by Max Monroe
Shit. My date.
Too absorbed in all things Greer, I completely fucking forgot about my date.
She smiles down at me and holds out a hand, asking, “Trent Turner?”
Time warps into a vacuum, and before I know it, I’m answering.
Only the answer isn’t at all what I, or she, is expecting. “No.”
Her groomed and shaped brows pull together, and my heart dials up to a gallop.
Holy shit, I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“You’re not Trent Turner?” she asks again, just to clarify.
I shake my head like a lunatic and stand up to apologize. “No, I’m sorry. I’m William…” I glance down for some help in my lie, and I’m ashamed of what I come up with. “Table. William Table.”
In my defense, I don’t have a lot of practice being dishonest.
“Your name is William Table?” she says, her attitude shifting from friendly to inconvenienced in half a second. I take it as a sign that I’m dodging a bullet and hold strong.
“Yep.”
She drops a hip along with any ounce of coy flirtiness and snaps. “Great. Just fucking great.”
“Sorry,” I apologize again. Though, it’s safe to say at this point, I don’t even really mean it.
I don’t know what the fuck Cap was thinking would make us a good match, but I’m guessing it had nothing to do with her personality.
She storms back to the front of the restaurant, and I sit back down in my chair. When the waiter comes over to ask if I’m still waiting for someone, I tell him the exciting news.
“No. I’ll be dining alone now.”
“Very well. Are you ready to put in an order?”
“In a few minutes,” I reply.
For the time being, I’ve got something else to occupy my time.
Greer and her date are fully involved in a conversation by the time my waiter clears the place setting on the other side of the table, but her smile is brittle at best.
I lean forward into my elbows, trying to hear what they’re saying, but it’s no use. I’d need a degree in lipreading to decode their conversation, and unfortunately, they didn’t offer that course where I went to school.
Thinking on the fly, I take out my phone and type out a text. I know the date can’t be going that well, because she picks her phone up off the table to read it.
Me: How’s the date going?
She frowns at little before making some sort of excuse to her date and typing out a response.
Greer: Fine. Why are you texting me?
Me: What does “fine” mean? In my experience, no woman ever uses that word unless she’s annoyed.
Greer: You must hear it a lot, then.
I grin. And keep texting her. Keep stealing her attention away from her date.
Me: What’s your date doing right now, while you’re texting me?
Greer: Staring at my breasts, I presume.
Me: Sounds like a winner.
Greer: Well, I do have great breasts. But yeah, he’s a real gem. He just finished telling me about kicking his mom out of her house when she couldn’t afford to pay him the rent.
Good God. And this is the guy her best friend set her up with?
Me: Wow. That tells me everything I need to know.
Greer: Everything you need to know for what?
Me: And for the record, you look stunning tonight. And your breasts are better than great. I’ve been staring at them ever since you got here.
What’s destined to be is motherfucking destined to be.
I started moving before I sent the message, so by the time she looks up, I’m standing right beside her table.
I can’t help but feel good when her blue eyes flare thankfully.
Her date doesn’t seem quite as relieved.
“Hi,” I say softly, and a tiny grin plumps the apple of her cheek.
“Hi.”
Her date doesn’t delay before jumping in, all misplaced righteous indignation and hero complex. “You know this guy?”
Greer nods, slowly turning her gaze away from me to look back at him. “This is my boss.”
He starts to smile at the news when she adds, “And my neighbor. You know what, he’s kind of a lot of things.”
His patience is obviously thinning as he asks, “And what is this man of many things doing here?”
“Ending your date,” I say for her.
Her mouth gapes, and her date jumps up from the table, affronted.
“Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you are?”
I shake my head and offer a hand to Greer. It takes her a moment to decide, but eventually, she takes it. Immediately, none of the rest of how this encounter goes even matters.
I push her behind me a little, just enough to protect her if this guy loses his shit, and answer him. “You’ve been pounding whiskey for an hour. I’m sure you’ll find something to do without her.”
My words infuriate him, and before I know it, his fist is cocked and he’s propelling his body straight toward me.
But I’m not five whiskeys deep, nor am I intimidated by this prick.
He’s inconsequential in this scenario.
The only thing that matters is that I’m leaving this restaurant with Greer.
My Greer.
And I don’t care who the fuck I have to fight to do it.
Greer
My chest pounds as Trent pulls me from the restaurant by a tight grip on my hand. My feet can barely keep up, but seeing as he just hit my would-have-been date in the face and the cops are probably on the way, I don’t complain.
“Holy shit!” I yell, shaking as we round the corner into an alley and fade into the darkness. “You just clocked that guy right in the face!”
He shakes his hand, obviously hurting, and laughs.
Fucking laughs. After committing assault.
Clearly, this motherfucker has lost his mind.
God, he’s so hot right now.
“Yeah, well.” He pauses. “He swung at me first.”
“And missed!” I yell, completely beyond controlling my volume. “But you didn’t. Bam-o! Right in the kisser!”
He shakes his head and pulls me back down the alley toward the street, checking both ways before stepping outside and putting his hand to the small of my back.
We move at a swift pace, and with all of the excitement, it takes me a minute to realize how bad this could be.
“Jesus. Are you going to get arrested?” I question, coming to a complete stop as I do.
He shakes his head and pushes me forward again. “I don’t think so. I know the owner, so I doubt he’ll give my name to the police.”
“My God. This is exhilarating. I’ve never been a part of something like this in my life!”
He laughs, admitting, “Me neither.”
I can’t stop myself from blathering on. “Where are we headed now? To see your bookie? A speakeasy? Do you know someone with connections in the clink?”
“We’re going to eat dinner.”
“Oh, well. That’s anticlimactic,” I say, and then quickly realize that his presence at La Previe wasn’t exactly an expected occurrence. “Wait a minute. How did you even end up there tonight?”
He shrugs. “I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
I quirk a brow. “And then you what, just so happened to show up on my date?”
He grins. “I guess it was destiny.”
Destiny. There’s that word again.
Consider my mind officially blown.
I start to pace the sidewalk, but he stops me and turns me to face him, and the eye contact is strong. I fade into the power of his sharp green eyes with surprising ease.
“Did you eat anything?”
“No.”
“Well, me neither. And I’m hungry.”
He stays there, silent and stalwart, waiting for me to agree, and it doesn’t take me long to fold.
I barely get the word of agreement, a simple okay, out o
f my mouth before he jerks me inside the restaurant we’re directly in front of and directs me to a table.
I sit while he goes up to the counter—obviously, we’ve taken the ritziness down a couple of notches from the place we fled—to put in our order.
I take the opportunity to ogle him freely.
With his suit jacket left behind at the booth with me for safekeeping, his ass is delightfully available for viewing. It’s tight and round, and I don’t think they had any other ass in mind when they designed those black wool pants.
He rolls the sleeves of his button-down shirt up to his elbows, and I salivate over his forearms like one of Pavlov’s dogs.
So much so, I grab a napkin from the holder to wipe any excess drool off my chin as he spins on his heel to return.
I’m shoving the evidence into the bowels of my purse when he sets down a red basket lined with red-and-white-checked paper in front of me, and one identical to it in front of himself.
“Chicken fingers?” I ask, completely flabbergasted that a kid who grew up as rich as he did eats chicken fingers as a grown man.
“Yeah.”
I roll my eyes.
“What?”
“It’s just…what are you? Twelve?”
He shrugs. “They’re good. Especially with fries.”
“Oh my God, that’s adorable. You’re a child.”
“I may never be a judge on Top Chef, but I assure you, I’m no little boy.”
I blush, picturing the absolute naughtiest meaning of his statement, and he shrugs.
“When I’m out, I eat this way. At home, I try to eat healthy.”
I smirk. “How often do you eat at home?”
“Lately?” He laughs. “Not often.”
“Eh, well. I’m not one to talk. I eat ramen three nights a week.”
“Ramen? Really? And you’re judging me for chicken fingers? When’s the sick frat party, Toby? Are you gonna invite the hotties we saw down at the quad?”
“Shut up.”
“Well, come on. Don’t throw stones at me if you don’t want me to shatter your glass house.”
“I don’t think that’s how that saying goes.”
He laughs and lifts his shoulders toward the ceiling. “It’s close enough.”
“So, um…” I mumble when the conversation gives way to silence. We’re both heavily involved in consuming our chicken fingers—which he’s right about being delicious—but I don’t feel comfortable enough with him yet to sit in silence. “You seem to know New Orleans pretty well. Have you ever lived here?”
He finishes chewing his bite and wipes his mouth before answering. His manners far exceed my own.
“No. But my mom loves it here. We used to visit when I was a kid, often.”
Wow. He has a mother. That he talks about.
I don’t know why that’s so surprising given he’s a human and that’s biology, but I’d kind of been picturing him as some kind of immaculate spawn of Trent Turner Senior and Mother Earth.
“That’s cool. Do you think your parents will relocate down here when the hotel is done?”
“I doubt it.” He shakes his head and leans forward into his forearms, dropping what’s left of his chicken finger into the basket and sighing. “My mom…” He clears his throat. “She’s got pretty progressive Parkinson’s. All of her doctors are in New York, and…well, my dad is pretty set on keeping her there.”
Wow. I wasn’t expecting that at all. I’m not sure why I always assume rich people can’t get sick—because obviously, they can—but it still comes as a shock when I hear this kind of news.
“I’m sorry,” I say simply, and it’s enough.
Trent nods. “Me too. And thank you. That’s the reason I didn’t come down here when I should have.” He shakes his head. “The reason the schedule is so tight. I just wasn’t ready to leave her.”
My chest constricts and warms, and boy oh boy, am I in trouble.
Not only is Trent incredibly attractive and intelligent…he’s also human and vulnerable and…dare I say it, likable.
The only thing I can think to say that isn’t Make babies with me is about work.
“The schedule is tight, but we’ll make it. I’m confident. It’s a good team, and you’re a good leader.”
“Really?” He raises a skeptical eyebrow, and I laugh.
“Okay. Look. You have a tendency to be despotic…”
He groans pathetically and covers his eyes. I reach out and pull away his hand to uncover them as I keep talking.
“But I can see now that you mean no harm. And you’ve been trying. I can tell, and so can everyone else. Keep it up, and I’m telling you, everything is going to click.”
“I hope so.”
“Hope is a good thing,” I say. “Maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”
He shakes his head, but both corners of his lips curve up enough to form a real smile. Not a little grin or a halfhearted smirk. But a real, honest-to-God, motherfucking beautiful smile.
“Okay, Andy,” he agrees, showing me that he knows I’m quoting The Shawshank Redemption without saying anything else.
“Just getting you used to the idea of prison, Red.”
He laughs and reaches out to grab my basket. “Are you done?”
I’m a little disappointed, not knowing if there’s anything else to look forward to tonight after we leave here, but I can’t even pretend to still be working on it. All that’s left in my basket is a teaspoon of honey mustard and my dirty napkin.
I nod.
He grabs both of our baskets and walks them over to the trash before coming back to the table.
I follow him with my eyes the whole way, wondering how things could have changed this much in this amount of time.
After donning his jacket again, he takes my hand, helps me from the booth, and doesn’t let go as we walk to the door.
I’m so lost in my butterflies, I don’t even bother asking where we’re going.
Jackson Square is nearly deserted as we stroll through the park and stop by an artist right in front of Saint Louis Cathedral. In the coming weeks, Carnival and Mardi Gras will take over, but for now, it’s relatively peaceful.
We’re still holding hands.
I haven’t uttered a word since we left the restaurant, nervous that my normal smartass chatter will ruin the mood.
Trent hasn’t spoken either, but he doesn’t seem nearly as anxious as me.
He holds up a finger to ask if I can hang out for a minute, and when I nod, he lets go of my hand.
I’m immediately disappointed in myself for not being argumentative.
Nevertheless, I wait silently as he goes up to the artist and asks him a question I can’t hear. There’s an exchange, the artist nods, and Trent comes back to me.
“Come on,” he says. “Come over here.”
I do as he says, but not without some questions. The fact that he arranged whatever this is without me is a red flag.
The artist is rearranging his display and getting out a new canvas, and before I know it, Trent is pushing me down onto a little red stool.
I shake my head and try to stand up, but he nods and holds me down.
“Greer, this is Ben. And he’s going to paint you.”
“Me? Why? Why not you?”
“Because.”
“No, no, I think I’m good. I really have one of those faces that’s better in real life than in a still shot.”
Ben the artist laughs, and Trent smiles, ushering me back into the seat I’ve just vacated.
“Just enjoy it,” he coaches. “Ben is a professional.”
Ben nods, and other than telling them both to fuck off, I’m pretty sure I’ve run out of options.
Nervous and twitchy, I keep my seat and try to remember to breathe as Ben gets to work.
Trent doesn’t stop smiling the entire time. But while Ben is watching me, and Trent is watching Ben, I’m watching Trent. His eyes are heated and appreciative, a
nd my stomach turns over on itself.
Thirty minutes pass, and aside from Ben’s painting, the only thing that’s changed is how much sexual tension is in the air.
I am a live wire and Trent is water, and I’m afraid when we touch again, we just might explode.
Trent pays Ben and takes the painting before grabbing my hand with his free one and leading us back to our apartment building.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this quiet in my entire life.
Trent leads us both to his door and stops in front of it, still holding on to my hand.
My heart gallops like a Thoroughbred on the racetrack.
Time seems to stand still as he sets down the painting, turns my back to his door, and presses me up against it. My breasts heave so hard in my dress, they come into my line of sight with every inhale.
His body is still in motion—which is good since I’m a statue—and he doesn’t stop until we’re pressed together from chest to hips. I’m an absolute wreck, but I’m also ecstatic, so I don’t protest as his lips touch mine.
The contact is gentle at first, just a whisper of a kiss that I feel all the way from my vagina to my toes.
He hovers there, holding the light contact until I can’t take it anymore.
My throat feels dry, my chest feels like it’s going to explode, and my stomach has a low, burning ache I don’t think will ever go away.
Faced with a deteriorating body, I work on fixing the only thing I can, and I lick my lips to moisten my mouth.
Of course, that means I don’t just lick my lips. His are there too, pressed to mine, and the feel of running my tongue along the pair of them sends us into a frenzy.
I feel a tug on my hair as he digs a hand into it and pulls me closer, melding our bodies in such a way that I know I turn him on. His dick is hard and heavy, and dear God, being up against it like this is so much better than dreaming about it.
His tongue pushes into my mouth, curling around the tip of mine and exploring like Lewis and fucking Clark.
It’s apt, seeing as we’re in Louisiana, and my eyes start to roll back in my head.