Kiss Me, Chloe

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  “Perfect.”

  “Gotta go. Text me.” And with that he hung up. I stared at the phone for a moment. Part of me was still a little annoyed. I’d get over it, though. Eventually. At least he knew he’d messed up, and he planned on making it up to me. That meant something, right?

  I dialed another number.

  “Hullo?”

  “Hi, Kev. It’s me, Chloe.”

  “Hey, girlfriend. Long time, no see. What’s happening?”

  “Have you got any plans this Thursday?”

  I could almost see his wicked grin. “What are you up to, you minx?”

  “Kate told me about a place where you and she used to go dancing. Something Latin.”

  “Guanabara, baby. You’re on. Meet you there at seven on Thursday.” And he was gone before I could agree.

  GUANABARA WAS HEAVING, so packed with people, you could hardly turn around.

  “Chloe, this is my friend, Lena,” Kev shouted above the noise. “Lena, this is Chloe. She’s Kate’s best friend.”

  “Lovely to meet you.” The tiny, dark haired woman in her fifties grabbed my hand, yanked me toward her, and planted a kiss on my left cheek, then on my right, European style. She was wearing hot pink leggings and a black and white checked tunic. Her ballet flats were covered in silver sequins. She could give me a run for my money in the “bright and funky” wardrobe department. “This your first time here?” She had a heavy accent I couldn’t quite place.

  “Yes,” I shouted back. “Kev insisted it was fun.” It did look like fun, the couples twisting and twirling on the dance floor, smiles plastered on their faces. The music was amazing, primal. I could feel it down to my bones. I wanted to be out there laughing and dancing with the rest of them.

  “You have fun. You see.” She patted my shoulder and disappeared into the crowd, reappearing on the dance floor with a hottie half her age.

  “You go, girl,” Kev mumbled as he stared at the couple. “I swear that woman has more luck with men than anyone I’ve ever seen. I really should learn her tricks.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Gotta mingle. Have fun.”

  “Kev, wait....” But he was already gone. I shrugged. I’d make my own fun.

  Somebody groped my butt. Another somebody grabbed my arm and hauled me toward the dance floor.

  “I’m not that good a dancer,” I apologized as the guy pulled me closer.

  My new dance partner grinned at me, clearly not understanding a word I’d said. He commenced pushing me back and forth, twirling me around until I thought I’d die of heart palpitations. I found myself grinning like a loon, just like everyone else.

  He held me tight, and I could smell the heady musk of his sweat and feel the warmth of his body as it pressed against mine. I responded to the sensuality of the dance, the thrum of the drums, the heat of the moment. My brain superimposed a pair of blue eyes on my dance partner. I shook my head slightly. What was with me, obsessing over the sax player?

  As the song wound to an end, somebody else seized my hand. I started to protest—I desperately needed to catch my breath—when I realized it was Kev. He dragged me to the edge of the dance floor, took a drink from a smiling and very handsome Brazilian man, and thrust it into my hand.

  “Here, sweetie. Looks like you need it.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a big gulp. It was no Cosmo, but it had a nice kick to it. Lime and mint and something exotic. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Roberto,” Kev said with a leer. “Isn’t he dreamy?”

  Roberto gave him cow eyes. I grinned. “Very.” The man was totally ripped and had coffee-colored skin and eyes rimmed with thick, curly lashes. Gosh, I’d kill for those lashes.

  “He doesn’t speak a word of English, either.”

  “How lucky for you,” I said with a wink before downing the rest of whatever beverage he’d given me. Alcoholic, definitely. A little on the tart side with a kick of sweet. It could be about twice as strong. Maybe I should try another.

  “This isn’t where you want to be, is it?”

  I glanced up, startled. “What makes you say that?” I was having a blast. How did he know my thoughts were somewhere else entirely?

  “Kate told me you were more of a jazz girl.”

  I shrugged. “I love Latin music too. Besides, I needed to work out my frustrations.” I hadn’t told him about Geoff. I figured I knew exactly what he’d say.

  Kev lifted a brow. “Well, okay then. How’d that work out for you?”

  “Not quite as I imagined.” Instead I’d gotten frustrated in a different way, thanks to the memory of a pair of blue eyes. “I think I need... something else.”

  “Why don’t you go, then?” he asked. His eyes told me he knew I was looking for something I couldn’t find in this place.

  “You’re sure?”

  He glanced at Roberto. A wide grin spread slowly across his face. “Absolutely.”

  I glanced at my watch. Still early. “All right.” I slid off the table and grabbed my coat. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Oh, sweetie, please. You know me.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” I said with a laugh. I gave him a peck on the cheek and exited the club as quickly as my legs would take me.

  The Boy Next Door

  I MET TYRUS THE FIRST day I moved into the purple townhouse in Notting Hill. He appeared as if by magic, introducing himself as a neighbor from a few doors down and offering to help haul my boxes into my new home. I accepted since my muscles were already aching. Plus I needed help hauling in my mattress. There was no way one person could get that thing up the front steps and through the flat.

  He was cute but not outrageously so. A little taller than me and nicely built, he wore a little too much cologne, but there were worse things in a man.

  We chatted easily about life in London and our respective hometowns. He was originally from Jamaica and still had a slight accent despite having lived in London since he was ten.

  “Let me tell you, it was hard getting used to the rain,” he said, his inflections flowing up and down like music. “I was used to sunshine all the time, you know?”

  I laughed. “It rains a lot in Portland. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure you will be at that.” His eyes told me that he thought I was fine in other ways.

  Once we’d unloaded everything from the moving van and gotten it into the house, I invited him to dinner. “As a thanks for the help,” I explained. I didn’t want him thinking I meant anything else. Although he was cute enough, I just wasn’t feeling it.

  He accepted eagerly, and we walked down the street to the tiny tapas bar around the corner. The interior was charming, with rustic wood tables and chairs, low beamed ceilings, and vintage posters of Spain. Flamenco music played on the stereo, the quick strumming of guitar strings stirring the blood. The bar had a laid-back and cozy atmosphere, and the servers’ attitudes matched. We feasted on little plates of marinated figs with goat cheese, patatas bravas, meatballs, and mushrooms in white wine. Tyrus drank beer while I stuck to a rich Tempranillo wine. We chatted about our favorite things. He was seriously into sports (not my thing), rap music (definitely not my thing), and action movies (much more my thing). So we discussed our favorite action movies and heroes (he preferred Stallone, I was all for Statham).

  After eating, he suggested a walk through nearby Kensington Gardens. I’d yet to visit the grounds of the famous palace, so I agreed. I hoped he didn’t think this was a date. Yes, I enjoyed his company, but there were no sparks. No chemistry. I kept myself at arms’ length and enjoyed the afternoon strolling about the grounds.

  We admired the statues of Queen Victoria and Peter Pan. Well, I admired them; Tyrus looked bored. I snapped pictures of the brick palace on my phone, and Tyrus insisted on taking a selfie with me. We wandered around the Round Pond and contemplated random palm trees. It was late spring, and the flowers were in full profusion, a riot of purple, yellow, and red blooms brightening
the borders of the garden. We strolled slowly up Rotten Row, the leafy bridle path that led from Kensington Palace through Hyde Park, enjoying the cool shadows beneath the trees. The day had been unusually warm.

  As the sun began sliding down in the west, and the street lamps flashed on one by one, we headed back to our street. We walked in comfortable silence. I was tired, but it was a happy tired, the kind that came after an amazing day. I had a new home, a new friend, and had explored somewhere new. Perfect.

  We stopped outside my house to say our goodbyes. Before I knew what was happening, Tyrus had swooped down and locked lips with me. He shoved his tongue into my mouth, nearly making me gag. I shoved at his chest, backing up so quickly, I nearly tripped over my bottom step.

  “What the heck was that?” I demanded, angry.

  “What? Didn’t you like the kiss? I thought you wanted me to kiss you.”

  “No. I didn’t want you to kiss me.”

  He looked offended. “Why not?”

  I sighed. “Listen. I appreciate you helping me move. It was really nice of you, and you seem like a great guy. But there’s no chemistry. No spark, you know?”

  “So you didn’t like the kiss. Let me try again.”

  “No.” I held my hand out, preventing him from stepping closer. “No. I don’t want you to kiss me again.”

  “Why? What was wrong with it?”

  “It was like kissing my brother.”

  His eyes widened, nostrils flared. He looked like he might keel over from sheer rage. “You sick freak!” he shrieked. “You kiss your brother? What kind of freak kisses her brother? No wonder you can’t stand kissing a real man.”

  My eyes widened as he ranted. “Holy crickets. That is not what I meant. I do not kiss my brother. I don’t even have a brother.”

  But he wasn’t listening. He just kept calling me names. I turned around and marched up my steps, let myself in my house, and locked the door very firmly behind me. I could still hear him raging outside, so I dug my phone dock out of one of the boxes, plugged it into the wall, sat my phone in the cradle, and cranked up Caro Emerald as loud as she could go.

  Then I leaned against the wall and laughed until my sides hurt.

  Chapter 9

  I PROBABLY WOULDN’T admit to anyone alive, except Kate and maybe not even her, that the real reason I went to the Purple Note that Thursday night was Bram. I wanted to see him again, hear him play. See if his blue eyes were really as amazing as I remembered.

  I sat in a corner booth, eyes glued to the stage. Waiting. But he never showed. Disappointment curled in my belly. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to see him so badly. I mean, I was technically dating Geoff, although our current status was very up in the air. I’d only seen Bram a couple times, but the memory of those eyes drew me like a moth to flame. I needed to see him again. I needed to know if I was imagining things.

  “Hey, Missy, what you doin’ back here by your lonesome?” Henry, the pianist, stopped by my table while the band was on break.

  “Just needed to hear some jazz tonight, Henry. How’s things?”

  “Things be excellent. Things be excellent. Any requests?”

  “Sure. How about ‘Feeling Good?’”

  “You got it, baby.”

  “Hey, Henry, is that new sax player on tonight?”

  He frowned. “Bram?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “Not tonight. He got some other gig goin’ on. He’s somethin’ else, though, ain’t he?”

  I smiled. “Yes, he is.”

  I sat back with my drink as Henry walked away. Disappointment was a living thing. I told myself I was being ridiculous.

  When the band came back on, Henry struck up the first few cords of the classic originally sung by Cy Grant but famously recorded by the fabulous Nina Simone. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes, letting the music wash over me.

  I WOKE SATURDAY FILLED with excitement. I couldn’t wait. I’d picked a play I’d been dying to see, and Geoff had assured me he had tickets to both the theater and a nice restaurant nearby. We were to meet at six for an early dinner, followed by the play at eight.

  I suppose if I were honest, I was more excited about the play than I was about seeing Geoff. I mean, he was gorgeous, sure. We got along great. But the red flags were starting to worry me, and I couldn’t get my mind off Bram. How could I be this crazy obsessed with a guy I’d seen all of twice in my life? If I wasn’t careful, I’d be Google-stalking him next.

  The West End was always busy on weekends. Tourists, mostly, but I loved it. It was just so... alive. The color, the chaos, it all sang to me. Filled me with energy. I found my step quickening, my mouth widening in a grin, and there was a little extra swing in my hips. I felt good, and the people around me noticed.

  I checked the time. Fifteen minutes early. Perfect. Oaxaca had been named after the Mexican state the owner was fond of visiting. The food was about as authentic as it got in London, with a slight English twist to make it interesting. I’d only eaten there once before, and I was looking forward to it. Their food was delicious.

  I gave the maître dˈ Geoff’s name. “Sorry, ma’am, but I don’t have a reservation.”

  “Well, he bought one of those theater and restaurant packages.”

  “I understand, but it is still required to make a reservation, especially on a Saturday night.”

  “Can you check again?”

  He gave me a sympathetic look but did as I asked. “I’m sorry. Is there another name perhaps?”

  I gave him my name. He shook his head. I checked my watch again.

  “He should be here any minute. Can I wait? Maybe there’s some mix-up.”

  Now his expression grew pitying. Darn him. Who was he to pity me?

  “Certainly.” He waved to a bench against the wall. “Make yourself comfortable. Or, if you like, you can wait downstairs at the bar.”

  It was tempting, but I didn’t want to miss Geoff, and I knew from experience there was no cell reception in the bar. “That’s okay. I’ll wait here, thanks.” Besides, I could people-watch while I waited, which was always interesting.

  He turned to help the next group, and I made my way to the bench. It was low and plush, and using the wall to support my back, not bad. I tried not to fidget as I checked my watch again. Five minutes to six. I wished he’d hurry up. I suddenly felt awkward sitting there by myself as wave after wave of couples entered the restaurant and were seated at their tables. All my earlier buoyancy was gone.

  Six o’clock rolled by. Still no Geoff. Five minutes later, I was starting to get irritated. I told myself to chill. It wasn’t unusual for people to be a little late.

  By a quarter past, I was fuming and the maître dˈ was definitely giving me funny looks. With a growl, I stepped outside and dialed Geoff’s number. It rang four times. Five. Six. I was about to hang up when someone finally answered.

  “Hello?”

  It was a woman’s voice. In the background I heard what sounded like a crying baby.

  “Hello. I’m sorry, I must have gotten the wrong number.” But how could I? His number was programmed into my phone.

  “Who were you trying to reach, love?”

  “Um. Geoff. Geoff Penridge.”

  “Oh, this is his phone. He’s not available right now. Who is this?”

  “Chloe. Who is this?”

  “This is his wife, Margaret. Chloe; that name sounds familiar. Are you the girl from his office?”

  “Not exactly.” Anger hit me so hard, I wanted to scream. I’d seen the red flags. Why hadn’t I listened?

  “Oh, well, I can have him call you back, if you like?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just tell him I called, and he doesn’t need to call back. Ever.”

  “If you’re sure.” She sounded more than a little confused. Part of me wanted to tell her what her douchebag of a husband was up to, but part of me didn’t want to destroy whatever happiness she might have. Even if it was all a lie. It w
asn’t my place.

  “Yeah. Thanks, Margaret.” I couldn’t hang up fast enough. I was pretty sure my cheeks were bright red. I felt like crying. Or screaming. Or maybe kicking someone in the junk. Preferably Geoff, that bastard. It sure didn’t sound like he and his wife were separated. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe he was visiting or something.

  Sure. Sure. And I’ve got a bridge in Arizona to sell you.

  My phone rang, and I glanced at the caller ID. Kate.

  “Kate, um, this isn’t a good time.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just... I think Geoff might be married. As in, not separated.”

  “Bastard. Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Holding back the tears was taking everything I had. It wasn’t that I was sad. I honestly didn’t care enough about him to be sad. I was angry. Furious with him and with myself. “I need a drink,” I growled. “Then then...ugh. I want to kick his butt.”

  “Come over to my place. We’ll get sloshed and stalk him.”

  “That sounds good, but isn’t that illegal?”

  I could almost see her smile. “Not the way I do it.”

  “Freaking fantastic. I’ll be there in ten.”

  Chapter 10

  KATE AND ADAM LIVED in a gorgeous two-bedroom flat in a red brick building overlooking Hyde Park. The building had once been a single mansion, but now it was split into several different apartments. Other than having a stunning view of the expansive park, it was a surprisingly humble flat. I’d expected a movie star of Adam’s caliber to live in some mansion on Primrose Hill, but he had bought the flat after his first big movie role and had no intention of moving out anytime soon. And Kate loved the place. I could see her touch everywhere: peacock blue pillows on the couch, a black and white framed photo of their wedding in the entry hall, candles in the fireplace, and an artistic rendering of one of Adam’s movie posters above it. It was so... them.

  She poured me an extra tall glass of wine and remained silent while I drank the entire thing, spilling my woeful tale. “I can’t believe I fell for it again,” I said, angry with myself. “Why didn’t I learn the first time he stood me up?” I scowled into my empty glass. “I should have known. But we were having fun, you know?”