Amber Nights - The Esquire Girls Series - Amber's Story (Books 1, 2, 3 & 4) - Box Set

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  “How exciting,” Nadia says, her eyes betraying her jealousy as she leans over the divider separating her cubicle from mine. “We’ve been here stapling together photocopies of exhibits for a trial next week while you were out making multimillion dollar deals…Shoot me now!” She forms her fingers into a gun and sticks it to her temple.

  I giggle at my coworkers’ misery.

  A hush falls over us as Matt strolls past our cubicles. He doesn’t address us, he only glares at me yet again. “Domenic, how’s that memo for the PureViva Water file going?” Matt tosses casually in Domenic’s direction. He slows down without stopping completely.

  “I’ll be done by lunchtime,” Domenic replies flashing that charming, lopsided smile of his.

  “Good,” Matt says dryly. He snarls in my direction once more before picking up the pace and continuing his stroll down the corridor.

  Hailey eyes him intently. “That man is delicious!” She’s licking the last bits of chia pudding off of her plastic spoon. “He should definitely be the next ‘Bachelor’. Don’t you think?”

  “Eww.” I laugh wryly, imagining 25 scantily-clad airheads fawning over Matt on national television. “That is a visual I could do without.”

  Chapter 7

  “Amber Denise Roberts!” The sound of my mother’s shrill voice ripping through my telephone’s receiver is unmistakable. And whenever she calls me anything but Bambi, it’s usually a prelude to a conversation that I’d rather not be a part of.

  “Hi Mummy,” I say as sweetly as possible despite the acute ringing in my ear caused by her high-pitched greeting seconds ago. I pull a bowl out of the cupboard and move towards the table, my phone nestled between my shoulder and my ear.

  “So, you’re dating a big shot lawyer now, huh? Why is it that I have to hear these things through the grapevine? Why can’t I ever once hear it from you? Why do you tell your sisters everything first and –“ Damn – she’s on a rampage today.

  “Mom, mom. Slow down. First off, I’m not dating a lawyer. I don’t know where you heard that one from.” Actually, I know exactly where she heard if from. Big-mouth Eden. My older sister needs to learn to put the brakes on her blabber-mouth.

  “So, you’re not dating a lawyer?” My mom sounds disappointed now. “But you are dating someone, aren’t you?”

  I hesitate. Spencer and I are pretty much an item, but still it’s not really the type of situation that’s easy to explain to your mother. “It’s complicated, mom,” I say sinking into my kitchen chair and pouring myself a bowl of cereal.

  “Well, first off…” she says, imitating my tone, “…why isn’t he a lawyer? Amber, you need to stop dating men who are beneath you. Now that you’re working at this law firm, there’s no reason why you need to be dating some janitor or taxi driver or window washer.”

  “Mom, when have I ever dated a janitor or a taxi driver or a window washer? And even if I did, what’s wrong with that? Please stop being melodramatic.” I’m already exhausted and I haven’t even been on the phone with her for two minutes yet.

  “Watch that mouth with me, young lady. Anyway, I’m very disappointed that you were in Montreal last week and you didn’t even take the time to come see me. I’m so disappointed in you.” Here come’s the guilt trip.

  “Mom, I was only there for three days and I was on business. I was with a client pretty much the whole time.”

  “You have to make time for your family, Bambi. Just because you’re all grown up doesn’t mean we’re not important anymore.” I can hear the Dr. Phil Show booming in the background on my mom’s side of the line.

  I sigh, frustrated, pulling my fingers through my bangs. Why did I answer my phone?

  “Anyway, Emmy’s off of school right now and she really wants to come to New York for the first time. So, in a couple of weeks we’re all going to make the trip down to see you. Me, your dad and your sisters.” I squeeze my eyes tight and purse my lips together. The thought of my mother and her baggage filling up my cramped Brooklyn apartment, literally and figuratively, sends chills through me. “Bambi, this is the part when you say, ‘Oh, that’s great! I’m so excited to see all of you!’” My mother really knows how to get under my skin.

  “Oh course, I’m excited to see you all, mom,” I run my fingers through my hair again, feeling as if I’ve just been flattened by a steamroller.

  “Okay. Well that’s settled, then. We’ll see you in a few weeks.” As far as my mother is concerned, the conversation is over.

  “Okay, mom. Call and give me the details. I love you.”

  “Bye, Bambi.”

  Chapter 8

  “I want to take you out dancing,” he whispers into my skin, his warm breath tickling my ear.

  I roll over to look him in the face.

  Oh, what a gorgeous face.

  Hair all disheveled with those smoky, bedroom eyes. A neat trail of deep golden stubble running along his chin. God, it feels good to wake up next to him.

  I rub my face against his chest. “Dancing?” I hope my voice doesn’t sound as skeptical as I am on the inside.

  “Yes, dancing. It’s Saturday night. I wanna go dancing,” he says with a chuckle, his beautiful eyes gleaming.

  I prop myself up on my elbows. “I object to that for several reasons,” I say, a frown tightening my forehead.

  “Go ahead, counselor,” he mocks.

  I roll my eyes at his lawyer joke before continuing. “Firstly, I don’t dance. I don’t know how. I would surely embarrass you –“

  He laughs. “You could never embarrass me. You could start doing the chicken dance on the dance floor and still everyone would gape in awe at how beautiful you are.”

  I blush at the compliment. “You definitely get brownie points for that one,” I say placing a sweet kiss on the tip of his nose. But then, I continue, “Secondly, I have nothing to wear over here.” I wave my hands in the air gesturing to his walk-in closet on the other side of the bedroom.

  “We can stop by your apartment before heading out. Don’t worry.” He topples that objection easily.

  “Thirdly,” I continue, “We’re keeping our relationship on the low. I don’t think we should be out clubbing on a Saturday night.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Amber. I know a really discreet place. You’ll like it.” A charming grin spreads across his lips.

  Just after 8:30 that evening, I turn the key in the lock at my Brooklyn apartment. Spencer follows closely on my heels. I throw a glance at him over my shoulder and my belly fills with happy butterflies. His pale blue button down shirt is open at the collar revealing just a peek of his muscular chest. He wears loose blue jeans and all-black canvas sneakers.

  He makes himself comfortable in the living room. I watch him for a moment as he runs his long fingers along the edge of my cheap IKEA birch veneer bookcase taking in the rows of classic novels perched on the shelves. The corner of his mouth cocks up into a naughty smile as the thumbs the spine of Anna Karenina. I return his mischievous grin before sinking down the hall.

  All I know is that we’re going to a hole-in-the-wall jazz club on the Upper West Side near Harlem. Being completely unfamiliar with the dress code of that type of establishment makes it very difficult to pick something to wear. I finally decide on a black mini dress that is stashed at the back of my closet. I pair it with nude heels and silver bangles.

  Feeling totally unsure of my outfit, I tap on Oksana’s room door hoping that she isn’t napping before her shift at the bar. I don’t usually ask her for fashion advice, but she is a bartender so she might be more familiar with the dress code of Upper West Side jazz bars than I am. She opens the door almost immediately, wrapped in a bath towel, her dark-rimmed eyes completely dilated and tiny droplets of sweat forming on her forehead. She wipes her nose as she eyes me up and down with disapproval written all over her face.

  I explain my predicament to her and she drags me into her room and pulls a never-worn cocktail dress still baring the tags from the ba
ck of her closet. She lines up an army of pomades and gels that smell of fruits along her cluttered dresser.

  An eternity later, my glossy black hair is sleeked back into a low ponytail and Oksana’s knee-length, cranberry-colored chiffon shift dress hangs just right off of my five foot five inch frame. My emerald green accessories and peep-toe stilettoes are a bold contrast to the dress but Oksana insists that they are perfect against my red dress and dark hair.

  I peer into the full-length mirror hanging on her bedroom door, still skeptical. But I’ve kept Spencer waiting long enough. I emerge into the living room where Spencer sits thumbing through Oliver Twist with a boyish glee in his eyes. He glances up at me as the click-clack of my heels announces my arrival into the room.

  He inhales audibly at the sight of me. He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You are – wow! Wow! Gorgeous, Amber! Beautiful!” He jumps to his feet, wraps his arms around my waist and runs his hands up and down my exposed back.

  Oksana clears her throat loudly, drawing Spencer’s attention to her. “Spencer, this is my roommate, Oksana,” I say as she stretches an eager hand to him. I face her, “Oksana, this is my boyfriend, Spencer.”

  She lets out a low whistle before leaning into my ear with her Russian accent, “You did good, girl. And I was just starting to wonder if you were gay.”

  Chapter 9

  He pulls open the heavy door and stands back, letting me enter first.

  The dark lounge is abuzz with music, flirtation and laughter. The smoky sounds of a saxophone solo fill the air as Spencer laces his fingers around mine and leads me towards the back. A waitress, a tall, curvy woman with glowing brown skin and sensual curls in her thick, black hair, gives Spencer a sexy smile – a smile laced with familiarity – as we weave through the sparse crowd. He gives her a polite nod as she watches me with a cocked eyebrow and an amused look on her face. I lean into his shoulder. “Have you been here before?” My voice is just loud enough to rise above the sounds of the crowd. He nods his head causing tendrils of his slicked-back hair to fall into his handsome face.

  He sinks into a booth in a corner before pulling me into his lap. I peer around at my surroundings. The space is classy in a sexy but understated way. Four broad-backed leather armchairs are positioned around each dark wooden table at the center of the room. A clutter of tea lights sit in the middle of each rectangular tabletop. Gold-framed photos of jazz greats hang above the intimate booths, which are slightly elevated off of the ground and line three of the exposed-brick walls. Orange-tinted bulbs illuminate the stage where a band is playing jazz tunes that warm my entire body. Smokey-eyed waitresses balancing small trays of liquor and delicious-smelling finger food weave through the small crowd of patrons on the dance floor.

  Spencer watches keenly as I experience the club for the first time. “You like?” he asks, his voice expectant.

  I smile and nod before snuggling my cheek to his collarbone and closing my eyes to my surroundings to feel the soulful music course through me. Spencer strokes his fingers across my exposed arm as his foot taps along to the rhythm.

  The sultry waitress appears at our booth, still wearing that seductive smile of hers. She places an appetizing starter of fried plantains with guacamole on the table. Before she even hands us the menu, Spencer requests deep-fried macaroni and cheese with collard greens, chopped salad, grilled shrimp and fried chicken strips. My eyebrows cock in surprise at his selection, but the waitress doesn’t even bother to jot it down in her notepad. “The usual,” she remarks, her plump lips curling into a knowing smile. “Chardonnay?”

  “Uh – how about zinfandel tonight?” Spencer asks waiting for my approval. I nod.

  “Rosenblum? Like the last time?” she asks and I feel like she’s taunting me with her familiarity. Spencer nods, kissing my temple.

  She walks away and the leather of the seat cracks loudly as I shift my weight uncomfortably. I feel my body go rigid. “What?” Spencer whispers grazing his fingers along my ribs. My body feels so sensitive to his touch. So vulnerable. When I don’t answer, he offers, “Her name is Sandra.” I pull out of his embrace to watch him. I need to see his expression. He continues, “Her father is from Guadeloupe and her mother is part Irish. She’s putting herself through school – interior design, I think. We chat when I come here. She’s pretty, but no – I haven’t slept with her. I told you – I come here – often.”

  “You expect me to believe that you haven’t slept with her? Have you seen her? She’s gorgeous.” I’m trying to come off as aloof but jealousy heats my voice.

  Spencer chuckles. “Haven’t I told you – sex isn’t like that for me.” He searches my face for a sign that I understand. When he doesn’t find it, his expression grows dark. “Amber, I’ve been alone for three years. I’ve wanted to be alone – until you.”

  I’m not convinced and it shows on my face.

  “Amber, please don’t make me say it. That’s just cruel of you.” He’s pleading but I won’t give in. He exhales violently, his chest rising and falling in one swift motion. “You’re the first woman I’ve really wanted since Chloe died.”

  Shit.

  Chloe.

  His trigger.

  I can already feel him recoiling, closing up on me.

  “I – I – Please don’t shut down on me, Spencer.” Now, I’m the one begging. I know I’ve pushed him away. He can’t bring his eyes to mine. He turns away from me, both elbows on the table. He pulls a plantain chip from the bowl and breaks it into tiny pieces on the table. “I’m sorry, Spencer. I –“ I want to touch him but his shoulders are so rigid, his eyes so cloudy in the dim light of the bar. I sit next to him in silence.

  After a few long moments, he pulls a stack of $20 bills out of his wallet and slides to the edge of the booth. His tone is dry. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 10

  Spencer’s fingers grip the wheel of his sleek silver Audi RS7, his knuckles white.

  He’s so handsome – even with his tensed jaw and the lines pulled between his scrunched eyebrows.

  “I’d like to go home with you,” I say quietly as he heads towards the Brooklyn Bridge. He doesn’t say anything, so I repeat myself. “Spencer, take me home with you.”

  He loops around the block, now headed to his Tribeca penthouse apartment.

  The ride is painfully silent.

  I’ve broken us.

  With my resistance and my insecurity and my stubbornness – I’ve broken us. I lament inwardly.

  When Spencer pulls up outside of his building, a valet rushes over to take his car. The doorman tugs the heavy glass door open. The security guard calls the elevator once we’re in the lobby.

  Spencer and I step into the elevator, his eyes still avoiding mine as we ride up. When the doors fly open on the penthouse level, Spencer penetrates deep into his apartment, leaving me standing awkwardly in the foyer. I feel tears biting at the back of my eyes. I’ve really fucked this up.

  After long moments of standing at the door like a stranger, I slip out of my heels and hang my purse on the coatrack near the entrance. I tug on my ponytail debating whether I should just go home.

  Spencer emerges from his office at the far end of the hall. He flicks on the light in the hallway where I’m standing. His shirt is gone. He’s barefoot and gripping a tumbler half-full of a copper-colored liquid. His gaze is on the polished concrete floor. He pushes his free hand tensely through his thick hair, but his face is blank of expression. “This was a bad idea. It’s not going to work.”

  Chapter 11

  His words hit me forcefully. Tears pour down my face. “You’re breaking up with me?” My voice squeaks.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “You’re breaking up with me, Spencer? Why are you doing this?” I know it’s pathetic. I know I’m pitiful, but the pain of his decision wrenches me open.

  He turns and goes back into his office.

  I stomp down the hallway after him. “Why are you doing this, Spencer?” I d
emand. “What? Because I had a jealous moment at the club? Because I asked you if you’d slept with that waitress? That’s enough to turn you off from me?”

  He sulks in a leather executive chair behind an expansive walnut desk. He looks so small like the space is swallowing him up. I see pain written into the lines forming on his face.

  The smooth, polished floor feels rough and abrasive beneath my bare feet. My knees are weak as I push my way closer to him. “Spencer? You don’t mean it.” My palms are flat on his desk, I’m peering into his face but he won’t look at me. “Spencer?”

  I feel rage bubble inside of me. I slam both my fists into the table. So hard the cork of his crystal decanter rolls off the table and crashes to the ground, shattering into a million splinters. He eyes me with fury as he eases to his feet, his glass of liquor gripped tightly in his hand. He takes long strides to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Hudson River. He stands there glaring out into the darkness, his jeans hanging loosely on his hips.