by Amelia Wilde
Blondie leans down toward Beau and, honest to God, plants a kiss on his cheekbone. He doesn’t turn away, but his mouth is pressed into a thin smile, nothing like the dimpled, open expression he was wearing a moment ago. “Hello, darling,” she says.
“Kinsey,” he says, his voice not giving away even an ounce of irritation. He clears his throat, gesturing to me across the table. “This is Annabel Forester. I . . . ran into her the other day at the Pearl,” he says, and a hint of amusement creeps into his tone. “Annabel, this is my friend Kinsey.”
She drops her hand possessively onto his shoulder and smiles at me with enough chill to freeze hell. I feel it in my bones. “So nice to meet you,” she simpers, letting her eyes drag down my outfit. Does she have laser vision? Can she see my worn-in Keds underneath the tablecloth?
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, putting on a big smile. Am I dying inside? Yes. But I’ll be damned if I let Kinsey see it. Kinsey Colt. Whatever her name is.
She’s already looking away, catching Beau within the web of her gaze. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” she says, accusing him with a fuck-me smile. “With a new friend, no less!” Kinsey doesn’t bother to look at me when she says it.
“Life happens quickly, doesn’t it?” Beau’s tone is mild, but Kinsey’s smile tightens.
She narrows her eyes a fraction of an inch. “Oh, it does. It really does,” she murmurs, rubbing his shoulder.
God, this is awkward. I want to take another bite of my steak, but I don’t dare lift my fork from the plate now. I don’t want to draw her attention.
Beau doesn’t react at all, though if she was touching me like that, I’d want to flick her hand away like it was a spider. “Are you here for dinner?” He cranes his neck to look behind us. “Not alone, I hope?”
Every alarm bell in my mind is jangling. Do not invite her to sit with us, Beau. You might be from England and uptight as hell, but now is not the time to do the polite thing. If telepathy is a thing, let it work right now.
Kinsey finally takes her hand away and folds it elegantly over her purse. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she says with a laugh. “I’m meeting Roger.” Nice. Nice move, Kinsey. “You know how he is.” She rolls her eyes, waving a hand in the air. “Always wants to check up on me when he’s in the city.”
“Of course.”
She gives him one more pat—is she ever going to stop?—and looks over at me again. “I’d better take my seat,” she says, her eyes as cold as icy December rain. “It was wonderful to meet you, Annalise.”
“Annabel,” I try to say, but it comes out as more of a grumble.
“Oh, that’s right. Annabel.” She gives Beau a wink. A wink! Right in front of me. “I can’t wait to see your face, Beau.” She throws the words over her shoulder as she brushes by me in a delicate cloud of Joy by Jean Patou. I’ve smelled it once before, in a dressing room of one of the stars at the theater mom worked at. It had been a gift, so she told everyone what the scent was. Eight hundred fifty dollars a bottle. I can still hear that wafer-thin soprano saying it now.
Beau takes the bait. I can tell he doesn’t mean to, but he does. “See my face?”
Kinsey turns back, waggling a finger at him. “It’s a bit of a surprise, or I’d tell you more! If you can’t take the suspense, send me a text.” Then she sashays away toward the back of the restaurant.
Beau’s eyes are still following her when I turn around. “So,” I say with a sigh. “You and Kinsey? Are you a couple?” Tell me now, so I can push away this wild crush that’s taking over every cell in my body. Kinsey’s little display fanned the flames. I won’t even bother to deny it.
Then his eyes are back on me, and, Jesus, they’re smoldering like an inferno. “No,” he says, sounding wistful. “Not really.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Sure looked like it.”
“Who’s Roger?”
“Roger Sykes,” he says absently. “He’s one of Kinsey’s uncles.”
“And you never dated.”
He cocks his head to the side. “She was a friend from high school, in our group,” he says, searching my face. “First there was West. He was my roommate the first year at Overton. He’s still the same.”
I drop the topic of Kinsey. It’s none of my business. This is a date, not a date. I’m not planning to leave here with an engagement ring on my finger. It would probably be even better if I left without any further plans to see Beau. He’s out of my league.
No more lurking around the Pearl to see if he’s there. That’s my personal vow. Beginning right now, I will take this dinner as the very end.
The rest of the meal is perfectly pleasant, but I can feel myself pulling away, shrinking down into myself. God, I hate this feeling. Not a single one of them is any better than me. Toward the end, when the waiter clears away our plates, I fantasize about buying an Amtrak ticket to the nearest nowhere town on the map.
We get in the Town Car when it pulls up in front of the Pearl. I don’t want him coming to my place, not after that encounter with Kinsey. Then Beau says my name.
I turn away from the window. “Yeah?”
There’s something in his eyes—an apology? “I had a nice time with you tonight,” he says, and disappointment curdles in my gut. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure, but I’d like you to have this.” He presses a card into my hand, the paper thick and smooth. In the process our fingertips touch, and a spark jumps between us so sharp I pull away. “No pressure,” he says, and it sounds like a dismissal, so I thank him profusely for the dinner and step out of the car.
I’m feeling awfully dejected—that is, until I poke my head in the open car window to thank him one final time.
That’s when I notice the bulge in his pants.
The rush of victory floods my veins.
I pretend I don’t see it.
“Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.” It was a nice dinner. It was so nice watching him in the candlelight that I might need a last-minute date with my vibrator.
“I’d like that,” he says.
I slam the door shut before I can leap back in and straddle him.
Chapter Ten
Beau
What a train wreck.
That’s what I get for asking a woman on a hasty date. A run-in with Kinsey, who hasn’t left me alone since the first day of the ninth grade. Not that Annabel needs to know about that. She doesn’t. But Kinsey put a damper on the rest of the meal. Oh, Annabel hid it well. She kept asking questions, kept wanting to know more about me, but I swear that by the time we left, she was practically sitting at the next table over.
It should be good enough, a pleasant meal with her. More than enough. It’s not as if I’m ever actually going to kiss her. It’s not as if I’m going to fall in love with her.
Lust, maybe.
Lust, definitely. All right? I said it. It was hellish having to sit across from her in the car without touching her. That’s why I was so desperate that I made myself into a fool as she got out of the car.
Giving her that card was a mistake. It has my personal cell phone number on it, and I never give that out to anyone. Kinsey, for all her posturing at the restaurant, doesn’t even have that number.
It’s enough, the dinner. Enough. I made up for my rudeness last week. I found out more than I ever could have wanted to know about Annabel. I know exactly what kind of person she is—the kind who’s always running. I don’t need that in my life. There’s a reason I’ve been in New York City since I graduated college. Commitment is the only way to get anywhere in this life.
Back at my penthouse, I shut myself in my office and switch on my computer. Edgar Sykes wants a list of potential properties by tomorrow morning. The meeting in DC was about an extremely hush-hush asylum case from the Middle East. There are worldwide political ramifications if anything goes south. New York City housing will be by far the most anonymous, and there’s only one person Edgar trusts in the country to choose a place and have it
outfitted with the necessary security measures. It’ll all happen inside of a month.
The payoff will be more than I’ll make from the Pearl in a year. That’s how much rides on these projects.
I ignore the stiffness of my cock between my legs and pull up the latest batch of emails. I have several people in the city who keep their ears to the ground about properties that will fit the bill. Between four of them, I have fifteen messages.
It takes an hour, but I narrow it down to five, which I add to a list. Edgar will choose three. I’ll make a final determination based on that list. That’s when everything begins.
I force myself to focus. Every detail matters. Entrances. Exits. Elevators. All of it. I make notes with each property, copy the list into an email, and send it off to Edgar.
No one needs to know that the entire time I’m researching, typing, sending, I’m painfully aware of two things: how much I want Annabel and the silence of my phone.
I’m not expecting her to text me tonight, or ever. I get the sense she doesn’t quite believe me about Kinsey.
And it doesn’t matter.
Except that the dinner didn’t work the way I’d planned. I’d planned to be finished with Annabel by the time we stood up from the table. I’d planned to be satiated.
Instead I’m even hungrier than when we first sat down. She’s simply not like anyone I’ve been with before. Wild, somehow, even though she lives in the same city I do. I’d like to bring her here, spread her out on my bed, and tame her wildness for myself. Nothing held back. That’s something I could get from her, though I know the cost would be high.
It might be worth it.
I sit back in my desk chair and run my hands over my face. The gym. I need to go to the gym.
When my phone buzzes against the hardwood of the desk, I jump a foot in the air, fumbling for it even before my heart rate has slowed to a normal speed. I snatch it from the desk with such force that it falls out of my hand and clatters to the floor.
“Bloody hell,” I mumble under my breath, bending to pick it up.
It’s not her.
How do you like them apples?
It’s West, sending me something stupid from his tropical island vacation. It’s a meaningless message. Okay, not entirely meaningless. This is West’s primary means of checking in. Disappointment surges in my gut followed by a flash of anger.
I send him back a single emoji. The one with the middle finger raised.
I’ve just hit send when the phone buzzes again in my hand.
This time it’s an unknown number. Hope flares like a flame from a match.
You sure that Kinsey woman isn’t your girlfriend?
I laugh out loud, my voice ringing off the walls of my office. This is the real Annabel, right here on my screen.
A second text comes in.
We shouldn’t be friends. If she’s your girlfriend.
My hope is tempered but not by much.
She’s not my girlfriend. I send it back as quickly as my fingers will type the words.
To be clear, I’m not asking to be your girlfriend.
What, you didn’t like the restaurant?
In the privacy of this conversation, without the pressure of holding myself back from her gorgeous lips, her gorgeous body, I can let my guard down. Not all the way. Fools rush in and all that. Flirtation, though? I’m not going to have a reason to be at the Pearl anytime soon, so it won’t do any harm.
I’m already fantasizing about that steak . . .
I’m already fantasizing about her.
Next time, try the pork, I send back.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mystery Man.
It’s the last I hear from Annabel for the rest of the night.
It doesn’t matter. I still can’t wipe the smile from my face.
Chapter Eleven
Annabel
The world is caving in.
I leap from my bed with a shriek. On the way my feet get tangled in the comforter, and I tumble into the center of my tiny bedroom. My head misses the sharp corner of the nightstand. “No!” I cry, wrenching myself free of the comforter.
Another crashing sound comes then, and something shatters in the living room. Am I still dreaming? No, because the dream I was having heavily involved Beau Bennett and some amazing things he could do with his hands. “What is happening?” I shout. Wait, what time is it? I was dreaming, and I don’t remember hearing my alarm. Sunlight is streaming in through my window. Streaming. Not like the early morning, either. Oh no.
I’m late for work and the apocalypse is happening in my apartment. Or I’m being robbed. Which is it?
I grab my phone from the death trap of a bedside table and clutch it in my fist, trying to clear my head. That dream was a good dream, and my body is still struggling to get back to it, even during this legitimate emergency.
I press the home button on my iPhone. The screen takes a second to light up, since the thing is two generations old, but when it does, nine forty-five hovers on the screen in those lovely white letters. I suck in a breath through my front teeth. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.
That settles that. If I’m being robbed, I’m not going to cower in here while the rest of my life gets destroyed in the living room. “Whoa,” a man’s voice echoes down the hall.
I wrench open the door and burst into the hallway, still in my shorts and tank from last night.
“Shit, dude,” a man says from the middle of my living room, and then he backs up in sight of the hallway. His blue uniform is covered in white powder.
White powder?
He stares up at the ceiling of the living room and puts a hand to his baseball cap.
“Hey!” I shout. The guy wheels around, the color draining from his face. No—it’s more powder.
“Dale, we’ve got a resident.” He says it in the same way they’d say we’ve got a murder on one of those crime shows.
Dale pops his head into the hallway, utterly baffled. “Miss, are you all right?”
“Is my apartment all right?” I’m trying to keep my voice steady, but this isn’t exactly a comforting sight.
“Not . . . exactly,” Dale says.
I take a couple of steps toward the two of them, and both hold up their hands and launch into a chorus that sounds like waitwaitnodon’tcomeanycloserstaybackwait.
“Not a chance,” I tell them with a glare, striding toward the living room, head held high. “What am I going to do, stay in my bedroom all day? I have work, and—” I cross the threshold into the living room and stop dead. “Oh.”
The three of us face the giant hole in the ceiling together. There’s a midcentury green armchair in the center of the living room. It flattened our IKEA table. The chair, and all the plaster underneath it.
“Yeah,” Dale says. “So, that happened.”
*****
My hands are still trembling an hour later on the train to work. I stared up at my apartment for a while, then got myself together. “You two. You call whoever you need to call. I’m going to call my roommate.”
Cynthia was not happy to receive that phone call, but I rushed her off the line. Back in my bedroom, I pulled a clean outfit from my closet—dark-blue skinny jeans with enough stretch to let me bend over a sewing machine all day, and a black tee. I have about nine of these T-shirts. It makes doing the laundry easy. I hesitated over the single high-quality tank top I own. Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. So you texted Beau last night. That doesn’t mean he’s going to be waiting for you at the front door of the Pearl.
I wanted to say more last night, but I didn’t. I don’t know why I held back. Was it because of Kinsey, or did I lose my nerve. There’s jumping in with both feet, and then there’s jumping in over your head.
His text comes in while I’m between messages from Cynthia, who has moved on to the denial phase of this disaster.
Is it getting ahead of myself if I ask you to grab coffee at lunch?
I lean my head against the ba
ck of the seat. Lunch? Ha. I’m about to show up for work several hours late. Marilee only believed my excuse because I snapped a few pictures with my phone and sent them to her before I called.
No time . . . I’m late for work. Ceiling emergency.
Ceiling emergency?
It’s a long story.
My phone rings in my hand, Beau’s name on the screen. My stomach does a flip-flop that seems pleasant somehow.
I answer.
“What kind of emergency can a ceiling possibly have?”
I laugh, and it sounds a little crazy. “It caved in.”
“What ceiling?”
“The ceiling in my apartment.”
There’s a muffled shuffling, like he’s readjusting his phone. “What? Annabel, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Part of the living room fell in. The living room above us,” I say, twisting the strap of my purse around my hand and letting it go again. “So, I’m a bit late for work, and also I don’t have an apartment. At least there are plenty of prop couches I can crash on, right?”
“Where are you? I’m coming to you right now.”
“Whoa, wait. I’m on the train,” I say, a pleased warmth bubbling in my chest. “I’ll be at the Pearl in fifteen minutes.” I blow a breath out through my lips. “Marilee isn’t going to be happy. I might need to leave early if I’m going to find a place to—”
“You won’t leave early,” Beau says, and his voice is taut with worry. I did not expect this reaction from him. “You’ll have a room at the Pearl. A suite,” he adds. “As long as you need. I’ll meet you there.”
“That’s too much—” I start to say, but the line is already dead.
Beau Bennett, twice the hero. Who knew?
Chapter Twelve
Beau
I must look crazed, pacing back and forth in front of the hotel like this, but my stomach is churning with worry. There’s nothing in particular to worry about. I keep telling myself that. Annabel wouldn’t have answered if she’d been crushed by the ceiling of her own apartment. What worries me is that she might downplay what happened. If she shows up with so much as a bruise—