With No Reservations

by Laurie Tomlinson

  Sloane’s smile faded as the intercom buzzed. It was after midnight. Who could possibly be downstairs right now?

  “Hey, I gotta go.” She closed the lid to her laptop before Grace could say anything and hurried to the intercom. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Sloane. A Mr. Cooper is here to see you.” The night doorman’s voice was thick with disapproval.

  Goose bumps rose on her forearms as she pictured the CEO’s red face spewing viciousness in the conference room. She pressed the video surveillance monitor and waited for the image to load.

  Please be the son. Please be the son.

  It was the younger Cooper. She could see the top of his hair and the curve of his shoulders. His head was propped against the wall like he was sick. Weird.

  She cleared her throat. “Let him up.” Cooper wouldn’t come to her door after midnight unless it was for a good reason.

  “Um, Miss Bradley? I can’t do that.”

  “What? Why?” The old man probably thought Cooper’s visit had less-than-honorable leanings.

  “Because it appears he’s been drinking, ma’am. And he needs a lot of help.”

  * * *

  A SLIVER OF LIGHT seared through Cooper’s skull. He squeezed his eyes shut. Head pounding, palms sweaty, limbs heavy. Had he been mugged or something?

  Then he remembered. And the remnant of that warm, numbing, out-of-body experience confirmed it. He was going to slink into a hole in the depths of the earth and stay there forever. That’s where he belonged.

  It took a little effort, but his last waking moments came to him in blurry fragments. Owen waiting for him in his house. The ugly end to their argument. The responsible text message he’d composed to Jake then deleted. The phone call he’d made to his culinary school friend instead. He’d met Guillermo for dinner, hammering his conversation with Owen and the stress of his work further into the back of his mind with each over-the-top story told in his friend’s heavy Spanish accent.

  As Cooper had expected, it’d been just like the old days when they first arrived in Paris. One sip had turned into a whole glass. One glass had turned to two or three. Shots were ordered. And, well, he couldn’t remember much after that.

  He burrowed deeper into his pillowy nest, pulling the softest blanket ever tighter around his body. Of all the strange couches he’d ended up on, this was by far the most comfortable. Maybe he could avoid reality here. Forever.

  “How are you feeling?”

  The words rolled a wave of nausea through him. Sloane. He recognized that voice. But she couldn’t be here. She couldn’t be around him when he was like this.

  He bolted up, then winced, squeezing the heels of his wrists to his temples.

  “Easy, Cooper. Take this.” The press of Sloane’s fingers in his palm rippled up his arm.

  “Thanks.” Cooper pried an eye open and took a tall glass of water from her, throwing back the pills in his hand. At least she didn’t seem angry like someone who’d had a big mess to clean up. That was promising.

  Sloane moved to the opposite couch and tucked a snowflake-pajama-clad leg beneath her. As comfortable as if she’d been settled in that position for quite some time. She studied him with concern-clouded eyes. No judgment. No disappointment. Just compassion.

  “Can I get you some tea? Coffee?”

  “Coffee.” Cooper exhaled in relief. “Strong and black, please.” Maybe it was a good thing he’d lost his edge when it came to alcohol. He’d lost some of his immunity to it.

  Sloane went to the kitchen. “If there’s anything else that will help you get past this, let me know. I’m just gonna put it out there that I don’t exactly know what works in situations like this.”

  Cooper sat up to see her over the couch. “So you’re saying you’ve never inflicted this on yourself, huh? You’re a smart one.”

  “Can’t say I have,” she said just above a whisper. “Just black, right?”

  He nodded and sank into the cushions. The clean white sheeting pulled under his shifted weight, revealing a swath of walnut Italian leather beneath it. Sloane must have covered the couch for his benefit. Or the couch’s. A small wastebasket triple-lined with plastic bags waited next to the head of his makeshift bed. Beside that was a neat stack of aubergine towels.

  She apparently knew something about hangovers.

  A machine whirred in the kitchen. “Is that what I think it is?” He strained for a closer look at the sleek machine on Sloane’s counter. “That’s not supposed to be on the market until next year. I looked into them for the restaurant.”

  It was part espresso machine, part coffeemaker. But Cooper was pretty sure it could tie his shoes if he asked it to.

  “The company sent me one to demo.”

  He’d forgotten—again—how important Sloane was. How many times had he underestimated her since the moment they met? And now he’d forced her to vomit-proof her apartment. Angry or not angry, who knows what he’d said or done to her last night. He couldn’t be trusted.

  Guilt tore through him. Of all the doorsteps, why did he have to show up at this one? Why couldn’t it have been Jake? Someone whose relationship with Cooper had already been tarnished by this responsibility. If he had any control over his sensibilities, he’d have called Owen. He’d certainly been on the other end of these wild nights more times than he could count. Sloane didn’t deserve to clean up after Cooper’s mistakes.

  “I can’t even begin to say how sorry I am, Sloane. If I said or did anything last night, I—”

  “You couldn’t do or say much of anything.” She returned with a mug of coffee that smelled rich. Puffs of steam swirled from its surface. Her lips puckered into a tiny smile. “Don’t worry.”

  “You’re the best.” Cooper pushed into a sitting position, but his coordination failed him.

  “Whoa.” Sloane dropped to the couch next to him then cupped a hand under his arm for support.

  He blinked against the Tilt-A-Whirl behind his eyes and anchored a leg beneath himself. Success. He took the mug of coffee slowly, angling toward Sloane.

  Her eyes searched his like she wanted to say something helpful, even though her body language—legs crossed, leaning away from him—created distance.

  The full gravity of what he’d done settled in his stomach like he’d downed an entire tray of Guillermo’s stuffed poblano peppers. He reached for his wallet on the end table, wincing as a drop of coffee singed through his jeans. The front slot was empty, the raised circular stretch of the leather the only sign his sobriety coin had ever been there.

  “I took it.” Sloane brandished the blue-and-black disk between her first two fingers. She faced him, both legs on the couch and crisscrossed. “I’ll give it back to you if you make me a promise.”

  “Sloane...”

  “No, you have to promise.” She held his gaze. “You’re going to keep it with you. You’ve earned it no matter what happened last night.”

  Cooper let his head fall against the cushion and closed his eyes. His conviction burned a deeper sear into his chest, behind his temples. “Sloane, those are only for people who’ve—”

  “Look at me, Cooper.” Her tone commanded obedience.

  For a few breaths, they sat in silence. Sloane looked younger. More innocent. Her features were softened with no makeup. But like the raw, powerful grief he’d seen in her before, there was a deep sincerity in her eyes. An authority behind everything she said.

  “Do you feel like the person who goes out every weekend to get trashed for fun? Was this natural for you? Enjoyable?”

  Cooper shook his head. This time had been different for him. It hit harder in more ways than one.

  “That’s because you’re not that guy anymore. You’re just a recovering person who had a bad day. Recovery is a crawl sometimes, right? Who told me that?” />
  “Sober people don’t crave it like I do, Sloane. You don’t—” He sighed. “I don’t think I’ll ever go a day without having to convince myself I don’t want it.”

  She squeezed his knee. “But the difference is you don’t want to want it. And you have help.”

  She snatched her hand from his leg and, in a fraction of a second, she lengthened the gap between them, swinging her feet to the floor and staring straight ahead. “You just have to remember that and believe it.” Her voice was shaky.

  The warmth from her hand lingered on his leg. Was she talking about him believing in his own strength? Or was she talking about herself?

  “Do you believe you’re strong enough, Sloane?”

  She fidgeted with her fingernails. “No.”

  His heart sunk. He wanted so much for her to believe it. His curiosity itched to see how far this brilliant woman could go at full stride.

  “But for the first time, I think... I think I actually want to want to.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ON THE NIGHT that September breathed its last sticky breath, Sloane found herself staring at the tall brick walls of Globe Life Park in Arlington. She was supposed to be finishing last-minute details for the conference, readying her apartment for Grace’s arrival. But her dread about the conference translated to procrastination. And her favorite eight-year-old had insisted.

  Davon—sporting a Texas-Rangers-blue cast—and Cooper wound her through the stadium, past concession lines until they reached their section of seats.

  “This is us,” Cooper said as Davon squeezed through a row to a spot close to his mom.

  Sloane balked when she saw the crowd, retreating until her back hit metal railing. A lot of the same faces from the soft opening.

  “No, it’s okay.” Cooper held up calming palms as if she were a rabid animal.

  He’d reserved an entire deck for the staff involved with his restaurant launch and their families.

  “Is your dad here?”

  “Not yet. But even if he shows, he’s not coming anywhere near you. You hear me?”

  Sloane nodded and allowed him to lead her to their seats.

  “I should have warned you. I’m sorry. But you’ve been a huge part of this, Sloane, and I’m glad you’re here.” He paused at the entrance to the row so she could move toward Davon. “It’s important to me that you’re here.”

  “Well, I’ll try to be on my best behavior.” She gave him a half smile.

  “Before you sit down, Miss Sloane...” Davon’s voice stopped her midway. “Can I have another hot dog?” He looked at her with a mixture of hope and exaggerated innocence. But it was the mustard stain on his lip that got her.

  “I’ll get you one.” Cooper flashed a glance at Alicia, who was seated next to Marian at the end of their row.

  Alicia nodded and continued her conversation with the older woman.

  “Do you want anything, Sloane?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “We’ve been missing you in the kitchen, Davon.” Sloane nudged him with her shoulder. “When are you coming back?”

  His posture deflated. “I don’t get this dumb cast off for months.”

  “Months?”

  “Try six weeks,” Alicia said.

  “Six weeks!” His head fell back. “I’m never gonna get to do anything.”

  “Let’s make an agreement.”

  “What kind of agreement?”

  “You come back and be the kitchen supervisor and official taste tester. What do you think about that? Do we have ourselves a deal?”

  A grin spread across his face. Goodness. The way his eyes crinkled. He couldn’t look more like Aaron if he tried.

  “Deal.”

  “Good. Then I expect you to report for duty this Thursday if it’s okay with your mom.”

  Just as she expected, Alicia turned to them and nodded. Moms and their superpowered ears. How did they do that even in the middle of other conversations?

  “So, what’s your favorite sport?” She winced. “Probably not the best question to ask a kid with a broken arm, huh?”

  Davon looked at his T-shirt then her like she was one crayon short of a box.

  “Oh, is that some sort of jersey?”

  Again with the look. “You’re not that into sports, are you, Miss Sloane?”

  “I’m into running.”

  “Running?” Davon’s voice reached a falsetto close to the range only dogs could hear. “You think running is fun?”

  “Hey, what’s wrong with running?”

  “Running is never fun. And it’s not a sport. Hey, Coop, is running a sport?”

  Cooper put a cardboard box in Sloane’s hands. “Running? Like, running by yourself or running with a track team?” He sat and reached for the box.

  “Running is a sport no matter what.”

  Davon raised his good arm in surrender. “Okay, okay.”

  Something on the tray caught her eye. A small cup with a scoop of glossy chocolate gelato and a tiny pink spoon sticking out.

  “I got you some gelato.” Cooper grinned, handing it to her. “Your own cup.”

  “How’d you know I like gelato?”

  “Because you wrote about it. The chocolate raspberry gelato at Mooney’s? That’s one of our restaurants.”

  Wait a minute. Cooper actually read her website?

  Sloane felt heat spread across her cheeks and took a bite as Cooper distributed drinks and snacks. It was delicious, the perfect cool and creamy consistency that only came from gelato. Heaven. In. A. Bite. “Thank you, Cooper. It tastes even better because you remembered.”

  “You’re welcome.” His gaze lingered on her, good-natured humor transforming into something more intense. An echoing response radiated to the tips of her body.

  “What’s that?” Davon’s question broke the spell.

  “What, this?” Cooper held up a brochure. “Something for Miss Sloane’s website.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Sloane leaned in for a closer look. “What’s that?”

  He shook the folds of the brochure open. “Behold the Boomstick. Two feet of all-beef hot dog.”

  “A two-foot hot dog?” She shuddered. It sounded worse than fair food.

  “That’s cool!” Davon said.

  “That’s disgusting!” Sloane said at the same time.

  The males on either side of Sloane spent the next inning trying to explain baseball to her. They seemed smart, but everything went over her head. There were way too many rules to keep track of. They were trying to explain a squeeze play to her when Davon’s mom announced he’d had enough fun for the night and it was time to go home. The Rangers were winning by seven in the sixth inning, so the game seemed a wash anyway.

  They said goodbye, and Cooper walked them through the company box. When he came back a few minutes later, there was a noticeable space between them now that Davon wasn’t there as a buffer.

  “He’s a good kid, huh?” Sloane said. The nervous laugh tacked on the end didn’t help matters much.

  Cooper nodded, taking a bite of the pretzel he’d gotten earlier.

  “How’d you get paired with him anyway?” It had never come up.

  He held up a finger as he chewed, and the crowd’s cheers grew louder. There was some kind of media time-out or something.

  “Oh, you have a little something right here.” Dip from his pretzel had smeared in the stubbled groove between his lower lip and chin. She pointed to her chin. Must. Not. Laugh.

  “Where?” Cooper swiped at his mouth, but he only made it worse.

  She rubbed it clean with the knuckle of her thumb. “Got it.”

  The cheers of the crowd catapulted to a deafening volume. “What’d you say?” Cooper leaned
close to her.

  Sloane’s chest constricted when she saw the camera. The ripple of heads turned in their direction. Their faces plastered on the jumbotron. The swirl of hearts outlining the screen.

  Kiss Cam.

  Her insides plummeted like some sick Tower of Terror flashback. She stared straight ahead. This couldn’t be happening.

  Cooper’s head swiveled toward her and she turned to meet his eyes, which were bright with amusement. Softened with hope. He raised brows asking a question she answered with a nod.

  His gaze swept down Sloane’s face, locked in on her lips. He brushed her hair behind her ear, scattering tingles from her core to her every edge.

  She closed her eyes and felt the pads of his fingers on her jawline, his lips against her cheekbone, a whisper-soft contraction of flesh. And then nothing but the phantom stamp of his touch against her cheek and the intoxicating warmth coursing through her veins.

  A smile formed. She gripped her armrests, grateful to be sitting because her world was now spinning on its side. Was it possible for a kiss on the cheek to cut off the oxygen supply to the brain?

  Cooper’s gaze met Sloane’s, and he burst into laughter like a fifth-grade boy, then trained his attention to the field.

  They watched the rest of the game making small talk about the players and things they needed to do at the restaurant. But Sloane replayed their Kiss Cam moment over and over. Too distracted for meaningful, coherent conversation. Too distracted by the tiny, unimportant detail she couldn’t deny.

  She wanted more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SLOANE THOUGHT ABOUT bailing at least once an hour. Posting a proverbial sick note on her social media and burrowing under her bed. She had the restaurant opening to prepare for. It wasn’t a good time to get behind on her posting schedule. She could just experience the conference via simulcast like she always did.

  But the conference was practically in her backyard, she didn’t have to teach any seminars, and several of the power-player brands were going to be in attendance, so Dana had asked her to touch base with them.