"Anyone I know?"
"Some new alternative band out of Cali."
"Oh yeah, I heard a little about them from Marisol and none of it was good."
"Exactly. They're already giving me a headache and the ink is barely dry on their paperwork. I'm thinking about passing them over to Abby."
"Would you like me to handle them?"
I volunteer to take on Jason's group, not because I really want another client on my roster, but because I'm a little concerned that the first person he thought to throw extra work to was Abby and not me.
"I have no interest in you giving me the evil eye in the office everyday," Jason smiles. "And I know that would happen if I gave you this headache."
"But you'd give them to Abby?"
Jason tilts his head thoughtfully. "Only because I know one of her clients are about to jump ship to go with the Frazier Group. That's the only reason, Sabrina. I know you would do a good job with them if they were yours."
"Oh, okay." I say a little embarrassed that I even questioned him about it. Like I'm fishing for approval.
"You know you can email me anytime with whatever questions you may have about your accounts. You don't have to wait for these random dinner meetings of ours. I know it seems like I'm hectic right now, but my door is always open to you."
"I know, Jason, or what I mean to say is thank you. I will definitely reach out to you if I need to." I fumble awkwardly over my words as Jason looks at me as if I'm some sort of adorable little puppy or cute little sister.
Not an ounce of heat in his eyes.
In two seconds, I think he was about to pat my head.
"It's a shame your food wasn't good and mine is cold. This place was so highly Zagat rated." He frowns. "We'll have to pick a different location next time."
Jason's polite words don't impact me like they normally would. Not when he's just given me the big brother/little sister look just now, not to mention that I've been set a tad bit off kilter by the hot mystery man who I'm pretty sure just touched me on purpose.
"Okay," I reply, knowing very well that I don't need a repeat performance of tonight. Not only did we not get any work done, but we aren't even remotely close to a love connection. What the hell is the point of another dinner like this one?
At some point, I'm going to have to throw up the white flag, but unfortunately I'm a creature of habit. Day after day I eat the same things, listen to the same music, talk to the same friends, watch the same television shows, and yearn for the same man. That's just the way I'm built.
Especially when I have friends like Marisol. She's my superior at work and it was she who came up with the bright idea of having Jason mentor me as a way to ramp things up a notch. Since executing her plan he and I have been on three "working" dinners. Unfortunately none of them have produced many results, romantically or professionally for that matter.
"I'm going to go talk to the manager about your dinner, pay the check, and then go get the car. You wait here okay? No need for us both to walk that far."
"Sounds good," I nod with a smile.
It's not easy finding parking in the middle of Manhattan on theatre night, or any night in the city for that matter, but Jason refuses to pay parking lot prices after seven. He's thrifty like that. So we drove around for fifteen minutes to find a parking space on a street that is at least six city blocks away from the restaurant. That's why it's going to take him a good while getting the car.
It's such a gorgeous night though, it would have been kind of romantic if we had walked together to get it, but that's me trying to wish this into a date when it's anything but. For the few minutes that Jason and I did speak with each other, prior to him receiving his phone call, all the two of us managed to discuss tonight was work. Nothing personal. And I'm not sure, regardless of how much I wish it were different, we ever will talk about anything more than what we do for a living. It just may be all that we have in common.
While I wait for Jason to return from his long trek, from the shadows of the private rooms in the back of the restaurant, I see the tallest man on the planet moving towards my location with great purpose.
His shades are now off.
And his mesmerizing titanium colored eyes are locked on mine.
Eyes that look somewhat familiar, but I just can't quite place where I've seen them before.
"He left?" Are the only two words he gruffly asks. His tone suggesting that we've known each other all of our lives, or that he has the right to ask me anything he wants.
"Umm, no."
"So then where's your date?"
Coworker not date, but there's no need to expound on that touchy subject with a total stranger.
"He's getting the car."
Wait–why I am answering this guy's questions?
"Short dinner," he observes with that same pompous grin across his face I saw when he first entered the restaurant.
"I didn't like my meal."
"He's all wrong for you, you know."
"What are you talking about?" I ask incredulously.
This guy has some nerve. Jason was barely out of the door before he came barreling over here crashing my dinner. No manners. No class. The only thing he has going for him are his looks. Too bad he totally knows it.
"I said he's completely wrong for you. Too short. Too inattentive. Too full of himself. And he took his eyes off of you. Big mistake."
"Too full of himself, huh? Unlike you?"
"Yeah, but I've got the goods to back it up," he says with a completely straight face.
"Ha. Ha." I roll my eyes.
"Do I amuse you, Miss ..."
"White."
"First name?"
This guy is a pure player.
"There's no need for first names is there? I mean I am on a date with another man."
"A very bad date. One that you clearly need rescuing from. Probably why you took it upon yourself to bail yourself out of it. There's nothing wrong with your dinner. You just want to go home."
"Are you calling me a liar, Mr.–"
"Stevenson," he replies with an amused look. "And yes, I'm calling you a liar. If short dude believes that you didn't like your food versus his less than entertaining company, then let's add one more thing to my list of reasons of why he's not the man for you. Too stupid."
I can see through the restaurant's front windowpane when Jason finally pulls up in his sleek, silver, S-class Mercedes Benz. A classically beautiful car for a very sophisticated man. A man that I shouldn't keep waiting. A guy who's always been a gentleman. A man whom perhaps if I bide my time, will end up seeing me for more than just a sweet girl at work who needs mentoring.
"Well it was nice chatting with you, Mr. Stevenson, but my boyfriend just pulled up," I say proudly.
"He's not going to even come back inside and escort you to the car? A car he apparently is using to overcompensate for something," he chuckles.
Boy he's gorgeous when he laughs.
Walk away, Sabrina.
"Believe it or not, this isn't the turn of the century. I'm a grown woman, and I don't need a guardian to escort me five feet to a car."
"You've got me there, Miss White. You are very much a grown woman in all the places that matter." His eyes rake over my body with slow deliberation.
"Let me give you a piece of advice, sir, and believe me when I say that I'm using that term rather loosely. You walked in here tonight with your oversized bodyguards and your darkly tinted sunglasses at eight o'clock at night as if you're someone important, but trust me when I say, that I know what important men look like, and you aren't it. You're trying way too hard. Not to mention that it whiffs of desperation that you're approaching a woman who is currently involved with another man. So have a nice life, all right?"
After my fantastically delivered admonishment, I stand up forgetting that I had placed my clutch handbag on my lap, and it drops to the floor with a thud. The entire contents inside splattering across the floor and underneath the table. To
tally embarrassing.
"Would it be too turn of the century of me to help you pick up the mess you've made before my desperate ass goes on to have a nice life?" the stranger asks in a manner that's dripping with sarcasm.
I don't particularly want to, but I nod reluctantly in acceptance of his offer, because my very tapered pencil skirt fits way too snugly for me to comfortably bend and maneuver myself underneath the table in any sort of graceful way.
"Thanks," I try saying with as much sincerity as I can muster.
As he squats down to retrieve my things (super tampon included), I can't help but take a closer look at him in a most obvious way that almost makes me redden in embarrassment.
This close up there's no denying that he's a giant wall of muscle and masculinity. Larger than any other man I've ever known. But it's his swagger, his personality, his energy–which fills the restaurant in a much larger way than even the circumference of his body. It's no wonder why all eyes are on him.
I wasn't ever the type to attract the big, beautiful, confident types like him. I tend to attract the intellectual ones who are vertically impaired and riddled with insecurities. Neither type being a reliable pick for a girl like me. I like predictable. A safe bet.
I think that may be why I've liked Jason for so long. Jason is safe. Not a giant, but definitely taller than me. Intellectual but not nerdy. Confident but not cocky. And most importantly, certifiably single. There's no ex-wife or a baby momma. Which means no mess and very little risk. All statistics that a math geek like me can buy into.
I don't even have to talk to this Stevenson guy for more than three minutes to already know that he is the complete opposite of safe. He is probably everything my parents were always afraid would come knocking on their door looking to ravage their only daughter.
First of all, look at him.
I'm looking for someone to snuggle at night, not smother me. In fact he's so huge that there's no real way he's even going to be able to fit under the table to pick up my things. Although now I see that he doesn't even have to. His arms are so long that he can maneuver them easily under the table and reach for whatever's under there without too much awkward bending. It's actually kind of impressive.
And speaking of his arms.
Holy hell.
His arms are huge. The wingspan of his hands alone makes them look like they could easily smack someone into next week. His biceps are thick and muscular. Chiseled and strong. And my favorite part of a man's upper body, especially this man's body, are his forearms. Both are roped and strong and adorned with what looks like many sessions worth of intricate tribal ink. I've always liked tattoos from afar. They're not something I'd ever have the nerve to do, but I think they are beautiful. Especially when they adorn a man who's built like a tank.
"Here you go, Miss White."
He scoops up all of my things with one of his hands, while toying with me carefully using those two titanium saucers of his. Eyes that are confusing the hell out of my poor ovaries.
I've never been good at keeping a poker face, but there's no way this man needs to know how hot I think he is. I'm sure he already knows. So I bend my head slightly down in an attempt to avoid direct eye contact, as I accept the contents of my handbag and place everything back inside. He holds onto one thing though. One of my business cards.
"Sabrina White." He reads the card aloud while casually playing with it between two fingers. "That's a beautiful name for an equally beautiful woman."
I hate that the first thing that I do is start smiling after that lame line. Not a big smile, but a smile nonetheless.
His words are cliché.
His glare is obvious.
And I'm still grinning like a simpleton when I notice Jason sitting in his car, watching the two of us with a blank look across his face.
"Umm, my date is here. I have to go."
"Until next time, Sabrina White."
I watch as he slips my business card in his back pocket.
"I doubt it," I grin, although I'm somewhat flattered that he's choosing to hold onto my information, even though he and I both know that there will be no next time. I mean he looks like he eats women for breakfast (literally) then sends them on their merry way with a pat on the ass and maybe a couple of bucks for an Uber car.
But I'm not going to lie. I purposefully walk towards the exit of the restaurant with a little sway in my step, just like the hostess did earlier, because I know that he's watching. Something tells me that he likes to watch. What the hell, right? I never do stuff like this, and I'll never see him again.
As I smooth my skirt down the sides of my hips and thighs, and carefully place one stiletto heel in front of the other, I can't help but look in the glass doors ahead of me. Just to make sure that stranger danger is still checking me out, and when I do, I catch his reflection.
His platinum pupils dancing.
Looking straight at me.
And his mouth grinning shamelessly at the view of my behind.
So I sway my hips a little harder. Then turn around and give him a small wave good-bye. One that I make sure Jason can't see. And it's at that moment that I see and feel what I've been waiting for all night, except it's from the stranger's eyes instead of Jason's.
Pure. Unadulterated. Heat.
Two
SAINT
Three Years Ago
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
"You need to kill some time, Mike. She's not ready."
"She's not here yet?!"
"Naw, man. I think she's still at the hotel with the bridesmaids or something. No one's picking up their cell phones over there, but knowing her she's probably just running around driving everybody completely nuts."
"I knew I should've sent my mom over there. I swear to fucking God if she–"
"Calm down, best man. There's no way that girl is going to mess up her wedding day to Saint."
"You mean mess up her meal ticket."
"No shit talking today, Mike. You have to reel it in. This is your brother's future wife we're talking about. Just like you want respect for yours, you need to respect his choice."
"The hell you mean? There's no question about anyone respecting my wife. She's not some sleazy lounge singer looking for a benefactor, so that she won't have to get a real job."
"You know what I mean, Mike."
"All right. I guess the easiest solution is to get everybody drunk. Then no one will know just how fucking late the blushing bride really is. Including my brother."
"Good idea. I'll get the waiters to grab us some champagne."
Ten minutes later.
"Open the Dom! Does everybody have a glass? All right, all right. Listen up everyone. I just want to say a few words in a toast before our boy here walks down the aisle. Saint, you know you're one cocky son of a bitch. You always were. Even as a snot-nosed kid, you thought the sun rose and set specifically for your ass. Never thought I'd see the day that you'd get hitched. Especially this early in your career. But I guess there's no rhyme or reason to when we find our happily ever after. Sometimes we find her when we least expect it. So let's all raise our glasses to my little brother and his forever after – Adrianna."
"To Saint and Adrianna!!"
Fifteen more minutes later.
"Excuse me, Mr. Stevenson?"
"Yeah, that's me. How can I help you?"
"I think I need to speak to your brother."
"He's a little busy getting married right now. What do you want Saint for?"
"Well, umm ... I guess it's okay if I tell you. I need to show you something."
"Who are you again?"
"A guest on the bride's side. Can I just show you something? It's important."
"You better not be showing me any videos of your kid playing ball or something. This is my brother's wedding not a recruitment–"
"It's nothing like that. Just take a look at the headline on this website."
Jilted! Saint Stevenson's Fiancée Seen With Reality
"You actually believe this? This is just some bullshit gossip blog looking to get more web traffic with lies. Adrianna is at the hotel getting ready as we speak. There's no way she's in, where does it say?"
"Miami, but look, there's a photo. Scroll down."
"Fuck me. It is her."
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure it is."
"How am I going to tell Saint? This is going to kill him."
A few moments later.
"Can we get the room for a minute, fellas?"
"Why are you clearing the room? What's up?"
"Have a seat. I need to talk to you."
"Right now? I'm about to get married."
"Calm down for just a second and listen. Adrianna is gone."
"What the fuck do you mean she's gone?"
"She left, bro. She's in Miami."
"What. Are. You. Talking. About?! What did you do Mikey?"
"Nothing, Saint. I swear. I'd never ruin your wedding day no matter how I feel about your girl. She must have gotten cold feet. She ran away with some rocker reality show kid. Some douche named Benjamin Luck. I'm assuming you haven't spoken to her today."
"We saw each other last night. She wanted to wait to talk until we saw each other at the alter."
"Well it looks like she jumped on a flight to Florida this morning."
"I'm calling her ass right now!"
"Wait. Don't chase her Saint. You're better than this. And isn't it better that you know what she's really like now rather than later when you're three kids deep? I mean if you really think about it–OUCH! You asshole. You just winged my head with that chair!
"Dammit, Saint, don't go trashing the entire reception hall. Our parents and their closest friends are here. Reverend Paul is in there. Don't embarrass yourself because she wasn't woman enough to end this the right way."
CRASH!
"You told me not to call her, so this is what I'm doing instead!"
*Sigh*
"Are you actually going to force me to kick your ass on your wedding day to get you to stop?"
Broken By A King: The King Brothers #3 Page 15