Learning to Fall

by Jillian Eaton

  Whitney’s gaze ping ponged back and forth between us. Recognizing all too well the calculating gleam in her eye, I gave her a hard nudge with the point of my shoe, a silent plea not to embarrass me in front of Daniel any more than I’d already embarrassed myself.

  The second she braced her hands on the bar and jutted her chest out, I knew it was a wasted action.

  “The Daniel?” she purred, batting her eyelashes. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.” She slowly raked him up and down. “You’re much…taller than I was expecting.”

  Despite her outrageous flirting, I knew Whitney wasn’t actually hitting on Daniel. She was simply interacting with him the way she interacted with all men: a little bit too friendly and way over the top. Biting on the inside of my cheek, I waited to see how Daniel would react. If he found Whitney more appealing than me it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been passed over in favor of my prettier, sexier best friend. Men flocked to her like bees to honey and I had yet to meet a man she couldn’t charm the pants off of (literally).

  “It’s nice to meet a friend of Imogen’s.” Looking vaguely amused, Daniel extended his right hand and Whitney, after a quick double take, shook it. I could tell she was a bit put off by his reaction (or rather lack of a reaction) by the way her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t let it stop her. If anything, she took it as a personal challenge.

  Skimming her tongue across her bottom lip, she used her best come-hither voice to say, “Tell me a little bit about yourself, Daniel.”

  He snuck a quick glance at me. I shrugged helplessly, unable to help him…but definitely happy with his notable lack of interest in Whitney. If a test existed for not hitting on the girl you (maybe?) liked best friend, he definitely passed it.

  “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  “Oh, any little detail will do,” Whitney cooed. “Your favorite color. Your favorite sport team. Your favorite sexual position.”

  “Okay,” I interrupted. “That’s enough. Daniel it was - it was nice to see you again, but we have to go.” Latching onto Whitney’s arm, I all but dragged her away from the bar. Shaking free of my grip the second we were out of earshot, she regarded me with a grin that could only be described as devilish.

  “But we just got here,” she said. “And you failed to mention how frickin’ fine your boy-toy is. I mean, Goddamn Mo. The man is hot as Hades. If he wasn’t already spoken for I would jump on that here and now. We are not leaving.”

  “Yes we are,” I said stubbornly.

  Giving me a get real look, Whitney rummaged inside her purse and pulled out a bright red tube of lip gloss. “I’m going to the bathroom. Then I’m going outside for a smoke. You march your little ass over to that bar” - she mimed two fingers walking - “and talk to your man candy until I get back.”

  “But - but you don’t smoke.”

  She sighed. “You know, sometimes I don’t know how you and I are friends. It’s an excuse, Mo. Now go!” She gave me a not-so-gentle push and I stumbled forward, still woefully uncoordinated on my high heels. By the time I managed to regain my balance and turn around, Whitney was already gone.

  Great.

  Left with no other option - it wasn’t as if I knew anyone else here and, as terrifying as it was, the idea of striking up a conversation with Daniel was slightly less frightening than talking to a complete stranger - I fought my way back through the crowd of hot, sweaty bodies pulsating to the music and managed to find an empty stool at the very end of the bar. Sucking in my stomach - skinny jeans weren’t exactly practical when it came to breathing and sitting at the same time - I slid onto the high backed steel stool and snuck a quick, covert glance down the bar. Despite the people piled up three deep and the other bartenders rushing back and forth as they attempted to keep up with the high demand for alcohol, I spotted Daniel almost instantly. He stood at least half a head taller than everyone else and with his broad shoulders, scruffy jaw, and smoldering grey eyes was impossible to miss.

  At least for me.

  Whitney was right. Daniel was hot, although that was something I already knew. What I didn’t know was why he seemed so interested in me. I’d barely held myself together during our first meeting, and had completely bungled the second. I had no illusions about myself. I may have been driven, independent, and successful, but I was also insecure. Occasionally neurotic. Anxious. Not to mention completely out of his league in the looks department.

  And not in a good way.

  While I possessed a healthy level of self-confidence and was secure in my own body (at least most days), I was realistic. I may have been fit and reasonably blemish free, but I wasn’t the sort of girl men who looked like Daniel Logan usually gravitated towards. I wasn’t sexy. I couldn’t do a husky laugh. My hips didn’t slide sinuously from side to side when I walked.

  Then again, all that being said…

  Why not me?

  If I really wanted to change - if I truly wanted to step out from beneath my mother’s shadow and be more than the girl who always minded her manners and obeyed the rules - then why not start with a handsome stranger who made my heart race and my palms sweat?

  I’d been asking myself so many questions where Daniel was concerned, but what if they’d all been the wrong ones? After all, liking Daniel didn’t mean I had to love him. Sleeping with him didn’t mean I had to marry him. I’d become so accustomed to living a life where the means justified the end that I’d never considered trying something the other way around. In this case, maybe that was exactly what I needed to do because when it came down to it, Daniel was just a guy. A guy, if Whitney’s breakfast theory could be believed, who liked me. So what was the harm in allowing myself to like him back?

  For once in my life, I wanted to be that girl. The one who could banter back and forth with a hot guy at the bar without giving a lecture on the history of cigarettes. The one who could have a simple breakfast without dissolving into an anxiety-ridden mess. The one who didn’t think about tomorrow. The one who didn’t plan or schedule every last detail. The one who lived in the moment and threw caution to the wind. The one who took Daniel Logan to bed.

  My lips parted on a sharp intake of air as the thought of Daniel pressing his body against mine threatened to short wire every synapse in my brain.

  I’d only slept with one man before, and the decision had not been made lightly. Only after learning Justin’s likes and dislikes, the names of his parents, and his five-year-plan had I made the choice to become intimate with him. During our time together we’d had a normal, healthy sexual relationship. I’d admittedly been a bit bored from time to time, but had chalked it up to high expectations largely based on movies I’d seen and books I’d read, all of which mentioned ‘the spark’, something I had been halfway convinced simply did not exist.

  Until a handsome stranger sat down beside me at a bar.

  When Daniel brushed his hand across my thigh I’d certainly felt a spark then. One hot enough to burn through my jeans and scorch the flesh beneath.

  If one tiny, incidental touch had burned me, what would a kiss do?

  I suddenly, desperately, absolutely wanted to find out.

  My hands curled into tiny fists of nervous energy as I waited for Daniel to circle back around to my end of the bar. Despite the number of people lined up for drinks, I didn’t have to wait long. As though he could sense my unblinking stare he turned suddenly in my direction, a half-filled pitcher of beer in his hand.

  Our gazes met. Held. Lingered. I didn’t say a word - over the wail of music pouring out of the speakers Daniel wouldn’t have been able to hear me even if I’d been able to force my paralyzed vocal chords to work - but I didn’t have to.

  The unspoken need in my eyes said it all.

  He set down the pitcher he was holding hard enough to send beer lapping up and over the edge in a frothy spill of white. Never taking his eyes off of me, he murmured something unintelligible to one of the other bartender’s before he wiped his hands on a dishrag and w
alked slowly, purposefully over to where I waited, breath held, heart threatening to beat right out of my chest.

  “You’re still here.” He braced his hands on the bar and leaned in close. Close enough I could see the steady throb of his pulse on the side of his neck. Close enough I could smell his scent, a heady combination of pine and sweat that brought to mind a crisp autumn day. “I thought you had to leave. Where’s your roommate?”

  “She… she had to go outside. To smoke.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Someone very intelligent told me smoking causes cancer.”

  “It does.” I bit back a smile, more pleased to be called intelligent than beautiful. I knew some women who would have preferred the latter, but I’d always valued brains over beauty and I liked that Daniel seemed to as well. Shifting my weight, I crossed my legs at the knee as I did my best to appear calm, cool, and collected. “So…you’re a bartender?”

  “That’s why I’m behind the bar.”

  My cheeks heated. “Of course, what I meant was-”

  “Relax, Imogen.” He touched my shoulder, warm fingertips trailing down along the edge of my arm in a gentle caress that ended at my wrist. “You’re like a little fox.”

  “A fox?” I drew back slightly. What was that supposed to mean? Was it a compliment? I always overheard Whitney’s various boy-toys using pet names. Look at you, kitten. Come sit on my lap, lamb. Give me a smooch, dove. I’d thought they were a bit demeaning, but Whitney seemed to like them and so I had never said anything. But fox? Fox was one I hadn’t heard.

  “Yes, a little fox.” Daniel’s hand began to travel slowly back up my bare arm, the pressure of his fingers so soft as to nearly be nonexistent which of course only made me a hundred times more aware of his touch. “Shy and sensitive. Easily spooked.”

  My brow furrowed. That certainly didn’t sound very complimentary.

  “Elegant,” he continued in a voice gone dark and deep. All around us sound and time seemed to fade away. He stared deeply into my eyes, once more looking for secrets I wasn’t ready to reveal. “Perceptive. Lovely.”

  “You… you think I’m lovely?” It was such an old-fashioned term. One that would have undoubtedly sounded contrived were it any other man saying it, but Daniel spoke with such quiet sincerity I knew he meant it.

  His gaze softened. “I think you’re the loveliest woman I’ve ever met. And the loneliest.”

  Was it so obvious? Yes, I was lonely.

  I’d been lonely my entire life.

  “Do you want to sleep with me?” My question, so crudely blurted, brought a fiery blush to my face and a comical look of surprise to Daniel’s. At least it would have been comical if I wasn’t so busy wishing I could disappear into a hole. Why? Why did my brain insist on saying all the wrong things at all the right moments? Was it trying to sabotage me? Did it want me to fail?

  Arms stiffening, Daniel pulled back. “Imogen…”

  “I’m sorry,” I said miserably, unable to look at him. I stared at the bar instead, studying the tiny nicks and grooves in the stainless steel as I struggled to put my fears and doubts into words. “It’s just… I’m not good at this.”

  “You’re not good at what?”

  “This!” With a quick flick of my wrist I motioned back and forth between us. “It always looks so easy in the movies. Whitney can do it. She does it all the time! And I want to. I really do. But… but I don’t know how to get there from here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or do. I don’t… I don’t know.”

  “Imogen, look at me. Look at me,” Daniel insisted when I kept my gaze pinned to the bar. Slowly, reluctantly, I lifted my chin, peering up at him from beneath a fringe of dark lashes. “There you are,” he said, the hint of a smile toying with the corners of his mouth. “Now please take a deep breath because the last thing I want is for you to go running away again.”

  Tears born of frustration and embarrassment pricked my eyes. “About that-”

  “No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. Reaching across the bar, he picked my hands up out of my lap and squeezed my fingers. “Forget about that. I pushed you, and I shouldn’t have.”

  “You didn’t push me,” I protested. “You asked me to go for a walk and I had an anxiety attack. What kind of woman has an anxiety attack with a man asks her to go for a walk? It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.”

  “You’re not ridiculous. A bit eccentric, maybe, but that’s what I like about you.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re not like other women, Imogen. I knew that from the first moment we met. You’re different.”

  “You can say that again,” I muttered.

  Daniel’s fingers tightened, interlocking our palms. “Silly like fox,” he said affectionately. “Don’t you know that’s why I like you?”

  “You like me?” It was one thing to suspect it; another thing entirely to hear Daniel say it.

  “Well your thumb game could use some work but yeah, I like you.” Eyes never leaving mine, he brought my hands to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “I like you a lot, Imogen Finley.”

  I wanted to say the same back to him, but my fear and doubts prevented my mouth from forming the words. Fear that I might come to like Daniel more than ‘a lot’. Doubt that I would be able to find the right balance between my professional life and my personal one.

  Studying the myriad of emotions flickering across my face, Daniel gently lowered my hands. “I should get back to work. I’m on until one.” He hesitated. “Let me buy you a drink. Anything you want.”

  The last time he’d offered to buy me a drink, I had refused him. This time I didn’t. “Surprise me,” I said, surprising myself. Baby steps, I thought. Baby steps are better than no steps at all.

  “I can do that. Oh, and one more thing.” Laying his hands flat on the bar, he leaned in close, close enough I could feel his warm breath on my neck as he whispered, “When we sleep together, it won’t be because you think it’s what you’re supposed to do.”

  If Daniel had been hoping to stun me into speechlessness while simultaneously sending a spark of sheer lust shooting straight down into my loins, he’d succeeded. Completely. “It…it won’t?”

  “No.” He closed his teeth around my earlobe. Took a tiny, teasing nibble. “When we sleep together it will be because you can’t live another moment without feeling me inside of you.”

  “Oh.” Eyes wide with shock and dark with arousal, I stared silently at Daniel as he straightened.

  “Just something to think about,” he said with a wolfish grin before he walked away, leaving me gawking after him like some sort of lovestruck teenager.

  Hissing out a breath, I flopped back in my chair and ran a flustered hand through my hair, mindlessly disheveling the sleek topknot Whitney had spent an hour creating.

  Good Lord.

  Hot as Hades? The man was hot as hell.

  And, heaven help me, I was looking forward to getting burned.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Irish

  By the time Whitney returned from outside - smelling vaguely of cologne and sporting a reddish bruise on her neck that looked suspiciously like a hickey - I had been to the bathroom twice and was toying with the idea of going a third time. Not because I had to pee, but because sitting in one place with nothing to do except watch Daniel as he served drinks to beautiful looking women wasn’t exactly bolstering my self-confidence.

  I wasn’t jealous. That would be absurd. I was simply…aware. Yes, I consoled myself as I took a sip of the white wine Daniel had picked out for me. Aware is a good word. It doesn’t even rhyme with jealous.

  “Well?” Returning as abruptly as she’d left, Whitney dropped into the empty stool next to mine. “What happened? Oh my God. Your hair. What the hell happened to your hair?” She smiled mischievously. “You did it, didn’t you? In the back storage closet. You dirty, dirty minx.”

  I squinted at her. “Is that a hickey on your neck?”

  She brushed off my question with a wave
of her hand. “I never pegged him for a hair-puller, but I have to say I think those are the best kind. Gentleman on the street, freak in the sheets. Am I right?” Her eyebrows wiggled up and down. “Is it weird that I’m a little jealous? It’s weird,” she decided. “Really weird.”

  “We did not have sex in a storage closet!”

  “Geez, Mo.” Her gaze darted behind me. “Keep it down, will you? Obviously you didn’t have sex. You’re strung up tighter than a kite. This is going to be good for you, I think. Take the edge off.”

  “I don’t need an edge taken off,” I said defensively. I was here, wasn’t I? I’d allowed Whitney to do my makeup and dress me up as though I were a doll. I’d come out to the bar. I was doing my best.

  “Mo.” Whitney’s stare was long and suffering. “You have edges on top of edges. Which isn’t a bad thing. Especially if you have something to show for it, which you do. I mean, hello.” She pointed between us. “College professor and soccer coach. Ask anyone in this bar who they think has gotten the most ass over the past four years, and the answer is not going to be you. Which is why it’s time for you to have a little fun. Especially if that fun includes a six-foot-three hunk with grey eyes and a dimple.”

  Because I had more or less reached the same conclusion myself, I couldn’t exactly argue with her. “Okay fine,” I allowed. “I realize that I can, on occasion, get a little tense-”

  “A little?” Whitney snorted. “Do we need to talk about the pancake incident again, or can we agree to move past that?”

  “Ha ha,” I grumbled, giving her a dirty look before I tipped my wine glass up.

  “It’s okay. I know that you know I’m right. You don’t have to say anything.” Flagging down a bartender with an expert flick of her wrist, Whitney proceeded to bat her eyelashes into a free martini.

  “How do you do that?” I wondered out loud.

  Crossing her legs, she propped an elbow on the bar and fussed with her hair. “How do I do what?”

  “That,” I said, gesturing to the napkin the bartender had put down in front of her.