Cityscape Affair Series: The Complete Box Set

by Hawkins, Jessica

  How she maybe even loved the idea of us more than the reality, and that she was happiest in her misery because she could blame it on us.

  If I tried to get Bill to understand, and he didn’t—would that mean he was right? That I was to blame for the irreparable rift between mother and daughter?

  * * *

  I woke up from a nap in a daze, confused by the setting sun and the warmth of a heavy blanket draped over me.

  Bill had tucked me in. Thawed me. Yet I’d fallen asleep thinking about David’s suggestive texts. The balls it’d taken to send them, to comment on another man’s wife’s dress, to give her a pet name.

  Had he thought of glittering gold and honeybees when he’d laid his head on his pillow last night?

  Did he ever spend a Sunday evening with a woman, or was that too intimate?

  That wasn’t my business. I turned my face into the couch pillow.

  I closed my eyes, giving in to a second round of sleep, when Bill spoke from the hallway. “Yeah?”

  “Hmm?” I asked.

  “You called for me.”

  Had I? On some level, I knew what I needed. Not silly fantasies made of lust but the steady love I already had.

  I reached for Bill. He climbed in with me, tented the blanket, and kissed my bare shoulder.

  “Do you still think I’m cold?” I whispered, looking up at him.

  “No.” He rubbed a smooth cheek against me. I lazily pulled him on top of me and ran the soles of my feet over his long calves. The inside of his mouth was hot and soft, and when he drew away, I almost pulled him back.

  Instead, I told him to get a condom.

  We made love under that too-hot blanket, sweating and groaning into each other. After a second time, we lay panting until my phone began to chime.

  “That’s my birth control reminder.” I wiggled out from under Bill, but he caught my forearm. I turned to meet eyes that asked me to stay. To skip today’s pill, and tomorrow’s, too. The moment stretched as we stared at each other in the almost-dark punctuated by melodious chimes. But it didn’t matter how desperately Bill wanted it or pleaded with me—I wasn’t stopping birth control today. Or tomorrow, either.

  Slowly, I slid my arm through his hand and left to take the pill.

  11

  From: David Dylan

  Sent: Mon, May 7 08:23 AM CDT

  To: Olivia Germaine

  Subject: The reason I called

  Olivia,

  I’m headed over to my latest project today. I’ll pick you up on the way for our lunch appointment to discuss my bachelor status.

  P.S. Got your Meet & Greet invitation. I’ll be there.

  DAVID DYLAN

  SENIOR ARCHITECT

  PIERSON/GREER

  I re-read David’s e-mail with a frown. We didn’t have an appointment. Had Serena booked something?

  No. More likely, David knew there was no appointment, but he was coming here anyway. Had it not crossed his mind that I might have lunch plans already? It didn’t matter. Nothing was as important as securing the elusive David Dylan as a Bachelor and proving to my boss that I was the right woman for the promotion.

  But what would it cost me to spend an hour under his spell, subjected to his charm, at the mercy of our attraction?

  With him, I seemed to forget what was at stake. Not just my marriage, but a future I’d fought hard for out of a need to escape my past. It hadn’t been easy to learn how to love carefully and choose wisely—I was like anyone else who wanted to give in to impulses, wants, desires. But I had to be stronger than that to get the life I wanted. One that wasn’t painful, even if it was never euphoric, either.

  I hit respond, changed the subject line, typed out my response, and hit Send before I could second-guess myself.

  If there was any chance of steering clear of David during this process, I had to try.

  From: Olivia Germaine

  Sent: Mon, May 7 08:31 AM CDT

  To: David Dylan

  Subject: We don’t have a lunch appointment

  Unfortunately, I already have a meeting scheduled, but I’d be happy to send Serena in my place to conduct the interview.

  Olivia Germaine

  Associate Editor

  Chicago Metropolitan Magazine

  ChicagoMMag.com

  From: David Dylan

  Sent: Mon, May 7 08:34 AM CDT

  To: Olivia Germaine

  Subject: If you hadn’t hung up on me and told me not to call back, you’d know about our appointment

  That doesn’t work for me. I trust you to do this interview. Only you. 11:30.

  DAVID DYLAN

  SENIOR ARCHITECT

  PIERSON/GREER

  The nerve, I thought as I mentally canceled my non-existent lunch appointment.

  * * *

  At eleven-thirty on the dot, Jenny buzzed me from the front desk. I smoothed a hand over my hair and was about to swipe on pink lip gloss when I stopped myself. I couldn’t risk my promotion by turning down an interview with David, but I didn’t have to look good doing it. At least I wouldn’t send the wrong message in my conservative outfit—a short-sleeved, white button down and navy, high-waisted pencil skirt. For insurance, I fastened the button at my throat, one more than I ever did.

  That should do it.

  Clutching my briefcase to my chest, I found Serena and Beman talking giddily with David.

  “I wasn’t aware Mr. Dylan would be gracing our offices today.” Beman nodded at me approvingly. “We’re so thrilled you’ve agreed to be part of the piece this year, David.”

  David rubbed the back of his neck. “This isn’t the type of publicity I usually do.”

  “I expect you’ll receive an emphatic response.” Beman brushed his hand along the sleeve of David’s suit jacket. “This is Italian, isn’t it? I know my wool.”

  David cleared his throat. “I . . .”

  Though his rare discomfort kind of made me want to laugh, I threw him a bone. “We should get going,” I said. “I’ll be conducting David’s interview at The Revelin.”

  David arched an eyebrow. This time, I’d done my homework. Well, some of it. After his e-mail, I’d looked up his firm’s current projects. David was the lead architect on a hotel coming to the Riverfront, but that was as much as I knew.

  “I’ve followed your work since that piece in the Tribune years ago,” Beman said. “I’d love to come along and see the space?”

  “Miss Germaine and I have set aside this time for our interview,” David said. “With my hectic schedule, it’s the only time I could spare.”

  I smiled at Beman. “You understand.”

  “Completely,” he said, glancing at David. “Consider Liv at your disposal.”

  David frowned as his jaw ticked, but the hint of his impending scowl quickly vanished as he turned to me and set his hands on his hips. “You ready?”

  I indicated the door. “After you, Mr. Dylan.”

  “No.” He shook his head and chuckled, swinging the door open with ease. “After you.”

  In the hallway, once alone, my shoulders depressed. David’s charisma expanded in large spaces yet in small ones, his towering frame and easy smile offered more comfort than intimidation. In the same ways his bluntness and prying wracked my nerves, his presence somehow calmed them.

  “That guy tells anyone you’re at their disposal again,” David said, “I’ll throw him through the wall.”

  I tilted my head up, searching his face for teasing but there was none. “What?”

  “I said, I’ll put your boss through a wall if I hear him speak to you that way again.” After a deep breath, he smiled. “How are you?”

  Overheated, that was what. A flush worked its way up my chest as David’s intent settled in. Had I ever heard someone stand up for me that way? For anyone?

  Flustered—and, if I was honest, flattered—I glanced at the ground to hide my smile. I had to stay strong. This was business. “I’m fine, thanks,” I said, crossing my
arms when he looked at my elbow.

  “How’s the arm?”

  “Healing.”

  He tapped his foot and peered down at me while the numbers above the elevator ticked up.

  When I realized he was waiting for me to reciprocate, I rolled my eyes playfully. “And how are you?”

  “Better,” he said with a beatific smile that took a hammer straight to my resolve.

  Downstairs, David led me to a classic black Porsche 911 so shiny and spotless, it must’ve taken a deal with the devil to keep it that way. Especially in this city.

  “This is your car?” I asked when he opened the passenger door.

  “Get in.”

  I crouched, slid onto the smooth leather seat, and ran a hand along the dash. “It’s beautiful,” I said as he got behind the wheel. “And it’s a Turbo.”

  “You a car girl?”

  “My dad always had a different sports car when I was growing up. Currently, he has a ’68 Shelby I’m trying to take off his hands.”

  “Mustang,” David said.

  “The faster the better.”

  “Even the buttoned-up ones have to get a rush somehow, huh?” he asked with a wink.

  I touched my collar. How ridiculous I’d been to think an extra button could protect me from his charms.

  “I take it your dad doesn’t want to part with the car?” he asked as we pulled into midday traffic.

  “No, he would, actually,” I said. “It’s Bill. He says it’s impractical for the city.”

  We slowed for a red light. “What about the suburbs?”

  I curled my hands into loose balls, keeping my eyes out the windshield. “Then I’m getting my car. If we move there, I’m going to need something, that’s for sure.”

  “If?” he asked.

  I couldn’t look at him for fear I’d never be able to picture myself anywhere in the world except in this car with him. Especially not that dust-free nursery-to-be.

  “Hmm,” David said with a sidelong glance.

  “What?”

  “Your energy changed talking about the car. That’s who I saw at the ballet,” he said. “Not white wine, suburbs, and pencil skirts, but someone trying to break through. The-faster-the-better girl in a sparkling gold dress, tipsy on Bordeaux . . .”

  If he thought that’s who I was, he was wrong. I was the person I made myself into. Life couldn’t be all glitter, speed, and indulgence. There had to be compromise, sensibility, sustainable pace—and office appropriate attire. “What’s wrong with my pencil skirt?” I asked.

  He glanced at my bare knees. As his eyes roved up my thighs to my hips, the fabric changed from the shield I’d intended into skin-tight, revealing, and hugging my every curve. “Not a thing, Miss Germaine. I like it as much as your dresses, the green and the white ones—but the gold? That’s my favorite.”

  He had a favorite. It was mine, too. I tried not to wiggle in my seat. “Has anyone ever told you you’re very forward?”

  “Yes.” He accelerated when the light turned. “It’s what got me where I am. Hungry?”

  I blinked at the enigma that was David. “Excuse me?”

  “Lunch,” he said. “Will you indulge me by stopping to eat first?”

  “Indulge you?” I asked. “I’m starved. I’m ready to chow down.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Chow . . . down?”

  “Guess you aren’t used to a date who actually eats,” I said and snickered. “What about your ‘hectic schedule,’ though?”

  “Funny,” he said. “It just opened up. And this isn’t a date, by the way. When you’re on a date with me—believe me, you’ll know it.”

  When? He was teasing. He had to be. Did he think the ring on my finger was for show? “I believe that,” I said.

  “Do you?”

  “Anyone with eyes could see Maria was definitely on a date Saturday night. Did you two have a nice time?”

  “Moderate,” he said bluntly. “I went to support Arnaud and the firm, but I was—let’s say, distracted. I’d rather’ve been at your table.”

  “No doubt, considering it was a table of five women.”

  “I meant that I’d have preferred your company.”

  I scoffed. “My company? Maria was the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  He glanced over at me. I feigned interest in something outside.

  “Do I sense a hint of . . . jealousy?” he asked.

  Jealousy was not my thing. Bill and I didn’t play that game. He’d never cheat. Nor would I, because that would turn me into the person my mother had accused my father of being.

  She’d met his client, Gina, accidentally. Months before the night that changed everything, my mom had gone by Dad’s office unannounced and found him in a meeting with a beautiful woman. That simple thing that had kicked off her final descent into madness. My dad had eventually ended up with Gina, but only once my mom had tipped from the jealous wife she’d always been into a person I didn’t recognize in those following weeks. She’d started drinking more, maligning my father to me whenever he was at work, and twice that I knew of, she’d physically attacked him when he’d gotten home.

  I stood on safe ground now with Bill. Entertaining anything with someone like David was a spiral I couldn’t afford to get anywhere near—because madness ran in my blood. One wrong step and I could get sucked into chaos I’d been trying to confine since thirteen years old.

  “Maria’s a friend. I’m not a playboy, Olivia,” David continued. “But obviously, I do date.”

  I turned back to him. “You can call me Liv, you know. Everyone else does.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled. That usually worked on Bill. “All right,” I said. “So you date beautiful, exotic women. I don’t see any reason why you wouldn’t.”

  “It doesn’t need to be that way,” he said just over the hum of the Porsche’s powerful engine. “In fact, I want to be exclusive with the right woman. Very much. Is that something you wish to discuss further?”

  My chest tightened. I let myself appreciate his profile while he drove. His strong nose—there was no better adjective for it—ended in an acute tip. Though smoothly shaven, I could see a shadow forming. He blinked long lashes and furrowed black eyebrows as he glided in and out of traffic. The crow’s feet around his eyes deepened. Defined muscles strained against a crisp shirt when he shifted gears. My hand twitched, desiring to reach over and feel his biceps.

  His dating life was something I desperately wished to discuss, and not because of the article. I didn’t want to just know what he considered his perfect woman. I admitted to myself that I wanted to be her, even if I couldn’t have him. How could I tell him that the first night at the theater, I’d wondered what it would be like to disappear into a dark corner with him? Or that I’d wondered what thoughts lulled him to sleep? I couldn’t. Nor how I worried that the closer he drew me in, the further I stood from Bill.

  Or that I’d begun to question my marriage or if the reasons I’d chosen it were still enough.

  David looked over at me, waiting for my answer.

  “No,” I said quietly. “Let’s not discuss it.”

  We rode in silence the rest of the way.

  * * *

  Once we’d parked, David strode ahead to the restaurant to hold the door open for me.

  I walked in first, but the hostess looked right over my head with a megawatt smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Dylan. Your usual table?”

  I glanced back to find his eyes on me. He raised his chin. “Unless my lunch companion has a preference?”

  I held up the notepad I’d brought to take notes for our interview. “I’m an observer today. The usual is exactly what I want to see. Pretend I’m not even here.”

  He snorted. “Not likely.”

  “Great! Right this way, David.” The hostess giggled. “Oops. I mean Mr. Dylan.”

  I had to admire her effort, but her sleek ponytail, low-cut top, an
d smiling red lips didn’t seem to catch his attention.

  Unless she’d already been hooked, flayed, and thrown back to sea? The thought both fanned the unwelcome ember of jealousy Maria had incited earlier, and—shamefully—made me grateful I wasn’t stupid or single enough to fall into bed with someone like David.

  David lowered his voice as we crossed the restaurant. “This place is close to the site. We’re here a lot.”

  As we settled into opposite sides of a booth, a short, flaxen-haired man approached. “Dylan,” he said in a strong, French accent.

  I recognized him as the leering man David had introduced to the table on Saturday night.

  “Arnaud, you remember Olivia Germaine,” David said. “She writes for Chicago M.”

  “Of course.” Arnaud held out his hand and bowed his head. “Hello again, mademoiselle.”

  “Madame, actually,” I corrected, reluctantly allowing him to kiss the back of my hand.

  Arnaud lifted his bent head and looked between the two of us. “I apologize. Madame.”

  “And that goes for you, too,” I said to David. “No more calling me miss. It’s Mrs. Germaine.”

  The corner of his mouth ticked as he suppressed a smile, but he didn’t argue. “Are you going back to the office?” David asked Arnaud.

  “Yes.”

  “I need you to stop and look at the light fixtures we discussed. Today. We’ll make a final decision when I get back later.” David returned his attention to me, effectively dismissing him.

  “Enjoy your lunch,” Arnaud answered before he left us.

  “Germaine,” David mused. “That’s not your husband’s name, is it?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I did my homework,” he said, a gleam in his eye.