Cityscape Affair Series: The Complete Box Set

by Hawkins, Jessica

  “Hey,” I heard. “Go easy on that ice cream, honeybee.”

  My heart leaped, and I turned to see David filling the doorway in a charcoal, pinstripe, three-piece suit.

  He tilted his head and smiled at me. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be over on Adams, making some bachelors miserable?”

  I just stared, blinking as sunlight illuminated him from behind. Was he real?

  His eyebrows folded. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No,” I replied as his cologne slowly wafted into my orbit. “I mean yes, I’m all right. You startled me.”

  “Well, I do work right down the street.”

  “I know . . .”

  “I know you know.” He grinned and nodded at my ice cream. “Is that your lunch?”

  “Um. No, I—I . . .” I stammered and fumbled to set the sandwich on the counter. I shouldn’t be there. To run into David was one thing, but I’d come here looking for him.

  “I should go.” Grasping the strap of my purse, I hurried to the doorway, where he swiveled to let me through.

  Half a block later, David appeared next to me. “I never got to tell you how much I enjoyed the issue,” he said.

  My head shot up, but I continued my stride. “What?”

  “The ‘Most Eligible’ issue,” David said. “The feature had a fresh, creative touch. You deserve that promotion.”

  “Oh.” I slowed fractionally to sync with his relaxed gait. “Thanks.”

  He handed me the ice cream sandwich. “Here.”

  “Did you steal this?” I asked with widened eyes.

  He laughed loudly. “No, of course not. I bought it for you.”

  After a slight hesitation, I accepted it and started to peel away the wrapper.

  “What did you think of my part?” he asked.

  “Hmm?” I asked as I sank my teeth into a satisfying combination of slightly melted vanilla ice cream and firm cookie crust.

  “The article,” he said. “What did you think of my spread?”

  Perfection. I swallowed and feigned interest in the sidewalk. “Oh. Your pictures caused quite the commotion.”

  “What did you think, though?”

  “I thought . . .” I paused, exhaling loudly. “I thought you looked very handsome. Lisa did a nice job with the photo shoot.”

  “And the interview?” he asked.

  I squinted ahead and took another bite of the softening ice cream. A young guy dropped his skateboard on the ground and zoomed by us. “I didn’t read it.”

  “Why not?”

  We stopped at a corner and waited for the light to change. I glanced up at him as vanilla dripped down my fingers. I tried to convey with my eyes what I couldn’t with my words. That I hadn’t read it because it would be too painful. That since the day I’d left him, I could never forget the hurt in his eyes. Even in my heels, my head was almost vertical when I said, “I’m sorry.”

  He sighed and nodded his head toward the green light. “This might be one of our last warm weeks,” he commented once we were walking again.

  I wanted to laugh. The things left unsaid were almost palpable between us. But it was better that way, so instead, we’d talk about the weather. “That’s fine by me,” I said. “I love Chicago in autumn.”

  “Me too,” he said with a smile. “What’s your favorite thing about it?”

  “Probably the way there’s something electric in the air just as it starts to cool down. Also, that I get to wear boots again.”

  He laughed and rolled his eyes toward the sky. “Typical. My sister also judges the seasons by her wardrobe.”

  I smiled. “What about you?”

  “I take my nephew to pick apples a couple hours away.”

  I nodded, picturing David’s sister, Jessa, based on what I knew from the research I’d done for his feature.

  “That’s my favorite thing,” he continued. “That, and the weekend mornings when you wake up and your bed is so warm and you have nowhere to be . . .”

  My face fell as the fantasy of waking up in his arms flashed through my mind, my body pressed against his hot, hard one on a cold fall morning.

  So much for a safe topic.

  When I glanced up, he wore a roguish smile, as if reading my mind. “And who doesn’t love the foliage?” he added.

  “Of course,” I agreed immediately. “The foliage is just beautiful in the fall.”

  His shoulders shook with a silent laugh, and I looked away quickly.

  “When my sister and I were kids,” he said, “one of our chores was to rake leaves. She hated it, but I didn’t mind. It gave me a sense of order. It agitated me when they were strewn all over the lawn.”

  I pictured David as a young man, his posture straight and his movements concentrated as he worked.

  “I guess you didn’t really have that problem in Dallas,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Not at my house, no.”

  “Did you like growing up there?”

  “It was all right.” I shrugged and took the last bite before sucking chocolate cookie off my fingers.

  “How’s that ice cream, Olivia?” he asked.

  I tried not to squirm at the way he drew out my name. “Delicious.”

  “I like watching you eat it.”

  I arched an eyebrow at him.

  “I mean because you look like you’re enjoying it.”

  I nodded and licked my lips.

  “I would buy you an ice cream every day just to watch you eat it.”

  I captured a deep breath. His low and manly voice made enjoying my ice cream sandwich sound sinful. And then I imagined dripping vanilla ice cream onto his abs and cleaning it off with a long, drawn-out lick.

  “Besides, you could use the nourishment,” he said.

  I jolted back to reality. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’re too skinny.”

  “Oh, David,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Would you drop it?”

  His voice deepened into a chastisement. “I meant what I said about your health. I don’t know why you’re not eating, but it stops now.”

  “Of course I eat,” I replied cheerily. “If I didn’t, I’d be dead.”

  His eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead as he studied me, seemingly not amused. “What does he say about this? And your friends?”

  “They know that I’m an adult with the ability to gauge my level of hunger.” I crossed one arm over my stomach, and our steps slowed to a stop as we approached my office.

  David turned so we were facing. “I overheard Gretchen say at breakfast yesterday that you’re depressed.”

  I blinked up and pursed my lips. If I was depressed, why did the image of me punching Gretchen in the arm bring me so much joy in that moment?

  Damn her and her concern for me.

  I knew, though, that I was lucky to have her and Lucy still by my side when I’d treated them so poorly the past few months.

  “I suppose maybe they think I am,” I admitted.

  “Why?”

  “Why do they think that, or why am I depressed?”

  “Are you depressed?” he asked.

  I refrained from pinching myself as an outlet for my discomfort talking about this. “They think I am because of . . . Davena. She’s the woman who—”

  “I know who she is.” David frowned. “You didn’t seem very pleased with Lucy’s toast.”

  “It was silly of me to run out. Melodramatic.” I balled up the ice cream wrapper and ran the back of my hand over my mouth.

  He leaned closer. “It’s been hard, hasn’t it?”

  I took a step back, my heart suddenly pounding. It’d been hellish—but what good would it do admitting that to David? It would only be another transgression on my part. And it might give him the wrong idea. I’d hurt each of us enough.

  “I have to get back to work,” I said.

  “These past few months,” he said, ignoring me, “I’
ve been worried about you.”

  “Thanks for the ice cream,” I said.

  “Olivia—”

  I spun around before he could say another word, hurried through the lobby, and booked it up to the fourteenth floor.

  * * *

  When dusk fell, I was still in my office. With a soft sigh, I flipped some of my hair over my shoulder. The computer screen blazed bright, but the entire floor was dark. I could almost feel myself burning out from another long day.

  But with a deadline in the morning, I couldn’t leave until I’d hammered out the last few paragraphs in front of me. It had been impossible to concentrate all day. Butterflies perched in my chest, threatening to explode into a kaleidoscope of a million fluttering wings if I let my mind wander. It was the reason I was the only person left in the office: I couldn’t stop daydreaming.

  How was it that Bill left the apartment in a suit every day, yet I barely noticed? David, in all his charcoal pinstripe glory, was far more distinguished than the rest of us plebeians who walked the planet. He was perfection in slacks, a blazer, and a vest. And somehow, I had his attention. His heavy brows joined when he watched words fall from my mouth, as though he might have to reach out and catch one.

  Our short walk had been like a bookmark in the dark chapter I’d been living—a moment to come up for air when I’d been stuck just beneath the surface. It was like a dream that had never happened, except that it had.

  I bit the inside of my cheek and leaned over to the bottom drawer of my desk. I rifled through it until I saw the issue of Chicago M I knew back to front, except for the page I’d been avoiding. With a short breath, I opened the magazine and flipped through until I found him.

  Chicago Metropolitan Magazine

  Most Eligible Bachelor #3:

  David Dylan

  Senior Architect, Pierson/Greer

  Age: 34

  Lives in: River North

  David Dylan is the epitome of cool. From his made-for-Hollywood name to his devilish good looks, he holds more clout than a varsity quarterback dating the homecoming queen. To complete the package, Mr. Dylan comes from a nuclear family of four, owns a sailboat, and has a vacation home in Spain. This highly sought-after architect, who was recently profiled for Architectural Digest, spends what little free time he has in the water—no small feat for an Illinois native. From surfing to swimming to sailing, it’s no wonder his friends nicknamed him Fish years ago.

  Looking for: Someone to settle down with. His well-known father’s greatest accomplishment, David says, is marrying the woman he fell in love with almost forty years ago. Oh, and his weakness: big, green eyes. “Cliché as it sounds, eyes truly are the windows to a woman’s soul,” says Dylan. “Business has taught me to be tough, but when ‘the one’ bats her eyelashes at me just the right way, I will be putty in her hands.”

  Topic of interest: The Revelin—he’s the lead designer on the hotel that’s set to open at the end of this year.

  I closed the magazine.

  Oh, he . . . is . . . good.

  How would Chicago-ettes recover after reading that? No—my pity was for the male population. They’d have a hard time stacking up to someone like David Dylan. David Dylan and his affinity for “big, green eyes.” At the time of publication, he hadn’t yet met Dani. I knew it was narcissistic, but I couldn’t help clinging to the thought that maybe he had added that part for me.

  I texted Bill that I wouldn’t be making it home for dinner. As I refocused on my project, I automatically swiped my finger across the phone’s screen when it pinged with a response. Only, it wasn’t from Bill.

  David: Good thing you had the ice cream then.

  Panic seized my chest. I scrolled the screen to find that I’d texted David about missing dinner instead of Bill.

  “Shit,” I said, slamming the phone down.

  That is so embarrassing!

  I felt myself turning various shades of red. Quickly, I sent the original text to Bill and tapped my way back to my conversation with David.

  Me: So sorry. Wrong person!

  David: I believe that counts as a Freudian slip.

  It appeared as though I was actively looking for trouble. David would either think I’d done it on purpose to catch his attention or that I’d been thinking about him when I’d sent it. Which would be the truth. I couldn’t admit that, though.

  Me: Didn’t mean it. Late night at the office & a little tired.

  David: Mrs. Germaine, it’s not advisable to alert predators of your whereabouts late at night.

  My heart stilled as I melted into a puddle of desire. A memory of a dream wedged itself into my thoughts. I’d had it shortly after David and I had stopped contact, only once, but I hadn’t forgotten it. He’d found me in the street and pulled me into the nearest alley. Cornered me. Scared me as he’d thrilled me.

  When my phone chimed again, I was already panting.

  David: That is, unless you’re looking to get caught.

  I slid a tentative hand under my dress and into my damp panties. I relaxed back in my chair and remembered the dream, filling in the details where necessary.

  I peer down the dark alleyway, struck with fear when I see the silhouette of a big man. As he approaches, slow and cat-like, I turn to run the way I came, but I’m met with a brick wall. He’s bearing down on me now, filling the small alley so I can’t escape.

  It’s David, I realize, but my sigh of relief catches in my throat. I’m afraid of him. He slowly reaches out and snaps me to him by my waist, like plucking a flower from the ground.

  His lips are on mine, hard and unrelenting, and he won’t budge when I push him.

  “Don’t fight,” he says when we’ve parted.

  I stop. I let him move my arms like a puppet master and fix them above my head so I’m helpless in his grip.

  “Say it,” he prompts, as he shifts both wrists into one hand.

  I fret because I don’t know what he wants me to say. When I look down again, I’m naked. With his free hand, he unzips his pants and pulls them down.

  I panic and look over the exquisite face that’s now hard and unrecognizable, a David I don’t know. Even his brown eyes are obsidian black to match his hair.

  “Say it.”

  “I don’t know,” I reply, chewing the inside of my cheek.

  He pulls my leg around him and positions himself against me. When he plunges into me, I cry his name with a mixture of panic and pleasure.

  He pins me against the wall over and over, and I’m lost to him. He demanded this of me before, to say that I . . . I . . .

  I whip my eyes open. “I know what you want me to say!”

  But he doesn’t stop, and suddenly, I’ve forgotten it again, but I don’t care because I am falling . . . and coming . . . and coming . . .

  I came to, winded and slumped in my chair. I pulled my hand out from between my legs and glanced around the dark office shamefully. I’d written off the dream as anxiety following Alvarez’s attack, but I’d often wished to have it again.

  Say it. The words frequently ran through my mind. They were his last words to me the morning I’d left. Tell me you can forget, he’d demanded. Say it, Olivia! Say it, say it, say it . . .

  An alert told me Bill had responded to my earlier text.

  Bill: OK. Jury prob out for a few days, going to Oak Park house tomorrow if you want to come.

  Me: Why?

  Bill: Meeting that architect David there. I can pick you up.

  I closed my eyes for a long moment as the information permeated my still fuzzy brain. Bill and David, alone together? It was almost enough to make me scream. I wanted to blame David, but it wasn’t his fault, so I blamed Bill, but it also wasn’t his fault. I was only left with myself. With unsteady fingers, I told Bill I’d go along. What choice did I have? I couldn’t forbid it, and I couldn’t not be there. The two of them alone, talking, laughing, sharing. The thought of not being able to monitor their conversation made me want to pull my hair o
ut.

  I groaned to myself and put the phone away, ignoring David’s last text.

  9

  Fidgeting with the collar of my purple silk blouse, I craned my neck to watch for Bill’s car. According to Bill, David was leaving for New York this evening, so our visit to the Oak Park house had to be now, in the middle of the workday. I didn’t know what to expect—or even if David knew I was coming.

  Bill pulled up and screeched to a halt at the curb.

  “We’re late,” I said as I got into the car. “Are we picking David up?”

  “He’s meeting us there,” Bill said.

  I worked my lower lip between my teeth in anxiety and excitement. Just before the wedding, I’d assumed I’d never see David again. And now this. I half-rolled my eyes out to the window.

  “Look, whatever happens will be for the best,” Bill said.

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “With the house. If it’s too far gone, we’ll find something else.” He glanced over at me. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  “I’m not worried,” I said, looking back out the window. That didn’t even make it into the top three of my current concerns.

  When we pulled up, David came into sight. With his back straight as a board and his shoulders taut, he spoke intently with an older, portly man. David gestured to the house, and when the man responded, he listened attentively, his arms crossed, and his thick eyebrows knit in concentration. The small glimpses I’d seen of David in architect mode were especially disarming—there was something arousing about watching him do what he loved.

  David looked up then and gaited toward us with calm confidence. I couldn’t tell if he’d expected me because he was almost too collected. While I was near senseless with anxiety, his wide smile and sturdy handshake were signs that he was a schmoozer, a player, a charmer to the core.

  “This place is a find,” he said.

  “I know it’s not like the other houses,” I said, “but that’s why I like it.”