by B. B. Miller
“Looks like you’re putting a dent in it tonight.” Brodie stretches his arm across the back of the booth, and motions to the bottles of booze that cover the table.
I lift my glass to him, managing a grin. “That’s why I pay you so much. You’re a fucking genius, Brodie.” This earns me a round of giggles from the sorority girls.
“Nice of you to join us at the radio station for the interview, by the way.” I scowl at Brodie as he settles into the booth.
“I may have slept in,” he says casually.
“No shit. I would’ve liked to sleep in, too, but I have commitments. In case you forgot, so do you. And she asked about the accident.” I can barely even say those words without feeling another wave of pain rip through me. “If you would’ve been there . . .”
“She still would’ve asked it. What do you want me to do, Kennedy? People are curious. They’re going to ask.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal at all. As if the single most devastating event in my life can be swept away.
The room spins, and from somewhere far away, I hear Sean’s distinctive howl. Life carries on regardless. “What’s this one?” I turn to find the blond sorority girl sliding her fingers over the rose tat on my neck. Even as drunk as I am, I know what it is. Political science major, my ass.
“It’s a rose,” I say, although my voice sounds slower than normal. I set my glass down on the table, feeling overheated and really needing some fucking air.
“It’s really pretty,” she says in awe.
“So are you, sweetheart,” Brodie replies, leaning across me. “How about we get out of here? Take this back to the hotel? What do you say, gorgeous? You can bring your friend here.”
It’s like I’m watching the entire conversation from somewhere outside my body. Voices are echoes, my feet are suddenly moving, and Tucker is beside me. I slide my arm around the blond and somehow make it down the stairs and through the bar with Tucker cutting a path in front of us.
Flashes of light almost blind me when we step onto the street. My name is shouted from a group of fans or photographers, or both. I’m too fucking trashed to know. I feel Tucker push me into the back of the Hummer, and in the process, I climb clumsily across the seat, almost landing on my ass on the floorboards.
I hear Cameron crack up beside me, and then the Hummer takes off, leaving the flashes, the confusion, and the liquor behind. The only problem is, I think there’s more where I’m headed.
Abigail
“Jeez, Maddie, what’s the hurry? You got a fire to put out or something?”
She fixes me with a classic Madeline Thomas Stink-Eye before flipping her blond hair over her shoulder. “Funny, Abby,” she says. “Are you going to keep up with the fireman jokes all night? Because I guarantee they’ve heard them all.”
She’s currently hauling my ass down the street toward a popular tapas place to meet two of the firefighters from the station near her coffee shop. She has been flirting with one of them, Dylan, for weeks now, and after they had lunch yesterday, decided dinner was the next step. And, of course, Maddie decided she “needed her best wingwoman” with her. Although I don’t understand her drive to keep setting me up on these random blind dates, I have to say I appreciate her efforts this weekend. This week has been so odd with its sleepless nights and pervading restlessness, that I welcome the chance to shake it off with an evening of fun that has nothing to do with my job or enigmatic rock stars.
“What time did you say we’d be there?” I struggle to keep up with her rapid strides. Maybe these sandals weren’t the best choice for tonight. I tug nervously at the light blue peasant top I paired with my favorite jeans, holding it down so it doesn’t fly up in the breeze.
“Ten minutes ago.” She slows down minutely when she notices my fidgeting. “Relax. You look great. He won’t know what hit him.” She gives me an encouraging smile.
I roll my eyes, but can’t deny the flutters of excitement I feel. Maddie’s right—I need to get out more.
We round the corner and slow when we come in sight of the restaurant with two tall men standing outside. They’re both easily over six foot and dressed casually in jeans and button-downs with the sleeves rolled up. They smile broadly as we approach, and I gasp in appreciation of the muscles I see flex in their strong forearms. Damn.
Madeline gives me a knowing smirk before giving blue-shirt dude a quick hug. “Sorry we’re late,” she chirps, and then steps back, waving her hand my way. “Abby, this is Dylan and his friend, Wyatt. Guys, this is my best friend, Abigail.”
“Nice to meet you,” Wyatt says with a warm smile, his eyes dancing over my form. His crisp white shirt contrasts nicely with his deep tan, and his kind eyes sparkle. He extends his hand politely and mine all but disappears in his much larger one as we shake.
“Shall we?” Dylan gestures grandly as he holds the door open, drawing a giggle from Maddie as she flits in front of me.
“Yes, let’s,” I breathe, smiling up into Wyatt’s appreciative grin. “I’m starving!”
Two hours later, with the warm evening filtering around us, the four of us make our way leisurely down Fillmore toward one of our favorite bars. She and Dylan walk arm-in-arm ahead of where Wyatt and I are strolling casually side-by-side. I appreciate that he seems to be shortening his stride so I can keep up with him. With his height, he could easily leave me in the dust if he chose, something a lot of tall guys don’t seem to understand. It’s a little thing, but it shows how considerate he is, much like how he held my chair for me in the restaurant. He even stood when I left and returned from the ladies room. I didn’t know politeness like that still existed.
Dinner was delicious, and I found myself relaxing as both the wine and conversation flowed. Dylan and Maddie did most of the talking, but that was fine. Wyatt hails from San Diego, but made the move to San Francisco three years ago to be with a girlfriend who broke up with him last year. Since then, he says he’s been focusing on his work, and has only recently rejoined the dating pool.
I notice Maddie give me a quick grin over her shoulder before she whispers something to Dylan, who chuckles. They seem to be quite smug over their matchmaking success so far, which my companion also notices.
“I’m never going to live this down,” Wyatt confides with a chuckle. “He’s been trying to set me up for weeks, and now that I’ve finally given in, I find myself wishing I hadn’t wasted so much time.”
“Oh?” I glance up to find his cheeks reddening in the glow of a streetlight.
“Um, yeah,” he says, adorably flustered. “I mean, if I’d agreed when he first suggested it, I would’ve met you so much sooner.”
It’s my turn to blush and look away, and a small smile plays about my lips. “Oh, well, we’re here now,” I stammer with a little laugh, feeling my cheeks heat even more when a grin spreads across his face.
“Yes we are,” he agrees, and with matching grins and glances at each other, we continue down the street, close enough that our hands brush occasionally. I like it.
Music from the jazz band playing gets louder as we approach the bar. We stand in line for only a few minutes until we make it inside. I let out a huff of frustration as I’m knocked from behind in the crowd as we make our way to a table on the far side.
“You’re not much for clubbing, then?” Wyatt asks as we finally make it to the quieter area close to the back of the bar.
“Ah, no, not so much.” I chuckle wryly. “I mean, once in a while is fine, but usually I prefer to hunker down with a good book or a movie.”
He nods. “Yeah, me, too. This place is nice, though,” he says, leaning closer to be heard over the music.
The next few hours fly by. We talk a lot and even dance a little. I sip my peartini and listen as Wyatt talks about life as a firefighter. He has an easy way about him I find appealing. Not as appealing as a certain blue-eyed musician, but certainly more accessible and—let’s face it—realistic. He laughs often and isn’t afraid to make fun of himself. He and Dylan ha
ve us giggling over stories of their cooking for the other guys on their shift, including one Thanksgiving when Wyatt accidentally used baking soda instead of cornstarch in the gravy, resulting in a foamy, fizzy mess.
“I honestly think the other guys try to switch shifts now on the weeks I pull kitchen duty, just to avoid my cooking!” He barks out a laugh as Dylan confirms his suspicion with a sheepish nod.
Maddie suggests another round, and I’m about to agree, but instead I quickly slip a hand over my mouth when a yawn threatens to break through. “I’m sorry,” I apologize, but Wyatt shakes his head.
“Don’t worry; it’s late,” he says quickly. “If you’d like to leave, I’d be glad to walk you home or get a cab.”
Maddie smiles into her drink at his eager offer; she’s no doubt congratulating herself again. I’m never going to hear the end of it. Ignoring her, I smile at him. “Yes, please.”
After settling the bill and saying our good-byes—I roll my eyes at Maddie’s whispered assurance that she’d slipped some condoms into my nightstand—we weave our way through the crowd. We catch each other heaving sighs of relief as we step outside, and share a chuckle. “I love Maddie, but I can only handle the bar scene for a few hours,” I admit as we begin walking toward my apartment. He hums in agreement and politely steers me away from the line of people still waiting to get in.
We chat a bit more as we stroll down Fillmore. Wyatt seems genuinely interested in my work, and doesn’t seem to mind when I get carried away talking about it. Most guys tune out after a few minutes.
“What do you like most about your job?” he asks after I finish describing a particularly complicated dream fulfillment.
“Without a doubt, it’s the look on the faces of the recipients and their families,” I answer immediately. “Whether it’s a big wish or a small one, the joy and amazement on their faces when they get to meet their favorite race car driver or step on that plane to Hawaii make everything worthwhile. These kids go through so much. Hospital stays instead of vacations and draining medical treatments instead of birthday parties. Then there’s the emotional and financial strain on the families . . .”
I take a deep breath to center myself, realizing I’ve stepped up onto my soapbox. “Sorry, I get carried away. Suffice it to say anything I can do to make their burdens lighter and provide a moment’s respite is well worth the effort,” I conclude, somewhat sheepishly. He gives me an encouraging smile.
“Please don’t apologize. You’re obviously passionate about what you do, and you should be. What you do, it’s amazing, really.”
I shrug, embarrassed by his praise. “I’m lucky I have such an amazing staff. They’re the ones who do the heavy lifting. And you, that’s truly amazing. I would never have the nerve to run into a burning building, and you do it every day. You save people’s lives. You’re a hero.”
He chuckles self-consciously, and then gives me a grin. “Well, not every day. It’s not all burning buildings. Usually, it’s mundane stuff, like someone getting stuck while cleaning their chimney.” After checking the traffic, we start across the street. “I love my job, but I’m beginning to think about the future, too,” he says.
He tosses me more than a few admiring glances as we walk, and I can’t help my grin when I feel the faint flutters of excitement stir in my stomach. I’ve forgotten what it feels like . . . the flush of exhilaration of being with an attractive man who genuinely seems to like you, and the anticipation of what may lie ahead.
I like it.
“Well, this is me,” I say when we reach my apartment. For a second, I panic. Should I ask him to come up? I’m not a monk, no matter what Maddie thinks. But this feels different from the casual dates I’ve had these last few years. I haven’t had a serious boyfriend since Lucas and I ended, and I don’t want to screw this up before I have a chance to see where it may go.
He walks me up the steps and into our small foyer. “Abby, I’ve had a really good time.” He steps closer and places one hand on my waist as he did when we were dancing. My heart races, and I look up as he cups my cheek.
“So have I,” I whisper. I’m not going to ask him upstairs tonight, but a kiss . . . Oh yeah, I can definitely do a kiss.
He hesitates, looking adorably nervous, before leaning down, pressing his lips to mine, and . . .
Nothing. His lips are soft—too soft. There’s no substance. I try to lean into the kiss, but there’s no resistance, nothing to work with. It’s like kissing a new sponge fresh out of the wrapper—pliable, but lifeless.
Ugh!
All the wonderful anticipation and excitement humming through my body abruptly fizzles. I pull away and bite back a snort because his eyes are still closed, and he’s humming as if he’s savoring the finest wine. Well, at least he’s gotten something out of it. I manage to tamp down my disappointment and plaster a smile on my face just as he opens his eyes. He looks delighted.
“Wow,” he breathes, and leans his forehead against mine. “You’re amazing.”
“Um, yeah, wow,” I echo, somewhat listlessly. He steps back and releases me, looking at me hopefully.
“Do you have plans for Tuesday night? It’s my night off. I know it’s a workday, but maybe we can just get a quick bite somewhere for dinner or dessert?”
“Oh, um, Tuesday . . . let me think,” I stammer. “Actually, I’m not sure if Tuesday will work. But let me have your number, and I’ll let you know.”
He beams at me and takes my offered phone, quickly punching in his number. He presses send, and his own phone rings. “There, now we’re set.” He leans down and, before I can react, I’m treated to a repeat performance of the Limp Lip-Lock. Determined to try to make something out of nothing, I redouble my efforts and pucker a little more, moving my lips against his. Nope—nada. A sense of helplessness swells within me when it becomes apparent there’s nothing I can do to coax a more animated response from him. But I return his smile when we break apart, and I walk backward slowly toward the elevator.
“I’ll call you about Tuesday,” I manage brightly. “Good night, Wyatt, and thank you for a wonderful evening.”
“G’night. Sweet dreams.” He turns and steps back outside, smiling at me over his shoulder. Giving him a perky little wave through the glass door, I finally escape into the tiny elevator, letting out a vast sigh of relief as soon as the doors close.
“Damn, damn, damn,” I groan, banging my head lightly against the doors. He’s smart, polite, handsome, and a good dancer. So what if he’s a crappy kisser? It’s not the end of the world. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’d be bad in the sack, does it?
Once I reach my floor, I trudge down the hall to my apartment. I dump my purse and keys on my kitchen table and immediately move to pour myself a glass of wine in the kitchen to give my mouth something to react to. Maybe it would’ve been better with a little tongue? On the other hand, tongue might have only made it limp and wet. I shudder.
I check my voice mail and scowl at the two hang ups. I suppose they could have been wrong numbers, but . . . I really need to change my number. I take my glass and curl up in my ancient, plush wing chair. There’s more to life than passion, Abby, I tell myself, toying with a loose thread on the chair arm. I had passion once upon a time and look what that got me. I shudder, pushing my last horrific memory of Lucas back. Yeah, passion is definitely overrated.
I frown out at the night beyond my window. Wyatt is a lovely man who seems genuinely interested in me. Don’t I owe it to myself to give the guy a second date? For cripe’s sake, he saves lives for a living. What more could I ask for?
So, why does a part of me feel like I’m settling?
The next afternoon, as April and I return from lunch, I stop dead in my tracks. Standing like a stone sentry outside my office is the bodyguard I’d seen in Lane’s suite at the hotel. From behind her desk, Tess ogles the biceps bulging out of his tight T-shirt and looks like she’s about to expire. But my eyes are glued to my open office door and the vision s
tanding just inside.
Looking tall, lean, and utterly edible, Kennedy leans with his back against my office windows, his arms crossed over his broad chest, the picture of nonchalance. He’s wearing a beautifully tailored sapphire-blue suit with matching shirt, looking the exact opposite from the last time I saw him. His black hair is in artful disarray, falling over his forehead carelessly, and my fingers twitch involuntarily. He’s stunning. A sly smirk spreads across his lips as our eyes meet; I’m suddenly aware I’m gaping at him.
“Holy shit. Is that who I think it is?” April asks in disbelief as I clamp my mouth shut. “Did you have a meeting scheduled with him?”
“I . . . No, I don’t,” I say, finally finding my voice. What on earth is he doing here? The smugness in his eyes infuriates me. It’s like he’s doing me a favor by gracing me with his presence.
“Well, you shouldn’t keep him waiting. You can tell me all about it later,” April murmurs, gently bumping her shoulder against mine and spurring me into motion.
Tess snaps out of her bodyguard-induced haze as I approach. “I’m sorry, Abby. I know he isn’t on your schedule, but . . .” Waving off her apology, I give her an understanding nod before continuing into my office. Kennedy watches me like a hawk through his narrowed eyes, and I steel myself for what could be a prickly conversation.
“Mr. Lane,” I greet him coolly as I close the door behind me. “What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”
He takes a deep breath before the self-assured smile I remember slips into place. “I think it’s what I can do for you, Miss Walker.”
I fight back a flash of annoyance. Arrogant bastard. “Oh? Did Nadia not speak with your management team?” I ask, confused. What the hell is he doing here?