Choose Me

by Donya Lynne

  “What type of surgeon did you want to be?”

  “Heart,” she says without hesitation. “There was this episode during ER’s first season where a patient needed a heart transplant or he wouldn’t survive the night. I decided right then that I wanted to be a heart surgeon.”

  “What happened? Why didn’t you?”

  She shrugged. “I grew up.” Her long fingers curl around the base of her wine glass. “I learned how much schooling I would need to become a doctor, let alone a surgeon. And after doing more research, being a surgeon wasn’t as exciting as I thought. That was my first lesson in how Hollywood dresses up reality so that it looks more glamorous than it really is.”

  “Hollywood has a way of doing that.” I give her a teasing wink when she glances up at me. “It tricks innocent children into thinking life is a lot prettier than it is.”

  The corner of her mouth quirks. “Are you making fun of me, Mr. James?”

  I take her hand, and she folds her fingers over mine as she inches closer on the leather seat. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Ms. Clayton.”

  “So what else do you want to know about me?”

  For the next hour and a half, we work through the list of questions, which makes us laugh more than anything, eat our fancy dinner, share an opulent dessert of chocolate cake so decadent it’s fit for royalty, and drain the last of the bottle of wine into our glasses.

  “So, what’s your favorite color?” I ask, taking a break from the list of questions on my phone.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “My mood. The season.” She smiles and brushes her hand in the air. “The direction the wind is blowing.” She winks and gestures toward my suit. “Let me guess, your favorite color is blue.”

  I glance down, smoothing my hand down my lapels. I’m wearing blue on blue on blue.

  I grin sheepishly. “Normally, I would say yes, but blue hasn’t been my friend for the past couple of days.”

  A cute little V forms above the bridge of her nose as her eyebrows scrunch. “Why? What happened?”

  “Nothing happened.” I lower my voice and lean closer. “It’s just that blue balls aren’t very comfortable.”

  She nearly spits out her wine as she bursts into laughter. We’re both tipsy, and it shows.

  I kick back in my seat and lift my glass, swirling the last bit of my wine. “You laugh,” I tease, “but blue balls are nothing to laugh at. I was in a lot of distress.”

  She dabs her cloth napkin under her eyes. “I’m sure you were.” She continues giggling.

  “But yeah, that’s why blue isn’t my favorite color today.”

  She sighs as the last of her giggles evaporate. “I hope I’m not the reason for your blue balls.”

  I only smile and sip my wine, holding her gaze.

  Realization surfaces in her eyes. “Oh.”

  Grinning slyly, I slide closer on the cushioned seat. “Don’t worry, I prevented the worst of it. But damn, Katherine, you’ve given me a lot to think about the past two days. Not that I’m complaining. I like thinking about you. It’s just distracting when I’m trying to work.”

  Her cheeks flush red, and she touches the tips of her fingers to the skin at the base of her neck as she averts her gaze. “I’ll try not to do anything tonight to make your predicament worse.” She glances up at me out of the corners of her eyes.

  I drape my arm over the back of the cushion behind her and meet her wry smile with one of my own. “It’s too late for that, Katherine. It was too late the moment you walked in the door. I’ll be thinking about you the rest of the week now.”

  She drops her gaze, her face flushed, her smile both contemplative and awkward. She’s rattled, and I can see her arousal mounting both by the way she nibbles the inside of her bottom lip and the way her chest rises and falls more heavily.

  “Greyson James,” she says slowly, thoughtfully, as if trying to distract herself. She’s sitting so close now that her leg is pressed against mine. “You have a strong name. It rolls nicely off my tongue.”

  Hearing my name purr out of her works better at turning me on than if she’d licked the side of my neck.

  I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I think Katherine Clayton rolls nicely off mine.” The double entendre is intended, and from the way she bites her bottom lip as she angles her face toward me, I know she picked it up.

  And that’s when I know.

  Despite my plans to behave tonight, I’m going to do something careless. Something foolish. Something undeniably reckless.

  Something liberating.

  _________

  Katherine

  My face heats as I decipher the double meaning to his words. I would very much like to be rolling off his tongue right now. Or rather, I would like his tongue rolling over me. I have yet to experience that particular pleasure from him outside my fantasies. But I have no doubt that his tongue will be just as masterful on my lady parts as his impressive cock.

  It’s suddenly too hot in the restaurant, and I give him an over-the-shoulder look that I’m sure is sending all kinds of fuck-me signals. As in, fuck me in this booth, fuck me on the table, fuck me on the floor, and fuck me against the wall next to that impressive, silver-framed photograph of the Eiffel Tower.

  I shouldn’t have had so much wine. It’s impaired my judgment, and I can feel myself slipping further into lust’s clutches. Gochet Arlain’s atmosphere doesn’t help. The candlelit centerpieces on each table create tiny, intimate pockets. Private bubbles where diners can feel like they’re in their own closed-off world. Greyson and I are in ours, and we’re creating our world as we go.

  He touches my hair again, and his fingertips brush across my neck, sending electric shockwaves through my body, all of which converge between my legs. I don’t dare look at him, or I’ll melt into a puddle of need with only one cure. Sex. And not just any sex. Sex with him. Sex with Greyson.

  And, God, I would prefer not to have sex with him again tonight. I mean, sure, having sex with him would be fantastic, especially given how things went with him Saturday, but I would really like to prove to him that I can behave like a lady. Dropping onto my back and pulling him between my legs isn’t very ladylike.

  A moment of lucidity somehow finds its way back into my consciousness. Probably because all kinds of warning signals are going off in my body. If we don’t back away from this line of conversation, I’m going to end up flat-backed on the table with my legs wrapped around his hips as he fucks me blind in front of God and everyone.

  “You know, I promised myself I wouldn’t get carried away the next time I saw you.”

  He blinks and pulls back a fraction, awareness alighting in his eyes as if he’s coming back into himself, too. “So did I.” He smooths his hand over his tie then straightens his suit jacket.

  “Not that I don’t like where our conversation was going,” I say with a smile, “but maybe if we stick to the questions on your list, we’ll stay on safer ground.”

  “Right.” He clears his throat and loosens his tie as he picks up his phone. “Good idea.”

  From the bulge in his trousers, he’s as aroused as I am, and I’m reminded of how all that flesh felt inside me.

  I have a bad feeling I’ll be breaking my promise to myself before the night is over, but I’m going to at least try to see it through.

  He scrolls through the questions on his phone. “Ah, here’s a good one. If you could have dinner with anyone in the world, who would it be?” His eyes meet mine.

  I bite my bottom lip and let my gaze travel down his body and back up. “I kind of like my present company.”

  He’s breathing harder than he was earlier, and his eyelids are heavier. “I could say the same thing.” He surveys my face. “But if you were to have dinner with someone other than me—anyone in the world—who would it be?”

  I’m struggling to think of anyone but him, but I manage to come up with a name. It’s the first one that pops
into my mind, but only because I was singing along to “Walk this Way” on the way to the restaurant.

  “Steven Tyler.”

  “Of Aerosmith?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why him?”

  “Honestly, he’s the first person I thought of.” I laugh, and he laughs with me. “But he’s so interesting, don’t you think? He’s funny and honest and doesn’t pull punches. How refreshing would dinner with him be?”

  “I like your choice.” His arm is resting on the cushion behind me again, and the tips of his fingers are slowly brushing back and forth on my shoulder. “I saw this video of him a few weeks ago where he was standing in a crowd watching a street performer who was singing his song . . .” He frowns and snaps his fingers as if trying to recollect a memory. “What’s that song he did for that movie, the one with Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck?”

  “‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’ from Armageddon?”

  “That’s the one,” he says. “Anyway, he’s standing in the crowd and this street performer is performing his song, totally oblivious that Steven Tyler is right there, watching him. After about a minute, Steven walks up to the guy and starts singing with him. Poor guy was shocked to hell. Looked like he didn’t know what was happening.” He lifts his glass as if he’s making a toast then brings it to his mouth for a quick sip. “I mean, here’s this superstar rock singer, and he’s just out doing whatever and takes the time to stop and listen to some kid on the street singing his song, and then he joins him, singing a duet with the guy. How incredible, right? Not many public figures with his popularity would do something like that.”

  I nod. “He seems really down to earth, but in a larger than life kind of way. That’s why I think he’d make the perfect dinner companion. It’d be like spending a couple of hours with a star about to supernova.”

  He throws his head back and laughs, and the full, rich sound rolls over me like ocean surf. Not calm surf, either. More like the kind surfers brag about. Big waves worth riding like the watery stallions they are.

  And I would definitely classify Greyson as a stallion.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Who would you want to have dinner with?”

  His laughter fades, and a note of sadness touches the outer corners of his eyes. “My father.”

  The way he says it is almost a cry of despair spoken on a whisper, and I instantly know his father is dead. This conversation just took a grim turn, and my heart breaks a little at the somber line of his mouth and the look of loss that sets up shop in his expression.

  I lay my hand over his wrist, and he lifts his gaze to mine.

  “He died when I was fifteen,” he says in explanation.

  Offering him a sympathetic smile, I slide my palm over the back of his hand. “I’m sorry. Were you close?”

  “He was my hero.”

  Part of me wants to ask for more. How did he die? What happened to him?

  I can tell there’s a deeper story here than Greyson’s telling, but I’ve known him less than forty-eight hours. I’m not entitled to such private memories yet, especially ones that are as obviously painful as his father’s death seems to be.

  He smiles and turns his hand over to knit our fingers together. “What about you? Are you close to your father?”

  It’s a clear attempt to change the subject, but I don’t object. I know if it were my dad who died, I’d be devastated, and I doubt I’d ever feel comfortable talking about it.

  “Yes.” Fondness wraps around my heart. My dad and I are very close. I’m what you might refer to as a daddy’s girl. “He was my hero growing up, too. Still is, really.” A private smile engulfs my face as I recall all the special moments I shared with my dad, and I relax into the leather seat, crossing my legs as I angle my body toward Greyson.

  “Do you have any favorite memories with him?” he asks.

  “Fishing.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

  I pretend to be affronted. “Is it so surprising to learn I enjoyed fishing with my dad?”

  He scoots closer. “Very surprising . . . but hot.” He winks. “A woman who knows how to tie an arbor knot is so sexy.”

  I laugh. “Don’t get too excited. I was horrible at knot tying. In fact, I don’t even know what an arbor knot is.” But the fact that he does confirms that he’s more of an outdoorsman than I originally thought.

  His fingers grip mine more securely. “An arbor knot is used to tie your fishing line to the spool. I’ll teach you how to tie one sometime”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. My dad tried for five years to teach me how to tie fishing knots before giving up. For some reason, I could never grasp it. No matter how hard I tried, I was a colossal failure.” I shoot him a playfully sardonic look. “The only knot I’m any good at tying is the one that keeps my sneakers on my feet.”

  His warm, attentive smile hits me deep in my belly. He really does have a nice smile. A genuine smile. One that’s infectious and speaks of compassion and a kind heart.

  So far, Greyson isn’t cooperating with my quest to find any faults with him.

  “Did you and your dad go fishing a lot?” he asks.

  I nod. “One summer, we went fishing almost every other weekend.” That was the summer after Mom died. We’d both needed the time away.

  “Are you saying that after all that practice, you never learned how to tie a knot?” He’s teasing me.

  “What can I say? I’m fishing knot challenged.” I take a quick sip of wine, pushing aside thoughts of my mom. “Let me put it this way. If the world were in jeopardy of total annihilation, and humanity’s survival relied on me being able to tie a fishing knot, the human race would perish.”

  Once more, his rich laughter rings out, and it fills me with warmth the way Christmas carols fill me with the holiday spirit.

  He turns to face me and props his elbow on top of the seat cushion then rests the side of his head against his hand, watching me. “Why hasn’t someone gobbled you up already?”

  His words wash over me like a refreshing breeze. He sounds as if he can’t believe he’s fortunate enough to have this chance with me.

  “Someone did . . . once.”

  “Your ex-husband.” He appears curious but unfazed. “Phil.”

  I’m not surprised he knows about Phil since he knew my married name was Kelley.

  I nod. “I met him in college.”

  “And he let you go?” There’s a hint of jealous concern in his voice.

  I stare into the last inch of wine in my glass. The bottle is already empty. “Actually, I let him go. After what he did to me, I couldn’t stay with him.”

  Greyson’s head tilts more sharply as he studies me. “I can already see where this is going.”

  I swallow the last of my wine then set my empty glass aside. “I probably should have known what was going on,” I say, “but I was a lot more trusting when I was younger. By the time I learned he was cheating on me, the affair had been going on for almost two years. I felt like such a dummy.”

  “You’re not a dummy.”

  “Just blind.”

  He issues an exasperated huff. “You’re not responsible for your ex-husband’s infidelity.”

  “But I feel like I should have known.”

  He places his free hand over mine. “Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, Katherine. Once you know the truth, it’s easy to look back and say his cheating should have been obvious, but we have to go by what we know when we know it. In real time. We don’t get the luxury of foresight in the present moment. Besides, when someone wants to sneak around behind your back, they can be very convincing.” He sighs then says quietly, “The best cheaters usually are.”

  I’m grateful for his kind, reassuring words.

  Even though it’s been over six years since I found out about Phil’s extramarital escapades, I still feel as though I’m partly to blame. Maybe not for causing him to cheat, but for not catching on sooner. The pattern was there. Every time he tr
aveled to Los Angeles, which was at least once a month, he rarely called. When he made trips to Seattle, San Francisco, Phoenix, and every other city on the West Coast, he called every night. Now I know he only did that to keep up appearances. Los Angeles was the only trip where he maintained radio silence.

  Then there were the text messages he received at nine o’clock at night. Messages he claimed were from his boss. But men don’t generally smile like adolescent boys about to get lucky with the head cheerleader when they’re texting their bosses.

  I’d been so blind. But Greyson is right, it wasn’t my fault. Phil was very convincing. I’d loved him, and part of loving is trusting. Being faithful is also part of loving, but Phil couldn’t live up to his end of our marital vows.

  “I hate adultery,” Greyson says almost absently, but despite his quiet tone, the words snap out of his mouth like rocks from a slingshot. “It’s probably the only thing I can truly say I hate.”

  Looks like I’m not the only one who’s been affected by infidelity.

  I turn my hand over and secure it around his. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  He smiles, and the gesture appears as victorious as I feel. But there’s more to it than that. I sense hope in his smile. As if he’s ticking items off his own mental checklist of the perfect woman while I’m still searching to find a fault in him.

  Does he even have any faults?

  For the first time since starting these annual summer flings, I consider that maybe I don’t want to find any faults this time around. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . the end of summer will come and I still won’t have a reason to break up with him.

  But I have to. That’s the way these flings are supposed to work. That’s the promise I made to myself.

  A fault will present itself. It always does.

  Chapter 13

  Greyson

  It’s after ten o’clock. We’ve been at Gochet Arlain over two hours, but I have no desire for the night to end.

  The conversation has flowed more easily than I expected it to. There’s something comfortable about Katherine that makes talking to her easier than pulling on my favorite sweatshirt. There hasn’t been a single quiet or awkward moment between us since we moved past the business part of tonight’s dinner.