The One I'm With (A Sweet Somethings Novel Book 3)

by J. Lynn Rowan

  Her words, a grotesque twist on what Josh said to me a little while ago, knock me physically off balance. I catch myself at the last second before my shoulder slams into the wall.

  But Brenda’s not done. Trapped in the stall, I have no choice but to listen in while she catalogs to her insipid friend all the things she plans to do with Josh, to Josh, and him to her. I can’t move, speak, or even breathe. And the longer she goes on, the more I wonder if Josh’s feelings for me are strong enough to resist this horrible woman.

  “I don’t think your husband would be very happy if you took Joshua Mattingly back to the room,” Deanne ventures.

  “I said my room, silly. Did you think I would be unprepared for tonight? I’ve had my own suite booked for weeks. Of course, I don’t plan to stay there all night. But it’s worth the expense for a few hours of mind-blowing sex.”

  “But what about Dave?”

  “Dave?” Brenda scoffs. “He’s so desperate to finalize this deal, I’m kind of surprised he hasn’t offered me up as an incentive. I do have very generous assets of my own, if you know what I mean.”

  After Deanne’s answering giggle, the two women fall silent. Swallowing, I carefully ease closer to the door so I can peer through the space again. Both of them lean over the counter for a close-up check of their makeup. Then Brenda straightens, adjusts her dress so her cleavage is more definitively front and center, and tugs her friend back out.

  Once they’re gone, I rest my forehead against the stall door and squeeze my eyes shut. I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone like Brenda came out of the woodwork with her sights set on Josh.

  I pull in a steadying breath. He told me he loves me. It might have been a breathless proclamation that surprised us both, but everything he’s done since then would seem to indicate the sincerity of his words. Step by step, he’s been asking me to risk my heart on him.

  But can I risk my trust, too?

  Unsure how much time has passed since Brenda left, a woman on a mission, I smooth the front of my dress and leave the stall. I take one quick glance in the mirror to make sure my face doesn’t betray me, then head back.

  I pause just outside the open doorway leading to the terrace. Most of the partygoers have migrated toward the far end, where the air is a little cooler. Everyone has a drink in hand, so I make a detour past a rectangular table set up with bottles of wine in ice buckets and assorted wine glasses. The server on duty pours me a Chardonnay at my request. Then, holding the glass at a height that, hopefully, looks both graceful and nonchalant, I scan the room. The bar is situated closer to the door, slightly screened by a row of potted palms. At the near end, I find Josh where he stands with his back to me, chatting with a bored bartender.

  I’m about to take my first step forward when a woman in red sashays up to him.

  At her appearance, I stumble sideways. The move lands me between the wall and the potted palms, but also affords me a prime view of Brenda Connors.

  Josh moves to the side to provide room for her, turning and resting his elbow on the bar. She mirrors his posture, one hip cocked so her leg appears up to mid-thigh through a slit in her dress. He doesn’t give any indication he’s noticed, seemingly engaging her in polite conversation.

  This is the point at which I should stride over and hang off his arm again in a blatant show of possession. But then I realize he hasn’t turned his gaze toward the door since I walked in. Hasn’t he noticed how long I’ve been gone?

  That reality check leaves me incapable of drawing a full breath. Hyperventilation threatens, and I can’t make any of my limbs move. All I can do is stare at Josh and Brenda where they stand in profile to me, willing him to look at the door.

  Just a glance would work wonders.

  Instead, I watch helplessly as Brenda inches closer to him, leading with her so-called generous assets, and slowly runs her fingers up his arm. Her hand floats over his shoulder, then comes to rest on the curve of his neck as she says something to him. Though I can’t hear the actual words of her dissertation on why he should disappear with her to a suite on the other side of the hotel for a couple hours, the artful tilt of her head broadcasts the message loud and clear.

  Josh doesn’t reply in the periodic pauses in her proposition. In fact, he hasn’t moved a muscle since she first touched him. The logical part of my mind recognizes that he’s probably as shocked by her bold attempt to get him into bed as I was to overhear her plans for the night. But the illogical part, the part that seems to be running things right now, wonders why he isn’t doing something to put her off. Remove her hand, step away, tell her off. My preferred response would be for him to douse her with ice water from the full pitcher the bartender just set out for one of the servers, then holler across the room to get the attention of Dave Connors, who appears to be grandstanding for some of his executives on the far side of the room.

  But Josh does none of this. He just stands there.

  I do the same, my eyes filling as I watch her slide her hand down his chest and stomach. She pauses, then steps too far into his personal space and stretches herself up until she’s brought herself within kissing range.

  Her hand resumes its downward path.

  Air explodes from my lungs, the way it does when you fall off the monkey bars as a kid and land flat on your back.

  I have to get out of here.

  Spinning, I knock back the entire glass of wine. Then I rush out, shoving the empty glass at a server on my way. As I hurry to the elevators, I dig my phone from my purse and call the hotel’s front desk, asking them to call me a cab. I see one waiting when I step off the elevator in the front lobby. Blood pounds past my ears, and I can hardly hear the doorman bid me a good night as I barrel outside and hop into the back of the cab.

  “Where to?” the driver asks.

  My phone rings. Vision blurred, I stare at Josh’s picture on the caller ID.

  “Son of a bitch,” I mutter, sending him to voicemail.

  The driver cranes around. “Didn’t catch that, miss.”

  My fingers fly over the screen, though I can’t actually see the words I text to Ava, Caitlin, and Mel. Something about Josh, that I might already be drunk, then a request for them to meet me at the bar where Boomer works.

  “Miss?”

  I shove my phone back into my purse and buckle up. “Just drop me off at Pack Square and I’ll manage from there.”

  Chapter 15

  Unintended Consequences

  My equilibrium is shot by the time I stalk through the door of the bar and plunk myself down in the first available stool I see. My phone buzzes with an incoming text. I whip it out of my purse, half hoping it’s Josh, half praying it’s not.

  It’s Ava, responding to my hysteria-induced group message. Be there ASAP. Might be a while. Please don’t drink and drive.

  Fortunately, the driving part isn’t a worry. Took a cab. Just gonna sit tight.

  Tucking my phone back into my purse, I cast a glance around the bar to see if Boomer’s here. The only bartender on duty is an older woman named Christy, who I think might be the owner’s sister. When she catches my gaze, she heads toward me.

  “You’re not usually here without your posse,” she comments.

  “They’re on the way,” I say with a forced smile. “Isn’t Boomer working tonight?”

  Christy nods. “He’s got the second shift, should be here in about a half hour. Can I get you something while you wait for your friends?”

  Considering the glass of wine I chugged before I ran out of the party, I should probably let my system settle down a bit before I drink anything else. “Maybe in a little while. I’m good for now.”

  As Christy moves away from me, I swivel around on my stool to peruse the room. It’s hard to believe this is where I met Josh over four months ago. Loo
king back, I wonder if I should have pushed him away, instead of letting him get close. I knew from the beginning he could spell trouble for me, that he was a player at heart.

  Tears burn, and I spin back to face the bar. To hell with my system settling.

  I lift my hand, about to flag Christy down, when a muscular mass shifts into my peripheral vision. For a split second, my heart leaps at the wild thought of Josh coming after me. But when I turn, the face is unfamiliar.

  Just a random college guy, already glassy-eyed from alcohol. I imagine his semi-inebriated state is what prevents him from realizing I’m about four years too old for him.

  “Hey,” he says, propping one elbow on the bar so his bicep bulges.

  I plaster on a fake, toothy grin. “Hey, yourself.”

  He leans a little too close for comfort. “You know, it makes me sad to see a beautiful girl sitting alone at a bar.”

  I somehow doubt that.

  “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, and see if I can’t cheer you up?” he continues.

  “Who says I need cheering up? I’m smiling.”

  As if he hasn’t heard me, he waves the bartender over, then jerks his thumb at me. “Get her anything she’d like and put it on my tab.”

  Christy and I exchange sarcastic looks. “A rum and Coke is fine,” I tell her.

  “You’re sure?” she asks, her glance sliding to my new friend.

  I start to reply, but the guy closes his fingers over my shoulder, way too possessively for my liking. “Rum and Coke it is,” he says. “And a beer for me. Whatever you’ve got on tap. Surprise me.” When Christy moves away, he leans against the bar again. “Name’s Trevor.”

  His hand pops open between us.

  I stare at his palm for a second. “Marissa,” I say without accepting the handshake.

  Trevor waits a beat too long to draw his hand back. “So, back to my original question.”

  Was there an original question? “I’m waiting for some friends to show.”

  “Okay, yeah.” He grins, but doesn’t say anything while Christy sets our drinks in front of us. Then, after insisting on clinking our glasses together, he leers at me over the rim of his pint. “Dressed kind of swanky for a night at the bar.”

  “Who says the plan was to hang at the bar?” The first sip of my drink sets my stomach roiling, but I cover it with another bright smile.

  “Special night out, then?” He inches closer until his hip presses against my side.

  I can’t tell if my stomach is protesting the combination of wine and rum, or Trevor’s inability to stay out of my personal space. But instead of moving way, I take another long drink. “Guess you could say that. Hasn’t quite panned out as expected. But shit happens, right?”

  From the other end of the bar, Christy catches my eye and transmits a look as if to ask if I’m okay. I ignore her and slurp down the remaining liquid in my glass. Trevor continues to blabber on, but it isn’t until he hooks his arm around my shoulder that I realize I’m faced with two really bad choices.

  I could call Josh to come get me and maybe, just maybe, fumble my way through an explanation for why I ran out on his work party.

  Or, I could mess around with Trevor.

  If Josh can play the game, why can’t I? Declaring me his girlfriend, shuttling me around to meet various important people in his life, clearly doesn’t mean a damn thing. It would serve him right if I went home with a random guy at a bar.

  Somewhere behind the thickening fog in my brain, a voice screams not to give in, that I am not and have never been that girl, the one who has drunken one-night stands with complete strangers. But I’m too pissed, too hurt, to listen.

  Especially after a new drink materializes in front of me.

  The glass is half empty again before I realize I’m swaying on the barstool.

  Boomer’s sudden appearance on the other side of the bar startles me. He moves the drink out of reach. “I called Josh. He went to your house looking for you. He should be here in a few.”

  “Who’s Josh?” Trevor asks.

  I lift my hand above my head in an attempt to illustrate Josh’s height. “Big guy.” I shake my head. “I’m fine. Girls are on their way.”

  Boomer looks doubtful, so I carefully ease off the stool. Trevor steadies me, his arm around my waist. Clutching my purse, I turn.

  Just in time to see Josh come through the door.

  You hear about people being instantly sobered by some emotional or mental shock.

  That’s not exactly what happens to me when I lock eyes with Josh. Instead, it’s more like the room goes empty and silent, except for the two of us. I see every element of his reaction. The twitch of his facial muscles as he clenches his jaw and fights a scowl. The slow closing of his fists at his sides, the buildup of tension in his shoulders. The cloud of confusion in his eyes.

  Then he turns and walks out.

  “Shit,” I growl.

  Trevor makes some asinine comment about wanting to help me get home. I wave him off and stumble after Josh, aware of the wobble in my legs. The cool air helps clear my mind a little once I get outside.

  But I’m not prepared to find Josh standing a few paces from the door, hands shoved into his pockets.

  “Can I ask what the hell you’re doing?”

  The hurt in his voice stabs me with little daggers of guilt. Despite the fact that nothing happened, and nothing was going to happen, I realize how badly I screwed up my end of things tonight.

  Though, from my perspective, he started it.

  I know my anger is unreasonable. If I wasn’t drunk, I’d probably be able to get myself under control. Instead, I cross my arms and start walking away from him. “As if you actually care.”

  “Marissa!” He hurries to catch up with me. Not hard, given how uneven my steps have become. “Come on.”

  “Come on, what? I’m going home.”

  He touches my arm. “Let me—”

  “Alone, Josh.” I shy away from him, almost losing my balance.

  “How?” His hand circles my arm to steady me.

  “Bus. Cab. I don’t care. I think the girls are coming to pick me up.” I glare at him. “Maybe I should go back and ask that guy to give me a lift.”

  His grip tightens. “Like hell you are.”

  Wheeling my arm, I break his hold on me. “Don’t think you own me now, just because you whisked me off to a beach and pretended like I meant the world to you or something.” My words make no sense.

  “You do mean the world to me.”

  “Stop it. Don’t lie to me like that.”

  My stomach gives a huge lurch. I barely make it to a municipal garbage can on the edge of the sidewalk before heaving. Great. Just when I thought I couldn’t embarrass myself any further, here I am, hunched over a bin of putrid trash, dressed to the nines, puking my guts out in public.

  Once the nausea passes, at least for now, I remain curled over the garbage can. Shudders wrack my body. To my surprise, Josh rests a hand on my back and starts rubbing up and down. He passes me a large, white linen square.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Dinner napkin. I ran into a server when I chased after you. He had it in his hand. Somehow it ended up in mine, and I stuffed it in my pocket without thinking. Probably ought to return it tomorrow.”

  “I highly doubt they’ll notice. Or want it back after this.” Straightening, I wipe my mouth with the napkin. Then I toss it into the garbage can and, feeling as composed as I can be under the circumstances, look up at him.

  His hand drops away. “I might have taken my time telling you about my past. But I’ve never lied to you.”

  I shake my head. “Hasn’t this whole thing been a lie?”

  Before he can ans
wer, three sets of running footsteps herald the arrival of my friends from a nearby parking garage. Ava, Caitlin, and Mel surround me, talking over each other. Amid their worried exclamations, Josh holds my gaze for a few seconds. Then, with a subtle shake of his head, he turns and walks away.

  My chin quivers, and I drop my hands to my sides in defeat. Noticing Josh’s immediate exit and my subsequent reaction, the girls fall silent. Then they wrap me in a hug, knowing better than to comment or ask questions, and steer me back to where they parked.

  Chapter 16

  Relocking the Door

  I wake up the next morning in my own bed, though I’m not completely sure how I got there. A bleary-eyed glance at the clock tells me it’s almost six. Sighing, I roll onto my back and rub my eyes, then ineffectively try to swallow the feeling of sawdust that fills my mouth.

  A vague recollection of piling into Caitlin’s car with my friends comes to mind, along with an even spottier memory of them helping me upstairs once they got me home. Between the alcohol and my emotional state, I’m sure I was a joy to handle. But since I’m wearing pajamas and my face feels clean, I must have managed a shower. That means my friends didn’t let me go to bed right away. The two empty water bottles on my bedside table attest to the fact that they also got me to flush my system, though hurling outside the bar probably helped more than the water.

  My head pounds as I sit up and swing my feet over the edge of the bed. I pause for a moment, resting my elbows on my knees and dropping my face into my hands. Reminding myself to move slowly, I get up, grab a clean set of clothes from the closet, and get dressed. The vanity lights over the bathroom mirror are almost guaranteed to split my head in two, so I use the early sun peeking through the window to brush my teeth and run through an abbreviated version of my morning routine. Then I tiptoe down the hall, noticing that the girls have crowded themselves into the guest room, and slip down the stairs.