by Regina Kyle
“No.” She stared him down.
He was saved from further interrogation by the alarm on his cell phone. He pulled it out of his pocket and swiped the screen to silence it.
“Let me guess.” She bent to pick up his shoes and handed them to him. “Time for you to wow Wall Street?”
“If you mean my status conference, then yes.” He sat to slide on his sneakers, a beat-up pair of Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars Ginny had dug out from the back of his closet. Nothing high-rent about them.
“Well, it’s been fun.” Brooke flipped her hair back, trying too hard to seem casual. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
He stood and took her by the shoulders. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Pretending this thing between us is over.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” Not by a long shot. He wasn’t giving up the best thing that had happened to him since he made his first million. And that paled in comparison to the feelings Brooke stirred in him, feelings he couldn’t quite put into words. His alarm chimed again, and he silenced it. “It isn’t.”
He kissed her hard and fast to prove his point, like an exclamation mark on his declaration. “Are you working tonight?”
She blinked up at him. “No. I’m off until Thursday.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress casual.”
He kissed her again, only slightly gentler than the last time. Then, without another word, he crossed the room and strode out the door, knowing he’d left her in the same condition he was in. Hot, bothered, and wanting more.
Chapter Seven
Brooke read the tile sign on the station wall as the subway train slowed: Greenpoint. “For the hundredth time, where are you taking me?”
Eli gave her the same secretive smile he’d given her every other time she’d asked the question on their forty-five-minute underground journey. “For the hundredth time, be patient and you’ll find out.”
“You’re the newcomer. Shouldn’t I be the one showing you around town?”
“You have.” He stood as the train came to a stop, and she did the same. “You took me to that little Italian restaurant where the ninety-year-old owner still makes meatballs by hand every day. Introduced me to the joys of walking the Brooklyn Bridge in a snowstorm. Now it’s my turn. They say you never take advantage of what’s in your own backyard.”
“A few flurries hardly amount to a snowstorm.” She jockeyed for position next to him as they waited with a cluster of noisy teenagers for the doors to slide open. “And almost an hour on the subway’s not exactly my own backyard.”
“Close enough.” He extended a gloved hand, and she took it with her own. Two layers of fleece and she could still feel the heat that erupted between them at even the most innocent touch. Not that there had been many of those. It seemed every time they got their hands on each other they wound up naked and horizontal. “Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”
“I’m sure it will.” If there was one thing she’d learned in the weeks since Eli had fixed her plumbing—pun intended—it was that no time spent with him was wasted. He had a way of turning the most mundane things, like washing dishes or grocery shopping, into special occasions.
Or maybe it’s not the occasion that’s special, a voice in her head taunted. Maybe it’s the man.
She ignored it, the commitment-phobe in her not ready for the feelings Eli was stirring up, and followed him up the stairs to the street. Their breath made little clouds in the crisp, clear evening air as they walked the few blocks to Manhattan Avenue, where Eli pulled up short in front of an unassuming storefront. The sign above the door identified it as the Sunshine Laundromat and Cleaners. Someone inside obviously had a sense of humor because another sign in the window read: “Try our gourmet vegetarian washing machines and vegan dryers.”
“Here we are,” Eli announced, sounding as proud as if he’d won Olympic gold or ended global warming.
“There must be a hundred Laundromats between here and Sunset Park,” Brooke observed. “And it’s going to be hard to wash our clothes when they’re back at home.”
“Who said anything about washing clothes?”
“What else is there to do at a Laundromat? Watch strangers’ unmentionables get tossed around in the dryer?” She tightened her scarf around her neck and blew into her gloves. Damn, it was cold. Spring couldn’t get there soon enough. Brooklyn came alive when the weather warmed up. Hunting for bargains at the Brooklyn Flea Market. Playing bocce in Brooklyn Bridge Park. Feeding the goats at the Prospect Park Zoo.
Maybe some people didn’t take advantage of what was happening in their own neighborhood, but not Brooke. She loved the quirky, offbeat vibe of the borough she’d chosen to make her home. And so did Eli, clearly. She could picture them in summer, watching the sun set over Manhattan from—
No, no, no, no, no. She wasn’t doing that. She wasn’t thinking past today. This was about the here and the now and nothing more.
“Cold?” Eli put his arm around her, drawing her tight. “Let’s go inside. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“By a Laundromat?” She burrowed into him. The guy radiated heat like a furnace. Sleeping next to him was like spooning with the sun. “You’ve seen the huge pile of dirty clothes in my closet, right? Doing laundry isn’t my jam.”
“I told you, we’re not doing laundry. And this isn’t your typical Laundromat.”
“What have they got in there?” She peered through the window but couldn’t see much of anything. “Salsa dancers? A bowling alley?”
“No and no.” He pulled the door open and gestured for her to lead the way inside. “But I’ll add those to my list of possible future outings.”
He had a list of possible future outings? Her heart stuttered, but her inner commitment-phobe stepped in again and tamped it down.
Here and now. Nothing more.
She obeyed his unspoken request and crossed the threshold. At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A row of washing machines on one wall, dryers against the other. Those metal carts for transferring laundry. Tables for folding. A couple of late-night customers sat in uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs watching the Rangers game on a flat-screen TV. The only things out of place were two ancient pinball machines in the corner.
“Pinball?” She eyed the machines, which looked like they’d seen better days. “Do those things even work?”
“Sure do. But that’s nothing.” He followed her inside, letting the door close behind them, and led her past the lines of washers and dryers to the back of the building. “Wait until you see what’s behind here.”
He stood in front of what looked like two driers built into the wall, one on top of the other.
She raised a questioning eyebrow. “Behind where?”
“Here.” He tapped the top dryer. “Push.”
She did. A hidden door swung open, and she stepped through. What greeted her on the other side was a pinball lover’s ultimate fantasy. Vintage machines with names like Medieval Madness, Attack from Mars, and Tales of the Arabian Nights ringed the room. At least half of the twenty-plus machines were in use, bells clanging and lights flashing as scores mounted. At the far end of the room, a bar served wine and beer.
“How did you find this place?”
“Yelp.” He flashed her a crooked grin. “I thought we could try something a little different.”
She grinned back. “It’s different, all right.”
He rubbed his chin, ruffling his four-day beard, and her fingers itched to follow suit. “Good different or bad different?”
“Definitely good. I haven’t played pinball in ages.” Before Mallory had gotten sick, they’d had a summer house in Wildwood, New Jersey. Rainy days meant hours spent in the arcade on the boardwalk. She’d held the record on Orbiter 1 for almost two seasons.
“Me, either. Thought it might be fun.” He took a handful of coins out of his pocket and jangled them. “So, what do you
say? Winner gets to pick the pizza toppings.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” She trailed a finger down his arm.
He shivered under her touch, and when he spoke, his voice was low and smoky. “Can’t wait to hear it.”
She rose up on tiptoe and brought her lips to his ear. “Winner gets to decide where and how we have sex tonight.”
He grabbed her wandering hand and tugged her over to the nearest machine. “You’re on like Donkey Kong.”
…
If there was one thing Brooke hated more than Sunday brunch with her family… Strike that. There was nothing Brooke hated more than her parents’ monthly excuse for putting her through the wringer. The only redeeming thing was her sister Mallory smiling at her from a table across the restaurant when Brooke entered.
“Hey, Mal.” She crossed the room and greeted her sister with a warm hug. Was it her imagination, or did Mallory seem thinner, more frail than usual? Brooke gave her one more squeeze before releasing her and taking a seat at the otherwise empty table. “Where are the ’rents?”
Mallory sat next to her. “On their way. They hit traffic on the Cross Island Expressway.”
“Good. That gives us some time to catch up.” Brooke motioned for a waiter. She was going to need a mimosa to get through this meal with her self-esteem intact. Or a bloody mary. Or both.
Her sister blushed. “Until Hunter gets back. He’s in the lobby, answering a call. You probably walked right by him.”
“The doctor you’ve been seeing?”
Mallory nodded.
Brooke screwed up her forehead in concentration, trying to picture who she’d rushed past in her hurry to find her family. Heaven forbid she show up late and give her parents—her mother, especially—more ammunition to attack her with. Like they needed help in that department.
Brooke gave herself a mental smack upside the head and focused on remembering who she’d seen on her way into the restaurant. After a few seconds, she snapped her fingers. “Got it. Dirty-blond hair, charcoal suit, cell phone glued to his ear?”
Mallory bristled. “Hunter is a highly respected oncologist. Tops in his field. And he’s on call this weekend. People are depending on him.”
“Relax, Mal. I’m not criticizing him.” Yet. Brooke would reserve judgment. Although the fact that their parents had given Hunter their seal of approval was already a huge-ass strike against him. “Just describing him.”
“Sorry.” Mallory gave Brooke a wan smile and smoothed the skirt of her gray silk Yves St. Laurent sheath dress, which she’d paired with a strand of pearls, matching earrings, and black patent leather pumps. She exuded class, style, and sophistication, a stark contrast to Brooke’s retro burgundy dress, beige cardigan, cable knit tights, and brown leather ankle boots. “I really want you to like him.”
“It’s not me that has to like him, it’s you.” Brooke gave her sister a playful poke. “Besides, you already know my opinion on this subject. No man’s good enough for my baby sister.”
The waiter came by, and they ordered their drinks—the aforementioned bloody mary for Brooke and an orange juice for Mallory.
“No alcohol?” Brooke asked when he was gone. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re hinting at.” Mallory unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. “Hunter doesn’t approve of drinking in the middle of the day.”
Strike two against Hunter, and Brooke hadn’t even met him yet. “That’s all well and good for him, but there’s no way I’ll make it through an entire meal with Mom and Dad without a little liquid courage.”
“Come on, they’re not that bad.”
“To you.” Their perfect, miracle child. The one who survived cancer and graduated top of her class at the Culinary Institute of America. The one working her way up the ranks in the kitchen of the Fifth Avenue Worthington, the family chain’s flagship hotel.
Not that Brooke resented her sister. Each and every one of the choices Mallory had made—from culinary school to working in the family business—were ones that were right for her. Brooke wished their parents could see that she had done the same thing, that they had two very different daughters, and that the life she’d chosen, while not the one they wanted her to have, was right for her.
“They only want you to be happy,” Mallory insisted.
“Yeah, so long as my definition of happy matches theirs.”
Mallory shook her head and took a sip from her water glass. Brooke followed suit. The cool water did nothing to douse her rising irritation. She should be used to it by now, but her parents’ seeming inability to remotely understand her still had the ability to piss her off if she let it. She took a deep breath and released it, long and slow. With each puff of air, she felt her anger dissipate, downshifting her mood from royally ticked to mildly miffed.
“I’m sorry, Mal.” Brooke reached across the table and squeezed her sister’s hand. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior for your doctor.”
“Your best behavior?” Mallory laughed and squeezed back. “That’s not saying much.”
The waiter delivered their drinks. Brooke had barely taken a sip of her bloody mary when their parents showed up with Mallory’s doctor in tow. Introductions were made and more drinks ordered—coffee and juice, straight up. No alcohol before noon for the perfect people.
“So, Brooke,” her mother started in once the waiter left to fetch their beverages of choice. “No one joining you today?”
Brooke risked a glance at the cell phone to the right of her place setting, where she’d strategically placed it in the hope that it would ring so she could feign some sort of emergency and escape. Under ten minutes from arrival to insult. A record, even for her mother.
“Obviously,” she said, gesturing to the empty chair beside her.
“Hunter.” Her mother turned her attention to Mallory’s beau, and for a moment Brooke thought she’d been spared, at least temporarily. “Surely you know some eligible men for Brooke. One of your colleagues at the clinic, perhaps. Or maybe a former classmate at Columbia.”
“How about Felix Oliver?” her father suggested. “Don’t you play tennis with him at the Vanderbilt Club?”
“I believe he’s recently engaged.” Hunter eyed Brooke, his mouth drawing into a thin, critical line. “But I’m sure I could dredge someone up.”
Strike three.
She and Mallory were going to have a long talk when they were alone. Her gaze shifted to her sister, who fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes downcast and her expression solemn. She needed to ditch this judgmental asshole and fast. What did she see in him, anyway? Okay, so he was supposedly some sort of rock star in the medical community. That didn’t give him the right to be a pretentious prick.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Brooke took a healthy slug of her bloody mary and frowned. Not nearly strong enough to survive this shit storm. She said a silent prayer the waiter would hurry back so she could order another, sans tomato juice. “I can dredge up my own dates.”
When she wanted to. And lately she certainly hadn’t had any problem, thanks to a certain stubborn number cruncher who was supposed to have been a one-night stand. Emphasis on supposed to have been.
The guy was nothing if not persistent. Since their visit to the Laundromat-cum-arcade, he’d convinced her to visit the sea lions at the New York Aquarium, ride the East River Ferry, and tour the Brooklyn Navy Yard. God only knew what he had up his sleeve next.
And that was during daylight hours. Then there were the nights. Long, leisurely nights filled with every kind of sex a person could imagine, and some that hadn’t entered her wildest dreams. And she’d had some pretty wild dreams. Slow, steamy shower sex. Hard and fast, up-against-the-wall sex. Half-clothed, bent-over-the-kitchen-counter sex. And one particularly memorable bout of semi-public sex in the back of a taxi on the way home from Brooke’s favorite Indian restaurant, a little hole in the wall in Park Slope with the best chicken
tikka masala east of the river.
Step-by-step, inch-by-inch, Eli had worn her down, stormed past her defenses and wormed his way into her daily—and nightly—routine. Which, while it had certain fringe benefits like multiple orgasms, also scared the ever-loving shit out of her. Because the truth was, orgasms or not, she was really starting to like the guy.
At first glance, he might have looked like every entitled asshole she went to high school with. But underneath his designer duds, Eli was about as different from those jerks as peanut butter was from jelly. Being with him was easy. No expectations. No pressure. She could dress how she wanted, do what she wanted, say what she wanted without worrying about being held up to some artificial standard of perfection. Instead of judging her, he listened—really listened like he was interested, like he cared about her thoughts and opinions.
Which presented Brooke with a ginormous problem. She did not—repeat, did not—do relationships. Yet with each passing day, with every new adventure in and out of the bedroom, what they were doing was starting to look more and more like just that. A—gasp—relationship. One that was already messing with her five-year plan. Hell, she’d barely written in the weeks since their infamous spaghetti dinner. Her pages sat on her drawing board, untouched, mocking her. Like the email from her agent asking how the revisions were coming along, which she hadn’t responded to.
She had to get it together and fast. Compartmentalize things. Work in one neat and tidy box, hot sex—and nothing else—with Eli in another. It was that or end things with him all together, a thought that was strangely terrifying to her.
“That would be lovely, Hunter,” her mother blithely continued as if Brooke hadn’t shot down her little matchmaking scheme. It was hard to believe, looking at her now, but Pamela Worthington had once been a promising opera singer, a mezzo-soprano the Times called “a vocal powerhouse.” She’d left all that behind for the sake of her “perfect” society marriage, and she expected her daughters to do the same.
Fat chance, Brooke thought. Mallory might be willing to play along, but Brooke had her own ideas about her future. And none of them included sacrificing her dreams at the altar of the upper crust.