Follow Me Darkly

by HELEN HARDT

  “Many people have.”

  I smile. I can’t help it. His tone is so nonchalant. Clearly he doesn’t care who slams a door on him, and I like that. It speaks to me in a way, shows me how I want to be. “I suppose it’s better than someone being nice to your face and then stabbing you in the back.”

  “I get my share of that, too,” he says. “And I agree. It’s always better to know where you stand.” He stares at me then. Really stares, as if he’s starving and I’m the special of the day.

  I look down at my feet and then catch myself. Yeah, I was a klutz a minute ago, and he saw my condom. So what? It happens. At least that’s what I want to think. I’m actually still kind of mortified, but I look back up and meet his gaze.

  “I guess you know where you stand with Addie,” I say. “Pretty much everyone does.”

  His lips bend ever so slightly upward. I suppress a shiver. The subtle smile is a flash of light in his ominous demeanor. It’s suddenly chilly in the heated room.

  “I couldn’t help myself,” he says. “She hates coffee.”

  I smile, forgetting for a second that this man just saw me pick up a condom. “I know. She threw out the latte after the shoot. Perfectly good and hot. I’d have happily drunk it.”

  “You’re a coffee drinker, then?”

  I nod. “Absolutely.”

  “Me too.” He stares at me again, seeming to zero in on my mouth. “Care to go for a cup…”

  This time I can’t stop my eyes. They widen. Is Braden Black asking me out?

  He looks toward my desk where my nameplate sits. “…Skye?”

  Say something, Skye. For God’s sake!

  “It’s almost six.”

  “Dinner, then?”

  Every nerve in my body jumps. I mean really jumps.

  Braden Black, the most eligible bachelor in Boston—hell, in the country—just asked me to dinner.

  I look down at my wrinkled silk blouse and skinny jeans. I worked a ten-hour day, and exhaustion weighs on me. My mousy brown hair is falling out of its ponytail, and God himself only knows what my face looks like.

  And Addison? What will Addison think? I eye her closed door.

  “You don’t need her permission,” Braden says. His dangerous demeanor has returned.

  My legs weaken and my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. “I wasn’t—”

  “Sure you were. Your boss doesn’t particularly like me, so you were wondering if going to dinner with me would somehow cost you your job.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

  “Are you good at your job, Skye?”

  Yeah, embarrassment again. “Well, I—”

  “Let’s attack this from a different angle. How long have you been working for Addison?”

  “Almost a year.”

  “Then clearly you’re good at your job, or she would have gotten rid of you long ago. Addison might be a pain in the ass, but she’s smart. She won’t let a good thing go.” One corner of his mouth twitches slightly, as if he wants to smile but can’t. Then, as if some type of magic pulls at him, he lets the smile out.

  And I nearly melt into a puddle of goo right on the slick marble floor. His dimples show through several days of black stubble, and one of his eyes squints slightly. An adorable imperfection on an otherwise perfect visage.

  “I’m not dressed appropriately,” I say, forcing myself to meet his blue gaze.

  “I didn’t say we were going to a black-tie affair.”

  Gulp. What a boob I am. This isn’t a date. It’s probably a business thing. He wants information, or maybe even dirt, on Addison. They have some kind of history. Makes sense. Addison is way more his type than I can ever hope to be.

  “I don’t think—”

  He interrupts me. “You look fine. It’s dinnertime, and I’m hungry. I don’t feel like eating alone for once. Don’t make more of this than it is. Your job will be safe.”

  So definitely not a date. Of course it isn’t. Braden Black can have any woman he wants. He certainly doesn’t want a Kansas farm girl.

  I open my mouth to decline when my stomach lets out a famished growl.

  “You’re obviously hungry,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  Without thinking, I walk toward the door of the office. “Okay. Where are we going?”

  Apparently I’ve made my decision.

  “I feel like oysters,” he says.

  I love oysters. I love all seafood. Actually, I love all food. “Sounds good,” I say as he opens the door for me. “Wait,” I add.

  “What?”

  “I don’t even know you. I… I’ll meet you there. What restaurant are you thinking?”

  “Union Oyster House. You want me to get you a cab?”

  Kismet. Union Oyster House is one of my favorites. This seems right. Or do I just want it to seem right? “Sure. I guess.”

  “Or you can drive with me. It’s not far, and I personally guarantee your safety.”

  Am I being silly? Not really, but something inside me wants to trust him. He’s Braden Black. Everyone knows him. Plus, I have my phone and it’s fully charged.

  I turn to him. “As long as you personally guarantee my safety.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I follow him to a black Mercedes parked in front of the hotel. A driver emerges and opens the door. The back seat is lush with cream-colored leather interior. Braden gets in next to me.

  “Union Oyster House, Christopher,” he says to the driver.

  “Yes, sir.” Christopher closes the car door and takes his place in the driver’s seat.

  I’m dressed fine for Union Oyster House. Plus, it won’t break the bank. Not that Braden Black has to worry about money, but I plan to pay for my own meal.

  I don’t normally mind quiet, but the silence during the short drive deafens me. I have no idea what to say. I’m in a Mercedes with Braden Black. I’m sitting close enough to him that I can smell him. His scent is intoxicating—cloves and pine with just a touch of leather. I want to inhale it deep into my body so I never forget it.

  Because I’ll never be this close to Braden Black again. Never this close to human perfection—and his scent, like the rest of him, is perfect.

  He relaxes. I can tell by how his body reacts. His knee touches mine, and I tense at the effect. I’m hot and cold at the same time, as if my body can’t decide how it wants to respond to him. How am I ever going to get through an entire meal with this man? I’m ultra-aware of every part of him.

  The car stops, and Christopher opens the door once more. I take his gloved hand as he helps me out of the vehicle. Surreal.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? I’ve never been called ma’am before. I’m not sure I like it. Twenty-four is too young to be a ma’am.

  “Thanks, Christopher,” Braden says.

  “You’re welcome. I’ll be here when you’re done.” Christopher waves.

  Then I’m walking into Union Oyster House with Braden Black.

  Braden fucking Black.

  “Mr. Black,” the maître d’ says, “we’re thrilled you’re joining us tonight. Your usual table?”

  “That’ll be great. Thanks, Marco.”

  Marco personally leads us to a table. It’s near the back where it’s a little less noisy.

  I sit when Marco pulls out a chair for me. “Thank you,” I murmur again.

  “Sometimes I like to sit at the bar,” Braden says. “Those shuckers tell the most amazing stories.”

  I nod. I’ve sat at the bar a few times myself. It’s fun. I almost wish we were sitting there tonight. I wouldn’t have to make as much conversation.

  I take the menu Marco hands me and stare at it. I know it by heart, but it gives me something to d
o.

  “Skye.”

  “Yeah?” Still staring at the menu.

  Braden lifts the menu out of my hand. “Look at me.”

  His deep voice speaks to me on a level I don’t quite comprehend. I meet his gaze.

  “I want to take you to bed tonight.”

  Chapter Three

  I freeze.

  Braden Black did not just tell me he wants to take me to bed.

  Gentlemen don’t talk like that, and I don’t go to bed with every man who crosses my path. Or who buys me dinner.

  I’m not sure what to say. Finally, “Excuse me?” comes out.

  A gleam tugs at the corner of his eye. Is it playful? I’m not sure.

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t stutter,” he says, “and I’m also sure there’s nothing wrong with your hearing.”

  I clear my throat. “I’m not going to bed with you, Mr. Black.” Though my thighs are already quivering at the thought.

  Seriously. They’re quivering.

  “Call me Braden.”

  His voice is low and sexy and sends a tickle straight between my legs—a tickle I’m used to in the company of a man I want but a tickle I know won’t lead anywhere. “Are you always so blunt?”

  “I find it useful in negotiations to lay most of my cards on the table outright.”

  I regard him. He’s not smiling, and his demeanor has darkened.

  “I guess I didn’t realize this was a negotiation.”

  “Everything’s a negotiation, Skye.”

  “This is dinner, not a negotiation.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Think about it. You have a reason for everything you do. You may not think it through, but your subconscious does. For example, you have a reason for accepting my dinner invitation.”

  Only I never actually accepted it. I just went. “I do? Other than being hungry?”

  “You didn’t have to accept my invitation to sate your hunger.” He licks his bottom lip.

  My thighs are quivering again. “What other reason would I have?”

  “You tell me.”

  Way to put me on the spot. “I don’t know. Maybe I want to be seen with you.”

  “That’s a crock.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you’re working for Addison Ames. You work behind the scenes. You’re not interested in being seen just for the sake of being seen. You’re interested in furthering your career, and you’re willing to put in the time.”

  Strange that he reads me so well. He’s absolutely right. I clear my throat. “Maybe I want to—”

  “Stop this game, Skye. There’s only one reason you accepted, and we both know what it is.” His eyes burn blue fire. “You want to go to bed with me.”

  He’s not wrong, but I’m determined to stay calm. I will my voice not to crack. “You said you lay most of your cards on the table up-front. Most, not all.”

  “True. I usually keep an ace up my sleeve.”

  “What’s that ace tonight?”

  “I’d be a shitty negotiator if I gave that up so early,” he says, lowering his eyelids slightly.

  Sparks run down my spine and explode in my pussy. I draw in a deep breath. “I’m still not going to bed with you, Mr. Black.”

  “Braden,” he says again. “And you are, Skye. You definitely—”

  A server appears. “Hi, Mr. Black. I’m Cory, and I’ll be taking care of you and your lady this evening. Would you like to begin with a cocktail?”

  “Absolutely, Cory,” Braden says. “Skye?”

  A drink? A drink is the last thing I need at the moment. What would a woman eating dinner with Braden Black order?

  On second thought, a drink might be just what I need. I’ll keep it at one, but I desperately need something to help me to relax. “Vodka martini,” I say. “Extra olives.”

  “Any particular vodka?”

  “Grey Goose?” The only brand I can think of.

  It must be okay, because Cory nods and then turns to Braden.

  “Wild Turkey on the rocks.”

  Wild Turkey? Not one of the top-shelf brands that Addison orders? She likes the Pappy Van Winkle fifteen-year to the tune of about seventy-five dollars a shot.

  Then I remember.

  Braden Black is new to his money. He comes from a working-class family in South Boston. I love Wild Turkey. I grew up on it. My grandpa used to let me have a very small sip of his when we sat on the porch in the summer evenings. My mom put a stop to that eventually, but I’d already developed a taste for it. I should have ordered it, rather than the martini. I like vodka martinis, but I honestly prefer bourbon to just about anything.

  Unbelievable that I have something in common with the man across from me.

  I’m still not going to bed with him.

  Even though I want to.

  I really want to.

  Braden orders raw oysters. “Do you want anything else?” he says to me.

  I shake my head. “I love raw oysters.”

  He smiles, and my heart skips a beat. So cliché, but I swear, it really skips a beat.

  A few silent minutes later, our drinks arrive. Thank God. Now I have something to do with my hands.

  Braden lifts his glass to his lips and tosses some liquid onto his tongue.

  I imagine that tongue doing other things, and I squeeze my thighs together to ease the ache between them.

  “Tell me,” he says after swallowing, “a little about Skye Manning. You must be something to be working for Addison.”

  “I have a degree in photography and media from BU. She hired me for my photography skills.”

  “For her influencing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But those are selfies.”

  “Actually, they’re not.” I spill the beans about how we take fake selfies before I realize Addison might not want that information made public. Then I remember passersby see us all the time in public places when we take the photos.

  A wide grin splits Braden’s handsome face. “Sounds like classic Addie. Everything has to look perfect.”

  I agree, but no way am I saying that. I don’t want to lose my job.

  I gather courage and ask, “How do you know Addison?”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  She did, but this gives me the chance to find out his side of the story. Whatever their connection, it clearly didn’t end well.

  “Not really. I’d love to hear it from you.”

  “But you witnessed the interaction between us.”

  “Yeah. You weren’t overly friendly.”

  “No.”

  Interesting. I’ve learned exactly nothing.

  Cory arrives with the oysters. He rattles off the name and origin of each one, but none of it matters to me. I love them all, the brinier the better.

  Braden takes out his phone and snaps a photo of the oysters that arrived. “Got to keep the followers happy.”

  Is he posting to Instagram? Braden Black? That surprises me, though it probably shouldn’t. After all, he commented on Addie’s post.

  “How many followers do you have?” I ask.

  “Not as many as Addison, but enough.”

  I can easily check, so I don’t ask for any elaboration. “I never would have thought you were the social media type.”

  “I’m not, really, but people seem to want to know what I’m up to. Probably only because I’m richer than God, which still seems a little unreal to me. I’m definitely a self-made man. I wasn’t born into money like Addison and her sister.”

  I’ve only met Addison’s fraternal twin, Apple, once. She’s the anti-Addison, into Zen, yoga, and the chakras, and wears only flowing Bohemian frocks.

  “Anyway, I never really got out of the habit,” Braden says. “
You on Instagram?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “What’s your handle?”

  My cheeks warm. “@stormyskye15.”

  His lips twitch. “Stormy? Why not sunny or blue? Or even cloudy?”

  “Because I like stormy skies. They’re a lot more interesting than blue or sunny skies, don’t you think?” When I was growing up, stormy skies were often the norm. I took shelter from more than one tornado when I was a kid. Talk about feeling out of control.

  The corners of his eyes crinkle. “I suppose I never thought about it. What’s interesting to you about them?”

  My cheeks grow hotter. No one’s ever asked me about my profile name before. “The colors. The gray that turns almost to green. The cumulonimbus clouds that stretch for miles but are fluffy on top.”

  “Cute,” he says.

  Cute? Before I can decide whether I’m touched or insulted, he continues.

  “Why fifteen?”

  “Because fourteen was taken.”

  He regards me for a moment, his expression seeming both puzzled and amused. “I’m tagging you.”

  “On a photo of oysters?”

  “Sure. We’re sharing them, so why not?”

  My nerves jump. Being tagged with Braden Black is not something that was ever even a minuscule dot on the radar of my life. For a second, I worry that Addison will see the post, but then I remember she only follows ten people, and I’m not one of them. Is Braden? I doubt it, given she seems to detest him.

  He puts his phone away and nods toward the oysters. “Ladies first.”

  Should I slurp or use the little fork? If I use the fork, will I look like a novice? I finally decide on the fork because that’s how I always eat oysters. I never quite got the hang of slurping. I choose one of the smaller ones and squeeze a few drops of lemon juice on it. Then I scoop it expertly on the fork and into my mouth and take a sip of my martini. The martini was a good idea after all. It’s much better with oysters than Wild Turkey.

  Mmm. Delicious.

  “Just lemon?” Braden says.

  I swallow. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

  “I like a little cocktail sauce.”

  “Amateur,” I say before I realize the word came out of my mouth.