There are little bottles of lotion, packaged mints, and, ironically, lollipops arranged by the disposable hand towels. I select a grape one, unwrap it, and pop it in my mouth. I also take a package of mints. If I was alone, I might have hocked everything in that little basket.
I drape my shawl over my hand so I don’t have to touch the handle, or anything really.
As I’m passing the men’s room the door swings open and a huge suited-up guy steps out. He’s a tank of a man, his shoulders so broad he has to turn a bit to get through the door. He’s staring at the phone in his hand and nearly walks into me. I have the self-preservation required to attempt to get out of his way, lest he mow me over. But my grace has taken a vacation and I stumble into him instead of away, while simultaneously trying to get the lollipop out of my mouth so I don’t appear completely trashy.
“Hey!” His voice is a low, deep rasp. Like sex dragged over smooth stones.
I grab the lapels of his suit jacket to stop from toppling over and he wraps an arm around my waist, to keep me upright I suppose.
I barely get a glimpse of his face before he’s right in mine. “You’re a bit forward, aren’t you?” His nose brushes my cheek as he speaks, warm breath caressing my lips. Warm breath that smells like booze.
“I don’t think—” My attempt at a protest doesn’t have the desired effect since he takes the parting of my lips as an invitation for his tongue to enter.
The first thing I notice is how much he tastes like scotch. What’s worse is that I can probably name the brand if I think about it hard enough.
He groans into my mouth and his arm tightens around my waist. Obviously this guy’s made a mistake, but as shocked as I am, I have to admit, he’s a great kisser.
Aside from the boozy taste, his lips are full and soft, and he does this sweep thing with his tongue that makes my knees forget their purpose—which is to keep me upright or knee him in the nuts for attacking me with his mouth. All the right parts of my body start to warm and tingle as our tongues dance—that’s right, I said our, because I’m definitely kissing him back, even though I’m not the intended tongue target.
My eyes are wide as a result of the unexpected, although not unwelcome, assault, so I can see his long, pretty lashes resting against his cheek and the straight slope of his nose. I think in addition to being huge, he might also be hot.
I flatten my hands on his chest with the intention of pushing him away, because that’s what I should do instead of allowing the continued tongue gymnastic routine. I note first, the solid wall of muscle underneath, followed by the softness of the fabric. Instead of creating space between us, I accidentally smooth my hands over the lapels, up past the collar where I’m met with warm skin. His hand shifts from my hip to my ass. Suddenly, I can feel a whole lot of something going on behind his fly. At my gasp he makes another low noise in his throat.
Before I can decide whether I should still shove him away or keep making out with him, a shrill, familiar voice cuts through Awesome Kisser’s rumbling groan. It’s close. Like right in my ear. “Ban—What are you doing?”
His tongue retracts from my mouth and his hand from my ass. Turning his head toward the horrific noise, his confused gaze flips between me and the bathroom selfie girl, and then he coughs, right in my face.
I make a gagging sound and use my shawl to wipe his spit from my cheek while Awesome Kisser apologizes—to whom I’m uncertain. He searches his pocket for something—a tissue maybe?
Bathroom girl gives me a look of revulsion and turns her angry gaze on Awesome Kisser. “This”—she sweeps a hand down, gesturing to her ultra-fit body wrapped in her tight dress—“could’ve been yours tonight.” She spins on her eleven-inch heels, her hair fanning out impressively as she sashays past us down the hall.
“Brittany, stop! I thought she was you!”
Of course her name is Brittany. It’s a common money name, like Tiffany and Stephanie and all the other names that end with an ie or any. Not that mine is any better. How I ended up with a name like Ruby, I’ll never know. I’m not even born in July, so it has nothing to do with my birthstone.
The only similarity between Brittany and me is that we’re female, with hair on our heads. Hers is close to the same color as mine in this awful lighting, but it’s about eight inches shorter. We’re also both wearing dresses. They’re both dark, mine a deep wine color and hers black. Mine hits a few inches above my knee, hers barely skims the bottom of her ass.
Brittany spins dramatically to face her could’ve-been-bed-partner, her expression incredulous. She gestures a perfectly manicured hand at me. “How drunk are you? You think this bargain-basement-wearing slut looks like me?”
I huff. “Seriously? If your dress was half an inch shorter your vagina would be showing, and you’re calling me a slut?” Mostly I’m jealous of how good she looks in it, but she’s the one who started with the insults. Besides, I’m not at fault here. It’s the amazing kisser who stuck his talented tongue in my mouth and subsequently ruined the hotness by coughing in my face.
Awesome Kisser steps between us, his wide shoulders almost blocking out my view of the angry skankatron. “Whoa, ladies, it’s a simple misunderstanding, let’s not get nasty.” I note the barely imperceptible slur at the end, extending the s. He reaches out and puts a hand against the wall, as if he’s barring a potential attack, except then I realize it’s to steady himself. He’s definitely drunk. Which would explain the accidental tongue-nastics.
“I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath,” Brittany sneers. “I’m going home. Delete my number.”
He runs a frustrated hand through his thick, wavy, luxurious hair. And this man does not have plugs either, all that sexy is his. “Fuck.” He turns and gives me a quick once-over. I take a quick look down and notice his shoes are black and polished, with no pointy toe. Confident and low maintenance.
I note a few important details while he assesses me, the error that cost him the hot sure-thing. First of all, his eyes are bloodshot and his focus is divided, which could very well explain his inability to discern me from the dark-haired Barbie doll storming away. His nose is a little red and he seems pale. His brow is also glistening just a smidge. I also note the very obvious lump jacking up the front of his dress pants. I feel some satisfaction that my kissing skills are decent enough to give him a woody.
Finally, and most important, this brick house of a man is smokin’ hot, even if he is sick, based on Brittany’s bathroom reports. Like on a scale of one to ten he’s a seven million.
He clears his throat. “I’m really sorry I sexually harassed you and coughed on you. I’ve been popping cold meds like candy tonight and I think I had one too many scotches. I honestly thought you were her, even though clearly you’re not.”
Well that’s rude.
He gestures to my body and then my face as he expels a quick breath. “I mean, you’re, wow, just—hot.”
Or maybe he’s not that rude.
“Anyway, she’s a friend of the family, so I have to fix this. I need to go. You might want to take some vitamin C or something when you get home.”
With that unnecessary, but somewhat appreciated, explanation he turns around and jogs down the hall.
I guess I should be flattered that he mistook me for a supermodel, even if he is hammered and drugged.
Chapter 2: The Impact of Flu Medication and Alcohol
BANCROFT
I take one last look at the woman I accidentally molested before I follow Brittany’s swishing hair and swaying ass down the hall and through the foyer. If Brittany wasn’t my date, and I hadn’t promised my mother I’d give going out with her an honest shot, I’d be inclined to go back and get that girl’s number. She’s got a nice mouth. In the very short time I kissed her, I imagined putting things other than my tongue in it. Not very refined of me, but honest nonetheless.
I don’t call after Brittany once I’m in the foyer. I know too many people and I think, based on her recent react
ion, she’s likely to throw a fit, drawing attention I don’t need. What I should’ve done was canceled tonight, on account of being sick as a dog this past week. But I didn’t want to upset my mother by canceling the date, or piss Armstrong off by missing the engagement party, so I loaded up on a variety of drugs and bit the bullet. Now I’d have to smooth things over with Brittany.
Pretty much the second I picked Brittany up, she alluded to coming back to my place later.
I’ve heard some rumors about her and her mouth—and not just about her penchant for gossip, which I’m also familiar with, since I’ve known Brittany most of my life.
The selfie of her sucking on the lollipop was a pretty solid indicator that a nightcap would not just involve talking. When I ran into that woman in the hall, I assumed it was Brittany making her move and figured I might as well get it over with. I should’ve known better than to jump on that opportunity, since it would likely cause more unnecessary issues, but the cold meds and the drinks tonight are messing with my ability to make rational, well-thought-out decisions, hence my making out with some random woman in the hall.
Besides, bringing Brittany was a favor, orchestrated by my mother. Apparently Brittany’s date ditched her at the last minute and my mother thought it would be the perfect opportunity to swoop in and play matchmaker. Normally, I don’t bend to my mother’s whims when it comes to my dating life, but, a little over a year ago, the importance of family was pretty much thrown in my face all at once. She had a health scare, one that resulted in a battery of tests and lot of anxiety. It was during the middle of the championships, so I couldn’t come home at all while she was in and out of the hospital. To make matters worse, not long after that, my grandmother passed away. She was an incredible woman; her loss shook us all. She’d been very much the glue in our family. So, ever since I moved back to New York, my mother has been on me about dating and settling down. I have a lot of guilt about not being there for her when she needed me so I caved when she suggested the date with Brittany. It also got me out of the charity bachelor auction that she was going to volunteer me for, but I had to agree to a second date. According to her, Brittany comes from “good breeding,” which in the world I was raised in, is more important than it should be.
I understand that my mother’s views on relationships aren’t uncommon based on her upbringing, and there may have been a time when I would’ve probably shared her ideals. But I’ve spent the last seven years playing professional rugby, and it’s changed my views on a lot of things. Relationships, and how they function, or rather dysfunction, being one of them.
I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I maintain a brisk, but casual stroll toward the elevators. It’s taking more effort than I expected to stay on a straight path. People kept handing me scotch tonight, it was hard to say no, especially in this crowd.
Brittany’s too-high shoes prevent her from making a speedy escape. She walks like she’s on the runway no matter where she goes. It’s a little ridiculous. She reaches the elevator just as the doors open, so I have to pick up my pace. She keeps jamming the button, but I shove my arm in before the doors can close all the way and step inside.
“Thanks for holding the elevator for me.” I should rein in the attitude, but I’m annoyed at the negative turn in my evening. And the cold meds I took a few hours ago are already wearing off. I feel like garbage.
She makes a disgruntled sound, crosses her arms over her chest and stares straight ahead.
I don’t feel like dealing with this. I could manage when she was being flirty and alluding to things she wanted to do later. Now she’s being an overdramatic princess, and I don’t do overdramatic princesses. Although, I can understand her current discontent even if the hissy fit seems unnecessary. Mistake or not, I did stick my tongue in someone else’s mouth when I’m supposed to be her date.
I lean against the opposite wall as the elevator descends. “I’m sorry about that other girl. I thought it was you.”
“I’m not going home with you tonight,” she huffs.
I shove my hands in my pockets. If she still wanted to come back to my place, I’d have more concerns than I already do about her. There’s no fucking way I’d sleep with her anyway, because I like my balls where they are and I’m not interested in losing them to her father if he found out I screwed his daughter the first time I took her out. “That’s probably a good idea. I’m still not feeling a hundred percent.”
I have a business trip coming up in a few days and a meeting tomorrow morning. I don’t have time for this. I’m still in recovery mode from this cold and flu double slam I’ve been hit with and I can’t afford to feel like this when I’m getting on a plane in the near future.
“I can’t believe you thought she was me. I’m prettier than her, aren’t I?” She lifts her chin and sniffs, her offense clear.
That other woman is ten times hotter, but telling Brittany that would be me digging myself a deeper hole. Honesty isn’t always the best choice. I’m in such a bad mood now. “I didn’t get a good look at her.” It’s lame, but I’ve written off any more fun for tonight. In my head, I’m already in the shower, rubbing one out to the image of the woman I did kiss, not the one pouting in the corner.
Besides, Brittany really isn’t my type. She’s pretty, but she wears far too much makeup. In the few seconds I had to get a good look at the woman I made out with in the hall—and recognized the very serious error I’d made—I noticed she’s definitely gorgeous. Dark hair and green eyes, not too petite with curves in all the right places and a natural beauty that makes my nuts ache. And that’s saying something with all the medication I’m on. I’ve only had to rub one out twice this week. I’m that sick.
“Why’re you looking at me like that? I already told you, I’m not coming home with you.” Brittany huffs and glances at her reflection in the mirror, fixing out of place hairs.
I shake my head, coming out of my haze. I must’ve spaced out while she was talking. God, I feel like garbage. “I’m still going to make sure you get home safely.” Despite my frustration over the situation, I’m not going to leave her to find her own ride.
“I know how to hail a cab.”
I give up on talking and mentally review my checklist for the next few days. My suit is already laid out for my morning meeting—this Monday night engagement party isn’t helping me get the sleep I need. I have to be out of the house first thing, and then I need to get on organizing paperwork for my trip. Five weeks overseas is a long time, and I can’t afford to forget essential files. This trip is important. It’s my test to see if I can manage things without my father breathing down my neck.
The elevator dings and Brittany struts past me, flipping her hair over her shoulder, smacking me in the face. I let her walk on ahead. I’ve forgotten to call my driver, so I have to spend a few extra, awkward minutes with a pouting Brittany.
Finally the car comes and Ralph, my driver, exits the vehicle, apologizing for the delay. I’m sure he can tell by the look on my face, and Brittany’s sour expression, that neither of us is excited about having to wait.
I open the door for her and extend a hand, which she ignores.
“We’ll just head to Ms. Thorton’s, ’kay Ralph?” I pat him on the shoulder and he lifts a brow, but remains silent as I slide in beside my annoyed date.
She shifts away from me until she’s in the corner. I lean my head against the backrest and wait, because this can’t be the end of her words. I’m so tired. And then I remember that my mother made me agree to two dates. I’m beginning to wonder if the bachelor auction would have been better than this. My mother will make sure I follow through on my promise. She’s determined to have me settled down since my older brother, Lexington, whose former girlfriend ended things several months ago, has shown no interest in returning to the dating pool, unless it’s for a hookup.
Seven years of being on the road, of constant travel, has made any kind of lasting relationship impossible. I’ve learned that long-dist
ance relationships rarely ever work. When I agreed to come work with my father I assumed I’d finally be able to put down some roots. And with that, I might actually be able to find someone I could have a relationship with. It’s been a long time since I’ve had something stable, or significant. Except now he’s making me travel again and the distance thing just isn’t something I want to contend with.
“I don’t look anything like that slut.”
Brittany pulls me out of my internal musings. “Nope.” Arguing seems pointless. “Although I’m not sure I’d classify her as a slut.”
“Do you know her? Have you gone out with her before? Did you know she was going to be at the party? I can’t believe you’d do that to me in front of all those people!”
I slowly turn my head to look at her. This is an awful lot of drama for a first date. “No, I don’t know her. No, I haven’t gone out with her before. No, I didn’t know she’d be at the party, and what do you mean all those people? We were the only ones in that hallway.”
“She was kissing you back! I saw tongue! Hers! In your mouth.” She points an accusing finger at me. “And yours was in hers.”
This is true. Despite me being a complete stranger, my mystery girl did indeed kiss me back. That’s something to ponder later. “Look Brittany, I already told you, it was a mistake. And I get that she doesn’t look like you, but the hallway was poorly lit. I saw long hair and a dark dress and I reacted. I’ve been sick all week and on cold medication all day. I didn’t want to cancel our date, so I took more than I should’ve tonight. I know it’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth.” I avert my gaze and close my eyes trying not to picture the woman I ended up kissing tonight.
“You’re right, it isn’t an excuse at all. I thought we were having a nice time.” She’s pulling out the whiny voice now. “I hope kissing that skank was worth it.”
It’s a good thing my eyes are closed, otherwise she’d see me roll them.
The Shacking Up Series Page 2
