by Maria Luis
“You’re sidestepping the issue,” she tells me, folding her arms over her chest. “I can’t believe you’re still holding a grudge.”
“Of all the things I could be holding a grudge against you for, the fucking fire hydrant isn’t—” I cut off with a curse. Then again, this is what I was worried about. This constant banter, for me at least, sidelines as foreplay.
Not with any other woman, mind you—but with Zoe? Hell yeah. Put me in a room with her. Don’t even let me touch her, and I’ll be harder than a rock within minutes just thanks to our conversations.
Zoe casually taps the bill of my Blades baseball hat. “So, you’re holding grudges against me?”
No. Zoe’s not the one to blame here—I am. But there’s no way for me to explain that to her without giving up details, and the details aren’t something I’m willing to share. Not even with her or for her. She’s better off not knowing . . . or maybe it’s that I’m better off pretending that parts of my past don’t exist. My heart clenches with the memories, and for the millionth time in three years I wish that I was as emotionless as the public perceives me to be.
Hell, if I was a block of ice, Zoe wouldn’t be getting under my skin right now. I wouldn’t notice the strip of skin above her waistband or the way she smells delicious like fresh citrus. I wouldn’t be tempted to slip my hand around to the back of her neck and drag her over for a kiss. I wouldn’t want to hear all about her year after we went our separate ways.
“Nothing to say to that?” she prompts dryly.
Maybe it’s because I’m so worked up already, but her question reminds me that we need boundaries. Concrete boundaries. Stop thinking about all the ways you want her in bed.
I make a show of whipping off my hat and tossing it on top of the dashboard. With a sigh of frustration, I drag my hand through my hair and say the words I know will have her wanting to flip me off. “Are you going to talk the rest of the way to New York City?”
She freezes, and I count the seconds as she meticulously crosses one leg over the other and folds her hands in her lap. Her knuckles are white from gripping her phone.
Guilt punches me in the gut.
“Zo—”
She cuts me off with a raised palm. “You’re right. I do want to talk the rest of the way to New York. Is that so bad?”
“Is this a trick question?” I ask her, easing the car along a curve in the road. “One of those times where it starts out all fun and games and ends with one of us crying?”
“No.” From her defensive tone, I gather that she actually means yes.
Don’t let her see how much she gets to you. In a rough voice, I say, “What if I have nothing to say?”
She shrugs. “I guess we could sit in silence for the next two hours. I mean, if that’s what you want.”
“I want to listen to the radio.” Scratch that—I want to know if she tastes as good as I remember. Seeing as though that definitely isn’t an option for more reasons than I can name, I’ll settle on listening to the radio and picturing my grandmother in a bikini. Anything to stop thinking about Zoe up against the wall in that damned laundry room.
“Well,” she says pleasantly, “I’d rather be in my brand-new office, but you blackmailed me into this trip. Now you have to deal with the consequences.”
I tug on my earlobe again, something I’ve done since I was kid whenever I’ve felt uncomfortable in a situation. And right now . . . yup, definitely feeling uncomfortable. She’s goading me into doing exactly what she wants. There’s a reason why her clients in Detroit (including myself) called her the “barracuda.” The woman knows what buttons to push and how to push them, and I’m convinced she wouldn’t get away with nearly half of it if she wasn’t so nice.
And, damn it, she knows how to push my buttons, too, because the next thing I know I’m snapping, “Fuck, all right, Zoe.”
She clears her throat. “Is that a yes to talking?”
“It’s a yes to us getting this over with,” I growl, threading my fingers through my hair before clapping my hand back on the wheel again. “Say what you want to say.”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Why is this your last season?”
My shoulders flinch. “That’s off-topic.”
With a little snort, she murmurs, “No surprise there—everything is off-topic with you.”
“I like it that way.” I accelerate the car as we leave the highway-in-the-woods for flatter pastures with gray cement, and walls of rocks on either side of the road. Needing to redirect the conversation, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “You have a boyfriend, Zoe?”
Honestly, I’m not sure which one of us is more surprised by the question. She chokes on air, reaching for the water bottle in the console. “I’m not answering that.”
Unfamiliar jealousy pools in my stomach. Yeah, not exactly the answer I was hoping for. And, yeah, I know that makes me a hypocrite because it’s not as though I’ve spent the last year living like a monk. Even so, one-night stands aren’t nearly the same thing as relationships. For what it’s worth, the only woman I’ve considered asking out in years is Zoe.
The need to push for more information grows. “So, I’m assuming you aren’t dating anyone?”
She’s quiet, shifting around again, and the thought hits me that this attraction might be one-sided. Which is good, absolutely—tell me you’re dating someone so I can get over this irrational need to strip you naked and make you mine.
“Um, you know, I’m dating. Just not one person.” Her voice emerges as a squeak, and she makes another grab for the water bottle.
She’s lying.
“Yeah?” I lower my voice, dropping it to a husky purr. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Great!” She sucks down water like she’s been stuck in the Sahara for weeks. “It’s great. I’m really enjoying it, you know, just playing the field or what not.”
This from the girl who used to make me tag along on her dates because she worried that all men were murderers? I shake my head, doing my best not to laugh. “That good, eh? You’re just taking over the Boston dating scene and showing these men what Detroit women are made of?”
Something flickers in her expression. “Oh, absolutely. I mean, just the other day I went on a date with this . . . ” She swallows. “This—”
“Let me guess,” I say, my mouth finally giving up on the battle and curling up into a grin, “he was a doctor.”
“No.”
“A lawyer?”
She taps her phone against her thigh. “He’s a millionaire.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course he is. Does he have a penthouse, too?”
“You’re assuming I’ve been up to his penthouse.”
The thought of Zoe alone with a guy who may or may not be her boyfriend doesn’t sit well with me, even though I know she’s faking this whole thing. “Have you?”
“Aren’t you dating Suzanne?” she counters.
No. “No chemistry, remember?” I pause, deliberately waiting until she’s practically on the edge of her seat, and then add, “Doesn’t mean that there won’t be other women, though. Just like you’re not exclusive with your . . . penthouse-owning millionaire.”
“You’re a chauvinistic pig.”
At the frustration in her tone, I smother a grin. “I knew you were lying.”
More with the phone tapping. “About what?”
“You dating.”
She’s quiet, probably deliberating her next move. Then, stiffly, she mutters, “I like my life just as it is.”
I hear the seat creak under her weight and then the radio comes back on. It’s an old-rock classic. Seems like she’s over the whole talking thing, too.
I reach for the radio, prepared to turn the volume up. But my hand wavers, dropping back to the steering wheel, and I hear my voice instead, low and raspy. “Me too, Zoe. I like my life just the way it is, too.”
I think we both know that the other is lying.
Chapte
r Ten
ZOE
“Why did we decide to drive again?” I demand two hours later. My legs burn from hobbling in my stilettos for ten blocks. My feet, though I’m too scared to look, have no doubt been torn open and are spilling blood all over the New York City sidewalk—I should have stuck with my sneakers from the morning.
Andre barely spares me a glance as he keeps pace. He’s so tall that his long legs naturally bring him farther, but every few yards he lets the gap close between us again. “I hate flying.”
I forgot about that phobia of his. It’s tough to imagine that the big, bad Andre Beaumont turns scared at the thought of being thirty-thousand feet in the sky. “We could have taken the train,” I tell him, pushing my legs to move faster.
We’re late for our appointment with the editor of Fame.
And, according to my cell phone’s GPS, we’re still four blocks away.
At this rate, my feet will probably snap off as soon as we get in front of the building.
“We’ll be fine,” Andre says, then expels a bundle of curses when my ankle wobbles and I go down.
He catches me about the waist, his arm strong and muscular, and it takes every bit of willpower not to beg him to carry me the rest of the way to Fame’s offices.
“Zoe?” he says, lifting me back up onto my feet. “You good?”
I test my ankle, resisting the urge to wince when a sting flares in the bone. Not wanting to appear a wimp, I shrug off his grasp and wave my hand at him. “I’m good, all good.”
He peers at my face, his dark eyes roving over my features. “You look green.”
“It’s my complexion,” I tell him, brushing away his worry. “I’m naturally olive-toned.”
“You’re Irish. The fact that your dad owns an Italian restaurant doesn’t count.”
I open my mouth to deliver a hot retort, only to realize that I don’t have one. He’s totally right.
Over his shoulder, he flashes me one of his rare grins and then beckons me with his hands. “Give me your bag, Miss Italian, before you actually wipe out and I’m not quick enough to save you.”
Oouut. He’s showing off his Canadian side again.
I don’t put up a fuss and hand him my purse. Without thinking twice, he lifts the strap over his shoulder and continues to march down W. 57th Avenue, like he totally isn’t rocking a hot pink, faux leather bag.
I trail after him, attempting to lift my feet in a way that doesn’t send spikes of pain shooting through the sole of my foot each time the heel of my stiletto meets concrete. “Aren’t hockey players supposed to have quick hands?” I call out to him.
Andre turns around, his arms spreading wide in a this-is-what-you-get pose. “Zo, we both know that I have quick hands.”
That he does. Coming from a place of personal experience, I can totally attest to the fact that Andre does, in fact, have quick hands.
Thankfully, he takes pity on me and my lack of physical strength by doubling back and taking hold of my arm. I spend the last three blocks cursing high-heeled shoes, hockey players, and my own ambition to reclaim my position as a respected public relations coordinator.
We draw to a stop just inside the rotating glass doors of our final stop. I’m panting, totally out of shape, while Andre only looks like he’s been out for a stroll. It’s tremendously unfair.
One glance at my reflection in the mirror behind the front receptionist’s desk, and . . . Oh. My. God. I look wild. Absolutely wild.
And sweaty.
I feel my humiliation seep from my body and splatter on the floor.
“Can I help you?” the woman at the desk asks politely when we approach her. She cuts me a glance, and there’s no way that I miss her brows lifting in horror.
I’m a sight to be had. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her to stop judging me, but Andre cuts in.
“We’re a few minutes late for an appointment with the editor for Fame magazine.” He casually slings my hot-pink purse to his other arm and extends his hand. “Andre Beaumont,” he greets in the most pleasant voice I’ve ever heard from him. “We had some unfortunate issues with parking.”
The woman’s expression turns starstruck at Andre’s introduction. “It’s . . . uh, we don’t really have parking here in New York City. It’s sort of a thing.”
Andre presses a palm to the lip of the desk and leans forward. “Mhmm, we realized that a bit too late. Unfortunately, we’ve just driven in from Boston, and since it took longer than expected . . . ”
“Oh!” She visibly jumps in her seat. “You want to go upstairs.”
“That’d be nice.”
This from Andre, who has quite literally ditched his moodiness for flirtation.
The receptionist’s brown eyes land on me. “Are you his sister?”
Andre lets out a choking noise beside me.
Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because I look a fright, and I’m finally coming to accept that my dream of being respected is slipping away again. Maybe it’s because of five other million things that I refuse to think about, but I slip my hand over Andre’s arm and murmur, “I’d hope not! You don’t kiss your sisters.”
The arm under my hand stiffens, signaling Andre’s surprise. When he tries to pull away, I clutch tighter, refusing to let him go, and widen my smile to scary proportions. “Honey,” I say sweetly, “shouldn’t we be heading upstairs?”
He responds with silence, and I risk a peek up at his face. Oh man. He is not pleased.
In a voice that’s tightly leashed, he growls, “Absolutely. Honey.”
I pat his hand and turn back to the receptionist. “What floor do we need?”
Her gaze darts between Andre and I. “Um, the twenty-sixth.”
“Brilliant.” I give a little finger-wave and tug Andre along.
Each step toward the elevator echoes loudly in the marble-floored lobby. The heels of my stilettos puncture the tile, but it’s Andre’s personal vibration that’s off the charts.
We wait side by side for the elevator to descend to the lobby level. I glance at his reflection in the mirrored doors. A pulse ticks to life in his jaw. With his free hand, he tugs at his left earlobe.
Uh-oh.
With a ping! the elevator doors split open, and a group of businessmen in classy suits spill out.
One of them stutters to a stop at the sight of Andre, his mouth gaping open. “Holy shit, man!” He nudges his buddy in the side. “Holy shit, it’s King Sin Bin.”
Andre tugs his left ear again.
The man’s friend reacts appropriately, and echoes, “Holy shit. Dude.”
I’m not sure to whom the “dude” is directed, but Andre apparently seems to think it’s for him because his face adopts what I would consider a “scary” expression—lip curling and everything—and the men scurry off, their proverbial tails tucked between their legs.
“Seriously?” I demand, pointing to their retreating backs. “See? That’s what gets you in trouble, Andre. You can’t just go terrifying people like that and expect for it all to be just peach—”
“Get in the elevator.”
At his high-handed tone, I arch a brow and fold my arms over my chest. “Excuse me?”
His dark eyes flirt over me. “Zoe, get in the elevator.”
No way is he pulling this sort of stunt. I stare at him unwaveringly. “No.”
His big shoulders jolt with surprise, and I actually see the moment he decides to flip the script. The harsh lines of his mouth relax, and the creases fanning out from his eyes ease. In a cajoling tone that would totally manipulate a weaker person, he murmurs, “Please, honey. Get in the elevator.”
My ears twitch at the endearment. It was one thing to say it in front of the receptionist. It’s another thing entirely to say it away from other people, when it’s just us . . .
The elevator pings again, and this time I step through. I don’t do it for him; I do it for me. Because whatever showdown that’s about to happen has been a long
time coming, and it’s probably for the best if we don’t have witnesses.
Andre follows behind me.
We take our respective sides at either end of the small box.
Slowly, like in a bad B-rated horror movie, the doors slide closed until they click and shut us in. I spare Andre a single glance, then release a breath as I jab at the button for floor twenty-six.
The elevator surges up.
I hear, rather than see, Andre set my purse on the ground. My chin tips his way, my eyes narrowing on his muscular frame.
“Are you over being a high-handed jerk?” I ask, shifting slightly so my back presses against the elevator wall. My hands find purchase on either side of my hips on the wooden railing. “Because I can tell you right now that it is going to be a long way home if you keep up the Mr. Testosterone act.”
The elevator pings, pings, pings quietly with each floor we hit.
“I think we have a problem.”
At Andre’s confession, I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly and say, “It’s called ‘ego.’ I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”
Andre comes closer. There’s not much room in this elevator, especially not for someone of his size, but that doesn’t stop me from staring at him and shoving my butt up against the wall.
“Andre,” I say, “you’re kind of freaking me out.”
His tongue touches the center of his full bottom lip, and that one caress sends heat down to places I wish it wouldn’t. “I’m freaking myself out,” he answers.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
“Is this where I pretend that you took a crazy pill when I wasn’t looking? Just so you know, there’s nowhere for you to store my body in here. You can’t get away with murder.” My breath hitches at his intense expression. I know that look. The last time I saw that look, my pencil skirt ended up on the ground, and my panties landed inconspicuously on the doorknob to the Red Wings’ laundry room facility.
Andre slowly shakes his head. When the words I suspect are coming actually leave his mouth, my knees nearly crumble beneath me.