by Lauren Layne
The nature of the invitation, however, had surprised him. He’d thought for sure she’d suggest drinks at a trendy hotel bar or dinner at some place with tiny portions and pretentious service. But a home-cooked meal? That didn’t seem like her. At least not what he knew of her.
Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had a sudden desire to be unpredictable.
Mitchell wasn’t embarrassed to admit that he’d Googled her. She’d come up nearly a dozen times in various articles on the New York social scene. Colin had been right: Julie Greene was no small-time journalist. Stiletto was more empire than magazine, and as far as he could tell, Julie, Grace, and their friend Riley were the princesses.
Neither had Colin exaggerated her dating record. There’d been a male-model look-alike by Julie’s side in almost every picture. Always a different guy, always the same flashy good looks and toothpaste-commercial smile.
Which raised a question: what the hell did she want with him?
Julie was all dazzle and fun, and he was, well … Wall Street.
But Mitchell wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever the hell that phrase was. The woman was his ticket into Yankee Stadium. That’s all he needed to know.
Standing on the doorstep of her brownstone, Mitchell found the call button marked “Greene.”
“Hey, Mitchell! Come on in—up the stairs, first door on the right.”
He tentatively pushed the door open, looking around curiously. Call him a snob, but a Manhattan home without a doorman was new to him. He’d only ever lived in swanky high-rises, as had his previous girlfriends.
Still, this was no run-down hovel. The building, while old, had obviously been renovated and kept in good condition. Stiletto must pay their princesses good money.
Mitchell started to knock on her door when he heard a loud clatter of pots and pans followed by some very unladylike cursing. Raising an eyebrow, he tried the knob and pushed it open when he found it unlocked.
“Julie?”
“In the kitchen,” she called.
Considering the fact that her apartment was less than six hundred square feet, there really wasn’t a kitchen so much as a corner dedicated to cooking.
It looked like a war zone.
Julie popped up from whatever she’d been doing in the oven, and Mitchell didn’t know whether to laugh or politely avert his eyes. He’d been expecting some sort of Martha Stewart–style domestic scene, perhaps Julie in a fetching little apron and retro red lipstick.
He’d been wrong. Mitchell had seen homeless waifs who looked more put together. She was wearing what appeared to be threadbare boxers that were one wash away from being a pile of string. And her USC shirt probably hadn’t even been new when she’d been in college. Definitely no bra under that sucker, either.
“Mitchell,” she said with a too-wide smile. “You must be early.”
“I’m late, actually,” he said, forcing his eyes up from her chest.
“Ah, right. Well, I’m just putting the last touches on dinner, and then I’ll go freshen up. Dinner should be ready in just a few minutes.”
He hoped by “freshen up” she meant “completely make herself over.” Although, truthfully, this rumpled version of Julie wasn’t without appeal. He’d never seen a woman in such complete disarray, and damned if he didn’t kind of like the unpretentiousness of it. Past girlfriends had never been caught dead without lipstick, much less looking like Little Orphan Annie.
He approached the mess carefully. If “dinner” would be ready anytime before the next Ice Age, he’d sell his right testicle.
“What, uh … what are you making?”
Mitchell wasn’t exactly a kitchen whiz, but he was pretty sure those tiny flecks of metal sticking out of some sort of mutilated meat weren’t edible.
She followed his gaze and slumped slightly. “Chicken Marsala. I was supposed to pound the chicken, but I didn’t have plastic wrap, so I used foil instead. It, um … it kind of broke apart.”
“I can see that.” It looked like a UFO had collided with road kill. “And that?” he asked, gesturing toward a mountain of something green and stringy.
“Leeks!” she said proudly. “Just finished slicing them.”
Mitchell’s eyes fell on the nearby knife and saw that the tip was crooked. Stabbing might have been a more appropriate word choice.
“Julie,” he said softly. “You don’t know how to cook, do you?”
She huffed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and he realized for the first time that her hair was a mess of soft, fuzzy curls instead of the shiny, straight version he’d seen last night.
“What makes you say that?” she asked as she wrestled a cork out of a bottle of Pinot grigio.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, trying not to stare at the way her breasts swayed beneath her T-shirt as she tugged at the cork. “Maybe the box of ‘beginner’s set’ cookware in the corner.”
She followed his gaze to where a recently opened box of pots and pans had been shoved next to the fridge.
“Well, yeah … it’s been a little while since I’ve dabbled in the kitchen.”
More like a lifetime, he thought.
“Need help?” he asked as he accepted the glass of wine.
She brightened slightly. “You cook?”
“Not a bit. I’d have done the same thing as you when pounding the chicken, except I wouldn’t even have had foil on hand to improvise. But I do have this.” He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and wiggled it enticingly in front of her.
She rubbed at her nose and scowled. “What are we going to do with that, use it to cook the chicken?”
God help them, she actually sounded serious.
“Uh, no. But I can dial it. Maybe call … takeout?”
Julie’s eyebrows snapped into a scowl, and she chewed her bottom lip moodily. “I wanted to make you dinner.”
Yes, but why? It obviously wasn’t part of her usual dating routine. Probably another one of her carefully plotted ploys that he’d need to watch out for.
He smiled disarmingly. “Come on now, honey. Show Mitchell your collection of takeout menus.”
She hesitated for only about two seconds before scampering to a corner drawer and pulling out a rainbow stack of papers. Mitchell selected one that looked well used.
“Tasty Thai?”
Ten minutes later, their food was on the way and he was holding a garbage bag open as she scooped her disastrous cooking attempt into it. “What is this?” he asked, poking at a soggy log.
“Garlic bread,” she said in a forlorn voice. “I think I did it wrong.”
Her face was just inches from his, and he got a good look at her skin. He doubted she’d had a chance to apply a speck of makeup, but her skin looked smooth and golden.
California girl. Odd that the thought didn’t produce the same disdain it had before. His fingers tightened on the garbage bag so he wouldn’t reach out and stroke one silky cheek.
Not yet, Forbes. Instinct told him that touching Julie if she didn’t have her usual defenses in place would mean a lot of trouble for both of them.
By the time they got everything cleaned up and the stickers removed from her brand spanking new pans, the food had arrived. Mitchell ignored her insistence that they eat at her tiny kitchen table, and instead claimed a spot on the corner of her couch.
“This is a little better than my chicken,” she said, mouth full.
“So who taught you those killer cooking skills?” he asked. “Your mom?”
Julie’s face clouded over. “I wish. My parents died when I was eight.”
The pad thai turned to dust in Mitchell’s mouth. “God, Julie, I’m sorry. Both of them?”
She stared down at her noodles. “There was a car accident. They were on their way to my ballet recital. My sister was in the car too—”
Her voice broke off, and he started to reach toward her, but thought better of it. He barely knew her, after all.
“Everyo
ne told me they died instantly,” she said softly. “As though that somehow made it better to an eight-year-old. They were still gone.”
His heart twisted at the thought of a tiny, sparkling Julie in a tutu waiting for her parents to show up and watch her much-practiced dance. He saw a sheen of tears in her eyes that she was blinking rapidly to keep at bay. He wanted to tell her that it was okay to cry, but to her it probably wasn’t.
“It wasn’t so bad,” she said finally. “My aunt and uncle raised me like one of their own, and my cousins were practically like brothers.”
Practically. But not quite. He wanted to know more. To know her.
Don’t even think about it, Forbes. This was supposed to be a fling, not a budding relationship. Emotional entanglement was one major step in the wrong direction.
Feeling like a jerk, he remained silent.
Mitchell waited until she’d pulled herself together and then changed the subject to safer territory. “So I’ve been wondering something since last night.”
Julie reached for a spring roll and looked at him curiously. “Yeah?”
“Does it get old? Being pigeonholed as a serial dater?”
She let out a choked laugh. “Ouch. But actually, no, not really. The society papers pretty much get it right. Stiletto’s my life. I’ve been there since I was twenty-two, and I know it’s a cliché, but I really can’t imagine working anywhere else.”
“You’re okay being defined by what you write?”
For some reason it bothered him that she was so quick to accept the label Manhattan had slapped on her as the dating guru. Dating was supposed to be a means to an end, not the end itself, and yet most of the women in the city seemed content to ride on her coattails as she tested the waters for them.
Hell, even he was using her career as a way to Yankee tickets. Mitchell felt a stab of guilt that hadn’t been there last night, but he promptly stifled it. Julie’s reputation was why he and Colin had picked her for their little bet—her very nature wouldn’t let her get her heart involved.
Then what’s with the attempt at domesticity tonight? Why didn’t she drag you to some trendy hotspot?
He pushed the thought away.
“I wouldn’t say I’m defined by it,” she said with a touch of annoyance. “But it’s a part of me. I love men. And I love sex,” she said with a saucy wink.
He tried to ignore this. She’d said it only for effect, and damned if it wasn’t working. His body craved a woman. He was beginning to worry that it craved Julie specifically.
But even with his cock threatening to make a spectacle, Mitchell wasn’t about to be anybody’s puppet. Not even for the sake of this compellingly rumpled sexpot.
“I see.” He chewed slowly, carefully pushing the image of naked Julie from his mind. “But how do you come up with fresh content every month? I mean, dating’s been around forever. It’s not like you can reinvent the wheel. There’s only so much that can be manufactured.”
She let out a low laugh. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
Mitchell shook his head, annoyed that she had such a cynical outlook, and more annoyed to realize that her approach to relationships might echo his own. Everything in his two-year stint with Evelyn had been planned. He’d even had checklists.
She narrowed her eyes and poked him in the arm. “Don’t tell me there’s a romantic under all that Wall Street.”
Mitchell resisted the urge to squirm. She had no idea exactly how unromantic his intentions toward her were. “You make it sound like I spend all year cutting out doilies for homemade Valentines,” he said by way of distraction.
She lifted a shoulder. “All I’m saying is that dating is an art form. So is falling in love.”
Her confidence was alarming. Almost as though she really could determine who’d fall for her.
“Explain,” he said cautiously.
Julie’s eyes lit up as she set her box of food aside and tucked her knees beneath her. “Well, see, everyone seems to think that there’s some sort of lightning bolt that zaps us when we’re with the right person. But the truth is, it comes down to signals. Signals that we can control, although most people don’t seem to bother trying.”
Mitchell narrowed his eyes. She was cocky, all right. “Okay then, expert,” he said, setting his own carton aside and leaning back on the couch. “Show me your stuff.”
Julie gave him a knowing look. “Now see, you’re assuming I’m going to throw out a bunch of seduction moves and you’re going to get lucky. No, I’m talking about Stage One stuff. Eye contact, the accidental touches, the first kiss.”
“Sweetie, it might be time to rethink your day job. This is our second date now, and I can’t say I’ve had my socks knocked off by a so-called love expert. You’re the one who invited me here tonight, remember?”
Her lips tightened briefly, and he nearly smirked. This woman was a hell of lot more interesting when she wasn’t getting what she wanted.
She recovered quickly. “Well, that’s because I wasn’t trying to make you fall in love with me. If I was, you’d have for sure gone in for a kiss by now,” she said with a wave. “I thought I’d go slow with you. You’re so … stodgy.”
Mitchell’s cocky grin slipped. Stodgy? He wasn’t stodgy. Was he? Surely she was just getting back at him for his rejection last night. Then again, she did strike him as a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
Was he being played more adeptly than he realized?
He cleared his throat. “So you’re telling me the only reason I’m not falling wildly in love with you right now is because you don’t want me to?”
“Exactly,” she said. “If I wanted you to fall in love with me, I would’ve never let you see me without makeup this early in the game. Seeing a woman without her armor should be a gift saved until at least the seventh date. And I wouldn’t have shown you my lack of cooking skills. If I thought you’d dig the domestic thing, I would have ordered in and then transferred it all into my own cookware. And I most certainly wouldn’t have let you see me in the ratty shorts that I save for PMS and cleaning days.”
Mitchell couldn’t decide whether to laugh or strangle the outrageous ego out of her.
So he did the only other thing he could think of that would catch her off guard.
He kissed her.
* * *
Julie had written the book on first kisses.
Well, okay, technically not a book. But she definitely had no fewer than four different articles in her portfolio that outlined the nuances and categories of the first kiss.
In the bad category:
The Slug. Involves a tongue that is shoved into one’s mouth and just … stays there, completely immobile, as though its very presence is supposed to light your fire. It doesn’t.
The Labrador. Also referred to as Bad Dog! Another tongue offender. Hint: if either party’s face is wet after a kiss, you’re doing it wrong. Julie carried baby wipes for just this sort of occasion.
The Heavy Breather. No. Just … no. Your short-rib-scented breath should never be all up in someone else’s business.
The Dentist. This one has multiple meanings. It can refer to trying to clean someone else’s molars with your tongue, or repeated grinding with the front teeth. Saliva exchange is acceptable. Plaque? Not so much.
Poke and Swirl. Self-explanatory. Also, horrifying.
The Biter. A gentle nip is okay, but drawing blood? Only sexy if it involves one of the hot guys from Buffy.
And Julie’s personal least favorite …
The Moaner. Sure, a sexy moan here and there can be a turn-on—when it comes from the woman. A man going all Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally? So wrong.
There were fewer types of good kisses than bad, because, well, kissing was hard to do well. But that’s not to say there wasn’t plenty to look forward to. In the good category:
The Tease. Playful and light, this is like the romantic comedy of first kisses. The best ones involve intentional hesitation in which
there is a beat of tension before the meeting of lips. Playful nips, teasing pecks, and flirting tongues are all allowed.
The Hot and Hard. A favorite of alpha men. Typically a precursor to sex. Enough said.
The Dream Sequence. Practically requires its own dramatic ballad. Long, steamy, and lingering, best suited for sultry summer nights or lounging by the fire. Not welcome first thing in the morning.
The I Love You. The unicorn of first kisses. Julie was reasonably sure it didn’t exist. Grace had made her include it.
The Teen. Reckless, a little messy, possibly in public. Hard to get right, but a personal favorite of Julie’s when done correctly.
But Julie was stunned to realize there was a first kiss she hadn’t yet experienced: the first kiss that didn’t feel like the first kiss at all.
Kissing Mitchell was so right and so unnervingly familiar that she almost pulled back. The sheer rightness of it felt wrong. She didn’t even know him. Where was the curious exploration? The trial and error?
Try as she might to analyze the peculiarity, Julie was finding it hard to think at all, because the kiss felt so damn good. It was as though he’d kissed her a thousand times before and knew exactly what she liked.
The hand on the back of her neck held her still as he took her mouth with devastating confidence. His lips brushed back and forth against hers several times, each touch making her more and more desperate to be closer. She tried to pull him closer, but he pulled back to sip at her lips with soft, pleading motions. Every touch was deliberate, every move perfectly calculated for her pleasure.
He seemed to know the moment she wanted more because his tongue touched the center of her bottom lip for the briefest of seconds. Open.
She did, and his hand slid to her jaw as he tilted his head and took the kiss deeper. His tongue moved along hers softly and she let out a tiny whimper.
Great—now she was the moaner.
His teeth found her bottom lip gently, perfectly, and this time she let out a gasp. She might be able to identify the different types of kisses, but Mitchell had mastered them. He’d taken everything she’d ever experienced, picked out the best parts, and delivered them perfectly.