by Vivian Wood
“Oh, I don’t know… I have to work tomorrow…” she says. But I can tell that she wants another drink, wants the excuse to flirt.
“Come on. One more drink,” I say, offering her my hand. I wink at her. “Our relationship needs some spice.”
She rolls her eyes, but allows me to guide her to the bar. I order a whiskey neat for myself, and she orders a vodka with a little soda and extra lime slices.
“And two shots of tequila,” I say. “Don’t even pretend that you don’t want it. You’re getting the shot.”
Her brow arches, but she doesn’t disagree. “Fine.”
The bartender pours the two shots, and hands me the limes. I slide the shot glass over to her, and raise mine.
“What should we toast to?” she asks.
“To having a good night,” I say, clicking my glass to hers. I shoot the liquor, which burns, but tastes so good. The lime takes the edge off, tasting sweetly sour after the tequila.
“Jesus,” she says, shuttering as she bites down on her slice of lime. “I haven’t shot tequila since college.”
I wink at her, tucking the used lime wedge in my shot glass. “Come on, let’s go over to the edge of the roof. I like to get a different perspective whenever I can.”
I lead the way, and she follows me to the edge, which has been roped off with metal bars. I look over, and I’m treated to a view of a busy downtown Atlanta street corner from eight stories up. Although it’s late at night, there’s still a good amount of traffic, giving me the impression of a sea of red tail lights.
Cady stops beside me, leaning over to peer down. I glance at her ass, which happens to look pretty damned fantastic right now, encased in the sheath of her pencil skirt.
“Everything is so small when I’m up here,” she sighs.
“I think that’s the tequila talking,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.
She glances at me. “Yeah right.”
She turns away from the view, leaning her elbows over the topmost metal bar. I mimic her position, and notice that I’m half a foot taller than her. It’s a lot less than the height difference on the girls I’m used to dating, but still pleasing.
She sneaks a glance at me, then sips her drink.
“What do you do?” she asks.
“I’m a sports agent,” I say. “But I used to be a professional baseball player.”
Her eyebrows fly skyward. “Really?”
“Yep. I was a center fielder for the Atlanta Braves for three years.”
“Why don’t you still play for them?” she asks, cocking her head to one side.
I make a face. “I tore my rotator cuff. The team doctor took one look at my shoulder and said I needed surgery. That was pretty much it, as far as my career went.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry,” she says, eyeing my shoulders. I can feel that calculation again, her steely grey eyes scanning me as they try to do some kind of math.
“It’s fine. I get to do something I love, so I can’t really be upset about it.” I take a sip of my whiskey, and enjoy the burn as I swallow. “What do you do again?”
“I’m a lawyer. A civil litigator, to be exact. I work for Hansen & Felder.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the law.”
“We’re one of the top firms in the city,” she says primly.
“That sounds fancy,” I tease. She looks at me and chuckles.
“Yeah. It’s not very romantic,” she admits. Her phone starts buzzing in her purse, very insistent. “Ugh, like this. It’s ten-thirty on a Friday night, and I’m still getting phone calls.”
“Tell them you went to bed early. You were feeling a little ill, and wanted to head it off.” I raise my brows. “That way you’re covered tomorrow, too.”
Again, I can tell that she wants to take my advice, but a part of her hesitates.
“Oh, I don’t know…” Cady says, wrinkling her nose.
“You know what you need?” I ask.
“Ummm, to actually go to bed early?”
“No, I think you need to dance.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Jett—” she says. Her body language is all kinds of reticent.
“This doesn’t bode well for our relationship, Cady,” I tease. “Come on, just one dance.”
She makes a face at me, but allows me to take her glass from her and put it down. I take her hand in mine, noticing how dainty it seems, and lead her to an area where there are a number of people dancing.
Cady is stiff at first, her face saying “I can think of ten things I’d rather be doing than this.” She moves as if she’s carved from wood, and barely touches me.
That won’t do at all.
I gently turn her around, bring her body against mine. The music pulses, and we move with it. Slowly at first, then more frenetic, until she’s all but grinding on me.
Fuck yes, I think. God, she feels good.
Cady surprises me by turning around, slipping her arms around my neck, and kissing me. I’m a little caught off guard at first, but her lips are soft and sweet. Inviting.
The sensation goes straight to my cock, and I am fucking rock hard in an instant.
I take over the kiss, dominating her lips, snaking my tongue against hers. She tastes fucking amazing, like fresh mint and vodka. I could drink from her lips all night long.
She pulls back, practically panting. “Do you want to go back to my place? I don’t live far.”
Oh, fuck yes. I really, really do.
Only Mason is suddenly in my head, ruining everything. It’s too easy to just go home with a girl and never see her again.
I stare down at her, still tasting her on my lips. It would be great to take her up on her offer, to just go to her place and fuck her until the sun rose. But something about her won’t let me do that.
Is this what being a gentleman is like? I wonder.
“You know, there is nothing I would like better than to take you home, make you scream my name over and over till you’re hoarse,” I whisper, leaning in close. “I don’t think that would be good for our relationship, though. I can’t take you home, we haven’t even had our first date.”
She immediately turns red as a beet. “I… I… I should go…”
Cady takes her phone out of her purse, turning away. My arm shoots out and I grab her, pulling her back.
“You’re not leaving without my number,” I say. “Don’t even try.”
I pluck her phone from her hand, ignoring the open-mouthed look she’s directing at me. It’s the work of a few seconds to put my name and number in, and then I call myself. My phone starts blaring “Swimming Pools” by Kendrick Lamar, and I wink at her.
“I have your number now,” I taunt her. I hand her phone back.
“Ugh, goodbye,” she says, turning away again.
I can’t resist the chance to grab her and spin her back against me, to press my hips against her and claim her mouth once more. Her fingernails dig into my chest, but I can tell she likes a little dominance.
I release her, my fingers itching to slap her on the ass. That pencil skirt is practically begging for it, honestly.
“Now you can leave,” I say with a grin.
I wish I had a photo of her expression, of the outrage mixed with carnal interest. Outrage won, and she sneered, turning on her heel. I watched her flee, as fast as she could on those tall high heels.
I crack my knuckles, thinking that I should’ve just taken her home, Mason be damned.
I move towards the exit, adjusting my bulge in my pants, and look around. Mason and Alex are nowhere to be found. How typical.
I take the stairs slowly, and think of Cady. Her red sweater, her pencil skirt, her high heels.
Yeah, women are pretty much all the same… But at least someone has caught my interest.
I smile as I head downstairs.
Chapter Two
Cady
I open my eyes and groan. It’s not just the morning, it’s full on sunshine city in my room right no
w. Milo, my stray-turned-cuddle-fiend, purrs and rubs his chin against my fingers.
“Fuuuuuuck,” I say, rolling over. Milo looks at me with pure judgment in his one remaining blue eye. The other one has long since been stitched up, and healed over. He’s a Siamese mix, and snobby as hell for someone who I rescued from a dumpster outside my house.
Milo doesn’t care that I went out drinking last night. He rubs his chin against my hand again, meowing in his raspy voice, demanding pets. I scratch the top of his head, and he bursts into a full purr, rumbling happily.
“You’re the worst,” I say to Milo. He climbs up onto my chest, his weight slight. Even after having him for a year, he hasn’t ever gotten any bigger than ten pounds. “I do not appreciate you at all.”
He kneads the blanket on my chest a bit, then hops off me. He heads to the end of the bed, looking back at me with anticipation. I heave a sigh at his attempt to lure me into the kitchen, to feed him some canned food.
“You have plenty of dry food,” I say, scowling.
I roll over and sit up, making a pathetic noise. At the moment, I feel every one of my thirty three years, and then some. I really am not twenty years old anymore, and I have the hangover to prove it.
I pull on a t-shirt over my panties, the first step of many to get this day started. I check my phone and see that it’s only nine. Normally I would completely panic, but I know that I have the day off.
Well, maybe not off-off, but I planned on working from home today anyway. I glance at my email for a second, then heave a disgusted sigh and turn the screen off. There are a dozen new emails, a dozen voicemails, and two dozen texts waiting for me.
I pad across the bare cement floors of my loft apartment, shooting a glare at the two banks of floor-to-ceiling windows that provide amazing light. Aside from my bedroom, the apartment has a home office, a spare bedroom, and a huge kitchen-slash-living space. I paid a king’s ransom for it, but I can’t complain much. Not even when there’s too much sunlight.
I pee, panties around my ankles, door open, and eyes shut against the light, and I force myself to think. My brain isn’t really working though, so I strip my clothes off and turn on the shower. The steam starts to build up, caught in between the cool, dark tiles and the glass door.
I lean my head against the glass for a moment. I think about last night, and everything comes back in a rush.
The roof. The party. Jett.
God, I couldn’t even leave with grace. Not without Jett pulling me into his arms, kissing me, making me blush. He’s so tall, with near-black hair done in an undercut. A red plaid shirt and jeans that fit, and boots. Dark blue eyes, a royal blue. He had a serious beard, which I’m very into.
Oh, and his tattoos…
He’s tatted on every visible inch of skin, from his neck to the unbuttoned vee at his neck, down to his fingers. I bite my lip as I slip into the shower. God, I will think about those tattoos when I get bored and lonely, that was for certain.
I stand under the shower for longer than I should, thinking about the reasons I can’t have a man like Jett in my life. Oh, there are so many reasons.
One, I don’t have the time to devote to a real relationship. I have a serious job, and most guys can’t appreciate a woman who works as hard as I do.
Two, I don’t want to deal with the games that come part and parcel with dating a handsome guy. They are so much frickin' work.
And third, I want a baby. No, I need a baby, stat. And none of the bs and drama of a baby-daddy, either.
I pour some shampoo in my hair, and lather it up. I know that I seem career-obsessed, but I woke up six months ago with this urge. Babies started suddenly seeming cute to me, out of the blue. I found myself lingering at baby-centric window displays, and laughing at funny baby videos on Facebook.
Then I had a close friend have a baby, a little girl. It was the first time that I held a baby, smelled a baby’s head. For the first time, I started seeing myself as more than just the doting aunt. I wondered if it was possible that I might want a baby.
Since then, I’ve started seeing babies absolutely everywhere. Not only that, I’ve been to see the gynecologist and the fertility specialist. Once I found out that I was physically capable of having a child, I became a little obsessed.
Can you blame me, though? Who wouldn’t want the chance to have a child, to pass on all the love and care that I didn’t get as a kid? The foster care system did poorly by me, but that won’t happen to my child.
I rinse my hair, growing impatient. No time to fuss over what my therapist calls my crisis of faith in my true self. I get out of the shower, realizing that Olive should be here soon.
Milo slinks around my feet, meowing up a storm.
“I’m not feeding you any canned food!” I tell him. “No matter how cute you are, or how much noise you make.”
I hurry through the dressing and grooming, still tousling my wet hair with a towel when the door buzzes. I dash to the front and check the camera. Olive smiles up at me, her bright red hair unmistakable. I buzz her up and unlock the door.
I wander to the kitchen island to get the coffee, then move over to the kitchen counter to start the coffee maker. As I’m fussing over the settings, Olive comes bursting in. She’s dressed down per my request, which means that she’s wearing last year’s Versace and her third best Louboutins.
I’m in jeans and an oversized crop top, but hey. To each her own, right?
I smile at her. She can wear whatever she wants; the girl is five feet tall, weighs next to nothing, and has a heart of pure gold.
“Hey!” she says, brandishing a pink pastry box. “Guess who brought chocolate croissants from Amélie’s?”
“Oh, you are a lifesaver,” I tell her. “I was just glad that we don’t have to be in the office today. I’ve just put the coffee on.”
Olive smirks. She’s a kick-ass defense attorney with my firm, and paid very richly for it.
“Coffee sounds amaze-balls,” she announces. “And it’ll go really well with the croissants.”
I take the box from her, opening the lid to inhale the yeasty goodness. I can feel Olive looking at me. She won’t demand details, but the way she drums her fingertips against the kitchen counter says she really wants to know about last night.
I glance at her. With her pixie-ish features, her abundant freckles, and her wide-set green eyes, she is almost too adorable to keep anything from.
“How was your date with Roberto?” I ask, cocking my head to the side. Milo hops up on the counter, and I automatically shoo him off.
She motions for me to bring the pastry box to her, and selects one. “It was okay. It’s only the third date, so I have nothing new to report yet.”
She looks at me meaningfully, and takes a bite of her croissant.
“You want to know about last night?” I sigh.
“Omigod, I really, really do,” she says, struggling to seat herself on one of the stools that are on the other side of the island.
I screw up my face. “His name was Jett, he was ridiculously hot, and he turned me down for sex.”
“He what?” she asks, outraged.
“It was super embarrassing,” I say with another sigh. “Although he did make sure he got my number…”
“Wait, did he do that before or after he turned you down?”
“Ummmm… after,” I say, moving to get a couple of mugs down.
“Girl! That’s pretty damn hot,” she says. She takes a bite of the croissant, and moans appreciatively. “God, this is good.”
“You’re getting crumbs all over that slinky little black number,” I point out.
She brushes the crumbs off her sleeveless chiffon jumpsuit and shrugs. “So what kind of hot was he? Describe him.”
“Mmmm…” I think about it as I get out the milk. The coffee finishes, and I pour us two steaming, amazing smelling cups. “He was really tall. He had short, dark hair, and a killer smile. And he had a crazy amount of tattoos.”
&n
bsp; “Like a full sleeve?” she asks, accepting the coffee from me. “Thanks.”
“Both arms were inked, his neck was inked… it was pretty damned hot.”
“Nice. Well, maybe he’ll actually call.”
“Yeah, and maybe after that little green men will come down in their spaceship!” I say. “Oooh, wait just a second…”
I leave my coffee in the kitchen and go to grab a thick white binder from the coffee table. Milo meows pitifully, and Olive bends down and scratches him on the head.
I stare at the white binder and a nearly identical black one, trying to remember which one is full of sperm donors and which is full of paint swatches for the spare bedroom.
After a quick peek inside the cover, I bring the binder of swatches over, opening it to the first page I have marked. “You have to help me choose a paint color for the would-be nursery.”
Olive pulls the book over to look at the open page, and then passes me the pastry box.
“Don’t want it to go to waste,” she murmurs, flipping through the pages.
I take the croissant, biting into it. I close my eyes; the taste is almost as good as an orgasm. “Ohhhh.”
“I know,” Olive says, without looking up. “Listen, I have a weird question. No judgment or anything, but… do the partners at our firm know that you are planning to get pregnant?”
I press my lips together in a not-quite-frown. “No.”
“It’s just… you know, you won’t be able to work nearly as much. Sarah, you know the one in contract law? She said that her billable hours were cut in half.”
She doesn’t look up from the book, but I feel like this is her honest-to-god moment of truth on the subject.
“I’ve prepared financially, if that’s what you mean.” I scrunch up my face.
“No, just… I wonder if the partners will feel sort of thunderstruck when one of their top litigators announces she’s preggo.”
“Probably. But I can’t have an old white man telling me that it’s a bad idea for me to have a baby just because it’s bad for his bottom line. My fertility doesn’t have to conform to his timeline.”