Walk of Shame

by Lauren Layne

  “Morning, Ramon,” I sing, my high heels clicking in the quiet reception area.

  No sign of Andrew yet.

  “Miss me?” I say with a wink, opening the lid and pushing the box toward him.

  “I’ve missed this,” he says reverently, pulling out a maple bacon donut. “And it’s lovely to see you as well, Ms. Watkins.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly happy coming in second place behind the bacon-and-sugar combo. How have you been? How’s Marta?”

  “Cranky,” he mutters. “And beautiful,” he amends quickly.

  I laugh. “Remember, the pregnant woman is always right.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. How have you been? Mr. Mulroney mentioned you were feeling under the weather last week.”

  “Ah…” I give a nervous laugh, suddenly aware how awkward it is to hook up with someone in your apartment building, where the staff knows every habit, every morning you’re not there, and quite often why you’re not there.

  He gives me a bland I don’t suspect a thing look, then nudges the box toward me. “I see a cinnamon sugar one with your name on it.”

  “Well, okay. Twist my arm.”

  I take the still-warm donut out of the box, as well as a napkin from the pile Ramon pulls out from behind the desk.

  The first delicious granules of sugar are rolling over my tongue when I feel the air in the lobby change.

  When I turn toward him, it’s a strange combination of déjà vu and wonderfully new.

  Black workout shirt? Check. Black workout pants? Check. Red sneakers? Check.

  Same goes for the briefcase, the duffel and garment bags, the stupid mug full of what I now know is chocolate banana protein shake (barf).

  But there’s a key difference today as he walks toward me.

  Andrew is smiling.

  “Morning,” he says, his voice low and intimate. His gaze flicks to Ramon. “Hey, Ramon.”

  I blink. What is this? Did he just use Ramon’s first name? Am I…rubbing off on him?

  He stands in front of me, and my heart pounds, as though I’m seeing him for the first time. His eyes roam my face. “You have sugar on your lip.”

  His expression tells me that if we were alone, he’d lick it off himself, but apparently he’s not so reformed that he’ll indulge in a PDA.

  I lick it off, deliberately slowly, and his eyes narrow.

  “How was your night?” he asks, leaning against the counter and studying me.

  Damn. Damn him for being so appealing. For not judging me for going out, for offering to clean up after dinner last night so I could go get ready. For not acting suspicious or jealous. For just being…

  Likable.

  Lovable.

  “Pam told me you were a ladies’ man,” I blurt out.

  He laughs. “What?”

  Yeah, what? This is random, even for me. I blame the extra glass of champagne.

  I take a big bite of donut and then set it on the napkin on the front desk, feeling embarrassed, not just by the telling proclamation but by the fact that Ramon’s right there. “Can we talk for a sec?”

  Andrew nods and starts to guide me toward the seating area on the far side of the lobby.

  “Wait, my donut,” I protest.

  “Ridiculous,” he mutters. But he picks up the donut, along with a couple of extra napkins.

  “Now,” he says as he sits beside me on an uncomfortable love seat, out of Ramon’s hearing, “what’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know,” I mutter, fiddling with the napkin.

  “Don’t know, or don’t want to tell me?”

  “Are you really a genius?” I ask.

  His head snaps back slightly. “I see you and Pam had quite the chat.”

  I nod. “Quite. She said you were deadly smart.”

  “She exaggerates.”

  “But you skipped two grades. That’s a really high level of nerd-dom, Andy. Where do you rank next to Einstein?”

  His eyes narrow on me slightly. “Is this really what’s bothering you? My IQ?”

  “Does it bother you?”

  Andrew shrugged. “I was a smart kid. Took me a while to grow into my brain, but I’d like to think I ditched at least some of the awkwardness.”

  I give him a sympathetic look and pat his cheek.

  He grabs my hand, kisses my palm. “Tell me what’s up. Really.”

  Hmm. Perceptive. He really has grown out of his awkwardness. And yet…

  “I saw Liv Dotson last night,” I say, glancing up and finding him studying me carefully.

  He blinks. “All right.”

  “You didn’t tell me she’d called off her divorce.”

  He blinks again. “To be fair, I didn’t technically tell you she was getting a divorce in the first place.”

  “Well, I figured that part out,” I say. “I mean, why else would you have been with her at lunch?”

  “Because I’m a ladies’ man?” he says with the slightest of smiles.

  “Really? Of all days, today you decide you have a sense of humor?” I reach out and take his mug, taking a sip even though it’s terrible.

  “Look, Georgiana.” He takes my hand. “There will always be things about my job I can’t tell you. Do you understand?”

  His gaze is strangely intense, as though my answer means everything, and I slowly nod. “I get that. I mean, it was a little embarrassing, because she acted like I knew, but yeah…I get it. Except…”

  “Except?”

  “She said you’d invited us to dinner. Surely you could have passed that part on? And now I keep wondering over and over why you didn’t.”

  Andrew’s gaze goes just the slightest bit impatient. “It’s not a big deal, Georgiana. I just…dinner parties aren’t always where I need to focus my attention.”

  I let out a little laugh. “Right. The fluffy nonsense is for people like me, right?”

  He blows out a breath. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “I wouldn’t have to if you’d talk to me more often. Tell me what’s going on up there.” I tap his temple.

  He slips his hand behind my neck. “What’s gotten into you? What’s going on?”

  I avoid his eyes. “I’m just suddenly hyperaware that our worlds are so different. I mean, take the very fact that we’re meeting at five A.M., but you’re just up from bed and I’m just going to bed. And I hardly ever know what you’re thinking. And you like order and control, and you probably iron your underwear. And you’re drinking that terrible health sludge, and I’m eating a donut, and what are your thoughts on Beyoncé? Do you hate her? I worry you do, and then—”

  “You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my lip. “And besides, we don’t have nothing in common. We both like the color red, remember?”

  I laugh. “So true. We must be soul mates, then.”

  “There she is,” he says with a slight smile. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll be back here by five-thirty. We can have a drink at my place before heading out to the party.”

  “Perfect,” I say, meaning it. Not only is my mood lifted by his warm, unexpected affection, but he’s just given me an idea of the perfect outfit to wear tonight.

  Andrew

  THURSDAY EVENING

  “Damn, Mulroney. It’s not enough that you command some of the highest rates in the city, you’ve also got to show us up by hitting a home run in your personal life?”

  Andrew turned away from where he’d been watching Georgiana coax smile after smile out of his normally stodgy senior partner and his shrew of a wife.

  Katherine Hopkins was watching him with a knowing look. “She’s the one, huh?”

  He took a sip of his gin martini and dodged the question, turning to face her. “Where did Jim run off to?”

  She plucked a glass of red off a passing tray, trading it for her empty one. “He’s talking hockey with Marlene’s husband. But who cares? How’d you and Georgie meet? And don’t think I’ve forgotten that just a
couple of weeks ago you were telling me how true love was for losers and all that.”

  Andrew’s gaze flicked back to Georgiana. She seemed to sense him watching her and turned his way, giving him a subtle little wave without ever stopping whatever story she was telling, which involved plenty of facial animation and hand movements.

  “She lives in my building,” he explained to Katherine.

  “Ah. Well, if a girl like that lived in my building, I’d hit on her too. She’s hot,” Katherine said in a loud whisper.

  Hot didn’t do Georgiana justice. Not tonight, he thought.

  Her light brown hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, makeup was expertly applied so that her eyes looked huge, her mouth inviting, but it was the dress that did it. It was cut at an angle, held on one shoulder by a thin strap, falling from mid-thigh to her knee in an uneven hem that utterly suited her.

  It was the color that really got him, though. Red. For him.

  She was hot, yes, and everyone had noticed. But he saw beyond that to her sharp wit, huge heart, and quick-to-laugh humor.

  She wasn’t just hot. She was enchanting.

  And he was enchanted.

  “Want to talk about it?” Katherine asked, nudging his shoulder playfully with hers.

  “Shut up, Katherine,” he said with a slight smile.

  She smiled back. “For real, though, it’s nice seeing you happy.”

  “I’ve always been happy.”

  “Mm.” She tilted her head from side to side, silently calling his bluff. “Not like this.”

  No, he thought. He hadn’t been happy like this.

  But instead of the thought lifting him, he felt a quick stab of depression. If his career had taught him anything, it was that while all relationships hit a pinnacle of joy, there was only ever one way to go.

  Down.

  And if anyone could coax him to think differently, to hope, it would be Georgiana Watkins, but…

  She didn’t have all the information. Andrew did.

  “Katherine,” he said, before he could stop himself, “can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” she said, looking pleased. “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for this moment forever. You have any idea what it’s like to try to mentor someone who’s thirteen years your junior only to find out he’s ahead of you in just about every way? Let me be your Yoda, just once.”

  He dragged his eyes away from Georgiana and looked at his friend. “What do you do when you’ve got information that can and will hurt someone, but it’s not yours to tell?”

  Her smile slipped a little. “Couldn’t have given me an easy one, huh?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well.” She blew out a breath, tapping her nails on her wineglass. “You’re not going to like this, but there’s not much you can do, unfortunately. If you really, truly can’t warn them about what’s coming, the best you can do is situate yourself in their life to support them when the pain comes. And…” She broke off.

  “And?” he prodded, his voice slightly desperate.

  “You should probably prepare yourself,” she said quietly.

  He swallowed. “For?”

  “Women don’t like secrets, Mulroney,” she said kindly. “Even the ones that we logically know are necessary. They break our heart.”

  “Well,” he muttered. “Shit.”

  “Shit,” she repeated in solidarity.

  Because really, that was just about all there was to say.

  Georgie

  THURSDAY NIGHT, AFTER THE PARTY

  I sigh happily as I open my door and set my clutch on the counter before turning to face Andrew. “That was just about the perfect evening.”

  “Just about?” he asks, shutting the door behind him.

  “Ninety-eight percent perfect. And you didn’t tell me that Roy was such a sweetheart. And Bertha. Lovely.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Roy’s a hard-ass troll who makes grown men cry, and Bertha calls me boy.”

  “Well, they were lovely to me,” I say, pulling two glasses down from the cabinet and getting us each some water.

  “What was the missing two percent?” he asks. “You said it was ninety-eight percent perfect.”

  “Hmm? Oh. There was no dancing. Add in a good slow dance, maybe to ‘Lady in Red,’ and my little brain would have just exploded into a cloud of happy glitter.”

  “Ridiculous.” He says it with a slight smile as he accepts the water, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “You okay?” I ask, tilting my head. “You’ve been a little quiet.”

  “Tired,” he says, setting the glass on the counter without taking a drink. “And maybe a bit anxious to have you to myself. Have I told you how much I like this dress?”

  “A few times.” I smile, setting my own glass aside and running a hand down his black tie.

  He steps closer, leaning in so that his hands can slide up the back of my thighs. “Have I mentioned I like what’s under it even better?”

  I tilt my head up, kiss his chin. “You don’t know what’s under it.”

  He palms my ass before his fingers explore, tracing the upper elastic of my underwear.

  “Georgiana. Are you wearing impractical undergarments?”

  “Yes. One might even call them…ridiculous.”

  He pulls back, eyes gleaming. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Then he sinks slowly to his knees, running his hands up the front of my thighs, pulling my dress up toward my waist so he can take in the tiny triangle of red lace.

  He exhales and runs a finger over me. “Have I mentioned I’m a fan of red?”

  I can’t respond. Not when his finger’s slipping under the lace and finding me hot and wet for him. Not when he pulls the lace aside and, without warning or preamble, presses his tongue to my clit.

  I clutch his shoulders as he eats me, his tongue and fingers moving in slow, sensuous movements, utterly confident in his knowledge of my body. He has two fingers inside me, his mouth moving hungrily, and I’m too turned on to be embarrassed by my lightning-fast orgasm.

  His other hand holds me steady as I come undone around him, against him.

  I haven’t even caught my breath yet, and he’s already moving up my body, taking my dress with him until I’m standing there in strappy sandals and matching lingerie when he hasn’t so much as loosened his tie yet.

  My fingers move to remedy that, but he’s faster, his hands sliding behind me once more, lifting me easily before turning and walking me toward the kitchen wall.

  He slams me into it with so much force that I think I hear a picture frame fall, but I don’t care. Not when his mouth is on my breasts and he’s using his chin to nudge the fabric aside so he can suck a nipple into his mouth.

  I gasp, my legs wrapping around his waist, my arms resting on his shoulders.

  “What is going on with you?” I manage around a gasp as he moves to the other nipple, flicks it with his tongue.

  Andrew’s always been a determined, passionate lover, but this feels different. It feels…urgent. Desperate.

  I answer his desperation with some of my own, terrified that something this good, this perfect, can’t last. Forget his tie. My hands go straight for his belt, wrangling with his clothing, somehow managing to get his pants and briefs down over his hips as he continues to plant hot kisses all over my chest.

  “Guide me,” he says in a low voice, his fingers flexing against my butt. “Take me in.”

  His gaze locks on mine, his eyes darkening, as I close my fingers around him. With my other hand I pull my thong to the side.

  But instead of guiding him in, I torture us both, slicking the velvety tip of him against the wetness between my legs, forcing him to feel what he does to me.

  “Georgiana.”

  “Georgie,” I correct, leaning forward to take his bottom lip between my teeth.

  Then I position him at my opening, and he takes over, his hips thrusting forward, pushing me against the
wall.

  Again. Again. Again.

  He kisses me as he fucks me, and our mouths are as greedy as our hands, demanding ever more from the other person. Demanding everything.

  Andrew tears his mouth from mine with a gasp. “Come, Georgiana. Come now.”

  His rough command undoes me, and my body clenches around him a half second before I cry out, shattering.

  He captures my cry with his lips, his own harsh shout mingling with mine as he comes inside me, his shoulders heaving with the strain of holding me up, even as he shudders against me.

  When my heartbeat stops feeling like it’s going to gallop out of my chest, I nip his shoulder and wiggle to be let down.

  His grip gentles, and I slide down his body until my feet touch the floor.

  I swallow. “So.”

  Looking completely unembarrassed by what just transpired, he tugs his pants back up and fastens his belt, returning to his usual Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, perfection. “So.”

  Feeling an unexpected—and unprecedented—wave of affection, I reach out and cup his cheek. “I like you.”

  He reaches out a hand and gently tugs my bra strap back into place, his eyes watching the motion of his fingers as he repays the same gesture on the other side, tidying me up in a way that makes my heart melt. “I like you too.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to start calling me by my real name?”

  “Georgiana Frances? If you’d like.”

  “One day, Andy. One day you will break and call me Georgie,” I say, patting his cheek and then pushing him aside, because this time I really do want the water.

  I move to the counter, draining the entire glass in three swallows. He does the same.

  “You staying over?” I ask.

  “Would you like me to?”

  So much. I nod.

  His eyes flick toward the living room. “Any chance you’ll let me catch up on the ESPN recap? See the baseball highlights?”

  “Depends. Can I cuddle next to you with a bowl of ice cream and talk over the announcer at all the pertinent parts?”

  “Depends,” he counters as he heads into the living room, picking up my remote and turning on the TV.