Last Call

by Bella Michaels

I swear, for a millisecond, she looks disappointed. But maybe I imagined it. Maybe that’s just what I want to think.

  “Perfect. We have quite a bit to cover before next Thursday. Should we get to it?”

  Back to business. As it should be, but still . . . my burning desire to push the envelope with this woman hasn’t abated one bit since the last time I saw her. At the time, I’d wondered if my interest was stoked by the few drinks in my system and the sexy sway of her hips as she grinded on that dancer.

  Not to mention the allure of wanting what I can’t have.

  But this time I’m stone-cold sober, and she’s perfectly professional in a black, nondescript suit.

  And I want to make this woman moan under me as much as I want her to perceive me in the same light as Enzo. A nice guy, not some rich asshole who can’t pull it together long enough to stop harassing her.

  Unfortunately, mission accomplished. Now I guess it’s just a matter of continuing to tame the beast. Because as much as I adore the guy, always honorable, always a gentleman . . .

  I’m no Enzo.

  11

  Ada

  The spark between us should have guttered out in that first meeting, when Hayden strutted in late like an entitled prick. But it didn’t, not totally, and then Mr. Sexy Eyes watched me dance. Yes, it was with another man. A mostly naked one who does that sort of thing for money. But in that moment, the only thing that mattered was catching Hayden’s gaze and holding it.

  Since then, the dirty thoughts have been pretty much constant, and now a cruel twist of fate—or his partner’s busy schedule—has shoved us together.

  Still, it might not have been a big deal if I hadn’t agreed to that dinner. Now, I’ve seen a different side of him. A human side.

  Cocky? Yes.

  Entitled? For sure.

  Off-limits? Most definitely.

  Sexy as hell with a panty-melting stare? Unfortunately, very much so.

  Which is why I should never have texted him. Although texting is a perfectly acceptable way of communicating with clients, it’s a line I shouldn’t have crossed with Hayden. At the time, it seemed like no big deal, just an easy way to confirm the square footage of their factory, which was somehow missing from my reports. His answer was completely professional, just like he was for the entirety of our three-hour dinner meeting.

  OK, maybe there were a few times on Thursday night that flirty Hayden peeked out of the businessman shtick, but they were few and far between.

  The problem?

  He answered the text, and I followed up. Asked another question. And now this.

  Missed your message! It will just be me and Paul, the plant manager.

  Which was fine and perfectly professional, but then he added: Crap, realized it’s Sat. & you’re off the clock. Sorry.

  The sensible thing to do would be to accept his apology. Or maybe wait until Monday to answer, but instead I answer: No problem. I work 24/7.

  Which I immediately curse myself for. I might as well have told him to text anytime.

  Two hours later, just as I’m walking into Pazzo’s to meet Karlene for lunch, I get his response: You sure?

  As soon as we’re seated at our usual table on the sidewalk, I shove the phone in front of her.

  “What is it?”

  “A text. Look at the name.”

  The waiter knows us and fills our glasses with tap water. Usually I love to people watch, especially when I don’t have piles of work waiting for me at home. But today my attention is all focused on my phone.

  “Um, what the hell?”

  She knows about everything, from his failed attempt to pick me up to the dinner meeting. Except for my late-night fantasies, which are mine alone to be ashamed of.

  “I texted him a question yesterday.” I reclaim my phone. “And we kind of started corresponding.”

  “Corresponding?”

  I move my phone to the side of the small table and open the menu even though I already know I’m getting the Strawberry Fields salad. With extra pecans and blue cheese, of course.

  “It’s not all that unusual,” I say, keeping my tone casual.

  Karlene sits back and crosses her arms.

  “The text or the fact that you shoved it in my face the second we sat down? Because—” she pretends to consider it, “—I can’t remember the last time you showed me a work text. Except maybe when that kooky new pharmacist was assigned to your last team—the one who would send you those really weird, rambling messages. I wonder what happened to her?

  I’m pretty sure Karlene is missing the point.

  “Obviously this is different.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Would you like to order?” the server says, approaching our table.

  I’m quick, as usual, but Karlene orders like it’s her last supper, as if making the wrong choice might levy a death sentence.

  “So why didn’t you answer?”

  Is she serious? “We’ve been friends for how long? Are you kidding me right now?”

  Her laugh attracts attention from passersby, who seem to be enjoying the midsummer sun despite its increasingly oppressive heat. I’ve always wished I had a laugh like hers, as if she doesn’t care who hears it.

  “OK, OK. Just say . . .” She pauses.

  “Exactly. If I say, ‘Actually, no,’ I’ll sound like a total lunatic for having told him it was no big deal. If I say, ‘Yes,’ then it’s like giving him carte blanche for all sorts of off-hours communication. Weekends. Nights. Hell, I might as well screw the guy and hand over my resignation now.”

  Overly dramatic?

  Maybe a little.

  “Just say what you would to anyone else. You’ve never cared about the work/home line before.”

  Some people are religious about work being work, personal time being personal time. But not me. I watched my dad get ahead by living and breathing science, and I’ve always done the same. Besides, I hate starting the week with a pile of administrative tasks. If I handle some of that stuff on my downtime, it frees me to do the real work. The fun stuff.

  And she’s right. This is just another sponsor, or at least it should be. No big deal.

  I grab my phone.

  My last assignment as RPM was on a new drug that treated seizure clusters. The POC was the CEO of a pharma company that I’d worked with as a clinical investigator on a different drug. There are many differences between him and Hayden, namely thirty-five-ish years in age, but still. What would I have texted him?

  Of course.

  There. Done.

  “What did you say?”

  I show her my phone, but I am not digging her expression when she sees it.

  “What? I just pretended he was Sam Kendall. That’s exactly what I would have said to him.”

  “Really? You’re comparing Sam Kendall to Hayden Tanner?”

  My jaw drops. “That’s exactly what you told me to do.”

  I’m so going to kill her.

  Karlene picks up a leaf that fell on our table from the tree above us.

  “Because I can’t believe you like Hayden Tanner, of all people.”

  I make an extremely undignified sound. “I don’t like him. I’m just not one hundred percent sure how to deal with him. That’s all.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Seriously! All jokes aside, it could never happen. We both know that.”

  “Because?”

  Did an alien abduct my friend?

  “Because, oh I don’t know, maybe I could get fired?”

  “You wouldn’t get fired. Just tossed off the assignment. And you probably wouldn’t get that grade-level promotion. You could always recuse yourself before it becomes an issue.”

  I can’t believe we’re having this discussion.

  “First of all, Angel, Inc. supposedly can’t afford another delay. Second, I’ve worked my entire career to keep moving up. I don’t intend to let something like this stop me. And third, I really don’t like the guy in that way.�
��

  That last one is a blatant lie, but that’s beside the point.

  “And fourth, you’re supposed to help me make good judgments, not bad ones.”

  God knows I can do that all on my own.

  “Fine,” she says as the waiter brings our food. We thank him and she picks up her napkin, putting it on her lap. “Good judgments. In that case . . .” She nods to my phone, which happens to be lighting up as we speak. “If that’s him texting back, I’d suggest not answering him for a while. Or maybe until tomorrow. If you really want to be an extra-good girl, wait ’til Monday.”

  I swallow, wanting to look but knowing I shouldn’t.

  “Right. Monday.”

  That’s a good idea.

  I pick up my fork and vow to enjoy our lunch, Hayden-free.

  No need to look at my phone. It doesn’t matter what he texted because I’m not getting back to him until Monday morning. Nine o’clock.

  That is the very next time Hayden Tanner will be hearing from me.

  12

  Hayden

  Sunday afternoons are my favorite time of the week.

  If people could just walk my neighborhood on a lazy Sunday afternoon, they could appreciate that there’s more to the city than Times Square. Nodding to Benji, the owner of the corner flower shop, I make my way toward Canal Street.

  After working all morning at home, I decided a midday break was in order. Enzo’s in the office, but I have no plans on heading there until tomorrow. That guy never gives it a rest, but I know from experience that burnout is a real thing.

  You can get so burnt out on your job that you hire someone else to raise your only child and then ship him off to boarding schools. At least, that’s what my dad did. I don’t plan on repeating his mistakes. No wife. No kids. No one to let down but myself.

  Not that I plan to do that anytime soon. This company will be successful. Period. No ifs or buts about it. Enzo is a genius, and for some reason he’s letting me ride his coattails.

  Lost in thought, I’m not expecting my phone to vibrate. When it does, I pull it out and stop in my tracks.

  After not hearing back from Ada yesterday, I didn’t expect a response when I messaged her she could expect me to text her again.

  Ada: Sounds good.

  I stop and answer back.

  Me: Encouraging…

  I start walking again.

  Ada: It was meant to be.

  Oh man.

  After Saturday, I had a firm discussion with myself about maintaining boundaries. Aside from suggesting a dinner meeting, I’ve been perfectly professional.

  She texted first.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have read into that like I did. I tested the waters with what might have been construed as a flirtatious message, and she didn’t answer for twenty-four hours.

  I had a moment of panic—okay, more like a night of it—thinking I’d totally misread her cues.

  Ada wanted to get this site visit done. End of story. It was a job to her. And if she gave me come-hither eyes last week, then it was only because she’d had too much to drink.

  I move to the side of the street, out of the way, considering her response and what I should write back.

  It was meant to be.

  What does that mean? Multiple possibilities come to mind, including the fact that Ada might have no idea there’s a flirty vibe to her message. I’m not sure I believe that—I’m usually pretty good at reading people, and there’s an undeniably suggestive tone to it—but I don’t know what else to think. I took away three facts from our dinner:

  Fact number one. She considers her father a god.

  Fact number two. She knows her job, and potential promotion, will make her father proud.

  Fact number three. She would not jeopardize that by fraternizing with me.

  All things considered, there’s only one move here.

  To test her limits. If nothing else, it’ll help me put my Ada fantasies to bed and get on with my pre-Ada life.

  In that case, meet for lunch? Not far from you.

  I’d planned to grab a sandwich and head home. Instead, I turn, just for fun, and walk toward Houston Street. If there’s an extra spring in my step, it’s certainly not at the possibility of seeing Ada again as I approach her neighborhood which she mentioned to me at dinner.

  She won’t text back. And if she does, she definitely won’t meet me for lunch.

  Thursday was all business.

  This? I have no idea what this is.

  If Enzo were here, he’d lay into me, and with good reason. I’m playing a dangerous game that can only end with someone, or multiple someones, getting burned.

  I find myself thinking of something he said to me in college, as a prelude to the most important conversation I’ve ever had.

  Do you always get what you want?

  I understand why he asked. To him, it probably seemed true. Although Enzo’s parents did really well with their pizza shop, he never felt like he completely fit in at Cornell, both because he’d overcome a reading disability that had set him back at school and because a lot of the kids there came from old money.

  Some aspects of my life blew him away. My parents’ mansion. Their house in Switzerland. So the question didn’t seem out of left field. The only reason I remember it so well is because of what came next, after I told him that, yes, I did usually get what I wanted.

  Good. Because I think I’ve found something that could be big. Really big. And I need a partner.

  I’m still flabbergasted that he chose me. That he believed in me. So it shouldn’t matter that I’m attracted to Ada . . . or even that I like her . . . it should only matter that she’s the person who has the future of our business in her hands.

  My phone buzzes.

  I look down and nearly run into the poor old lady in front of me.

  Sure.

  Is she serious? I’ve really stepped into it this time, and I’m about to sink in even deeper.

  About to cross Morton St.

  I can already see the dots indicating she’s typing.

  Meet you in 15 at L’aile.

  Corner of Bleecker & Grove.

  I don’t venture that way often, but I know the place she’s talking about. French, good wine. A small garden courtyard, which is like gold in the summer, trees shading the space and making it pleasant rather than stifling.

  Alfresco dining.

  But staying cool isn’t my biggest worry right now. I’m struggling to make sense of what the hell just happened. Even for me, this is a potential fuckup of epic proportions. Then again, it’s just lunch. She’s admitted to having meetings with sponsors outside work hours. And although I shouldn’t have asked, I did ask.

  With each step toward the restaurant, dozens of reasons for why I should turn around pop into my head.

  And only one keeps me walking forward.

  13

  Ada

  He’s already here.

  I nearly turn back before he sees me. Somehow, I knew exactly what table he’d be sitting at. The more I learn about Hayden Tanner, and his penchant for getting what he wants, the more I realize I’m playing with fire. I’ve dealt with uber-wealthy people before, especially in the last two years as an RPM. But Hayden is a different kind of wealthy. And a different kind of sponsor. One who has the potential to wreak absolute havoc on my life. I should absolutely not be meeting him for lunch, even if I rationalized this a hundred different ways in the last fifteen minutes.

  So much for my vow to Karlene. I picked up and put down my phone so many times in the last twenty-four hours that my finger was actually cramped when I woke up this morning. I didn’t even know that was a thing.

  Don’t do this, Ada.

  But of course I’m already doing it. I take a step forward, toward the little courtyard. Toward Hayden, who’s sitting at the best seat in the house, under the shade, legs outstretched like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Some people just have it. A presence that�
��s impossible to ignore. A magnetism that pulls everyone around them in, luring them closer. The ability to send a borderline inappropriate text that makes a normally sensible woman come running.

  He stands when he sees me.

  I’ll pretend I was totally lounging around in my new denim shorts and linen cami. No panicked scramble to put myself together here.

  Liar.

  “Hi, Ada.”

  Oh God.

  Reaching out his hand like a perfect gentleman, Hayden smiles easily, so I find myself doing the same. Then, just as our hands touch, he reaches around with his other hand, covering mine in a decidedly more familiar gesture than your standard handshake. It’s over too quickly for me to relish his touch. Which is fine. I really shouldn’t be relishing anything about this encounter.

  But I am.

  “Hi,” I manage as he points to my seat.

  “Is this okay?”

  I mean the lunch place, but instead of looking around the courtyard, he stares straight back at me. “More than okay.”

  I shiver, everywhere.

  “This is unexpected.”

  That’s when I notice there are already two drinks on the table. He picks up a bottle of Peroni, leaning back in his impeccable khaki shorts and white button-down. Sleeves rolled, of course.

  “Vodka and club at a bar. Pinot Grigio at meals, in the summer. Cab in the winter.”

  I didn’t drink at our meeting on Thursday, but he clearly remembers my answer to his question of what I would have ordered if I hadn’t been working.

  When I don’t say anything, or move to take the white wine, he watches me.

  “Too early in the day?”

  “For a wine at lunch? No.”

  “No Pinot here, but that’s a Muscadet. It’s similar.”

  “Domaine de la Pépière?”

  He nods.

  “That’s usually what I get here.”

  Hayden’s amusement is evident. “This is very déjà vu.”

  I pick up the wine. “Maybe because you’re so high-handed?”

  His brows rise. “High-handed. Thoughtful. Call it whatever you’d like.”