by Alexis James
With a sigh, I roll to my side and punch the pillow into submission. Dwelling on that weird exchange with Roman is a waste of my time. He is nothing more than someone I work with and occasionally speak to. He is nothing more than a beautiful stranger who I can admire from afar and sometimes fantasize about. The smartest thing I can do is keep my distance.
I swirl the booze around in my glass and toss it back, welcoming the slow burn. My eyes drift to the left, where the ocean glistens happily in the distance. Sparkling azure water reminds me why I love living in this city. Granted, Marco’s pad has a killer view, and the place itself is nothing short of cool and classy, but if this condo was in any other city I doubt it would have the same vibe.
Sighing with exhaustion, I contemplate another drink and immediately disregard the thought. One more drink will lead to another. And another will lead to me doing something foolish, like whining about all the tension between me and Cruz since our blowup earlier in the week. Or worse, a few more drinks will loosen my mouth just enough to unload all this fucking weight I’ve carried around since receiving Sabrina’s very businesslike and very cold email, basically putting me in my place and none too gently suggesting that I deal with her assistant from now on.
Fuck, how could I have blown things with her before ever actually having a real conversation? I’m beginning to believe I’m destined to live my life as Romeo, romancing my way through the ladies in Miami and never once finding that special someone to spend the rest of my life with. While I believe it’s a hell of a lot easier to love ’em and leave ’em, there’s something to be said for this weird ache that settles in my chest whenever I lay eyes on her.
“Hey, man. You okay?”
My eyes dart to the side just as Marco steps up next to me, leaning on the railing and rolling his beer between his hands. I know he means well and now that he’s all in touch with his feelings, he’s got this weird belief that we all need to, but I’m not about to tell him anything, especially not since I’m still smarting from the verbal smack Cruz gave me.
“I’m fine.”
“No date tonight, huh? We sorta expected you to bring someone.” I don’t bother answering him. What’s the point? It will only lead to more questions. Questions I don’t want to answer. Questions I couldn’t answer even if I wanted to.
I sigh again and rub my temple with my thumb. I suppose I should suck it up, take this like a man, and go apologize to her for my brief moment of stupidity. I doubt it would earn me any brownie points, but maybe if I do, it will help to alleviate some of this burn that’s been sitting in my gut for these past few days.
“Talk to me, man. Something is up with you. Let me help.”
“You can’t help,” I murmur, settling into one of the two lounge chairs and propping my feet up on the railing.
Marco turns to face me. “Does this have something to do with Cruz?”
I shrug. “Nah. We’re good.” Honestly, I have no idea where I stand with my big brother, but I’m not about to give Marco any rope to hang me.
Piercing blue-green eyes center on mine. “You asked Sabrina out.”
Christ, can no one in this family keep their mouth shut? “Yeah.”
Marco mutters a curse and flops into the chair next to mine. “Come on, quit playing dumb with me.” He narrows his eyes and drops his voice to a whisper. “Is she the reason you … you …”
Confused, I snap, “I what?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Sometimes you look … I don’t know … sad I guess.”
“You’re shitting me, right?” All this touchy-feely crap is making my skin crawl and suddenly I’m regretting not pouring that second drink.
“I don’t know, Brother. I see it sometimes, when you think no one is looking, and I’m wondering if maybe she isn’t the reason why.”
Had I known he was so wise, I’d have done a better job of keeping my shit together. As it is, he sees enough to start asking questions—questions he’s bound to discuss with Cruz eventually. And since Cruz will inevitably put two and two together and reach the total of oh-hell-no, I resolve to do a better job of convincing everyone that I’m living the high life.
“Is Marco giving you the third degree about Sabrina?” Amita says with a smirk, leaning against the railing and piercing me with her large, dark eyes.
“Fuck, let it alone, will ya?”
The look on their faces alone is my cue to leave. They’re shocked, stunned into silence, and Marco looks just a wee bit pissed off too. You see, I’m the nice brother. The kind brother. The even-tempered brother. I don’t use bad language around women (usually) and if I do, it’s usually within the context of the bedroom, if you get my drift. I am not the brother who snaps at his siblings or who cuts them down with one look. That’s Cruz’s job. I am not the brother who curses a blue streak and who is so self-centered my own ego gets in the way sometimes. That’s Marco’s job. And I am most certainly, most definitely, not the man—brother or otherwise—who takes his own shit out on the sweet, caring, loving women in his life.
Marco comes out of his chair, fists clenched and jaw tense. “You did not just say that to my woman.”
Amita rolls her eyes and takes it in stride. “Relax, Tarzan. I can handle myself.” She gives his chest a shove, sending him back a step or two. “Why don’t you go check on dinner?” He continues glaring at me for a long, silent moment then stomps off inside the house with a muttered curse. The moment he’s gone, she squats directly in front of me and takes my hands in hers. “I’m not going to pry, I promise, but we are worried about you. You’re not speaking to Cruz, you’re avoiding Mia’s calls, and you’re not the fun-loving guy we all know.” She squeezes my fingers and whispers, “Are you okay?”
I shrug, hating that this tiny sprite of a woman can knock down my defenses with a few well-placed kind words. “Cruz said he’d fire me if I took Sabrina out.”
She nods. “Yeah, I know. Mia told me.”
I have to chuckle. There’s nothing Mia knows that she doesn’t tell her best friend. I suppose I should have figured this was coming. “So did Mia also tell you that there’s no way in Hell Sabrina is ever going to go out with me?” She frowns and shakes her head. “Yep. Sent me a ‘Dear John’ email and everything.”
“Ah, that sucks.” Her head tips to the side, sending wavy dark hair spilling over one shoulder. “So what did her email say?”
“Nothing really. It was all work. But she told me to deal with her assistant from now on.”
“Did she say why?”
“She didn’t need to.”
I knew the moment I asked her out that I’d live to regret it and regretting it I am. Life was better when I was just admiring her from afar. Now I can’t even be around her at all, even as innocent as it might be, without Sabrina thinking I’m some perv on the prowl for my next victim.
Why exactly is she so irritated at my invitation? There’s more to this than it being “inappropriate” and for the record, I’m beginning to hate that fucking word. Something about my request touched a sore spot within her, and I wish I knew why. I have to believe it’s more than not wanting to date me, especially if the look she gave me in her office is anything to go by; she may have been trying to hide it, but she was admiring the view, whether she wanted to or not.
Amita gives my hands another squeeze and stands upright. “Come on. Dinner is ready. And I’m sure you could use another drink.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that.”
The remaining few hours spent in their company is tolerable and once Marco shrugs off his pissiness, the three of us have a pretty decent time. Amita keeps us laughing. Her easy-going attitude is a relief from all the anguish that’s consumed me all week. I’ve got to hand it to my big brother; he found himself a winner. She’s spunky and tough and handles him better than I think even he realizes. I suppose that’s what real love is, the gentle give and take that you fall into without even being cognizant of it.
I leave halfway through
the movie they’ve tossed in, done with all the forced companionship. Never one to wallow in my crap, I’m doing a bang-up job of it now. What I want is to go straight home, pour myself another drink, and enjoy the quiet.
Simply because that’s what I want, my phone starts blowing up the moment I walk in the door. I send three calls to voicemail, all ladies I’ve hooked up with before who are apparently dateless tonight. The fourth call, Mia’s second of the day, I send there as well.
Drink in hand, I flop down on the couch and perch my feet on the coffee table. I can’t resist the urge to pull up her email, though I do have to ask why I insist on torturing myself. It could be simply nothing more than this very small connection to her, which is weird even for me, or maybe I’m hoping by reading it this time I’ll read something between the lines that wasn’t there before. As my eyes glance over the document, a sick feeling rolls through my stomach, just like it did when I first read it.
Mr. Moran,
We have interviews scheduled for Tuesday morning. If you wish to be there or cannot attend, please contact my assistant, Cynthia. She will also be handling any future hirings that you may need. I would appreciate any correspondence you have from this point on to be directly with her.
Thank you,
Ms. Sabrina Morris
Fuck. It doesn’t get any more clear as day than that. She might as well have told me to go screw myself. My thumb lingers over the delete button, and I wish I could explain why I hesitate. Holding on to this does me no good. The woman wants me gone, out of her life before I’m really even in it, and at this point I firmly believe an apology would be a waste of time. She wants nothing to do with me, and she made that painfully obvious. So why the hell can’t I just let go and move on?
The tequila burns on the way down and sizzles painfully when it hits my stomach. Typically, I’m not one to drown my sorrows, though I will admit that my sorrows up until now have been few. Very, very few. It’s hard to be sad when you’re screwing your way through Miami, romancing different women on a daily basis. It’s really hard to justify feeling sorry for yourself when you’re rolling down the street in a brand-new Ford truck and have money to burn in your pocket.
This slump is annoying the shit out of me. What I should do, what I need to do, is return one of the three calls I received and climb right back on that horse and drown my sorrows in some pretty lady’s warm body. What I shouldn’t be doing is sitting alone in my apartment, sucking down tequila and acting like this is the end of the world. It isn’t. And you know what, it’s her loss. I’m a decent guy and I would have treated her well. I also would have rocked her world, but we’ll keep that on the DL.
Sliding my thumb across the screen, I listen as the call connects. A moment later, a breathy voice answers, “Well, hey there. You free tonight?”
Fuck yes I am.
For some reason I can’t seem to brush off the guilt I feel about the email I sent to Roman … uh … Mr. Moran. Even now, two weeks after the fact, every time I think about how I handled that entire situation, a wave of regret washes over me. I wish I could explain why. I have nothing to feel guilty about. He crossed a line, and I did what I had to, to ensure it never happened again. And so far it hasn’t. I know from what Cynthia has told me that he sat in on interviews with her and ended up hiring two of the most qualified applicants. Sure, she got all starry eyed when she talked about him and sure, it sort of ticked me off—just a little. It’s not like I don’t understand; the man is, after all, quite a looker.
From his silence and lack of email response, I conclude that the message was received and he’s moved on, not that I assumed it would take him long. He is known as Romeo Moran for a reason.
“Mom, did you hear what I said?”
Cringing, I gaze across the dining table at Emmy. “Sorry, baby. What?”
She gives me the typical teenager “my mom is nuts” look. “I asked if it’s okay if I stay at Maya’s next Saturday?”
“Oh … sorry. Sure.”
I get another look, which is followed by her fork falling onto the plate with a clang. “What’s going on with you tonight?”
“What? Oh, nothing.”
Emmy rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Mom, you’re losing it.”
I’m saved by the bell, or rather by a knock on the door; the knowing three taps, followed by one tap, followed by three taps. I’m not particularly in the mood to deal with an interrogation, but I do welcome the adult conversation that will undoubtedly pull me out of my own head.
Pulling the door open, I grin. My best friend and confidant, Jack Austin, is standing on the stoop, hands weighted down with a giant ham, face boasting a cocky smile. I give him a wide-eyed look and murmur, “What’s with the meat?”
Like my daughter, he rolls his eyes and steps inside, leaning down to drop a kiss on my cheek as he moves into the room. “A client gave it to me. I thought Em could make us a fabulous meal. Or two.”
While my beautiful daughter is a whiz with dinnertime basics, she doesn’t know the first thing about what to do with a ham and a giant one at that. “Uh, thanks?”
He kisses Emmy on the forehead and plunks the ham onto the counter. “My pleasure. So what are my two favorite girls up to?” Without asking, he pulls down a plate and scoops a heaping pile of spaghetti onto the middle of it. Not that Jack ever needs to ask. Mi casa es su casa and all that. The same goes whenever I’m at his place, though I’ll admit it isn’t often. For some reason I’ll never understand, Jack would rather hang out here on my ratty thrift store furniture than lounge on his pricey leather couch. Go figure.
He plops down in the one lone chair and takes a swig from my wine glass, which earns him a dark look. “Hey, mister, keep your grubby hands off my wine. Get your own.”
Jack leans closer and gives me one of those seductive looks that would effectively rid me of my clothes … if I were his type. Which I’m not. Mostly because I’m a woman. “Baby, there’s nothing grubby about my hands.”
“Gross, Uncle Jack,” Emmy states, wrinkling her nose.
“Sorry, kiddo. But it’s a fact. I’m what you’d call irresistible.” Emmy and I both roll our eyes, and when he’s done chewing another bite, he murmurs, “What’s on tap for tonight? I’m bored.”
I have to laugh because the only time Jack isn’t bored is when he’s either working or trying to charm some sweet guy into his bed. He’s a designer by trade, scarily brilliant and equally shallow. His dark hair, bedroom eyes, and incredibly handsome face do a whole lot to insure he’s never lonely, but he goes through men like I go through panties. And the funny thing is, he gets hit on by as many women as he does men. He gives off a cool persona in public, that subtle arrogance and smooth talk something he’s perfected over the years. When we first met he tried to use that on me, and when I laughed in his face, we were instant friends. He’s the one person I can rely on for anything—a shoulder to cry on, an ear to bend, and more than a few times he’s been on the receiving end of my frustration and anger. He takes it all and then some. He loves me, he loves my kid, and he takes care of us like the pseudo husband he is. The gay pseudo husband, that is.
“I was gonna watch a movie,” I murmur, refilling my glass and pulling a clean one down for him. “Want to join me?”
He lifts one perfect eyebrow. “Got popcorn?”
That ridiculous question earns him another eye roll. “Of course.”
He helps me clean the kitchen, and when Emmy sequesters herself in her room to web chat with her friends, he fires up Netflix while I cook the popcorn. When we’re settled on the couch and Burlesque is playing in the background, he says, “Okay, gorgeous, what’s got you so distracted lately?”
I shrug. “Just work stuff.” I realize at that moment that I’m a lousy liar. Even I don’t buy that blather coming out of my mouth, apparently neither does he.
“Not buying it. Spill.”
I would love nothing more than to bounce all this off him, but I’m embarrassed to admit that
I’ve acted like a fool. Really, what is there to tell? So I had a few … uh … inappropriate thoughts about someone I work with. What’s surprising about that? People do it all the time, so why is this any different?
Large hands come up to cradle my face. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that beautiful blond head of yours? Is it a man?”
I snuggle down against his shoulder and keep my voice low. “Yes. And no.”
“Has he hurt you?”
One of the things I love most about Jack is the way he protects me. Not that there’s been much to protect me from mind you, but he’s always watchful, making certain no one takes advantage. He’s been the guardian of my heart almost from the beginning, and I do sometimes think about what will happen when and if I meet someone. Chances are Jack won’t make it easy on anyone who wants to earn a space in my life.
“No, of course not. We hardly know one another.”
There’s a long, drawn out moment of silence then, “Is it that guy you work with?”
My heart skips a beat or two, and I rack my memory to determine what I may or may not have said in the past. “Uh, why do you ask that?”
He shrugs. “Well, probably because he’s the only man you’ve mentioned in the five years we’ve known one another. And also because you lit up like a frigging Christmas tree when you talked about him.”
My face flames. “I did?”
Jack nods. “I seem to recall a few years ago you mentioned this hot guy from work. Tall, brown hair. I think you called him beautiful.”
I sigh. “Yeah. He is.”
Jack snickers and puts his arm around my shoulder, whispering in my ear so that Emmy won’t overhear, “What happened? Did you two do the nasty on your desk?”