“Wait, you didn’t have your first kiss till you were in 11th grade?” He’s incredulous.
I scowl. “Yes – I had my first kiss in 11th grade, okay? I had hideous acne and braces and I was painfully shy.”
He laughs heartily.
“Hey, not all of us were drop-dead gorgeous all our lives, okay? Jeez – that’s a sensitive topic for me.” I pout.
“Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sure you were beautiful…Tell me about Kenny Raymond.”
“Kenny Richards,” I correct him. “He was tall and geeky but I was all over him when he asked me out.” I laugh in embarrassment. “Gosh, I was pathetic.”
“And who was next?” he chuckles.
“Um, there was Robert McDougall for almost two years in college. But he cheated on me, like, daily. It was awful.” Spencer makes sympathetic sounds as I wince at the memory.
“And then there was Garvin Khan. He was a lawyer. He was five years older than me and I was super impressed. But he was such an ass. I think he inspired me to go to law school…just for the mere possibility that one day we might cross paths and I could say, ‘Well, Gavin, I’m a lawyer, too. You’re not so damn special after all.’”
Spencer chuckles and holds me close. “Well, now we’re together. And I’m not going anywhere. And I’m gonna treat you right…As long as you ‘put out’…A lot.”
I poke him in the ribs. “You don’t have to worry about me. Just make sure you put out.”
“Sounds like a deal. Draw up the paperwork,” he jokes.
I hear my phone ringing in my purse on the dresser and jolt upright. “Oh, shit! My family’s in town for the next few days. I have to meet with them for lunch today. What time is it?” I gasp looking around for a clock.
“11:27,” Spencer says, looking over at the digital clock on his side of the bed.
“Shit, I have to meet them in Brooklyn in an hour.” I’m freaking out.
He clutches my upper arms firmly, holding me in place. “Amber, relax. It’s just lunch…with your family. They’ll understand if you’re a little late.”
I take deep breaths remembering that they’re always late anyway. “You’re right.”
He kisses my temple before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ll call my driver to get you home as quickly as possible.” He’s punching a number into his cellphone as he disappears into the bathroom.
I thank him silently as I slip back into my fuchsia halter dress and “fuck-me” pumps. Ugh. Walk of shame, here I come.
Spencer comes out of the bathroom and eyes my outfit skeptically. “Maybe you should bring a few pieces of clothes with you next time you come over here.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right!” I say wincing at my reflection in the mirror.
Spencer goes into his walk-in closet and returns with one of his crisp white button-down shirts. He drapes it around my shoulders. I smile as I inhale the scent of his skin clinging to the fabric. I quickly gather my things and head for the door. Spencer rides the elevator with me down to the lobby.
We walk past the security desk hand in hand. I exchange a wink with my security guard friend from last night. Spencer cocks an eyebrow as he witnesses the silent exchange. “I’ll explain later,” I promise with a grin.
Spencer walks me out of the building. Standing out on the sidewalk, he laces his fingers into my hair and pulls my face into his. Our lips mingle in a passionate kiss that weakens my knees.
Oh, what I would give to sink back into his bed right this minute.
When we separate, I wave him goodbye and step into the Sunday morning New York sun hurrying towards Spencer’s waiting driver. I guess my knees are still weak from his kiss because as I rush to the car, my heel catches in a crack in the pavement and I stumble forward into the arms of a pedestrian walking in my direction.
The first thing I see is his black, wing-tipped shoes, polished to a mirror shine, and the perfectly-pressed hems of his navy blue custom-tailored slacks.
From somewhere behind me, my name falls from Spencer’s lips in a panicked rush as I raise my gaze and find myself eye to eye with Matt.
Matt Moretti.
My boss’s son.
Live for the Night
(The Esquire Girls Series)
Amber (book 3)
Cassie-Ann L. Miller
Live for the Night (The Esquire Series) – Amber (Book 3)
Copyright © 2014 Cassie-Ann L. Miller
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents appearing therein are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be interpreted as real. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status of the various products referenced in this work.
Table of contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 1
Spencer slides his six foot two inch frame in front of me, shielding me against Matt’s condemning glare.
But he’s already seen me.
Bare-faced, hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail wearing a barely-there glittery hot pink dress under our client’s button-down shirt, in front of our client’s penthouse apartment, walking towards our client’s car on a Sunday morning.
My face should be plastered next to the definition of “walk-of-shame” in the dictionary.
I grip the back of Spencer’s t-shirt and lean my forehead into his back to try and process the fact that one of my very worst nightmares is unfolding right before my eyes. It’s like an accident happening in slow motion and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Matt is my boss’s son – I’ll be unemployed after this. That’s for sure. Even worse, I’ll be unemployable after this.
Bye-bye reputation.
“Amber, what are you doing here?” Matt seethes.
I can’t see him. Spencer is an obstacle in the way. A very welcome obstacle, at that. At least I don’t have to look Matt in the face as he chastises me, dangling my job in front of my face.
Spencer’s voice vibrates through me. “No – the question, Matt, is what are you doing here – at my apartment, uninvited, on a Sunday morning?”
Matt doesn’t answer.
A part of me wishes I could see the looks on their faces – so I could better understand the magnitude of the shit-storm I’m caught in the middle of. The other part of me is relieved to find refuge behind Spencer’s muscular back.
“Matt – what the fuck are you doing at my house?” Spencer repeats in a tone that makes me imagine flares shooting out of his ears.
I hear papers shuffling. I feel the muscles in Spencer’s back contract as he reaches to take the documents from Matt’s hands. “The Chelsea deal – we need your signature on the paperwork.” Matt’s voice is filled with venom. “Amber was supposed to take care of this when you got back from Montreal, but I guess she was too busy rendering a different kind of service to you.”
The innuendo in Matt’s words makes me squirm. I feel Spencer’s shoulders square. “Amber, get in the car.” I wish that I could hide behind his back forever, but Spencer’s voice is so commanding that I oblige with no complaint.
Without lifting my eyes to meet Matt’s glare, I shuffle from behind Spencer’s back and scurry over
to the waiting town car. I sink into the backseat and the driver hits the gas.
And that’s how I lost my dignity on a New York City pavement on an early Sunday morning in late June.
Chapter 2
“I don’t know why we can’t just stay at your apartment,” my mother huffs. Resentment is laced into her every move. “We’re your family, y’know.”
All I can do is sigh.
“Rita, she’s already told you, 20 times – her apartment is too small for five guests,” my father says in my defense.
My mother ignores him, still directing her reproaches at me. “When you were growing up, we were five in a two bedroom apartment and I didn’t send you off to stay at some roach-infested motel in the ghetto. I saw a pimp there, y’know? You sent your mother to stay in a brothel in the ghetto.”
My eyes are downcast as I continue to push my scrambled eggs around on my plate. I’ve only taken a few bites of my buttered toast for my mother’s satisfaction so that she wouldn’t bother me about not eating. But I’m not hungry. All I can taste is bile since my awkward run-in with Matt outside of Spencer’s apartment this morning.
“Rita – that’s enough,” says my little sister, Emery, rolling her big blue eyes. “First of all, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but you sound like an ignorant racist. Secondly, that wasn’t a fucking cockroach that you saw. It was a spider. A dead spider. Get over it.” She shoves a piece of pineapple into her mouth.
“Watch that tone with me, Emery Annabelle Roberts!” My mother only calls any of us by our full names when she’s seething, which is quite often, actually.
My father scratches at his greying red beard. “This is a disaster. As always.” He waves the waitress over with his large calloused hand.
My mother looks at her husband with contempt rimming her pale blue eyes. “John, you just sit there and let your children talk to me any way they please. What kind of man are you?”
My father shoos her away with his hand as the waitress approaches our table, a tense smile on her face. “Hi sweetie, I’m gonna need a beer.”
“Sorry, sir. We don’t serve any alcohol here,” she says, her eyes darting across the table.
“Just my fucking luck,” my father says under his breath.
The waitress turns to my older sister, Eden. “Ma’am, I’d really prefer it if you didn’t do that at the table.” My eyes shoot to Eden, who I hadn’t even noticed has been breast-feeding my six-month-old nephew, Dylan, during our meal.
“And I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me ‘Ma’am’. What do you want me to do? Starve my baby?” Eden retorts sharply.
“It’s just that you’re making some of our patrons uncomfortable,” the waitress explains gesturing around to the people dinning in the jam-packed breakfast joint.
“Well, their discomfort is none of my concern. Maybe they need to watch a few hours of National Geographic. Then, they’ll understand what ‘discomfort’ is.” Although I feel that my sister has every right to breast-feed her son, I really don’t appreciate that my family is making a scene and only adding to the anxiety I’ve been feeling ever since seeing Matt earlier.
“Okay, you know what, let’s just get out of here,” I say to no one in particular before turning to the waitress and giving her the tautest smile I can muster. “Can we have the bill, please?”
The waitress nods, relief washing over her face.
“What a bitch!” my mother says, a little too loud as the waitress hurries off to prepare the bill.
“I know, right?” Eden says in agreement.
“Who the fuck picked this restaurant anyway?” my mother asks rhetorically, boring into me with her venomous eyes.
My father scrubs his beard with both of his palms before he mutters, “Christ, I really need a fucking beer!”
Emery and I exchange exasperated glances before she buries her face in her hands, a cascade of dirty blond waves crashing into her face.
Chapter 3
At around 8:30 p.m., I was finally able to get rid of my family.
And, damn, was I glad to get rid of them!
The day had been emotionally exhausting.
After our disastrous brunch at the diner, we made an equally disastrous attempt at family bonding at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. I had initially planned to take them to the museum as well but after their repeated reminders that they lack the manners to be anywhere together indoors, I decided to show them the flea market instead. And of course, my mother complained that I was taking her to dumpster to rummage through strangers’ second-hand crap but she still ended up finding a few charming antiques for the house.
Then, she insisted on seeing my apartment – I think she just wanted to confirm for herself that it is, in fact, too small to accommodate my entire family. Once we were done with the tour of the 12 x 24 square-foot shelf that my roommate, Oksana, and I call home, my mother suggested that I upgrade the family’s accommodations. I ended up checking them in to a four-star hotel that will make a nice dent on my credit card…but at least momma’s happy-ish.
I nearly drop to the ground thrashing and screaming when I hear a knock on my front door about 15 minutes after my family’s departure – I can’t deal with them for one more second. I swear to god.
I swing the door open with a scowl on my face.
I’m greeted by a lovely, lovely sight.
It’s Spencer, leaning on my doorframe, looking sexy and disheveled. He’s wearing a dark green sweatshirt over a white t-shirt; the hood is pulled over his head, hiding that thick brown-gold hair that I love so much. His gray jogging pants hang loosely off of his hips and his gray sneakers peek out from under the hem.
“Hey,” he says, his aquamarine eyes gleaming down on me.
“Hey.” I think this is the first time I’ve smiled since I left his bed this morning.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah. Of course.” I move out of the way and watch him bend to scoop up two brown paper bags overflowing with groceries before crossing over the threshold into my apartment.
“What’s all this?” I ask following him into the kitchen.
“I figured you could use a home-cooked meal. This must have been a pretty intense day for you.”
I think back to the day’s events – from Matt’s impromptu visit at Spencer’s apartment to the non-stop family drama. “It has been intense. I’m wiped out,” I say slipping into a wooden kitchen chair and propping my face up in my palm as I watch him wash his hands in the sink.
He pulls a disposable aluminum baking pan out of one of the grocery bags before placing salmon fillets in it and sprinkling olive oil and spices over the top.
“I’m gonna get fired, y’know,” I say matter-of-factly. There’s no point in being angry about it. What’s done is done. I’ve had an awesome few weeks at Cartwright Moretti Stevenson. At least, I can add that to my sparse résumé.
Spencer turns to look at me. He grabs a fistful of paper towels and dabs his hands dry. He comes over and crouches down in front of me. “I’ll take care of Matt. Don’t worry about it.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. Spencer’s words are way too vague to offer me any solace.
“Just know that I’ll take care of it.” That’s all he’s offering and I’m too deflated to beg for more.
He puts a wet, luscious kiss on my lips before turning back to the stove.
I sigh audibly.
“Why are you so worked up about this anyway?” he tosses nonchalantly over his shoulder as he reaches for a pot on the shelf above my sink. “I don’t think it’s illegal in New York for a lawyer to have a relationship with a client unless it’s in a divorce or family law setting. At least that’s what an old buddy from college was telling me. And besides, you’re a summer intern – you’re not even a lawyer yet so the State Bar’s code of ethics doesn’t apply to you. Moretti doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”
“That’s not the point, Spencer.” My voice is cracked and high-pitched. He r
eally doesn’t get it. “Technically, what Monica Lewinsky did wasn’t illegal, either. But it still destroyed her. A woman’s reputation is very fragile, especially when it comes to her sexual history. I didn’t claw and fight my way out of my home town to come to New York and become...” I hear my voice trail off.
“I hear what you’re saying, beautiful. But, don’t worry. I’ll take care of Matt. Don’t worry.” His eyes attempt to reassure me but I still feel uncertain.
“I need a hug,” I whisper hoarsely.
Amber Nights - The Esquire Girls Series - Amber's Story (Books 1, 2, 3 & 4) - Box Set Page 12