by Addison Fox
“So you remember our conversation?” A tiny light filled the vivid blue of her eyes.
Fender hefted the bottle a few inches, his voice casual. “I hope this’ll do?”
Although he’d moved well past the rotgut stage of his alcohol consumption, Fender knew when he was out of his depth. He’d always been more a beer man, and when Harlow had laid down the whiskey challenge, he had begun to discreetly question Nick about good brands. He’d couched it in some lame excuse about buying a bottle for a vendor, but his brother had come through.
The black-and-gold label captured her attention as she slipped around her desk. “That’ll more than do.”
She gestured to a small seating area near the back of her office. “Why don’t we grab a seat and I’ll get us a few glasses.”
“You can knock off work?”
“It’s a bit past four and we both got an early start. Since we’ve been quiet today, Jennifer and I were going to take advantage of the summer lull and get out of here.”
Quiet? Had Nick been wrong about Daphne and Emma making a visit?
“In fact, let me just tell Jennifer to lock up when she leaves.”
Fender gave himself a quick moment to watch her go, her slim form clad in another vividly colored dress. Green this time, a shade that made him think of ripe limes and margaritas. He then took advantage of the alone time to peruse her office, an image of those killer legs keeping him company.
Her desk was meticulously neat, a laptop and a small box to collect papers the only items on the surface. A large bookshelf stood sentinel behind the desk, oversized volumes on art laid sideways and stacked on each shelf.
Fender read the spines. Chagall, da Vinci, Rafael. Renaissance, Baroque, Modern. He knew what they were—could vaguely draw up an image of what he thought each period stood for—but the fundamental nature of what she did was foreign to him.
People cared about this stuff. They bought it, displayed it, sold it. They drank wine around it and talked about the artist’s intention. He wanted to appreciate it—and he certainly appreciated anyone who worked hard—but it seemed so foreign and untouchable.
And, on some level, a waste.
There were people who went without food, yet paintings sold for millions of dollars. Even the few pieces he’d seen out front had hefty enough price tags on them, at fifty thousand a pop.
“You don’t look like a man about to enjoy a fine glass of whiskey.”
The husky tones and the subtle clink of glasses had him turning from his perusal of her shelves.
“I’m game if you are.”
Something flickered across her face, but vanished as she pasted on a large smile. “Oh, I’m game.”
The seating area included a meeting table and Harlow set the thick-cut glass tumblers on it. He had a vision of her writing up deals at that table and couldn’t help but compare the elegant room to his battered hole of an office where he wrote up invoices, ordered inventory, and meticulously paid his bills each month.
“Fender?”
“You’ve got a sweet setup in here. Cool and elegant.”
“Thank you. I was fortunate to find this job straight out of school. A few years later the owner was looking to retire, and he made me a full partner and allowed me to buy in. We’ve represented some of the country’s finest up-and-coming artists. I love knowing I had a hand in that.”
“Is that what’s up out front?”
“Yes. It’s Johnson Dellaport’s work. Your future sister-in-law seemed quite taken with it.”
“My—” He nodded, any hope Emma and Daphne might have just gone into the city for a day of shopping fading away.
“So Lucy and Ethel were here?”
“Lucy and—” She smiled broadly, catching the joke. “Yes, they were. Both of them.”
“Whatever they said, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
He twisted the cap off the bottle, the heavy aroma of the whiskey rising toward him. For the briefest moment, he was transported back nearly three decades, the thick, peaty scent seeming to close in on him.
“Bring me that glass.”
“It’s yucky.”
“Bring it!”
When he’d protested once more, he’d gotten a smack for his insolence as his old man shoved the glass under his nose.
“This is what a man drinks. It’s what you’ll drink.”
He’d been no more than five or six, but that night had started something. For years, his father deliberately forced Fender to pour him a glass of something off the kitchen counter or risk a beating. Most nights he complied. Every so often he tested the old man, just for spite. Once he was old enough to run the neighborhood, he just stayed out until the old man went out himself, or was already too blind drunk to notice Fender had returned home.
“Fender?”
The memory still lodged in his throat, he managed to pull himself back to the present. He was pleased when his voice came out relatively level. “What did they say?”
“I can’t divulge the secrets of the sisterhood. But I will say this . . .” She hesitated a moment, as if weighting her comments. “Emma and Daphne are incredible women. They love your family and they want good things for all of you.”
“And they didn’t harass you?”
“Not at all. That job belongs solely to you.”
“I apologized—”
She smiled, clearly enjoying having the upper hand. “I know you did. And I accept it.”
Fender kept quiet, the weird memory of his father more unsettling than he wanted to admit. He’d anticipated this moment the entire trip into the city. He imagined sharing the drink with her. Getting to know her better. Maybe even asking her to go to dinner.
Instead he’d been slammed with a shitty memory of his father and the very real mystery of what Emma and Daphne said to her.
It was a weird dance, he could admit to himself. He understood attraction and, like most men, had always reveled in the chase. But something here was different. He’d been attracted before. And he’d been interested before.
But, fuck it all, he’d never been so off his game before.
A part of him was desperate to get the hell out of there and crawl back to his own corner, yet he kept coming back out, more than ready to go another round.
Hell, anticipating another round.
“I am sorry. I was out of line yesterday.”
Those vivid blue eyes softened, the light of victory shifting to something else.
Acceptance.
“It’s forgotten. Now. Let’s enjoy this very fine drink, and you can tell me just how close I was on yesterday’s diagnosis of the cab.”
* * *
Walls. Daphne and Emma had spoken of them, especially the one that surrounded Fender’s heart. Although she’d had limited exposure to the man, Harlow had to admit she thought the assessment missed the mark. He didn’t have walls so much as he had carefully placed landmines, designed to protect him should anyone get too close.
The man was clearly capable of love. The way he spoke of his mother and brothers, the crazy boarder who lived in his mother’s house, and even his soon-to-be sisters-in-law showed that he loved.
It was the distance he created between himself and everyone else that fascinated her.
She also hadn’t missed the slight emotional trips when he first arrived, or the more sizeable stumble when he twisted open the whiskey.
Who are you, Fender Blackstone?
She wanted to know the answers. And, as she sat there opposite him in her office, Harlow had to admit that she was intrigued.
“I’ve already stroked your ego by confirming that your diagnosis of the cab was completely accurate, except for the thrown rod. Now I want you to answer a question for me.”
She took a sip of her whiskey, the taste on her tongue that ethereal mix of solid flavor and smoky mist. “Sure.”
“How do you know so much about cars?”
“Sexist much?”
&n
bsp; “Nope.” He shook his head. “That’s an easy cop-out. Of course there are women who know cars. One of my best mechanics in the shop is Annie Foreman. The woman knows her way around an engine and can balance an alignment so tight the car can practically drive itself. You, Ms. Reynolds, aren’t a mechanic.”
“I like cars.”
“And?”
He waited for her answer, and in a strange twist, Harlow admitted to herself she wanted to share it.
“And when I was fourteen it was a way to torment my mother. I signed up for mechanics as my high-school elective and was hooked. I stuck with it all four years.”
Fender glanced around the office, his gaze settling on a Chagall print she’d always loved. “But you like art.”
“Can’t I like art and cars?”
He sat forward in his chair, his leg bouncing. She’d noticed it over lunch and had now seen it throughout their shared drink. The man was unable to sit still.
His legs moved. Or his fingers rat-a-tat-tatted over his thighs. Or his foot moved up and back against the base of her table. The rhythm kept changing, but the underlying reason remained the same.
He was restless.
“I’m not really a Neanderthal.”
“I didn’t suggest you were.”
“No, but for reasons I can’t quite get a grip on, it keeps on happening around you. The attitude yesterday over lunch. The questions that sound like I’m a garden-variety asshat about to start mansplaining to you. I don’t mean it.”
“Then why do it?”
“You’re a puzzle.”
Her glass hit the top of the marble table with a hard, inelegant clunk. “What you see is what you get.”
“No.” He waved that off. “I’m not buying that one.”
“I’m not a liar.” The words were quiet, yet they came out with a force that surprised even her.
“I’m not suggesting you are. But you are guarded.” He stilled, his gaze direct. “It’s a trait I respect. People are too quick to spill their guts every chance they get.”
She’d often thought the same. Some of the conversations she’d had at this very table had proven that. A client would come in to buy a piece of work, or an artist would come in to sign a contract, and in moments she was hearing dark, personal secrets of the sort she’d think twice about sharing with her best friend.
Marital problems. Job woes. Illness. She’d gotten it all and then some.
People were entitled to their problems—she had her own and had no desire to be judged for them—but she wasn’t quick to lay them on the table.
“What do you think about the whiskey?”
It was an awkward topic change, but he seemed to take it in stride. “I like it, and I didn’t expect to.”
“What do you prefer?”
“Beer. Any flavor, imported or domestic. Beer is life and it fits every occasion. A reward for a hard day. The perfect accompaniment to picnics and ball games. And an easy, smooth partner to a burger.”
“You’ve given this some thought.”
“And more than a few brain cells.” He shot her a wicked grin that hit her low in the belly. That smile was lethal, especially to the full-on recipient of it. Cocky and arrogant, with just the right touch of eager schoolboy to balance it out.
It was alluring. And curious that she saw the boy still stamped in the smile. She’d have thought any hint of that boy was long gone.
While nothing had been said, Daphne and Emma’s ready defense of Fender, as well as the fact of his adoption as an older child, suggested he’d had a difficult go of things.
What had he seen? Or, worse, what had he survived?
The thought was at odds with the strong, virile man who sat opposite her, yet it made her wonder all the same. Well aware it was none of her business, she sought safer ground.
“You must be over the moon your brother is marrying into a brewery.”
“To his highschool chem partner, of all things.”
“Seriously?”
“Nick might not have realized the gem he had on his hands then, but he’s making up for lost time.”
“It’s the rare sixteen-year-old who has that level of clarity.”
“Truth.” He clinked his glass against hers.
Quiet descended once more, giving her a moment to consider her next move. She wanted to get to know him better. Of that she had no doubt. But what was a reasonable expectation? They might enjoy each other for a few weeks, but there wasn’t any realistic scenario where they would go beyond an affair.
His mother and her father had seen to that, and then her mother had sealed the deal with her random attacks earlier in the summer.
There was too much baggage and far too sordid a history between their families to think there could be anything more.
Which seemed like a shame.
If a woman could navigate around those landmines, Fender Blackstone struck her as a man well worth the dangerous effort.
* * *
Fender itched to trace the long, slender path of her biceps muscle. It was the latest charged idea to cross his mind as woman and whiskey continued hazing his thoughts.
He wasn’t drunk—he refused to lose his wits on general principle—but he would definitely own punchy.
And intrigued.
The physical was appealing, no doubt. That endless dance between two attracted people never disappointed or grew old.
But it was fascinating to realize how much of the woman added to the entire package. The amazing body was the least of her attributes when compared to the quick humor and whip-smart intelligence. Combine them all, and Harlow Reynolds was positively lethal.
“So tell me why you don’t like art.”
His gaze shot around the room before settling back on hers.
Point Reynolds.
“I do like art. Norman Rockwell had some nice stuff. Michelangelo knows his way around ceilings and slabs of marble. Even that dude who cut off his ear.”
“Van Gogh.”
“Yeah. I remember studying him in school.”
“Name one of his paintings.”
Fender’s mind went blank, the only thing filling it up was his deep discussion after class with Landon and Nick about how one would actually go about cutting off his own ear.
“I got nothing.”
“The Starry Night is particularly nice. We can go see it at the MoMA sometime.”
“There’ll be a sometime?”
“If you play your cards right.”
Their phone call—and the promise at the end—came back to him. He was loath to alter the subtle truce that seemed to have descended between them, but he was equally unwilling to prolong time spent together in tense wondering.
His mother and her father had a history. And while it wasn’t his history—it had happened before Louisa came into his life—it was Harlow’s. She would have been young but alive when Mama Lou was involved with Kincaide Reynolds.
He’d struggled with the news of his mother’s involvement with a married man when it had come to light at the start of the summer. Had been surprised to realize how hard it was to accept his mother had made a poor choice. One that had an impact on an entire family.
But he’d also made peace with it.
Although they hadn’t discussed it at length, Nick and he had been of similar minds: Her relationship had happened before they became a family and, in the end, the experience was something their mother had to live with and move beyond.
One that she had moved beyond.
In his entire life since Mama Lou had come into it, Fender could count on one hand how many dates she’d been on. Whatever had driven her from her high-powered life in Manhattan, back over the bridge to the neighborhood she grew up in, had changed her priorities. As a recipient of that change, he found it hard to argue with the results.
Landon had been the one to struggle with the news. When the affair had surfaced, his brother had been forced to accept his adoptive mother had made a poor cho
ice, more like Landon’s biological mother, even if the choices weren’t as chronic. He and Mama Lou had worked through it—Daphne had certainly helped—and Fender was glad to see them both come out the other side.
So if they were all okay with it, why was he so convinced no one was okay with it? Or would suddenly stop being okay with it if he started something with Harlow Reynolds.
“What are you doing with me?” he asked.
“Having a drink.”
He nearly called her on the joke when she held up a hand. “I know what you’re asking. And the best I can say, without humor or evasion, is having a drink.”
“The backstory between us is pretty significant.”
“A story neither of us had a hand in writing,” she said.
“Maybe not, but that doesn’t change anything.”
“No,” Harlow picked up her glass, the flash of light off the crystal illuminating her deep blue gaze. “It doesn’t.”
So why not walk away, Blackstone? Neither of you has any skin in the game yet. A killer pair of legs and a streak of attraction isn’t a relationship. It was barely the basis for one.
Walk.
A smart man would do that. A smarter man wouldn’t have even tempted fate by coming here.
He’d always considered himself a smart man, so the fact that he couldn’t tear his eyes off her didn’t bode well for his future.
Neither did the overwhelming urge to kiss her.
“I should get going.”
“Does this mean you believe me now?”
That vivid-blue gaze remained steady on him. Taking his measure? Looking for the truth? Fender suspected the answer lay somewhere in between.
So it was funny to realize that he did believe her. Whatever deeds of her mother had brought her into his orbit, they were just that: actions perpetrated by Gretchen Reynolds.
The fact that he wanted her to stay in that orbit was another matter entirely.
With that beating at the forefront of his thoughts, he stood. “Thanks for the drink.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
Harlow moved in front of him, heading toward the exit and the smart man inside warred with the man who’d just spent the past hour with an amazing woman.
Before he could check the impulse, his hand snaked out, and he caught Harlow by the wrist. His grip was light and easy, but her forward movement against the resistance of his hold had her stumbling backward. The question of how she’d feel in his arms vanished as she settled into the crook of his arm.