Hmm… From red to blonde? That might be the best idea I’ve had all day.
Chapter Twelve
Kline
“Nervous.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe I’m fucking nervous.”
I guess Walter was having an effect on my life like my mother had predicted. Although, I highly doubted me talking to myself was what she’d had in mind.
That was what this was, though. It had to be. The illusion of someone being there, listening, and fooling me into saying all of my rambling thoughts out loud rather than reciting them internally.
Long and unkempt, his whiskers flowed freely from beneath his nose, and in keeping with his old man status, stuck out haphazardly from his kitty eyebrows. His white-rimmed eyes rooted me to the spot with their contempt, and the subtle stripes in his fur did nothing to soften his appearance.
“This is your fault,” I told him, his wolflike ears mocking me with every word.
One uninterested lick of his lips is all he gave me in return.
“What? Nothing to say? No support?”
He licked his paw and wiped his face before turning abruptly and sauntering out of the room, holding his tail pointedly straight in the cat version of a middle finger salute.
“Thanks for nothing, asshole,” I shouted after him.
Jesus.
I shook my head as I stepped in front of the mirror to adjust my tie. This was a whole new level of low. Not only was I talking to the fucking cat; I was yelling at him.
Tonight had my stomach on edge in a way it hadn’t been since I’d given Tara Wallowitz my first kiss behind the gym after our seventh-grade dance. She’d had braces and I’d been drowning in all my awkward, barely-a-teenager glory. Two sets of fumbling hands, an overaggressive tongue, and a cut to my lips later, it was over.
I didn’t foresee tonight with Georgia being like that at all, but the basis of my feelings was remarkably similar. Out of my element and thrown off by her initial lack of enthusiasm, I’d put in a lot of effort over the last couple of days to turn it around and smooth the way for tonight’s date. But now I was invested. I cared how tonight went. And that hadn’t been the norm in a long time. I felt a little like I was walking into a set-up with no tools to escape the consequences. That wasn’t cool. MacGyver was cool, and he always made tools out of whatever he had. I’d have to do the same.
“Mr. Brooks?” my intercom squawked.
I grabbed my phone from the counter and jogged the five steps to press the button.
“Yeah?”
“Your driver’s here.”
“Thanks.”
I snatched my wallet and keys off of the front table and slid out the door without looking at myself in the mirror again. I’d already spent far too much time questioning my tie color.
I was not the kind of guy who carefully considered every element of my outfit. Tonight was the closest I would ever get to contradicting that.
* * *
“Frank,” I greeted as I approached the car, reaching a hand out to shake his. On days like today, I couldn’t help but notice how much of his time I monopolized.
“Mr. Brooks.” His greeting was warm, and he had a face to match. A smattering of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes pointed to a life filled with laughter, and the gray of his hair hinted at the possibility of a daughter or two.
“I wish you’d call me Kline,” I said with a smile, knowing it would never change.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
I shook my head and gave him a friendly slap on his shoulder with the hand not clasped in his. “Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should apologize—dragging your ass all over town all day and night.”
“No trouble at all, sir.”
I chuckled again. “This makes twelve hours in this shift, right?”
“Yes—”
“And you’ve still got the rest of the night to go?”
“It’s no trouble, Mr. Brooks.”
A nod was all I could give at the time, so I did. It was a gesture that made it possible to get on our way, to get to the benefit, and to get busy letting Frank off the hook. I’d embellish the not-nearly-enough gesture with a fatter-than-expected tip on the bill later.
I slid into the car and Frank closed the door behind me. I unbuttoned the coat of my tuxedo and pulled at the lapels to make it stop feeling like it was choking me.
As Frank climbed into his seat, he spoke again. “Another stop, sir?”
Forced to give an answer I didn’t like, I shook my head. “No. Straight to the benefit.”
He nodded and pulled the gearshift into drive. “Yes, sir.”
I’d been hell-bent on picking Georgia up like a proper date, but apparently, on this matter, she had a closer relationship with the devil. Refusal was too kind a word to describe her reaction when I had suggested my driver would pick her up. In fact, she’d looked like the suggestion was more revolting than stepping in dog shit.
And I understood to a point. I personally hated taking the car, preferring immeasurably to take the subway and people-watch. I didn’t even mind walking fifteen blocks on a nice Manhattan day.
But certain aspects of my life demanded the car. It kept me on schedule during the day, on time to the office, and never late to meetings. Without the motivation of someone like Frank waiting on me, and the desire to respect his time, I’d have been late everywhere I went.
I liked to wander too much, experiment with new spots in the city and observe people as they met and chatted and said goodbye.
Human behavior was fascinating, and I found the more I studied it, the easier it was to manage all of my people-based businesses.
I glanced down at my phone, feeling guilty for checking it on my way to my first date with Georgia, but at the same time, not being able to help myself.
Nothing. All quiet.
My conversation from that afternoon with the mysterious Rose burned in my mind. I hated the fact that any woman would feel like being a virgin was something to be ashamed of or even be embarrassed to talk about it. But I was also a man, and fuck, it wasn’t a stretch to understand why. I could feel myself becoming more and more irrational the longer she’d talked about it, even knowing that she’d come to me for honest advice.
I’ll be honest. I had to advise my dick to calm the fuck down.
Very scumbag-like of me, I supposed, but I was convinced hearing or seeing the word ‘virgin’ or ‘anal’ or ‘sex’ fired some kind of hormonal response in the heterosexual male mind.
Maybe it fired it in the homosexual male mind too, but I didn’t have any firsthand experience to confirm.
Photographers lined the entrance as we pulled up to 30 Rock, a well-known skyscraper in New York City and home to several entities, including NBC Studios. For me, on this night, it was the Rainbow Room I wanted, an iconic restaurant on the sixty-fifth floor and host to the benefit for Mount Sinai Kravis Children’s Hospital. The fundraiser was being held by an outside organization made up of the well-meaning wealthy. I wished they’d spend less money on the event and donate it all to the fucking hospital, but the truth of it was that this was what it took to entice people into donations and make it feel worthy of their money. Schmaltzy entertainment, expensive food, and an evening out.
I was here to hand over a check, make my mother happy, and enjoy the evening with Georgia, the level of importance of each not relative to their order.
The dog and pony show passed by in a blur, camera flashes and shouted questions melding and mixing together as I covered my eyes and stepped inside.
Security for the event had taken over two of the elevators, and a small line trickled from the doors of each all the way back to me.
I scanned the crowd for Georgia, hoping to find her sooner rather than later, but, after several sweeps, came up completely empty. It was one of the perils of coming separately, I supposed, but I didn’t want her to feel awkward or alone while she waited for me.
A check of my watch confirmed that I was on time,
and the line was moving fast. I’d be up there to look for her in no time.
* * *
“Macallan on the rocks, half a lime on the side, please.”
The bartender confirmed my order with a nod, turning to the glass shelves behind him to grab my scotch. It was fifteen minutes past eight, forty-five minutes later than our agreed upon time, and still no sign of Georgia. I was beginning to think she might have stood me up—hoping that she had, rather than something having happened to her—when Stacey Henderson sauntered up to me and leaned her body into my space with an elbow at the bar.
“Where’s your date?”
I grabbed my scotch and the lime as the bartender set it down in front of me, squeezing the juice into my glass before handing the carcass back to him with a smile and a nod. Plucking a napkin from the top of the stack, I wiped the remaining juice off of my palm.
“Well, hello to you too, Stacey.” I turned to her in acknowledgment, but my body did it under protest. It feared the effects of cross-contamination if it got too close.
“Your mother told me you already had a date. That’s why you couldn’t come with me.”
“I’m aware. What I wasn’t aware of was the fact that she had arranged a date with you in the first place. Don’t you think that’s the kind of thing you should be asked directly by a man?”
She waved the thought away like a pesky fly.
“If you’re not here with someone—”
“I am,” I interrupted.
Her eyes narrowed while mine searched the room nearly desperately, and my brain tried to conjure up an excuse. My face and body portrayed an outward calm.
“Where is she, then?”
“The restroom. You know how you ladies are,” I patronized in the name of inserting frivolous, vaguely-insulting conversation into a still-civil exchange. As much as Stacey Henderson was asking for a big ‘go fuck yourself,’ the Mount Sinai Kravis Children’s Hospital was not. “Always running to the restroom to touch up something or other or to relieve your peanut-sized bladders.”
Stacey scoffed rather indelicately, an effect of too much alcohol too goddamn early in the benefit, and I winced, fearing the turn of events when no one returned from the restroom.
Then, out of the crowd emerged a frazzled—but stunning—Georgia. Red framed her body from breast to foot, the tight material clinging to her in all the right places. Her tan skin peeked out of a cutout just below her chest, and a matching blood red painted her lips and nails. The only thing missing red was her head, her now blonde locks cascading and curling down and around her slim shoulders and damn near robbing me of the ability to think.
Worry from her late arrival ravaged her face as she approached the two of us without pretense or fear.
“Oh my God, Kline, I am so sorry I’m—”
“It’s okay,” I cut her off, stepping pointedly around Stacey and pulling her into my arms for a hug.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” I whispered softly into her new hair. Stacey groaned audibly in begrudged response before grabbing her high-priced clutch from the bar and stomping away like a petulant child.
“Who was she?” Georgia asked, leaning back and glancing over my arm as Stacey dragged ass away.
“That was a day-spa-loving version of my cat.”
Her nose scrunched up adorably as she tried to make sense of my words.
“Would you like something to drink?” I offered, escorting her the few steps back to the bar with a hand at her back. I felt the warmth at my palm all the way in my dick, the need to touch her having been a palpable thing all day long.
She smiled, and it lit up her face and mine. “Can I say ‘God yes’ without sounding like a lush?”
One side of my mouth hooked up in a grin. My cock said she could say ‘God yes’ anytime she wanted, but thankfully, my mouth said, “Sure.”
I looked away long enough to grab the bartender’s attention and then turned back to her.
“You look beautiful.”
She started to smile but stopped herself, the skin between her eyebrows pinching slightly.
“I’m an asshole. I can’t believe I’m so late. I mean, I can believe I’m late,” she rambled. “Just not this late. This is a new low for me.”
“You’re always late?” I asked, trying to distract her from the late arrival and learn more about her instead.
“Yes. Every day of my life. Well, to everything other than meetings with you.” She winced again. “The work you, at least.”
“Don’t worry,” I promised with a grin. “Kline won’t say anything to Mr. Brooks.”
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked, tossing a napkin up on the bar for the anticipated glass.
Georgia looked to me in question.
“No.” I waved her off and lifted my glass. “I’m good. Just got one. You go ahead.”
I glanced down the line of her back as she leaned over the bar. Wide straps criss-crossed to form cut-outs in the fabric of the back as well, and smooth material hugged the curve of her hips and ass. Her body petite but curvy, I wanted to run my hands all over that fabric.
God, she looked gorgeous. It was almost unreal.
She turned to me, holding a glass of wine she had obviously ordered at some point during my ogling.
“Sorry,” I apologized through a tight throat. “I was…”
She raised an eyebrow pointedly, a knowing grin on her face. “Staring at my ass.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “That’s exactly what I was doing.”
She laughed.
“It’s a really fine ass, though. And your hair…”
She grabbed a strand of it self-consciously, twisting it around her finger. “Oh. Yeah. I have a thing for dyeing my hair. I’m not sure why, but I tend to change it like a hobby. Red or blonde or sometimes—”
“Georgia?”
She finally took a breath. “Yeah?”
“I meant what I said. You look beautiful. Own it.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, but her face relaxed.
From there on out, she seemed herself: funny, sometimes awkward, but mostly at ease.
We worked the room, schmoozing all of the people who needed it and small-talking with the others. Unable to help myself, I kept a hand on Georgia all night.
Her hand in mine, my palm at the small of her back, a set of my flexing fingers on her perfect hip. Anything to touch her. Anything to keep her in close proximity.
Finally done with my obligations, I asked her something that’d been on my mind all night.
“Would you like to dance?”
She seemed surprised. “You dance?”
“With you, yes.”
“I swear,” she whispered with a shake of her head. “Do you secretly have one of those things on your wrist that Coca-Cola wears?”
I grinned in confusion.
Her eyes searched mine like I held all the power, a sheen of fear coating them with moisture.
Only then did I realize she meant the quarterback’s playbook cheat sheet.
I took her cheek in my palm, smoothing a thumb over the apple of it softly.
Apparently, when it came to Georgia Cummings and tonight, I’d been doing just fine.
“Come on,” I coaxed, setting my drink down on a nearby table, pulling her onto the dance floor with me, and pressing her body right to mine.
Hands clasped together, I pulled them into my chest and wrapped my other arm tightly around the curve of her hip.
Her eyes followed mine and mine followed hers, a closed loop of exploration into each other. The moment picked up speed as the band played a sweet and melodic tune, and the rest of the room faded completely away.
My chest felt tight with anticipation of what was to come—right now, in this moment, and beyond, as I gave myself over to getting to know this amazing woman.
Our weight shifted from foot to foot and our hips swayed, very much moving but, at the same time, fighting with everything we had to stay stagnant
ly lost in that moment.
Without thought or delay, I leaned in, touching my lips to hers for a full second before I felt the tension leave her body and her eyes fluttered closed.
Tentative but bold, her lips began to move under mine, exploring on their own rather than waiting for my invitation.
I abandoned her hand at my chest immediately and sought the solace of her hair instead, entrenching my hand and using its leverage to pull her lips even closer.
A sigh bounced from her mouth to mine as I focused on her bottom lip, pulling it between my own and sucking ever so slightly.
She tasted like the sweet cherry notes of her wine, and my tongue shot out to lick up another drop. When the tip of her tongue touched mine, everything else was lost.
Time.
Space.
All sense of propriety and appropriateness for a crowded dance floor at a Children’s Hospital benefit. My hand left her hip, circling around on a path straight for the cheek of her ass.
When the corners of her lips tipped up despite their connection to mine, I knew I’d never experienced anything sexier than a woman unable to withhold a smile while we kissed.
“Kline,” she whispered, pulling away and smiling without inhibition.
Just the way she said my name had me groaning.
“God, I know. Not the time.” I pulled her close to me and practically dragged the two of us off the dance floor. The band had started to transition into an old Grand Funk Railroad song, “Some Kind of Wonderful,” anyway. In the haze of my peripheral vision, I could see other couples head in the direction we’d just come, and amongst the shuffle and swing of their active bodies, our lip-locked, fully intertwined ones would have been even more obvious.
I grabbed Georgia’s wrist lightly, and her pulse thrummed and fluttered under the tips of my fingers. The feeling made my grip tighten minutely as I turned her to face me.
Her hair hung in a veil around her face, but I could actually feel our chemistry in the air between us.
Beach Reads Box Set Page 200