, in an alternate universe where it makes sense for a girl like me to turn down a man like him.
“No, you’re absolutely right.” He shakes his head as if clearing it, and now he looks appalled. “Good God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I keep put
ting you in these terrible positions. Next you’ll probably think I’m some kind of lecherous creep, expecting favors for advancement in the company!”
The thought had never crossed my mind, but now I’ve got Cam in my head, standing there staring at me with his arms folded over his chest, tapping his foot like I told you.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I shout. Michael looks startled by my volume. I decide it’s time to guzzle more wine and do so with gusto.
The waiter reappears, asking if we’d like to order something to eat.
Michael takes charge. “Yes. We’ll each have filets, rare, and we’ll share the Caesar. And another bottle of wine.”
“Very good, sir.”
The waiter bows off, Michael reaches for his glass, and I sit in misery, wondering how this could have gone so wrong so fast.
I hate rare meat. I’m allergic to anchovies. When a man orders food for me without asking what I want, I don’t feel taken care of, I feel disrespected and honestly a bit murderous. And I can’t stop thinking about Cam, which is making me confused, uncomfortable, and irritated with myself, a trifecta of negative emotions that add up to an overwhelming urge to flee.
Oh, no. I’m about to do something stupid.
I turn to Michael with a brittle smile. “I’m gonna go. Thanks for the wine.”
“What? You’re going? You just got here!”
I scoot out of the booth before I can change my mind. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m sorry. See you at work.”
“Joellen, wait! Don’t go! Please, just sit down and talk to me!”
I hesitate because it’s the first time he’s used the word please. Everything else has been an order. I glance back at him. He’s standing at the side of the table, looking contrite, confused, and devastatingly gorgeous.
But something about this still feels wrong.
“Thank you so much for inviting me here, and thank you again for the wine, but I can’t stay for dinner. I . . . I already have dinner plans.”
He looks so crestfallen I feel guilty. So I hurry over to him and kiss him on the cheek before I can change my mind. When I pull away, he grabs my wrist and pulls me against his chest. Into my ear he says, “I want to talk more. Can I call you later?”
Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2) Page 18
