by T. K. Leigh
When my phone buzzes mere seconds later, I yank it out of my purse and read Lincoln’s text telling me the coast is clear.
Drawing a deep breath, I crack open the door, peeking into the hallway. Once I confirm no one’s lingering nearby, I sneak out of the office. Adrenaline pumps through me, making me hyper-aware of every sound, every cough, every sniffle. The corridors through the faculty area feel like they’re miles long instead of just a couple dozen feet.
When I finally step into the main corridor, my muscles relax and I can breathe again. I pause briefly to collect myself, then continue to the elevators, grinning deviously when I see Lincoln heading toward me.
“Miss Davenport,” he says as he passes, mischief in his gaze.
“Professor Moore.”
“Have a great evening.”
I glance over my shoulder, lasciviously licking my lips. “I already have.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
One of my strongest childhood memories is sitting in my mother’s room, watching as she got ready for some important function, usually a political rally or fundraiser. She’d always dress in smart pantsuits. Told me they made her feel more powerful, insisted skirts and dresses were tools the patriarchy used to keep women where they wanted them.
While I may not have acquired her flair for feminism, since I actually feel incredibly powerful in a skirt or dress, I did inherit a few of her other habits, like always spraying a bit of perfume behind my ears.
As I do that same thing now, peering at my reflection in the mirror, I pause. For the first time in years, I see my mother in me.
Correction.
For the first time in years, I don’t mind seeing my mother in me.
The mass quantities of makeup I’d typically wear on a “date” is absent. Minimal contouring and eyeliner take its place, along with a bit of gloss on my lips to make them shine. But that’s not the biggest change.
I wrap a lock of hair around my finger, the blonde hue mixed with darker highlights giving me a more mature look. Gone is the gray and lilac color that’s become my signature style, something I’ve kept simply for the attention it garnered. I liked that guys came up to compliment my bold choice in hair color, then slyly invite me back to their place. I don’t want that kind of attention anymore. Lincoln is the only person I want to notice me. And I want him to know who I really am. Want to show him I’m ready to let him in, to let him see the real me. The me few people have seen over the years.
The me I haven’t seen much of these past few years, either.
The knee-length dress I chose for tonight has a halter neckline that accents my back and shoulders. It’s not as tight-fitting as I’m used to, but the belted waist adds a sensuality, as does the slit going to my mid-thigh. I never would have been able to pull off the emerald green shade before, since I hated how that color contrasted with my hair, but now that I’m a blonde again, I can get away with it. It actually suits me, bringing out a few green specks in my eyes I hadn’t noticed before.
When I hear the buzzer, I tear my eyes away from my reflection, my heart ricocheting into my throat. With shaky hands, I grab my clutch and shrug my belted coat over my dress, then walk toward the door, smiling a greeting at the chauffeur standing on the doorstep.
“Good evening, Miss Davenport. I’m Charles, your driver.” He helps me down the steps and opens the back door of the idling dark sedan.
“Thank you.”
Once I’m secure inside, he shuts the door before running around the car to get behind the wheel. Pulling into traffic, he glances at me in the rearview mirror. “We should be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Mr. Moore requested I not give any information away.”
I can’t help but grin, the unknown of what awaits causing my insides to vibrate. It’s been years since I’ve been on anything remotely resembling a date.
Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever truly had a “first date”. Not in the adult sense anyway. My only other serious boyfriend was Parker, but we met in college. I’m doubtful a stolen kiss at the local pizza place where the entire university hung out qualifies as a date. Or going to the dining hall together. Or holding hands as we walked across campus, since we both had the same class.
As Charles maneuvers through the streets of Manhattan, I stare at the buildings as they become increasingly taller the farther away from the Village we get. Each time we pass a hotel, I perk up, thinking this is all another buildup to whatever fun role-playing game Lincoln has in store for tonight.
So when the car pulls up alongside a French restaurant in Midtown, I’m convinced I’m in the wrong place. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Lincoln and I discussed how we had to be more careful, discreet. Now he’s taking me to a restaurant mere blocks from Central Park? There’s no way we won’t be seen. The risk is too great.
Charles opens my door, helping me out of the car and walking me toward the restaurant. I steal a peek at the windows in an attempt to peer inside, but they’re all made of mirrored glass, ensuring the patrons’ privacy.
“Mademoiselle Davenport?” a voice says in a thick French accent.
I snap my eyes to see a man dressed in a dark suit standing inside the double doors, holding one open for me.
“Monsieur Moore is expecting you.”
Aware of the domino effect I fear tonight will cause, I look from the man back to Charles, who gives me an encouraging nod. I don’t exactly have the best of luck. Hell, Murphy’s Law should be renamed Chloe’s Law. If something in my life can go wrong, it will.
“Enjoy your evening,” Charles says before retreating with a smile.
“Mademoiselle Davenport?” the maître d’ repeats, his brows raised in expectation, extending his arm into the foyer.
I chew on my lower lip, torn. Isn’t this what I wanted, though? Didn’t I want Lincoln to treat me like he would a normal girlfriend, not kick me out of a hotel room after having sex? But at what cost? Lincoln’s always been a very rational and pragmatic person. He wouldn’t bring me to a popular restaurant without some sort of safeguard, would he?
On a deep inhale, I walk through the doors, allowing the maître d’ to take my jacket.
Once the exterior door closes behind us, I’m met with serenity. There’s no ambient chatter, no clinking of glasses, no scraping of forks against plates. The only sound is that of soft music coming from a piano.
When I turn the corner, following the maître d’ into the dining room, I know why. The entire restaurant is empty…apart from Lincoln sitting at a table in the center.
The instant he sees me, he stands, buttoning his suit jacket. It’s not unusual for me to see him in a suit. But tonight, he looks…different. His hair appears damp from a shower, his beard and mustache neatly trimmed to resemble just a bit more than a five o’clock shadow. Exactly how I like him.
“Chloe…” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in a hard swallow as he rakes his gaze over my changed appearance.
I was so wrought with nerves over the idea of being exposed that I didn’t have time to obsess about whether Lincoln would like the new me. But it appears I had nothing to worry about, not with the way he currently admires me with nothing short of unabashed reverence.
“You look…”
Emboldened, I do a quick spin, allowing him to get a full view of the dress I bought just for him. For tonight. For this new me.
“You like?” I pass him a demure look.
His gaze unwavering, he takes several long strides toward me, drawing me into his embrace. “You’re stunning.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, toying with the few tendrils of hair that curl over his collar. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He runs a finger down the curvature of my face, then grabs a lock of hair, twisting it around his digit. “You got rid of the purple.”
“I figured it was time for a change. Time to be me.” I pause, bringing my lips toward him. “Time to let you see
the real me.”
His mouth finds mine, the kiss ardent, yet still respectful as he communicates how much this gesture means to him. When he pulls away, he cups my face. “Thank you for letting me see who you truly are.” He kisses my nose, then places his hand on my lower back and leads me toward the table. He holds out the chair, helping me into it before sitting catty-corner to me.
“Do I want to know what’s going on here?” I glance around the space, still a little confused why one of the premier French restaurants in the city would be empty on a Friday night.
“What do you mean?” Lincoln responds nonchalantly.
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “This place. Being here. The lack of other diners.” My brow furrows. “What’s going on?”
He reaches for my hand, grabbing it in his. As he runs his thumb over my knuckles, his eyes remain focused on my skin. “I never thought I’d be able to do this in public,” he remarks contemplatively, almost in awe.
“What?”
He lifts his gaze to mine. “Hold your hand. It’s…everything I imagined it would be.”
I’m pretty sure another piece of my heart floats across the table at his words, wrapping around him.
“I don’t want to deprive you of the normalcy that goes along with a real relationship because of who we are to each other. You deserve better than that. All last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what we discussed yesterday. How we’ll never be able to do normal things. Go out for a romantic dinner, hold hands, steal a kiss for no reason at all. Right now, there are definitely some complications.”
I blow out a laugh. “Ya think?”
“But that doesn’t mean I won’t take you out. That all we’ll ever be able to do is hide away in one of our apartments or a rented hotel room. Granted, yesterday, my plan for tonight was another hotel room. But you deserve romantic dinners. Starlit walks through Central Park. Surprise flowers at work. I promise you…” His grip tightens, his voice firm. “In time, I will give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of, and more. There will come a day I’ll be able to shout to the world how fucking happy I am because of you.” He moistens his lips, pausing as he collects himself, his tone softening. “But right now, I hope this is acceptable.” A hint of a smile curves his mouth. “We are in public, even if there are no other diners present.” He winks.
“You lawyers. Always trying to get off on a technicality,” I jest.
“Only with you. I only want to get off with you.” He waggles his brows.
“Good. And tonight is more than acceptable. Although I’m not sure I want to know who you had to sweet-talk in order to buy out this place for the night.”
“No one.” With a casual shrug, he leans back, releasing his hold on my hand. “I’m friends with the executive chef, so I called in a favor. He’s been closed the past two weeks preparing for a menu revamp, so it worked out quite well.”
“I’d say,” I muse as a waiter approaches with a bottle of wine Lincoln must have ordered before I arrived. After he presents it to him, the waiter opens it, pouring a small amount into a wine glass, allowing Lincoln to taste it. When he nods in approval, the waiter fills both glasses.
Once we’re alone, Lincoln raises his wine and I follow suit. “To a first date I hope you’ll never forget.”
“I doubt I will.” I smile, then bring the wine to my lips, taking a sip of the robust red. “Although yesterday’s role-playing was pretty unforgettable, too.”
“I can’t count that as a date. You deserve better than that.”
“That may be true, but we can still play once in a while. You won’t hear any complaints from me.”
He grins mischievously, which makes me want to skip dinner and go straight to dessert. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind for future dates.”
“A bit presumptuous, isn’t it? To assume I’ll agree to see you again? This first date could be a complete disaster and I may have to cut my losses.”
He takes another sip of wine, his motion slow, deliberate, meticulous as he swirls the liquid around his mouth. It’s strangely erotic to watch. Such a simple thing adults of drinking age do on a fairly regular basis. But the way Lincoln takes his time to savor the liquid that winemakers spent countless hours perfecting makes my heart beat a little faster, my breathing to become a little more labored, my skin to flush under his sensual stare.
Forget Pornhub. I could watch Lincoln swirl his wine all day long and probably get off numerous times.
“It may be presumptuous,” he finally says when I’m on the verge of combusting. “But something about you makes me think you like a man who’s bold, who’s confident, who has no problem telling you exactly what he wants. Am I right?” He arches a single brow.
“Perhaps,” I flirt, pretending to be completely unaffected by his charms.
“Then trust me when I say that, if I do my job right, I’m confident you will be so swept off your feet after tonight that I’ll ruin you for any first dates that come after me…although I hope there won’t be any.” He reaches under the table, his hand settling on my knee. When he grips it somewhat harshly, I jump, yelping, before regaining my composure, nervously glancing around.
“And I’m also confident that after I get you in my bed tonight, the only name you’ll scream again will be Lincoln Moore.” Eyes flaming with need, he brushes his fingers up my leg before pulling back, acting as unaffected as ever. But I know the truth. That he’s the tortoise, and this is part of his seduction, his first lap around the track.
I curve toward him, salaciously licking my lips. “It already is, Lincoln…” I pause, then moan out, “Moore.”
The grip on his wine glass tightens and I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter in his hand. Now that would be a first date I’d never forget.
The next hour seems to fly by as we talk about anything and everything that pops into mind. I search my memory for an instance we’ve done this, coming up empty. We’ve never really talked to each other, apart from playing Never Have I Ever during that fated blackout. But that was just part of a game. Here, we’re finally learning about each other. More importantly, we’re no longer hiding from each other, no longer trying to keep our past inside to prevent reopening wounds that probably never healed completely.
Throughout the course of our dinner, he tells me story after story about his father. It’s clear from the excitement and hint of longing in his voice that he still misses him, even though it’s been nearly twenty years. I suppose time can’t erase all wounds. I’m living proof of that, too.
“It’s not as romantic as meeting at a club in Vegas,” he says after telling me how his parents met at a blood drive on campus at the start of the semester. She was a nursing student who was helping with the blood collection. The second he laid eyes on her, he was attracted to her.
Apparently, confidence and cockiness are traits among the Moore males. Instead of taking his time after giving blood, allowing the lightheadedness to wear off, Elijah insisted he was fine and attempted to stand. Of course, dizziness instantly took over and he fell, cutting his head, which required a couple stitches. Wendy found out where his dorm was and went to check on him. And the rest, I suppose, is history. Until she walked into class a few days later and learned he was her TA.
“I guess we all can’t be so lucky.” I roll my eyes.
He grabs my hand in his. I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s done that tonight. It’s something so many other couples take for granted. I doubt I ever will again.
“I actually like our story. I like that we kept running into each other, as if the universe was trying to force us together.”
“Bet you never expected to learn I was one of your students, though.”
“That certainly threw me for a loop.” He gazes at me thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t change that, either.”
“Really?”
“I like to think everything happens for a reason. And I like to think there’s a reason you ended up in my classroom.”
&n
bsp; “And what’s that?” I lean toward him, my eyes glued to his.
“I think we both needed to fight for this. If there weren’t these huge obstacles facing us, I think we would have taken each other for granted. Taken our feelings for granted. Maybe it would have eventually turned into something more, something meaningful, but I think we needed this. Because I know something I didn’t back in January. Hell, something I didn’t even know a few weeks ago.”
“What’s that?” I ask again, my voice softer.
He brings my hand up to his mouth, placing soft kisses against my knuckles. “That I’ll always fight for you, no matter the battle, no matter the cost.”
And that’s all it takes for the remainder of the wall protecting my heart to crash down, allowing Lincoln Moore to possess it.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I slam my hand onto the kitchen island where I’ve been chopping tomatoes and cucumbers for a salad. “Oh, my god! I just thought of something.”
Lincoln glances over his shoulder. “Should I be worried?”
“Fluffy!”
“Fluffy?” Facing me, he crosses his arms in front of his chest, and it takes every ounce of resolve I possess not to drag him back into the bedroom, especially when I see his muscles flex with the motion. There is nothing sexier than a man cooking in the kitchen. Except a man cooking without a shirt. And that’s my current view.
Over the past several weeks, I’ve spent a great deal of time in Lincoln’s apartment. It now feels more like home than my own place. We’ve gone out on occasion, usually to a late movie at a theater so far out of the way that the chance of seeing anyone we know is slim, but we tend to play it safe and have a “date night in”, as he calls them. Cooking dinner together. Watching movies. Always adding a personal touch to make it more than just staying at home.
“Yes. Fluffy, your cat. The one you told us about in Vegas that you’re convinced cursed you.”