by Max Monroe
I parted my lips. Our breaths mingled. And my heart fluttered inside of my chest.
And then, his lips brushed mine. Not innocently, like a tease, but hot, fiery, passionate and demanding.
Senses seduced, I fell headfirst into his delicious kiss.
God, he tasted good. And his lips, his oh so perfect lips, felt better than I’d imagined.
I moaned against his mouth, and I sensed his lips quirk up into a smile.
“Charlotte,” he whispered slowly, prolonging each letter as if to savor them.
I smiled, my heart beating quicker at his voice, as I clasped my hands on either side of his face and gazed into his warm mocha eyes.
God, never before had my name ever sounded so wonderful until it was leaving his lips.
Without caring about who or what was around us, Nick took my mouth in another deep, slow, and delicious kiss before he wrapped his arms around my waist and swayed my hips with his.
And then, we danced.
All night long, we danced and kissed and danced and kissed.
I couldn’t remember a night so good and an intimacy so right.
Assault rifles sounded and a trumpet blared, all within an inch of my head—a head, incidentally, that had just hit my pillow.
At least, that was what it felt like.
In actuality, the guns and music were just the harmoniously mixed trill of my alarm clock, and my head had really first made contact with my pillow three hours ago.
Back in my college days, three hours of sleep would have been more than sufficient. I’d have thrown a Hot Pocket in the microwave, scarfed it down, and hoofed it to my final with nothing more than a pencil and my calculator in hand.
But now—now that I was fucking old—three hours just didn’t cut it anymore. I hadn’t even had all that much to drink—though I was considerably out of practice—and my head still throbbed.
With a quick smack and a groan, I silenced the alarm and rolled over to my stomach to shove my head into the fluff of my pillow.
“Oh my God,” I grumbled.
Even the sound of my own voice was grating.
Great, I thought. This should make work interesting.
I grabbed my phone off of my nightstand, rolled back onto my back, and typed out a quick message.
Me: So, apparently, you’re a sadist.
A reply popped up nearly immediately.
Charlotte: Wimp.
Me: I’m actually sore.
Charlotte: It takes time to acclimate to the dance life. You’ve got good moves, though. Be proud, soldier, be proud.
Me: Oh, so I suppose you’re completely fine?
Charlotte: Yep. ;)
Me: I kind of hate you.
Charlotte: That wears off. Trust me. Pretty soon you won’t be able to live without me.
My heart jumped in my chest despite knowing full well she was teasing. But those words, written there together, taunted me and dared me to challenge them. They were cocky, almost as if I had no chance of choosing another fate.
But I was a man of science, and I knew better.
Right?
Me: I could live without the hangover for now. I have to be at work in thirty minutes.
Charlotte: You know, you wouldn’t have to be up for the job in California for another three hours.
Me: Funny.
Charlotte: ;) Get some coffee and some Advil. Take a shower. You’ll feel better in no time.
My phone beeped with a calendar alert, telling me I now had literally thirty minutes to walk through the doors of St. Luke’s. As much as I’d like to stay in bed for eternity, swapping playful barbs with Charlotte, I had to get up and follow her advice, pronto.
Slowly, and quite painfully, I climbed from my bed and to my feet, wiggling my toes in the carpet to force some kind of sensation. I felt slightly numb to the morning, like it wasn’t really happening—like I was Bill fucking Murray and this was Groundhog Day and I was living Thursday all over again.
Obviously, thanks to my busy schedule, my movie references dated back quite some time.
“Christ, Nick,” I mumbled. “You’re pathetic.”
I tossed my phone, ensconced in its usual all-black phone case, to the bed, and it made a soft thud before disappearing into the camouflage of black sheets.
Of course, then it started to ring.
“Fuck,” I muttered, frantically combing through the sheets with my hands, trying to hit the solid surface of my facedown case.
It was on the fourth and final ring when I finally felt my hand graze it, rescued it from drowning by sheet, swiped my finger across the screen, and lifted it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“You sound lethargic,” my daughter said by way of greeting on the other end of the line.
“I’m fine, Lex,” I grumbled, rubbing at my temples to temper the pounding, as I stepped away from my bed and headed for the bathroom. I’d have to multitask this morning if I had any hope of making it to work on time.
“Wow. And irritable. How much did you have to drink last night?”
Fucking hell, why is my daughter so observant?
“Lex—”
“Is your urine yellow?” she cut me off to ask, her voice clinical. I shook my head and looked to the ceiling as she went on. “You might be dehydrated if you haven’t—”
“Lexi, I’m fine. What’s up? Why are you calling this early?”
“I need a ride to school. Mom and Wes have a meeting in New Jersey, and she told me to call you to see if you could take me because murderers ride the subway.”
“What?”
“Those are her extremely hyperbolic and generalized words. Not mine.”
I looked to the clock on the gray and white marble vanity counter of my bathroom and considered carefully. If I took Lexi to school, I’d never make it to work on time. I didn’t think I’d been late to work a day in my life, and people in the hospital were always counting on me. My job was important.
“Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Winnie and Wes’s street was quiet—for Manhattan anyway. Tree-lined stone sidewalks and elegant townhouses, it was a family neighborhood if ever I’d seen one. Of course, it was a family neighborhood for the wealthy, boxing out people without a flexible income in just property taxes alone. For most people, if they were lucky, $70,000 was a salary. Not the governmental cost of living.
I loved that they lived in something so nice, but I also feared the day they would move out of the city. I knew it was coming at some point, more and more of their work happening at the stadium in New Jersey and a chance for even more value for their money, and I knew I had no say in it. I also knew I didn’t deserve a say, but that didn’t make the reality any easier.
Three sharp knocks to the solid chestnut-colored wood of the door complete, I stepped back and waited for Lexi to answer.
What I wasn’t expecting was someone who would never, could never, be my number one fan.
“Nick?”
“Remy?”
Winnie’s oldest and most protective brother, Remy had a special vat of hate stored deep inside all for me. I didn’t blame him. I’d been a jackass to his little sister, and he’d picked up the slack as a consequence.
But he was one of the most prominent people in Lexi’s life. He loved her with a ferocity that made it impossible to even fake dislike him.
Still, all of that didn’t make our interactions any less uncomfortable.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded as though I were the enemy there to attack.
“Lexi called me to take her to school.”
“Did she now?” he asked, looking over his shoulder and back into the house to yell for her. “Lex!” he shouted. “Come to the door!”
He turned back to me and sneered. “You look like absolute shit, asshole. What’d you sleep in a fucking pothole last night?”
Lexi came fairly quickly, thankfully fast enough that I didn’t have to answer Remy but slow enough that she hadn�
��t heard his words, her backpack already in place and her sweet blond hair swept off her face in a half ponytail.
“Hey, Lex,” I greeted softly, even if through some confusion. “What’s going on?”
She shrugged, her cheeks warming sheepishly. “I know you said you were coming. And I believed you. But Mom said I should have a backup plan.”
Christ almighty, the lash of that whip was painful. I deserve it, though. Memories of opportunities past flashed in my mind like a firefight, and I struggled to find cover. When I finally came up for air, Remy’s smug smile hit me again.
I swallowed thickly before nodding. None of this was her fault. Not the strife between her uncle and me and not the reality of the mistakes I’d made in the past.
“So do you want me to take you?” I asked. “Or are you going with your uncle?”
Lexi looked between Remy and me and then pointed to him. “We’re going to run by the dance studio and pick up our costumes on the way. Is that okay?”
I swallowed my disappointment and pulled her in for a hug. “Of course, honey. I have to get to the hospital anyway.”
With a quick kiss to my cheek, Lexi’s sweet smile returned full force. “Okay! Let me know if you do any craniotomies.”
I forced myself to smile back and nodded before turning to jog down the front steps of their brownstone to head to work. I didn’t look back to see Remy’s face.
I didn’t need to.
I could feel karma as she curled around my guts and squeezed quite well enough on my own.
After another round of ibuprofen and a cup of much-needed caffeine, I was well on my way toward feeling rejuvenated—a whole whopping hour before the end of my workday. But whatever. Considering I’d spent the better part of my morning nursing the small hangover courtesy of the multiple drinks I’d consumed with Nick and the girls, it was just nice to reach the point where the side effects of alcohol had made their official exit, timing be damned.
The slight headache and sleepy eyes I’d started the day with had been my body’s way of saying it’d been a while since I’d engaged in alcohol by shot glass.
I couldn’t complain, though. The headache and fatigue paled in comparison to that one night in college where I’d ended a frat party with my head in the toilet. Everyone has experienced at least one night of drunken debauchery and poor decisions, but I wasn’t sure anyone had done it with quite as much flare as I had.
Let’s just say I walked away with a condom stuck in my hair and an undisclosed array of colors on my white skirt and leave it at that.
Ah, memories.
All the reminiscence had me wondering how Nick was feeling.
I’d chatted with him briefly this morning via text, and he’d been obviously thrilled by my magnificence at planning a night out…and slightly accusatory about the way he felt as a result.
A part of me felt a little bad about dragging him out to a dance club last night, but another part of me, the one who’d danced and kissed and laughed her ass off with Nick, didn’t have the slightest regret.
Last night had been fun. More than fun, actually. Having the opportunity to see normally conservative and reserved Nick Raines let loose had been the best damn sight I’d witnessed in a long fucking time.
Taking advantage of the short break in my workday, I grabbed my phone off my desk and sent him a quick message.
Me: Feeling any better?
Nick: I think I might have aged ten years between last night and this morning.
Eeeek. It was probably safe to assume the side effects of alcohol were still running wildly in his veins.
Me: That bad?
Nick: Yes, *that* bad.
Me: Shots were probably a bad choice, huh?
Nick: They were perfect if you were trying to enhance my capability for empathy. Apparently, THIS is what it feels like when I root around in someone’s brain.
Me: LOL. Whoops. What are you doing tonight?
Nick: Letting my liver recover.
I snorted at his response. I could picture him saying those words to me in person, his mouth crested in a sarcastic little smirk.
Me: But it’s Friday, Nick. Liver recovery is for Sundays and Mondays. Tonight, we should go out again and have some fun.
Nick: I think you’re secretly trying to kill me. I’m forty, AKA an old man by drinking standards. And, you do realize I’m inside people’s brains all day, right? Just confirming.
I giggled out loud at his dramatics.
Me: LOL. Don’t be ridiculous. Pretty please, Nick. Hang out with me tonight?
Nick: No begging necessary. I’m a big fan of spending time with you, and I had an amazing time last night. But, tonight, for the sake of civilization and any hope of the brain cells you claim to need for FMSP, I need to stay low-key.
Before I could respond, he sent another text.
Nick: Not gonna lie, I felt like a shit dad this morning when even my daughter picked up on the fact that I was hungover.
Oh hell. Break my heart, why don’t you. My mouth fell into a small frown as I typed.
Me: You are NOT a shit dad. But I’m one hundred percent down with low-key. No alcohol, or even dancing for that matter. Just a nonthreatening, nonviolent, nonmind-altering dinner. I know the cutest little diner a few blocks from your office. They literally serve the very best milk shakes and cheeseburgers the world has ever known.
Nick: Dinner without violence sounds spectacular. I only have one request.
Me: And what’s that?
Nick: You let me kiss you again.
The instant I read his text, I squealed. Out loud. Like a total girl.
Kiss me again? Yes, please!
Nick Raines could press his lips to mine whenever he wanted.
Me: If you must… PS-You must.
Oh boy. I think I have it bad for the brain surgeon.
Harry’s was a staple for NYC locals. Greasy food, kitschy fifties décor, and Harry himself running the show every single day of the week, it was basically an Americana icon. One that I’d frequented with my parents since I was old enough to walk.
With the dinner rush in full swing, a hostess led us to the last empty booth in the joint, and I slid into the vacant seat, only to have my handsome dinner date slide in right beside me.
I grinned at Nick as the hostess with a name tag that read Suzy Q set our plastic menus on the table.
“Our special tonight is the double-decker cheeseburger with a side of fries, and our homemade, Oreo-infused chocolate milk shake,” she explained with a hand to her poodle-skirt-covered hip. “Take your time looking through the menu. I’ll be back to get your orders in a jiff.”
I picked up my menu and moaned out loud at the staged picture of my very favorite item on the bottom of the first page—The San Francisco Frisco Melt.
“Someone sounds a little excited.” Nick chuckled softly beside me, but his eyes stayed fixated on his menu.
“I can’t help it.” I shrugged and shivered playfully at once. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I feel like it’s been a hundred years since I ate at Harry’s.”
“This is my first time eating here.”
“What?” I damn near shouted. “You’re a Harry’s virgin?”
He nodded his amusement, his gaze finally lifting to mine. “That I am.”
“You mean to tell me Harry’s meat has never touched your lips?”
“Very nice, Char.” His eyes were all grimace and disgust, but his lips crested into a smirk. “My appetite is just ravenous now.”
I giggled. “Would you like my recommendations?”
He quirked a brow. “Do I have a choice?”
“No,” I said with a smile. “But sometimes it’s nice to feel like you have a choice, isn’t it?”
Nick grinned. “Have you just given away one of womankind’s greatest secrets? You all just make it seem like we have a choice, like we have some kind of control, but in reality, you’ve chosen everything for us?”
I avoi
ded outing the sisterhood with an innocent smack of my lips and proceeded to give him my Harry’s spiel. “For a newbie, I suggest going for the double cheeseburger and fries. Just so you don’t get overwhelmed by the goodness. But, if you’re feeling real frisky, I highly recommend the Frisco melt.”
“And what is the Harry’s veteran getting?”
“Obviously, the best damn thing on the menu.”
“Do tell what that is,” he demanded, but I shook my head.
“Nuh-uh. That’s top secret, Harry’s VIP kind of information.”
Before he could take the witty banter further, Suzy Q arrived back at our table, setting down two fresh water glasses and napkin covered silverware. “Have we decided?”
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Nick announced cleverly, and I quirked a teasing brow.
“But I haven’t even ordered yet.”
“I know, but I figured it’s best to order the same thing as the woman who seems to know Harry’s meat better than anyone else.”
A barking laugh left my lips. “Ew, gross,” I muttered, and Suzy Q just stared at the two of us like we were crazy.
“Fine,” I acquiesced before our waitress just up and left us to our inside-jokes-focused conversation with none of Harry’s meat for either of us. “We’ll have two Frisco melts, a large order of fries, and two chocolate milk shakes.”
She jotted down our order on her notepad and shouted, over her shoulder and toward the kitchen, “I need two number sevens, a jumbo fry, and two choco shakes!” Once the chef dinged the small silver bell in response, she slid her pen and notepad back into her apron. “Is there anything else I can get ya’s?”