by Maria Luis
The Omni, mind you, is the most opulent hotel in Boston. We’re talking gilded hallways, gilded furniture, dark wood paneling that’s less 1970s and more Golden Age America, à la Jay Gatsby.
I fake a bow, watching in delight as the blue silk of my dress parts to reveal a flash of my stiletto’s silver ankle band. For a girl who has never been one for dolling up, I can admit, to myself anyway, that I look good.
“What time is Duke coming to pick you up?” Jenny asks as she starts to retrieve her makeup from where it’s scattered on the duvet on my bed. She dumps brushes and eyeshadow pallets into a dusty, unzipped bag.
“Seven, he said.” I peek down at my phone, checking for the time. Six-fifty. Almost show time. “I shouldn’t be nervous.”
“Then why are you?”
Because I think I might like him.
I’m not fooling myself into thinking that it’s love. I’ve known him for almost two weeks, and that’s way too soon to even be considering that particular four-letter word. Lust, on the other hand, is completely probable. I want Duke’s company, even if I shouldn’t.
Since I’m not ready to admit any of that, I deflect from the truth. “It sucks that my job is literally resting on this.”
“So, do what you need to do.”
“What’s that? Quit and then starve?” I mutter, checking my teeth in the mirror for lipstick stains. “Your husband is going to just love it when I show up on your doorstep looking for a couch to sleep on.”
Laughing, Jenny shakes her head. “You’re not coming anywhere near my couch.”
“Your floor, then.”
“Charlie.”
I turn at the serious note in her voice, my thumb falling away from my front tooth. Aside from her wedding day, I’ve never seen Jenny look so serious. Her gaze is sharply focused, her hands wringing in front of her.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper, immediately reaching for her. I’m not one for too much affection, but I’ve known Jenny for most of my life. Seeing her upset makes me upset. “Is it one of the kids? Are they sick?”
Jenny’s voice warbles a bit when she says, “No, no, it’s nothing like that.”
“Is it Ty?” I ask, referencing her husband. “Did something happen?”
“No, it’s—” She breaks off, dragging a hand over her face in what is clearly exasperation. “Listen, it has nothing to do with the kids or with Ty. It has to do with you.”
Well, that’s what every girl wants to hear.
She doesn’t give me time to form a thought before she’s verbally plowing forward, her hands moving through the air in animation. “You’ve moved through your entire life on the defensive, Charlie. Your wall is up, always, and it’s built like a linebacker.”
“That metaphor doesn’t make any sense—”
“Don’t be a journalist for a second, would you?” From the amused glint in her eye, I know she’s not mad. Thankfully. I have no idea where she’s going with this, but once Jenny embarks on a mission, there’s not much to do in the way of stopping her.
So, I murmur, “I’ll try. For you.”
“Great.” Her hands settle on her hips, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts pointing at me in the next thirty seconds. “What I’m trying to say is—”
The sound of knuckles rapping on the door interrupts her speech. It’s Duke. One glance down at my watch proves that he’s all of two minutes late. Late according to Jenny’s absurd punctuation rules, but perfectly fine for me. I’ve never been early a day in my life.
“I’ve got to go.” Swiftly I gather my small purse from the kitchen counter and press it against my chest. When I face my best friend again, she’s ready for me, positioned in front of the door so that if I want to leave, I’ll have to cut through her first.
“Charlie.” She says it so seriously, so mom-like, that I drop my purse to my side and motion with my free hand for her to just give it to me already. Whatever she’s got to say, just air it out once and for all.
She expels a deep breath. “I just want you to enjoy the night. You like this guy. Forget that he’s a professional athlete. Forget that you owe Josh anything. Just allow yourself to have fun.”
While I want to blow her off, I see where she’s getting at. Since Dad passed away, my life has been less about the “fun” and more about what needs to get done. Funeral arrangements, college graduations, not starving to death. I’m not entirely sure I even know how to have fun outside work.
As much as it unnerves me to even say so, I whisper, “I’ll try my best.”
She doesn’t fall for the platitudes. “Don’t just try, girl. Have fun. For once, let yourself be swept off your feet. You may enjoy it more than you would have ever thought.”
I give her a smile that’s both grateful and a little disbelieving. Because while I can certainly pretend that Duke Harrison is my Prince Charming, there’s still the fact that I’ve wrangled him into spending time with me with this interview. He’s on loan, if you will, and by Friday, Duke will just be a memory that I pull out to enjoy, just like every other good thing in my life.
Chapter Twelve
The last time I was at the Omni Parker Hotel, it was my senior prom and my date ditched me at the last moment to take a junior instead. The junior, by the way, had a penis.
I know, I was just as surprised as you are.
While Joe and Jason danced away the night on the glossy hardwood floor like some handsome couple straight off a Ralph Lauren catwalk, I spent my evening devouring appetizers like it truly was the last supper. I smiled when my friends trotted off to dance with their dates. I shoved another éclair into my mouth when Jason, my former date, stopped by to say “hello,” and to apologize for standing me up. For the duration of prom (four hours and twenty-six minutes of pure hell), I alternated between eating and skirting the edges of the ballroom like a true wallflower. It’s a tough job, you know.
It goes without saying that I fully expected this charity event with Duke to trudge down a similar path. Or somewhat of a similar path anyway. I don’t think I have to worry about Duke making out with a guy at some point during the course of the evening. Then again, you never really know.
But Duke surprises me completely.
He sticks by my side when we gather our food from the buffet line, and merely chuckles at me when I sneak up for seconds during the heartfelt speech from the charity’s president. Duke sticks beside me when someone I recognize from college spots me within the crowd, and even goes so far as to press a hand to my lower back.
Like I belong to him.
It’s a little ridiculous how eagerly I lean in to his touch, even when it’s nothing more than a casual brush of our fingers as we clink our champagne flutes together at our table later in the evening.
He leans back in his chair, and the soft light from a wall sconce casts the lower half of his face in shadow. Not that it matters any. Duke Harrison is as hot in a pair of jeans and a plain T-shirt as he is now in a sharp, black tux. I’ve always been preferential to men in uniforms—firefighters are my total catnip—but now I can see why women go nuts over guys in suits.
Particularly, Duke Harrison in a suit.
His dark blond hair is slicked back and his blue eyes glimmer like finely cut sapphires. The Omni is ostentatious by many standards, including mine, but Duke looks right at home. If anything, he looks just as at ease now as he did at The Box, which is honestly the equivalent of a dive bar.
The ridiculous urge to crawl into his lap settles over me and I slap it away like a pesky fly.
Not going to happen.
“Thank you for coming with me,” he says, wrapping a strong hand around the stem of his champagne flute. I’m half-surprised that it doesn’t snap in half within his grip.
I match his movements and reach for my own champagne, just so that I have something to occupy my hands. “I probably should be thanking you, since I’m the one who’s been harassing you for almost two weeks now.”
He does nothing but gri
n at that. Then, his gaze heats as he gives me a slow once over. “Did I tell you how much I like that dress?”
A blush warms my cheeks. “Not in those exact words.”
“Blades’ colors,” he drawls, drumming his fingers on the bowl of the champagne flute. “Is it too presumptuous of me to think that you might be looking for forgiveness for the Detroit jersey episode?”
My eyes dart down to my dress. Blue silk. Silver shoes. I didn’t even realize that I’d dressed in support of his hockey team. Jenny. Of course. I glance at his face. “Do I need forgiveness?”
“No.”
“No?”
He shrugs. “If anything, I owe you an apology.”
My heart squeezes, and I drink from my champagne to hide my nerves. “For what?”
“I wanted to kiss you the other night.”
He says the words so matter-of-factly that it takes a solid twenty seconds for them to sink in. Another fifteen seconds for them to be adequately processed. I lift up a hand, palm facing out. “Hold on, I’m not sure I understand. You’re apologizing for wanting to kiss me?”
In a move born out of awkwardness, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, and shifts his gaze away to the couples dancing behind me. “This isn’t coming out the way I’d intended it to.”
“I agree. I’m confused.”
“Can I start over?”
Our eyes meet, blue against blue. I think of Jenny’s words, urging me to live a little, to enjoy life. “Ask me to dance,” I tell him instead. “I might say yes.”
He doesn’t even bother asking, not with words. In a corny gesture that’s straight out of a rom-com movie, he scrapes back his chair and stands, then holds out his hand in silent offer.
God, he looks good. So good that I almost forget the reason that I’m here to begin with. Employment. Financial security. The ever-present fear of never succeeding in my career.
I shouldn’t be playing these games with him. I should be questioning him. Pushing him for insider’s information that will keep my butt on The Tribune’s payroll, for as long as the company’s doors stay open for business.
But I don’t say no. The thought of feeling his arms wrap around me as we sway to a sickeningly sweet slow number is too great of a temptation to resist. The last time I entered the Omni, I roamed the ballroom aimlessly, wishing that someone would ask me to dance. This time around, I’ve made the first move and I don’t regret a single thing.
Duke rewards me with a blinding, masculine smile when I place my hand in his. Then, the next thing I know, we’re swaying on the dancing floor. Like this was the plan for the evening all along. Like we’re actually on a date.
The thought is headier than I’d like to admit. It’s a thought I’d do well to remember doesn’t translate to reality.
As Duke’s hands settle on the small of my back, I hold no illusions that this night is anything more than a sequence of dances and small talk. I’m not stupid, nor am I blind to the fact that once Duke discovers my betrayal, we’ll never speak again.
My heart squeezes at the thought, and I dig my nails into his broad shoulders. The scent of pine swirls around me, heady and intoxicating, and I succumb to the temptation of pressing my cheek against his hard chest.
“Did I get you?” His voice is a deep rumble against my face. “If I step on your toes, I apologize in advance. I’m a shit dancer.”
“I heard that all athletes are great when it comes to dancing,” I say, enjoying the way he squeezes my hand as we shift around another couple. “I thought it was ingrained in your DNA or whatever.”
“It must have skipped me.” The hand on my back skips up to my neck and then flutters back down, tracing the beads of my spine.
“What else aren’t you good at?”
“More fodder for your article?” He says it like he’s in on the joke, but the guilt and worry over the truth stiffens my back in an uncontrollable flinch. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
So, I pretend that I have nothing to hide. “I’m just curious.”
“Are we playing Twenty-One Questions again?”
I shake my head, my cheek brushing the lapel of his tuxedo. “We don’t have darts.”
“We don’t need darts.”
Propping my chin on his chest, I tip my head back to meet his gaze. The lights in the ballroom have dimmed. The president has taken his seat, and the only conversation I hear is the quiet murmuring of dancing couples over the thunderous pounding in my ears. “What are you thinking, then?”
Intense blue eyes dip to my mouth. “You don’t want to know.”
“Maybe I do.”
My heart beats rapidly, and I’m so consumed by the way his hands have come to rest below my shoulder blades, tugging me closer to him, that I barely register the fact that there’s been a song change to something upbeat and flirtatious.
We’re moving no faster than a sloth climbing from tree limb to tree limb.
Which is to say, I don’t even think we’re lifting our feet off the ground anymore.
Plus, let’s be honest: I’d climb Duke if I ever had the opportunity.
“Are you planning to use this new intel against me in your article?” Duke asks, bringing my focus back to the conversation at hand. And not, you know, how good he feels snuggled up against me as we sway back and forth.
The guilt sharpens, twisting just a little too deeply. “I wouldn’t. Ask me your question.”
“No darts?”
“I trust you to play fair.”
I have no idea what game we’re actually playing, or if we’re even playing one anymore.
Duke leads me around another couple, and then another and another, until we’re flirting with the perimeter of the dance floor. Victorian-replica wallpaper lines the walls, and every so often a gold sconce is featured with a real candle—because the Omni Parker House is nothing if not authentically historic. The tables have been moved out of the way to make room for more dancers, aside from a large one at the opposite end of the room, where the donation table sits like a beacon of goodwill.
Unfortunately, my wallet isn’t big enough for more than a single check. I’m blaming Josh for that, seeing as how he’s already on my shit list.
“Why did you flinch when we walked through the front doors?”
His question catches me by surprise, and I don’t manage to restrain the second jerk of my shoulders. He notices this one, too, and rubs his hands up and down my back in comfort.
His touch both soothes and arouses me, damn him.
“My senior year prom was here,” I tell him quickly, like I’m tearing off a bandage from a festering wound.
“Had a good time?”
“My date decided that he’d rather spend some quality time with his best friend, Joe. Naked, in the restroom.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
“So, you . . . Did what for the rest of the dance?”
“Ate food, mostly.” Pretended that I’d meant to go stag to prom the entire time. As that thought slides into fruition, another one follows on its heels: was prom all that important in the first place? It felt that way years ago, when my back and the walls of this ballroom became best buddies, but now that I think about it . . . I wasn’t all that interested in Jason. It was the sting of rejection that had hurt a lot more than a truly broken heart. “I hung out with my friends, those who weren’t shackled up for the night, anyway. Nearly demolished the entire tray of éclairs.”
“What color was your dress?”
I lift my brow, mouth pursing as I look up at his handsome face. Now that I remember—for weeks, I’d stalked the local boutiques, waiting for the right dress to land on a sale. While Jenny had picked out her dress months in advance—read: Miss Punctuality Herself—I’d handed over my saved cash the weekend before prom. The dress had been sparkly and beautiful and . . . “Red.”
“Like the Red Wings jersey.”
Groaning, I drop my forehead to his chest. “You aren’t goin
g to let me live that down, are you?”
“No. Your turn for a question.”
“How kind of you.”
Although I’m not looking at him, I can hear the grin in his voice when he says, “I try—sometimes. When I’m not too busy showing my dick.” He lets that sink in for a moment, giving me time to recall our earlier conversation, and I give a snort of laughter. “Go ahead, ask me something. Whatever you want.”
I don’t even give myself time to think on it. “What’s your biggest regret?”
“My biggest regret?”
“Yes.”
I feel his intake of breath, just before his breath rustles my hair. “Not kissing you.”
Now it’s my turn to breathe deeply. He’s killing me. I swear to God, Duke Harrison is the biggest tease on earth. He may have women running loops around him. He may have not one but two Stanley Cups under his belt. He may have been the model for a Got Milk? ad however many years ago.
But when it comes down to making a move with me, the NHL’s most popular goalie is tip-toing around the line separating business from pleasure.
“Duke?”
“Yes, Charlie?”
“Kiss me already.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. His fingers intertwine with mine, and he drags me from the ballroom. It’s been years since I’ve last been here and I don’t know my elbow from my knee. I don’t think Duke does either, but he’s not deterred in the slightest.
His gaze lands on the elevator. “This way.”
And off we go.
With a quiet ping, the elevator doors swing open and we cross the threshold. The floor dips under our combined weight, not that I’m worried about it. I’m too busy hastily unbuttoning Duke’s tuxedo jacket so that I can slide my hands beneath the material.
“Floor,” I gasp, reaching blindly for the illuminated buttons to my right.
Duke does it for me, smacking the top button with his index finger, which just so happens to be the rooftop level.