Cityscape Affair Series: The Complete Box Set

by Hawkins, Jessica

  “Is Diane coming back?” he asked, turning back to me.

  “Oh—well, no.” It shouldn’t have surprised me that he knew Diane, except that Mr. Beman had made it sound as if they’d never spoken. I shifted in my seat. “Weirdly, I’m the new point person on the ‘Most Eligible Bachelors and Bachelorettes’ feature. Well, one of them.”

  “Why is that weird?”

  “First, I run into you at Lucy’s. Two days later, we’re meeting again. It’s just a weird coincidence is all.”

  He nodded slowly, as if processing for the first time that this might be out of the ordinary. And then, he shook his head. “You think this is a coincidence?”

  More teasing. Wasn’t it? I frowned. “I mean, yes . . .?”

  “Isn’t there a chance I came here looking for you?” he asked.

  In the few minutes he’d been here, that possibility hadn’t crossed my mind, yet he didn’t laugh or even smirk. “You don’t know anything about me, but you and Diane have discussed putting you in the feature. So it makes more sense you’d come here to see her and found me instead.”

  “Or maybe it’s fate?” He raised his chin. “That’s a nice way of looking at it.”

  “Not fate, Mr. Dylan. This isn’t a John Cusack film.”

  He chuckled. “Diane and I never discussed my participation. I don’t even know who she is beyond the fact that an editor at this magazine has left me several messages over the years that I’ve never returned.” David leaned his elbows on his knees, his eyes dancing. “I came here for you, Olivia Germaine. I warned you I could be persistent.”

  7

  Persistent bachelor David Dylan sat across the desk from me, a magnificent sight in a bland room. He’d come for me, he said, but I heard the alternate meaning in his words.

  I see you, Olivia Germaine.

  As it had on our first introduction, my heart skipped hearing my name from his mouth. My full name, this time—which I’d never given him. Saturday night, I’d gotten the sense he’d seen deeper in me than others. Now, that suspicion veered dangerously close to truth. “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “Luckily, we have a few friends in common.”

  My throat dried. “You asked Andrew about me? My best friend’s husband—who is also a close friend to my husband? What makes you think that’s okay?”

  “Don’t worry.” He winked. “I didn’t give anything away.”

  His insinuation wasn’t lost on me. He was trying to rile me again, to get me to admit there was something to give away. I sat back in my seat. “Why are you here?”

  “Two reasons. First, to apologize if I made you uncomfortable the other night. I know I came on strong—I’ve never been one to mince words.” Lowering his voice, he continued, “It wasn’t my intention to . . . well. It caught me off guard, seeing you again. We can blame that run-in on fate.”

  He sounded sincere, though an apology was the last thing I’d expected.

  “I appreciate that,” I said carefully.

  “To be clear, I’m not sorry for what I said . . . only if I alarmed you. I had the distinct feeling you might run out on me any moment, and it made me—”

  Serena entered the office. “Here you are, Mr. Dylan,” she said, carrying a tray to my desk. I slid my notebook out of the way to make space, and she offered us each a steaming mug.

  “Thank you, Serena,” I said.

  As he took a sip, David stared at me over the rim, a hand cupped around his coffee. His eyes narrowed as if he was contemplating having me for his next meal.

  I shuddered. In unison, we glanced at Serena. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

  We were giving too much away. The way I looked at David couldn’t have been half as bad as how he looked at me. I held out my notepad. “Can you call these places and find out the cost of event space for the Bachelor and Bachelorette Meet and Greet?”

  David leaned forward and intercepted the pad, scanning my scribbled notes. “Have it at the Gryphon Hotel,” he said. “The other two venues will gouge you and cut corners.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “It’s part of my job to know these things.” He set my notebook in his lap, slipped a black business card from the inside of his jacket, and handed it to Serena. “Here’s my info. When you book the space, tell Amber to call me about the details.”

  “Who’s Amber?” I alleged as if he’d made up the name off the top of his head.

  “The event coordinator,” he said. “Do you have the budget for a place like the Gryphon?”

  I exchanged a look with Serena. “It’s good publicity for them,” I said. “If they’re smart, they’ll offer us a discount.”

  “They won’t,” David said. “But Amber will. For me.”

  Serena took his business card but left my notebook. “I’ll get right on it,” she said and spun on her heel.

  Amber. I’d never cared less for a name than I did in that moment. Amber represented warmth, glow, syrupy sweetness. She had a working—and perhaps personal—relationship with the man sitting in front of me. A man offering me—what? A working relationship as well?

  He was supposedly here to talk about the feature, but so far, we’d only discussed the very heated, very dangerous topic of us.

  “Decent coffee for an office,” David remarked, setting his mug on my desk.

  I cleared my throat. “What’s the second reason?”

  “Sorry?” he asked.

  “You said you were here for two reasons. The first was pointless—a harmless conversation is no reason to apologize.”

  “Ah.” He flipped my notebook over in his lap and ran the pad of his thumb over a list of local florists. “Are you this direct with everyone?” he asked. “Or just me?”

  Just you.

  That seemed like the only way to handle someone as charming as David. “I’m sure you’re busy. I don’t want to waste your time.”

  He raised his eyes to mine. “How about you let me decide how to spend my time.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “What should we talk about then? The weather? The Bulls’ season?”

  He massaged his jaw, closed my notebook, and slid it back onto the desk. “I came to let you know I’ll do the article.”

  Even though that was the reason for our meeting, and it didn’t exactly come as a shock, a sense of relief hit me hard enough to make me pause. Was it only because of what his participation would do for my career? It would mean more time with him, time that was not only justifiable but encouraged.

  “You don’t look as happy as I’d hoped,” he said. “My secretary said Diane has asked me to participate four years in a row. Was I wrong to assume you’d try again?”

  “No,” I said carefully. “It’s not that. I’m just not sure it’s such a good idea.”

  He extended one arm to fix his cuff. “Why not, Olivia?”

  I couldn’t explain why, and he knew that. Admitting my fear of being alone with him was as good as acknowledging the attraction between us. “Why now?” I asked. “After four years of turning us down, what made you change your mind?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?” He stared at me. “I think you know the reason.”

  My face flushed under his full attention. Afraid he’d think he was making me nervous, I held his gaze instead of turning away. If we’d be working together, I couldn’t let him get under my skin so easily.

  As if reading my mind, he added, “I never mix business and pleasure. I’ll be completely professional during working hours. You have my word.”

  I narrowed my eyes, once again trying to determine if he was being sincere. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “You should, Olivia,” he said, sitting back in his seat. “Because I don’t like repeating myself.”

  The deepening of his voice coupled with his candor made me believe him whether I wanted to or not. His words, his passive expression, the way he flexed and curled one hand—said it all.

  I am
not a man who needs to lie to get what I want.

  “All right then,” I said. “You’re in.”

  “Do you need to run it by anyone?”

  “No. According to everyone else, you’re a shoo-in.”

  “And according to you?” he asked.

  “I don’t really have a choice,” I said. “The magazine wants you. I want Diane’s position. If I deliver you, it looks good for me.”

  He studied my face in a way that made me wonder if that wasn’t the answer he’d expected. It wasn’t as if I could come out and admit the prospect of getting to know him better excited me. Not to him—not even to myself.

  “It’s your article,” he said. “If you don’t want me in it, tell me now. I’ll find you someone even better to fill my spot, and you’ll still look good.”

  Someone better? He’d just lobbed the ball back to my side of the court. Your move. How would it look if I went back to Beman without David Dylan? Not good, that was for sure.

  “Brian Ayers,” David said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “A friend of mine. He’s a local photographer, but he also freelances for SURFER magazine. Better looking than me, and more interesting—just don’t tell him I said that. I’ll get him here for you by tomorrow.” David started to take his cell from inside his blazer. The sunlight from one tiny window was enough to make his eyes glint. “Just tell me you don’t want me.”

  I wasn’t a liar—even if I sensed I wasn’t being completely honest with myself. “I can’t tell you that.”

  He answered with a large, boyish grin, so pure and unassuming that I had to flex my hands against my thighs to release tension. I’d never seen a smile like that before. It made me want to laugh and hug and kiss him all at once.

  “Let’s get started then,” I said, pushing down the troublesome impulses. I stood and reached across the desk to pick up my notebook. “If you have a few minutes now, I can cover the basics like career path and—”

  He bolted up from his chair. “What the fuck is that?”

  I froze. The sharpness of his tone mirrored the concern etched in his face—and his laser focus on my arm. I followed his gaze to my elbow and lower bicep, where fresh, purple bruises had bloomed.

  Shit. I’d completely forgotten they were the reason I’d worn my cardigan today. Not only were they unsightly and unprofessional, they also invited questions I didn’t know how to answer.

  I wrapped my left hand over the marks. “It looks worse than it is.”

  “I . . .” His jaw set as he ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, tousling it. He stared at my arm as if physically incapable of looking away. “Christ, Olivia. I’m—I’m so sorry.”

  Sorry? I cinched my eyebrows, trying to read his expression. Why did he look as if the world had suddenly come crashing down around us? Why did a few minor bruises mean anything to him?

  As I waited in silence, his expression grew pained. This definitely meant something to him, as if he’d hurt me himself.

  Oh.

  Our argument on Lucy’s terrace. He’d taken my arm and pulled me back to face him. He thought he’d done this to me?

  “David,” I started, shaking my head. I took my cardigan off the back of my chair. “No, no, no. It’s not what you think.”

  He startled, then strode around the side of my desk and perched on the edge in front of me. “Let me see.”

  “David—”

  “Olivia, what did I just tell you?” He took my sweater away and set it on the desk. “I hate to repeat myself.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was asking for. I let him take my wrist, and he gently tautened my arm. His dark, heavy eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead as he examined the bruises.

  Contrary to his tender hold on my wrist, he demanded, “When I’m around you, I lose all sense of—”

  “Stop it,” I said. “You didn’t do this.”

  He was quiet for a beat as his fingers marginally tightened around my wrist. After a moment, he met my eyes. The fire behind them told me for some reason, what I’d just said was worse than letting him believe he’d done this. “Then who the fuck did?”

  I drew back slightly at his curse. I’d never had someone address me with such vehemence. And over what? He had no right to worry about me—and those who did had never looked the way David did in that moment . . . teeth clenched, nostrils flared, biceps twitching. As if it took everything in him to conceal his anger.

  I didn’t even know where to begin or how to explain, only that I had to. “There was this man,” I started. “After Lucy’s party. He was drunk—”

  “Olivia.” David’s tone softened. “Tell me the truth. Is this . . . was it him?”

  “Who?”

  “Your husband.”

  “Oh my God, no,” I said. “Never. Bill wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “That’s a common response from a victim of domestic violence. You can tell me. I’ll take care of—this.”

  Take care of it? What did that even mean? I tried to pull my arm back, but he held it steady. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but it’s the truth. Bill isn’t even in town. I told you—he’s in New York for a case.”

  David frowned. “A case?”

  “He’s a lawyer.” I managed to slip my wrist from his grip and immediately regretted it once my skin cooled, devoid of his touch. “I think it’s related to Bill’s work, because the man who did this was waiting for Bill outside my apartment. He found me instead.”

  “He knows where you live?” David’s jaw looked tense enough to snap. “For Christ’s sake, Olivia. I should’ve seen you home on Saturday.”

  I lowered my voice. “You should have done exactly what you did—nothing,” I said. “I’m not your responsibility.”

  He lowered his hand to grip the lip of the desk. “What happened?”

  “He grabbed me when I tried to get away and made some threat about getting Bill to free his brother from jail. I don’t know all the details.”

  David massaged the bride of his nose. “Why not? What’d your husband say?”

  I sighed. “I haven’t told him. I didn’t want to worry him while he’s out of town.”

  “You didn’t want to worry him? You don’t think your safety is of the utmost . . .” He paused. “You slept alone last night? The whole weekend? He could’ve come back—”

  “I’m fine,” I said softly and touched his forearm. When his expression eased, butterflies twittered in my tummy. Apparently, David’s urge to protect me wasn’t one-sided. I didn’t like seeing him upset, either—but being able to soothe him fulfilled something primal in me I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. “Really,” I promised. “My arm doesn’t hurt.”

  He frowned, looking skeptical, but it was true. Vivid as they were, the marks didn’t bother me.

  “What about tonight?” he asked, his voice somehow both gentle and gravelly. “You can’t stay alone.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “Bill flies home later this afternoon.”

  That seemed to be enough to separate David from his rage—and from me. He stood, taking a few steps away from my desk. “I should get going,” he said.

  “Oh. Okay. Sure.” I rose from my chair, but he was already halfway across the room. “We can do the interview another time,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. “Unless you want to call the whole thing off.”

  He had his hand on the knob when he paused. Without looking back, he said, “I don’t.”

  With my answering flood of relief, it became apparent: I didn’t want that, either.

  8

  In the front seat of our realtor’s car, Bill nodded along with the tick of the turn signal.

  “What’d I tell you?” He pushed up the sleeves of his cream-colored pullover and glanced back at me. “The commute isn’t bad at all.”

  In the driver’s seat, Jeanine’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “It’s practically the same as what you do now once you factor in the walk to public transportation and tra
in delays.”

  “It’s Saturday,” I pointed out. “We’re not dealing with traffic.”

  Jeanine watched the stoplight through her windshield. “It’s not much heavier than this,” she assured me.

  I kept my doubts to myself. We’d been at this an hour, and neither Bill nor Jeanine could be budged from their optimism over the suburbs. The neighborhoods our realtor had for us were either “charming” or “up-and-coming,” and all in a “desirable school district.” The commute was “a straight shot,” the location “a tradeoff for restful sleep.” Bill had never had trouble sleeping in the city until recently. Now, he was suddenly fed up with noise from our upstairs neighbors, the street lamps and car horns, the long lines, impossible parking, loitering twenty-something students . . .

  “Along with Evanston, this suburb has one of the lowest crime rates in the metro area,” Jeanine said. She’d been spouting off facts since we’d gotten in her car. “That’s why I picked it after hearing what you’ve been through. I have a great feeling about this next house.”

  Bill glanced back at me. “You’ll be safe here.”

  I looked out my open window at quiet streets, save the almost imperceptible rustling of foliage. Grand, old-fashioned houses sat comfortably in their foundations, settled from decades of existence. Lower crime rates weren’t enough to convince me I belonged here. I’d moved to the city out of college around seven years ago, and it still awed me each day. There was always some new performance to see, activity to try, cuisine to taste. I still stumbled across gems on a daily basis. Buying a home here meant less variety. It meant backyards, a second car, peaceful nights to cook dinner and fall asleep to the TV. It was as if we’d hopped a spaceship from the bustling sidewalks of Chicago to Pleasant Street, Oak Park. What did people even do out here?

  Jeanine accelerated for a green light, driving us by a playground with three strollers parked at the entry gate.

  Oh, right. That was what people did around here—they raised children.