by Max Monroe
“In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel.
Without thought, my feet start to move, through my living room, out the door, and over to the place where his door should be.
Only, instead, his door is open, and there, in the center of the living room, is Trent, fully dressed and pressed in his tux and finery, holding an 80s style boombox over his head and doing a very impressive John Cusack.
Oh my God.
“Say Anything is one of my favorite movies,” I whisper.
It doesn’t matter that the music is blaring; somehow, he still hears me.
“I knew it would be.”
I have to strain my voice to say something back over the music. “That’s either really sweet or really creepy.”
He lowers the boombox from above his head, turns down the volume, and smirks. “Which one are you gonna go with?”
I scan the room dramatically, bending at the waist and stooping down to look on the shelves of his furniture. When I’m done, I look him in the eye again and put my hands to my hips. “Well, I see no shrines to my womanhood, containers of teeth, bags of hair, or little glass jars filled with questionable preserves, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and say sweet.”
“I keep all of that stuff in my bedroom.”
His snark makes me laugh. It’s obviously very delicate and in no way contains a snort.
I check the time on my fancy watch—one that belonged to my mother—that I only wear on special occasions and gasp. “Oh my God, I’m sorry I’m so late. Didn’t you say the ball starts at seven thirty?”
He chuckles, puts the boombox on the kitchen island, and grabs his keys, wallet, and cell phone from the surface.
By the time he makes it to me and places one, perfectly tender kiss on my cheek, I’ve drawn my eyebrows together.
“Trent?” I ask as he spins me toward the door and puts gentle pressure on the small of my back.
We’re out in the hall, locking up behind ourselves when he finally answers. “I told you it was seven thirty, but it’s really eight thirty. We’ll be on time.”
Someone else might be offended at his assumption, but I am relieved. My voice is shrill as I congratulate him on his success. “Yes! Thank you! I’ve been telling Emory for years to con me if she wants me to be on time! Well done, you!”
His chuckle makes his smile seem especially radiant, and I get lost in it pretty damn easily.
If it weren’t for the gentle guidance he gives my body with the palm of his hand, I’d stand there and stare at him all night.
Instead of taking the stairs as usual, he leads me around the corner and pushes the call button for the elevator. My feet are thankful.
“So, is there anything I should know?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“You know, about tonight. Any particular way I should behave? Any topics I should avoid?”
“You think I invited you so you would have to pretend to be something you’re not?” He shakes his head. “Be yourself. I have faith that you’ll know what would be taking it too far and what wouldn’t be.”
I snort. While I appreciate his faith in me tremendously, I’m not sure it’s well placed. “Uh…I’m not known for great decision-making in social situations. I understand the sentiment, but I’m not sure you’re making the smartest business decision.”
The elevator arrives with a ding, opening its doors and beckoning us to step inside. I’m all ready to comply when Trent pulls me back, turns me toward him, and takes hold of both of my hands.
The elevator closes and leaves, and a hive of very busy bees breaks out in my stomach.
“Uh, shouldn’t we have—”
“Greer,” Trent says, giving my hands a gentle tug to get me to look at him instead of the elevator. When I do, his face is serious and so handsome, it actually hurts to look at him.
Strong jaw, chiseled cheeks, and majestic green eyes are seemingly my weakness.
“Attending the ball is about business. You’re right. A business you just so happen to be passionate and knowledgeable about and heavily involved in. But tonight, the whole experience is about you and me on a date. It’s the part I care about more, and the part I’m choosing to focus on. The ball is just the backdrop.”
“Is it just me, or have you, like, taken a crash course in swooniness in the last twenty-four hours?”
He pushes the button for the elevator again, leaning away from me momentarily, only to come back and wrap an arm around my waist.
I’m shivering in all my feels, but he seems perfectly composed.
“Nope, no advanced schooling. You’re just not used to me as a date.”
“Well, shit. If I’d known dating made you this nice, I would have done it from the beginning.”
His lips brush the shell of my ear, and he whispers, “It wouldn’t have worked.”
“Why?” I ask, the anticipation and excitement of this newfound feeling he’s giving me making my skin feel electric.
“Because I thought I hated you then.”
I laugh. “You’re right.”
He nods, and then I bring the hammer down because I’m ruthless and inappropriate and, despite what he seems to think, I have trouble not ruining a moment.
“Except, I didn’t just think I hated you. I did. I’ve got the voodoo doll to prove it.”
“So that’s why, way back in January, I had to ingest an unnecessary amount of TUMS and Pepto Bismol.” He quirks an adorable brow, and I giggle.
“Okay, so maybe I don’t have a voodoo doll, but I can’t deny I was tempted.”
Trent just grins. “Just so we’re clear, I know I had moments of being a real dick, but—”
“A lot of moments,” I correct.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Okay. But you’re weren’t a peach either, honey.”
I act affronted, and he just laughs and wraps his arm around me tighter as he leads me into the elevator cart. “It’s okay, though,” he adds and hits the button for the lobby. “Because all that sass and sarcasm are two of my favorite things about you.”
Two of his favorite things about me?
As in, he has several favorite things about me.
Goddamn. Date Trent is just dropping swoon bombs all over the fucking place.
Fingers and toes crossed I don’t spontaneously combust before I get to enjoy more of this irresistible guy.
Velvet drapes and flower waterfalls cover the walls of Gallier Hall, this year’s location for the mayor’s Mardi Gras ball, and candlelit tables dot the space of the room like stars.
My eyes flick left and right and up and down, completely unable to latch on to any one thing, there’s so much going on.
Performers dance in synchronization in the corner below aerial silks, and I wonder if they’ve just finished their routine or are about to get started.
Trent’s hand is warm in mine, and as a bonus, he hasn’t made the barest mention of how sweaty mine has gotten.
I don’t know if it’s my nerves or the fact that I’m just not used to holding hands with someone for extended periods of time, but my glands seem to be in overdrive.
“Is it hot in here?” I ask a little manically.
Trent smiles at my panic, which just seems to make me panic more.
“No? Just me? Are you seriously not sweating at all?” I ask, wiping at my brow with my free hand.
Trent watches me closely for only a moment before pulling me close and whispering in my ear. “Just relax,” he soothes. “Have fun. I promise you don’t need to be this worked up. In fact, why I don’t get you settled at our table and then go get you a drink?”
I’m shaking my head before he can finish speaking. If he leaves me alone, sedentary at our table, I will die a quick but painfully awkward death. I can feel it.
No, I need to be moving.
“Why don’t you go schmooze a little, and I’ll go get us drinks,” I suggest instead. “It’ll give me something to do and a little time to calm down before I have t
o talk to anyone.”
He agrees easily enough—and by easily enough, I mean he gives in when I threaten to throw a shitfit in the middle of the room like a Pixy-Stix-fueled toddler—and leaves me to go say hello to some of the other hotel owners he knows.
When I get in line for the bar, I make sure to pay special attention to the bartender’s name—and gender—and paste a huge smile on my face.
This night will require steady drinks, and in the name of making that possible, I’m going to be this bartender’s favorite goddamn person if it kills me.
“Hi,” I say with a little flirtation, using the fact that this one is really a man to my advantage. He smiles back and glances down at my heaving bosom, and I know I’m in business. “I’ll take a Chardonnay—big glass,” I emphasize, “And a…a…”
Well, fuck. Why in the hell didn’t I ask Trent what he wants to drink? Am I the most terrible date in the universe?
The longer I pause, and the rowdier the alcohol-thirsty crowd behind me gets, the more my carefully placed flirtation and big breasts start to wear off.
Frankly, if I don’t get something out soon, I’m pretty sure they’re going to end up calling an ambulance for me because of signs of a stroke, so I spit out the first thing that comes to mind and move on with my life.
“An old-fashioned.”
It’s fancy and niche and seems appropriate for the venue, if nothing else.
If Trent hates it, he’ll only have himself to blame for not giving me something specific to order.
When I find Trent with a group of people I don’t know, but only can assume are important, I’m too focused on the trauma from the bar to worry about anything else.
He takes his drink with gratitude as I hand it to him, and then after taking a quick sip, smiles down at me.
“How did you know I like old-fashioneds?” he asks.
I guffaw. “I didn’t. I picked the first thing that came to mind when everyone behind me started to take out their pitchforks and yell. There’s a real problem with mob mentality in this country. It was like a—”
Cutting me off with a squeeze of my hip, Trent turns me toward the group we’re standing with and introduces me. “This is my date, Greer Hudson.” They all nod hello, but their eyes are wide. Probably from the hot mess they’ve just overheard.
“Greer, this is the mayor, her husband, and a few members of the royal court.”
“The royal court?”
“Appointing royalty is a Mardi Gras ball tradition,” he explains. “Our mayor is the queen, her husband the king, and Jules, Bonee, and Ty are all local business owners and members of the royal court.”
The mayor’s face is kind as she asks, “Are you new to New Orleans, dear?”
I consider lying because that’d probably sound better than the truth, given my lack of knowledge of Mardi Gras, but I’d never be able to support it with any details. This is the only place I’ve ever lived—the only place I’ve ever really known.
I laugh a little—self-deprecation ripe in the tone. “No, ma’am. I’ve lived in New Orleans all my life. My brother, Heath, owns Coastal Crepes.”
Her eyes light up.
“On St. Phillip Street?”
“Yes, ma’am. It used to be my grandfather’s.”
“I love that place! Best crepes I’ve ever tasted, sweet and savory.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I feel my cheeks blush a little.
Trent’s eyes are wide as he turns to face me. “Your family owns Coastal Crepes?”
I nod.
I don’t know what he’s thinking because he doesn’t say anything else, but I don’t have time to worry about it because the mayor is talking to me again.
“Next year, we need to make sure your brother gets an invitation to the ball too. That’s one of my favorite local businesses, and he does a fabulous job of running it.”
“Thank you. That’s the kind of news that could make him call off the hit man.”
“I’m sorry?” she asks, and the Secret Service-looking guys at her back step a little closer. Trent’s hand convulses in mine.
Oh shit.
“No, no, ma’am,” I mumble in a panic. “Not you. He’d never take out a hit on you. I meant on me. Kid sister and all. Lots of trouble.” I point to the specific location of my problem. “I have a big mouth.”
Trent steps in before I can sink our ship completely, but I’ve got to tell you, we’re definitely taking on water.
“She’s a jokester. Her brother is really proud of everything she’s achieved. We all are. You know, she’s a business owner too. Her design firm, Hudson Designs, is doing all the work for the Vanderturn New Orleans.”
“That’s fantastic,” the mayor says, but she’s shuffling her feet discreetly in the other direction. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of people to mingle with.”
“Of course,” I agree as she turns to go.
She doesn’t ask me to leave, but I’m pretty sure my invitation to next year’s ball is going to get lost in the mail.
“Oh my God,” I say when the whole group has disappeared. “Didn’t I tell you I would mess this up?”
Trent laughs and pulls me in for a hug. The smell of his cologne is better than anything I’ve ever experienced in my entire life, hands down.
I have never smelled a better-smelling human.
“It’s fine. She thought you were funny.”
“She thinks I’m a threat to national security.”
“Maybe,” he teases, and I pull back from his hold enough to glare. “But you’re the most beautiful terrorist I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s not funny at all, Junior.”
“It is. You can’t see it now, but you will later, trust me.”
“Can we just drink and overeat on carbs now, please?” I beg. “I need something I’m good at. And I’m a world champion at stuffing my face.”
He places a soft kiss to my lips—just enough to wake my shit up. Hello, we’re on a date, and your vagina, despite low usage, is still very much aware of how this works.
“We can eat and drink as much as you want. But first, I’d really like to dance.”
“Dance?” I question. “You dance?”
“With you?” he clarifies. “Definitely. With you, I dance all night.”
With teasing and taunting and flirty little kisses, Trent and I spent the rest of the Mardi Gras ball in our own little world. He laughed at my jokes and played with my hair, and by the end of the night, even I thought I was the most beautiful woman in the room.
As a boss, Trent Turner is a formidable man. As a neighbor, he’s almost frighteningly quiet and easy to get along with, and as a friend, he’s a funny match for my banter and open to a good time.
But as a date…he is on a whole other level. He charms. He swoons. He fucking sweeps you off your feet and catches you perfectly with a tight grip on your hand and a winning smile.
He kisses you when he should and gives you space when you need it, and not once did he try to get me to change something about myself.
It was the best fucking date I’ve ever had in my life.
We danced. We drank. We talked. We laughed ourselves silly. And now, we’re in an Uber, heading back to our building.
Trent’s hand is on my thigh, and his long fingers gently massage my skin through my dress.
It’s such a simple gesture. A light touch. A little massage. But fuck, it’s slowly driving me insane. All I can think about is his fingers sliding under my dress and touching me between my thighs.
I am achy and throbbing, and it feels like sexual tension has been building between us for an eternity.
Even when we were hating each other, it was there, an undeniable pull, an irresistible attraction. And now, tonight, after experiencing what it’s like to go on a date with Trent, I feel my mind spinning with all sorts of possibilities of how I want this night to go.
Fuck, I haven’t felt this kind of pull since that New Year’s Eve part
y.
And, honestly, even that experience with the man wearing the Walt mask doesn’t come close to what I’m feeling right now.
I need him.
I want him.
And hell’s bells, I don’t want it to end with a simple kiss goodnight outside our doors.
When the Uber pulls up to our building, Trent helps me out of the car, and hand in hand, we head through the entrance, past the lobby, and onto the elevator.
The cart is silent as we step on, and when the doors begin to shut, I have the insane urge to mold my body to his and kiss that perfect mouth of his so hard it might bruise.
I stare down at my heels and try to calm my near-panting breaths.
But the feel of Trent’s fingers underneath my chin urge my eyes to his. He is mere inches from me now, his chest just barely brushing against mine, and he stares down at me with an intensity that has my heart kicking up in a fast and unsteady rhythm.
“Greer,” he whispers my name like a fucking prayer, and a shiver rolls up my spine.
And before I can respond, before I can tell him I want to spend the night with him, he presses his mouth to mine in a hard and deep kiss.
I moan, and he slips his tongue inside my mouth.
Fuck. He tastes good. He always tastes good.
We kiss until we’re breathless.
We kiss until I’m completely lost in him.
We kiss until the elevator rides up and down the floors of our building more times than I can comprehend.
“Fuck, Greer, I need you,” he whispers against my mouth. “Come home with me.”
“Yes.” I whimper my agreement, and it spurs a sexy as fuck groan from his lungs that I swear I can feel all the way to my fucking toes.
He doesn’t waste any time after that, lifting me up by my ass and wrapping my legs around his waist, and walking us off the elevator.
Fuck if I really even know what’s happening. I’m too focused on kissing him.
I never want to not be kissing him.
I press my hips to his, and he somehow manages to unlock his apartment door.
I moan against his mouth, and before I know it, we’re inside.
And then we lose ourselves to each other. We’re all hands and lips and teeth and tongues. We’re touching and kissing and panting, and it’s like we both want to be doing all of the things, all at the same time.