The Interview

by Alice Ward

  “I didn’t think of that.” My cheeks felt a little warm, and I bit down on my lower lip as I processed her theory. Tate wasn’t just an average guy, after all. Strolling casually arm in arm through Central Park without interruption wasn’t an option with this man, and I’d have to come to terms with that if I wanted to keep seeing him.

  And I definitely wanted to keep seeing him.

  “Let me just add this, and then I’ll let you go back to juggling your neuroses.” Jenna leaned down toward me to ensure I was the only person to hear her. “If he was only interested in what happens behind closed doors, he already got what he wanted. Your goods have been given, honey. He could’ve spent this morning drinking coffee and gloating to himself that he nailed the reviewer. But he called.”

  “Yeah.” The ache ebbed, and I sat back in my chair with a little more squareness in my shoulders. “Yeah, he did call.”

  She straightened up and mussed my hair. “You have an hour to come to your senses.”

  I wrinkled my brow. “Why an hour?”

  “Because then we’re going to lunch, and you’re going to tell me everything he said when he called you, word-for-word.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tate

  I had just slipped my finger between my tie knot and shirt collar when the car unexpectedly came to a halt, sending me to the edge of my seat and nearly choking me to death as knuckle met Adam’s apple.

  The champagne glasses I’d set out on the middle console clinked together in protest against the sharp braking, and I was glad I’d had the foresight to refrain from filling them before arriving at Sadie’s building. I was even gladder Sadie wasn’t waiting outside on the sidewalk to see me tearing up and wheezing for air in the backseat of the Town Car while it pulled up to the curb.

  “Just a minute,” I told my driver, popping the handle and swinging the door open myself without waiting for him to get out and open it for me. It was the rare occasion I got out of the vehicle these days for fear of being mobbed by everyone in a three-block radius, but I figured Sadie deserved to be met by me personally rather than by an unknown member of my staff.

  Before I’d made it two steps toward the building’s entrance, however, which was noticeably unmanned by a doorman but at least seemed to possess basic security in the form of an ancient buzzer system, the peeling door retracted and Sadie stepped out onto the cracked stoop. With the backdrop of the well-aged brownstone and tarnished address marker behind her, the image of her soft black dress hugging her feminine figure was a visual juxtaposition, and I was suddenly hungry. Ravenous. Verging on utterly feral animalism.

  “Hi.” Such a simple word, yet I was enveloped in the syllable’s breathiness and the way her lips parted as she said it.

  Stepping forward to take her hand and help her down the crumbling stairs in her stilettos, I replied with the smoothest thing I could think to say. “Hi.” Years of reciting some of the most romantic lines in history had evidently done little to prepare me for this moment.

  I was nervous. It was as simple as that. While dating had never been a priority, I still had managed to woo the few women of my life without an abundance of crackling nerves, and I’d maintained my cool.

  Not with her.

  For some reason, one I kept trying to convince myself was borne of a lengthy dry spell since my last endeavor into the world of romance, I wanted Sadie to walk away from our time together feeling as unexpectedly magnetized to me as I was to her. I’d reminded myself again and again on the ride to her apartment that we’d already slept together so there was no logical sense in being nervous, but my brain wasn’t communicating with my stomach. Even as I led her to the car, I felt like I was perched at the top of a rollercoaster preparing to plunge down to Earth with nothing but a flimsy safety belt to keep me alive.

  “I wasn’t sure what to wear.” She sounded self-conscious, which acted as a tonic to my anxious belly. “I looked up the restaurant online, but I wasn’t sure if formalwear was too formal because sometimes a blouse is enough…”

  Her babbling in conjunction with the thought of her standing naked in front of her closet trying to choose an outfit set me further at ease. I smiled. “You look beautiful.”

  She did, and her face was made even more lovely as it flushed from my compliment. Watching her slide into the backseat of the car was like watching my jitters melt away. Even with the pressure of a date with a truly captivating journalist ahead of me, I couldn’t ignore how comfortable I felt in her presence, and I traded my unsettled butterflies for excited ones as I dropped onto the bench-style backseat beside her.

  “If you looked up the restaurant, you probably know it’s not too far from here.” I poured the pre-chilled champagne into the waiting glasses and handed her one with a grin. “That means less time to make awkward car ride small talk.”

  “I’m not sure I know what awkward car ride small talk is.” She plucked the proffered flute from my hand and took a delicate sip with a brow raised and glitter in her eyes.

  “Oh, you know, the weather and work and how you look tonight.”

  The side of her thigh pressed inadvertently against mine as we turned onto a neighboring street, and I realized the slender slit cut into her draped skirt had curled back just enough to reveal a streak of bare skin. Tingles shot up my leg to my groin as I eyed the creamy, naked flesh, and the memory of that same thigh cradling my head — and my hip — bit into my composure. The crotch of my trousers protested against the sudden swelling beneath. I crossed an ankle over a knee to hide the uninvited growth.

  “Well, the weather’s been gorgeous, work has been busy, and you already said I look beautiful.” She averted her eyes for a split second as she recalled the compliment, then looked back up to meet my gaze unflinchingly. I detected a familiar curve of humor lingering on the edges of her mouth. “Now what?”

  “I think, traditionally, when all topics have been exhausted, it’s proper to drink our drinks much more quickly than is appropriate and stare out of our respective windows.”

  “Tradition can be overrated.”

  She was close enough that I could smell her perfume intermingling with the sweetness of alcohol on her breath, and my lips started to thrum. A slight lean, and I could kiss her…

  The glass rose to her mouth, adding a barrier between us. I mimicked her with my own drink and just as I’d noted, we both gulped rather than sipped. I didn’t do so out of discomfort, though. I did it to distract myself from the intense need in my hands and cock and gut to grab her by the waist, pull her on top of me, and fuck her cross-eyed while my driver pretended his passengers sat demurely behind him.

  “So, you had no complaints about the article?”

  Her question helped me forget that I was on the verge of performing some seriously lewd acts in the backseat of my car with her. I shook my head.

  “No. Should I have?”

  “I hope not.” The laugh that fell from her lips was musical, nothing short of the same lyrical poems I myself sung on a nightly basis in front of a packed audience.

  “I did notice you left out some of the more intimate parts.” I couldn’t help myself. My mind was overrun with imaginings and memories of that night, and I was aching with curiosity to see how she reacted when I brought it up. Truthfully, I was hoping to witness pleasure on her face at the mention, something to indicate I wasn’t alone in my erotic obsession.

  To my visceral delight, her eyes glinted, and her jaw slackened. “Yes,” she said. “The Apple isn’t exactly that kind of reading material. And I’m not sure I’d want the entire circulation knowing what I did behind closed doors, anyway.”

  I smirked. “Embarrassed?”

  “Hardly.” She held my stare without batting a lash, and I felt zero doubt regarding her sincerity. Again, heat and pressure surged beneath my waistline, and I was forced to use the champagne in my hand as a distraction from the way her cleavage peeked out beneath her scooped neckline.

  “It seems Juliet the Innoce
nt has fallen,” I remarked after swallowing.

  A neat, slim brow arced on a fair forehead. “I never claimed to be innocent.”

  My champagne was gone after that, and had we not pulled up in front of Coin at that very moment, I would’ve discarded every thread of restraint I possessed to fold her over on the seat and bury myself inside her, Phillip be damned.

  “Sir.” I looked up to see the driver’s eyes peering back at me from the rearview mirror. I nodded to him, and he climbed out of the car.

  Taking advantage of his absence and giving in to my desires for a brief second, I leaned closer to Sadie and brushed my nose along her jawline. She shuddered against me. “You should know I’m this close to taking that gorgeous dress off your gorgeous body and making you moan loud enough that people in Brooklyn can hear you, so unless you want to be bent over a table and taken on top of coq au vin, I suggest you keep that sex kitten look out of your eyes.”

  Her sharp intake of breath was audible, and it made it that much more difficult to clamber out of the car when Phillip opened the door. Pushing my thick erection down rather unceremoniously through my pants, I turned around to offer a hand to Sadie and help her out. My eyes grazed the shapeliness of her calf as she stepped one foot out, then the other, and the skirt of her dress spilled down over her legs as she stood. I thanked Phillip, reminded him to stay nearby, and guided Sadie through the elegant glass door of Coin.

  “Mr. McGrath!” The voice that greeted us was loud, round, and jovial, an exact representation of the man it came along with. He was rotund in his chef’s jacket with dark hair smattered across his forehead and a broad smile on his chubby cheeks, and he held out his arms to either side like he was prepared to embrace both Sadie and me in an enormous bear hug. When he drew near enough, however, he didn’t hug me, instead bending in to kiss my cheeks in a very European hello.

  “Nice to see you, Michel.” I returned his smile with one of my own and placed my hand on the small of Sadie’s back. “I’d like you to meet Sadie Danes. She’s a theater critic for The Apple. Sadie, this is Michel, the best French chef you’ll find in New York City.”

  “Oh, you are such a flattery, mon cher.” Michel waved both hands around as if I’d thrown him into a tizzy before leaning into Sadie to kiss her twice just as he had me. I grinned at her over his shoulder, amused both by his imperfect English and the startled look on her face. “Such a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle. I cannot think for a time this handsome, handsome man brought me a woman to feed with my delicious creations!”

  Sadie looked between Michel and me with a small, uncertain smile on her face. “Well, I’m glad to be here, and I’m sure it will be wonderful.”

  “Oh mon Dieu! You have not tasted until you have had my Escargots de Bourgogne. Please, come, sit, and I shall amaze you with my culinary delights.”

  He gestured for us to follow and started waddling toward the rear of the tiny, empty restaurant. I slid my hand over from Sadie’s back to her waist, cupping the curve, and we stepped along in relaxed pursuit. She pressed her side against mine and tilted her chin up to whisper as we walked, “Is he crazy?”

  “Quite.” I grinned down at her, taking care to straighten my face when Michel turned around and motioned to the table designated for us. He pushed me aside to help Sadie into her chair, so I seated myself across from her.

  “Do not be fooled by the lack of customers, Miss Danes.” He snapped her folded cloth napkin and let it waft prettily through the air before tucking it onto her lap. “We are rather exclusive here. Your Mr. McGrath is one of the few we permit to come and go as he pleases.” He reached forward to tap me on the nose with his forefinger and wag it chidingly at me. “Naughty boy. Now, please, relax and converse. I have taken the liberty of selecting your wines for the evening, with the help of my sommelier, of course, but I shall send Celeste to fill your water glasses and make certain you are settled. Celeste!” He clapped loudly, bowed to us, and bumbled out of sight into the kitchen.

  Sadie watched him go with interest, then turned to me. “My parents had a chef like him they always hired when they hosted catered parties.” She tilted her head. “Of course, he wasn’t nearly as cheerful as Michel. Kind of cranky, actually. He used to chase me out of the kitchen with a spatula when I’d try to sneak food.”

  “Catered parties?” I smirked. “And I remember you told me your father is a surgeon, so you were the rich girl, huh?”

  “Not really.” She shrugged as she said it, and her eyes glazed over slightly as she delved into her past. “Where I grew up, we were actually considered middle-of-the-road. Ritzy Connecticut area, you know? A lot of kids my age were way more well-off than I was, as far as having the nicest and fanciest things, going on extravagant vacations, that sort of stuff. But I guess in the grand scheme of wealth, yeah, I was a rich girl.”

  I found the information fascinating. Sadie handled herself with natural sophistication, and she was certainly well-spoken, but she didn’t possess that air of stuffy pretention so common in those of upper-class America. Of course, all opinions I’d formed over the years of upper-class America were based solely on observations acquired of the old-money Upper East Siders and new-money Manhattanites of the city. Nevertheless, I enjoyed discovering that Sadie combatted the stereotype.

  “Well, journalism isn’t exactly a lucrative career.” I knitted my fingers together and leaned my chin on them to watch her with interest. “Are your parents supportive?”

  “Mostly. My mother had a fit when I announced I was initially interested in foreign correspondence, but that’s because she was picturing me overseas in a foxhole somewhere dodging bombs and gunfire. She’s calmed down since.” The waitress, Celeste, appeared tableside with lemon waters for us. Sadie smiled up at her, but the woman said nothing and simply strutted away after setting the glasses neatly in front of us.

  I batted a hand dismissively as Sadie looked back at me with a furrowed brow. “Don’t worry about that. French servers have their own set of customs.”

  “Right.” She took a sip of water before continuing our conversation. “What about you? I know you have a brother, and you grew up in California, but are your parents supportive? I’m guessing they weren’t at opening night since you and I were the only ones in your dressing room and we left shortly afterward.”

  A pit the size of Texas dropped squarely in the center of my gut as she went on, and I realized in that instant why I’d been so nervous at the beginning of the evening. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sadie

  His face changed.

  I noticed it immediately, as clearly as I noticed the tiny droplets of water lingering on the glass where my lips had just been. The corners of his mouth sank inward, his eyes darkened, and his shoulders became squarer and more rigid. If the energy around him could’ve made a sound, it would have clanked and slammed like the gates of a jail cell door.

  Instantly, my mind raced with a plethora of possible reasons for Tate’s emotional shift. Did he feel like I was prying? Had I touched on a sore subject? Maybe his parents weren’t supportive of his career choice, and maybe that was why, in all the interviews and biographies I’d read about him, they were never mentioned. Or perhaps I was reading too much into it, and he wasn’t shutting down, he just considered the topic a serious one.

  “They weren’t there.” His expression wasn’t the only thing that changed. His tone had become bland and monotonous. I couldn’t decipher whether he was pained, angry, or disgusted, but he clearly wasn’t happy, and for that, I felt responsible.

  “Well, that’s okay. The theater isn’t for everyone.” I was treading water, trying to get back the lightheartedness we’d been exchanging since he’d picked me up. “My parents didn’t even read anything I’d written until one of my reviews was reprinted in The Times.”

  He nodded. It was one of those slow nods, the kind that look like they take a lot of effort. As he reached for his own glass of wat
er and drank, I scoured my brain for something else to discuss, something far away from the realm of family.

  “So… California?” He glanced up at me briefly over the lip of his cup and raised his brows simultaneously in acknowledgment. “That’s a whole different world from New York. It must have felt strange going back there to do the movies. Or did it feel more like you were going home? Connecticut has a nostalgic feeling for me, although that’s not nearly as big a difference from New York as California…”

  Tate’s jaw didn’t relax like I’d hoped it would at the change of tack. He set the water back down on the table with a little more force than was necessary, and the dull thud echoed off the plaster walls of the empty restaurant. “New York is home to me. I hate California.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine considering how much you love theater, and it’s all about movies out there.” My tongue was clacking away at a speed double its normal, but I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to steer the runaway bus into a parking space before it went off the road and killed us all. “Although, you mentioned that you were part of a community theater in Sacramento, right?”

  He performed an excellent reenactment of the stiff nod again, and I could feel myself buckling under the pressure. In a matter of seconds, this guy — this incredibly gorgeous, silver-tongued, dreamy-eyed guy — who I’d gotten along with like a childhood friend since the moment we’d met had become a more attractive equivalent of a blind date. Awkward, tight-lipped, and clearly unhappy in my presence. I didn’t relish the alteration to our beautifully budding relationship, but it was too soon to throw in the towel, or the napkin, and call this one a lost cause like I would have if he’d been anyone else.