Tempt Me: A First Class Romance Collection

by Hawkins, Jessica

  “Good. Yours?”

  “Let’s just say my winter-white Tom Ford pants that’re as expensive as they sound were not made for this job.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve warned you before about wearing designer clothing to work.”

  “And let Tom Ford waste away in a closet that couldn’t house a Chihuahua? Please. Anyway, I hear coffee stains are so trendy, nobody’s even talking about them yet.”

  I smile, but I don’t feel at ease. My stomach cramps as I try to force the words to the surface.

  Did anyone turn in a journal?

  The person behind me sighs.

  “So, what’s so good about your morning?” Pete asks over his shoulder as he fills my cup.

  “What do you mean?”

  He turns with the coffee and grabs a lid. “It’s just, every day I ask you how it’s going, and you always say good, no matter what.”

  I blink at him. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Most of the time, but not every day. Sometimes there’s snow or tourists to battle or some days, people just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I hear it all. But not you. Do you ever have a bad day?”

  I don’t know how to answer. Everybody has bad days. I just don’t experience them often—or great days, either. Some might call that boring, but it’s a form of self-preservation. I don’t handle highs and lows like the average person, so I do what I have to do to stay even. “I guess I’m just a generally happy person.”

  Or, I’ve gotten help in that department so long, it’s basically the truth.

  “That’s nice,” he says, sliding the cup across the counter. “I can’t even imagine a day without all hell breaking loose.”

  I glance at the coffee. This is the perfect job for social Pete. Having gotten to know him through my daily visits the last year, I’m fairly certain he likes some chaos in his life. To me, he’s the one who seems happy. I’m just getting by as best I can.

  This is the perfect opening to ask about the lost and found. In fact, I do have difficult days, and that’s why the journal is necessary. I take a breath. “Pete—”

  “Are you two going to chat all morning?” a woman in line asks.

  Pete ignores her. “What’s up, babe? You finally going to try one of my famous scones? On the house. First hit’s free.”

  I envision the journal sitting right between us, underneath the counter. I doubt Pete’d hesitate to open someone’s private diary if it caught his interest. He’s nosy like that. What if he was disgusted? Or showed it to perma-scowl and they found it offensively bad? Worse . . . what if they laughed? It wouldn’t be the first time. In eighth grade, I wrote and performed a poem for drama and stupidly chose the topic of sex. I could barely hear myself over the snickering. The teacher sent a note home to my parents.

  If I ask Pete for my journal and he returns it to me, I have to assume he read it. And perma-scowl too. I could never show my face in here again. I need my journal, but I need this routine too. I pick up my coffee and wait for Pete to finish boasting about his scone recipe. “Not today,” I say when he’s done. “But thanks anyway.”

  “See you later for a refill?” he asks.

  “Maybe.” I wave on my way outside.

  Instead of heading down to the subway, I decide to walk to work. I’m not good with nervous energy. I rarely get anxious anymore, my dad has seen to that, but when my regular coping methods aren’t enough, I write. I put it all in the journal so I can function properly, do my job, play the roles I’m supposed to and fall asleep at night without dark thoughts creeping in. My words come from a corner of my mind I don’t like to shine light on, but sometimes I need to. Not for anyone other than myself to see, though.

  I dial the agency to check in with my assistant.

  “Halston Fox’s line,” Benny answers.

  “It’s me. Is Rich at the office?”

  She hums. “Gee, you could just call him yourself.”

  I half roll my eyes. “I want to come in late, but he gets all judgey when I do.”

  “You can’t. Your dad just called a meeting upstairs. That’s where Rich is headed, and that’s where you need to be in fifteen minutes.”

  Damn. It doesn’t really matter if I’m late—that’s one of the advantages to being the boss’s daughter—but I don’t like to give my dad or Rich excuses for a lecture. “I’ll be there in ten.”

  I hang up, step off the curb, and stick my hand out for a cab. Despite the sun shining bright, it’s still a crisp December day. I wedge my coffee in one elbow and dig in my handbag for my mittens. Before I get them, my phone’s daily reminder rings. I abandon the gloves and get my meds from the side pocket. I don’t normally take them in public, so I hide the bottle in a fist to unscrew the cap.

  A taxi swerves over, disturbing a flock of pigeons. When a bird nearly wings me in the face, I throw my arms up, dumping pills all over the street.

  Shit shit shit.

  “In or out,” the cabbie yells.

  The alarm continues to ding. A couple people stop on the sidewalk. “Do you need help?” someone asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say automatically. Little white tablets are scattered on the pavement in a chalky constellation. The only way this moment could get more embarrassing is if I get on my hands and knees to retrieve a bunch of happy pills.

  I leave them to hop in the car. “Fourteenth and Fifth,” I tell the driver.

  Before we’ve even pulled away from the curb, I touch my fingers to the inked feather behind my ear. My mother’s the only person I knew who actually liked pigeons. She insisted birds could love and be loved. For a second, I think I can feel my pulse there, my hammering heart.

  Could the birds have been a message from her? If so, what does it mean?

  She’d had post-partum depression for a few months after I was born. I hadn’t even known until my dad told me following a client meeting where he’d had too many drinks. But once Mom had come out of it, that was it, according to him. Cured. I’ve wondered many times how she would’ve felt about the meds. If the birds are any indication, not supportive. But she isn’t here, is she? I make a mental note to see if I have a back-up stash at home.

  On the top of my purse, sitting precariously close to the edge, is Finn’s card. I pick it up, relieved it didn’t fall out. Why? I don’t intend to do anything with it. Do I? God, he was attractive—taller than anyone I’ve ever dated, but with an almost gentle demeanor. Almost. There was that moment he tried to tell me no. Another where he absentmindedly ran a hand through his golden-brown hair, fisting it with a big, paw-like hand.

  And his lips. Rust-colored and a step beyond kissable. Fuckable? Can lips be fuckable?

  That man’s could.

  I blush, even though I’m alone, and tuck the card into a side pocket. He’s out of my league anyway, and those are the kinds of thoughts reserved for my journal.

  Since only some of my coffee spilled out of the top, I drink what’s left. My walk might’ve been cut short, but at least I have my coffee. I calm down as its familiar taste coats my tongue. I have to forget about the journal. It was a way to distract myself when I needed escape, and I have others. I’ve tried to get rid of them before. Maybe losing that journal is a nudge to move on, another sign from Mom.

  It takes a second to register the loss, but when I do, sadness overwhelms me. I let it. I’m alone for the next eight or so minutes, so I can feel whatever I want without judgment. Some days it’s as though just having the journal keeps me functioning, but I know that’s not true. It takes more than that to maintain my sanity. Not having the journal doesn’t change anything. If I won’t go outside my comfort zone to find it, it must not be that important, right?

  I’ll keep telling myself that until it feels true enough.

  I have seven more minutes to mourn.

  Then it’s back to happy as usual.

  4

  Monday morning, I stake out the coffee shop.

  I ignored fickle fate for an entire Friday an
d a weekend—three days, seventy-two hours. It helped that I had my daughter to distract me. But once Kendra picked Marissa up, I was alone with my thoughts again.

  Alone with her thoughts.

  And I just can’t let it go.

  Finding that journal under my table was an accident? An agenda with one entry wasn’t supposed to lead me right to her? I can’t ignore it. If fate is testing me, I won’t fail. I know one thing for sure about the owner—she comes to Lait Noir. So I make sure to get there when the café opens at the break of dawn.

  Another thing I know for sure? She fascinates me. She’s beautiful in a way that makes her seem untouchable. I don’t want to keep my hands to myself, though. I want to feel and make her feel. I want the journal girl I met a week ago to be the one from the gallery.

  It’s almost nine when I look up from my laptop and spot her across the street, waiting for a break in traffic. Once again, she’s in all black. Her white-blonde hair is pulled back except for a few loose strands that float around her face. Pulling her coat closed, she expertly darts through traffic in knee-high leather boots.

  I quickly slide my laptop into its case, weave through the tables, and get in line. When I hear her heels clicking behind me, I glance back.

  She unfurls a soft-as-fuck-looking gray scarf from around her neck. Her coat is open, her nipples noticeably hard through a dark, sheer blouse.

  She clears her throat.

  I look up. I’ve been caught staring.

  “Are you following me?” she asks.

  “That’d be impressive, considering I’m ahead of you in line.”

  After a tense silence during which she might be planning to deck me, she smiles. She’s messing with me, but like the other night, her sense of humor isn’t so obvious. “Finn, right?”

  “Good memory.”

  The man behind the counter calls me forward. I order a black coffee and angle sideways to ask, “Can I get your drink?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I insist. How’s a latte sound? You like that pumpkin spice stuff?”

  The barista laughs. “Yeah, do you like pumpkin spice, babe?”

  She smiles—at him. That fucker. “Do those even have caffeine?” she asks.

  “I got you,” he says, looking back at me. “Halston likes it black as the devil’s soul. That’s why she keeps coming back to me.” He winks. “That’ll be four-sixty.”

  I give him my credit card but keep my eyes on her. “Halston. Really made me work for that, didn’t you?”

  She reaches by me to take her coffee from the counter. All at once, she’s in my nostrils, my personal space, blocking anything in my vision that isn’t her. She smells like pepper, a hint of masculinity that has me leaning in. Since her hair is pulled back, I see the flash of a tattoo under her ear. I’m keeping tally: secret journal, red bra, fake smoking, strategically placed ink, spicy scent. She hides herself well, and my curiosity’s getting the better of me.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” she says, stepping back before I’ve had my fill.

  “Will you sit for a minute?”

  “No tables . . .”

  “I know a place.” I pick up my coffee, and since I’m headed toward the exit, she has to follow. My predestined table is taken, today of all days, but that’s not where I’m taking her. Near the front of the shop is a deep windowsill that’ll fit just two ass cheeks—one of hers, one of mine.

  She peers outside, and then at me. “Is this about work?”

  “No.”

  Her phone begins to chime. She takes it from her purse. “Don’t answer,” I say.

  She arches an eyebrow at me but silences it. “It’s not a call. I only have a minute.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  She balances on the ledge, facing me. It’s cozy, our knees brushing. She doesn’t pull hers away, and I’m certainly not about to. “Do you . . . come here a lot?”

  I’m about to tease her for what sounds like a pick-up line, but she rubs her elbow in a way that makes me think she might be nervous. I let her off easy. “Best coffee in the neighborhood,” I say. “I’d know. I’ve tried it all.”

  “It’s great,” she agrees. “Convenient too.”

  Convenient. Like me, she must live or work around here. Because it’s mid-morning, I doubt her job is a typical nine-to-five. I soak up details like a sponge. “What’d you decide about the show last week?”

  “Someone told me it was crap,” she says with a shrug. “An eloquent assessment I happen to agree with.”

  I smile, but the mention of the show takes me back to that night. To the way we left things, her walking away under someone else’s arm. Every bone in my body says to leave it alone—because, yes, heartache goes bone deep. The truth hurts. My brain might’ve been on vacation when I started an affair with Sadie, but it came back the day she left. It’s here now, and it knows better. “That man,” I say, “was he your boyfriend?”

  Watching me, she absentmindedly picks at the sleeve of her coffee cup. “You think that’s your business?”

  “Yeah I do.” I’m bluffing. It’s not my business, but I have to know. I can’t put myself in the same situation twice. If she says yes, I’ll walk away right now and won’t look back.

  “Not was,” she says. “Is.”

  “Is?”

  “He is my boyfriend.”

  Fuck fuck fuck. I don’t even blink. This is a hard limit for me. I’ll never get involved with someone like that, someone unavailable, again. I’d thought this was it, though. I really fucking did. I haven’t felt anything in a year, not until I opened that journal. It awoke things in me I feared were dead, and I think this girl—Halston—might understand me.

  Her forehead wrinkles. “Are you okay?”

  “I, uh, yeah.” My legs don’t move. I’m not walking out the door. I need to, and I will, but first there’s the matter of her journal. “It wasn’t the answer I expected.”

  She blushes. Her milky-white skin blooms like a rose. She understands why I bought her coffee and brought her to this tiny windowsill that’s currently digging into my ass cheek. There wasn’t supposed to be someone else.

  “Who is he?” I don’t know why I’m asking.

  She glances at the nude lipstick stain she’s left on her lid. “Are you going to take my coffee back because I have a boyfriend?”

  “After you’ve put your mouth on it?”

  She half-gapes. “I . . . I’m going to be late to work.”

  “I have a confession to make,” I say.

  “I don’t think I should hear it.” She puts her purse over her shoulder and goes to stand.

  “I found your journal.”

  She freezes, then slowly lowers back onto the windowsill. “M-my . . .”

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “It wasn’t . . . what I expected.”

  “It’s yours, isn’t it?” I ask. “I found it here, on the floor. Well, not here,” I point toward the window, “there, under that table.”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “I’ve been reading it. Shitty of me, I know, but I opened it to see if I could find someone to return it to, and your words just fucking gripped me. You write like—”

  “It’s not mine,” she says. “I think you’re confused.”

  I hear her, but the words don’t compute. Since the night of the opening, I’ve grown more and more certain the journal belongs to her. There are some things that don’t add up or coincide with how I pictured her, but that’s not a bad thing. I’m just as captivated by this complex version of my journal girl.

  I memorized some things, so I recite a line for her, one of the many that spoke to me during my past few nights of reading. “‘Hot like ice, you melt me down into clean, razor-sharp need.’”

  “What?”

  “You’re telling me you didn’t write that?”

  She’s white as a sheet.

  “Because I’ve been wanting to tell you—I know that feeling. Hold
ing an ice cube against your skin until it burns, but it also kind of numbs . . . which can be nice.” I sound like a dumbass. “Sorry. Unlike you, I’m not so great with the words—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says under her breath. “People can hear you, you know.”

  “So?” I continue to push. “If you can be melted, does that mean you’re the ice?”

  She stands quickly, nearly upending her coffee. “This isn’t me. That. That isn’t me. It’s not my journal or whatever it is you found. I need to go.”

  And I need to let her. She’s spoken for. She’s not the girl I thought I’d find, but she wrote those words, I feel it in my gut. She’s hurting somewhere, somehow, damaged. Any sane person would walk away. I’ve done damaged. It didn’t work out well. But for fuck’s sake, I’ve never been so baffled by someone I feel might understand me.

  She rummages through her bag and pulls out a fiver. “This is for the coffee.”

  “I told you, it’s on me.”

  Her hand trembles. “Take it.”

  I shake my head. “Halston—”

  She sets the bill on the windowsill and hurries for the exit. She’s gone with even less fanfare than she appeared, my hand grazing the weighty leather binding of her concealed thoughts and desires.

  I fight the urge to go after her the only way I can, by remembering the look on Sadie’s face when she told me she’d chosen him, not me. But the sting isn’t as fresh as it was a week ago.

  I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

  5

  I’ve tracked Halston down twice now.

  I can’t do it a third time.

  Fate may have brought her to me, but at some point, I have to admit it might’ve actually been fate’s asshole cousin coincidence. My instincts have been off before—more severely than I’d like to admit. If it weren’t for the boyfriend, I’d do it. I’d go after her like the persistent fuck I am when I want something badly enough.

  Why does there have to be a boyfriend? How is that I’m torn up thinking about another man’s girl, again?