Mister Romance

by Leisa Rayven

  She waves at a couple passing by. “And rightly so. We should encourage girls to drop the fairy tales. They create unrealistic expectations that make us think men can complete our lives, when very often, they destroy them.”

  “Wow. It’s nice to meet a likeminded soul. There aren’t too many of us around.”

  “Miss Crane, when you’ve lived as long as I have, you know how the world works. Now, don’t get me wrong. I generally love men, and my current boyfriend is one of the best I’ve ever met, but you only have to look around this room to see a symptom of what’s wrong with the world.” She points to Marla Massey, who’s standing in a group with her husband.

  “Congressman Massey there portrays himself as a man who believes in good, Christian values. He’s an ex-preacher and a government representative, and yet he treats his wife like an object he owns rather than a partner in life. And don’t even get me started on the number of affairs he’s had over the years.”

  She points to the group of ladies I was talking to earlier, who are now gathered near a group of men, presumably their husbands. “In this world, Miss Crane, people don’t necessarily marry for love. A large number of these women are treated like possessions. Their partners give them sex, but what they truly crave is for someone to see them. Value them. Love them. That’s what Maxwell does.”

  I think about that for a moment. I never thought it possible to have sympathy for women who pay more for a pair of shoes than I do in rent, but after getting to know them tonight, I’ve discovered it is. I wonder if I could live like that – rich, but miserable.

  Vivian turns to me. “Exposing the seedy underbelly of the social elite would make a wonderful addition to your story, wouldn’t it?”

  I feel small beneath her scrutiny. “Of course. It’s newsworthy.”

  “Yes, because scandal is the most popular type of news there is these days. We just love to see the high and mighty fall. It makes us all feel better about our own pathetic lives. But as much as I’d like to see Walter Massey taken down, because he’s an insufferable, sexist pig, Marla would be taken down with him. And that woman has enough to deal with. All of Max’s clients do. I don’t know a single one of them who deserves to be publicly humiliated.” She gestures to the crowd. “All of these women are here tonight to support a charity that empowers other women. Skills-training programs, safe havens from domestic abuse, philanthropic grants, and special housing for homeless women and children. Maybe you could highlight their work rather than what they do in their spare time.”

  From her words I feel like I’m receiving a lecture, but her tone and face still remain kind. “My editor wants me to name names.”

  “Of course he does. But I think you’re clever enough to write the story you want and still make it newsworthy.”

  I watch as Marla and her husband take to the dance floor. With the knowledge I have, I can now see how Marla’s blithe smile seems hollow.

  “Did Max tell you we have a bet?” I ask. “If I develop feelings for him, I have to drop the story altogether.”

  “And how’s that working out for you?”

  “Right now? I have no idea.”

  “You like him.”

  “I guess.”

  “That wasn’t a question. And he likes you.”

  I laugh. “Let’s be honest; he likes a lot of women.”

  “I’m not going to argue that point, but he’s never, and I mean ever, looked at any woman the way he looks at you.” She directs her attention over my shoulder and smiles before coming back to me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to attend to other guests.”

  As she walks away, Max appears next to me.

  “Should I be nervous that you were talking with Vivian?”

  “You tell me.”

  He doesn’t look at me. Instead, he glances at the stage. He’s trying to appear calm, but I can still feel his anger. It’s in the hunch of his shoulders and the clench of his fists.

  “I’m sorry about before,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting that call tonight, and it put me on edge.”

  “To put it mildly,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  He glances down, not meeting my eyes, like he’s just exposed a part of himself he’d rather have kept hidden. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone.”

  “Are you okay now?”

  He nods but still looks as if he’d like to pick up another table and throw it across the room.

  “Can I do anything for you?” I ask, moving closer. “Get you a drink? A Valium? Maybe a backrub?”

  The corners of his mouth lift, but it doesn’t quite become a full-blown smile. With his eyes still downcast, he takes my hand. “I might take you up on the backrub later, but for now, just dance with me.”

  I squeeze his hand in silent agreement, and he leads me to the dance floor. The band is playing smooth big-band music from the forties, and even though there are a dozen or so other couples around us, when he pulls me into his arms, the whole room fades away, until all I’m aware of is him.

  As we come together, something shifts in the air between us. The music gets softer. The edges of my vision blur. There’s a tunnel of energy straight from me to him, and it’s the most exciting and terrifying experience I’ve ever encountered.

  When he presses his cheek against my temple, his skin is hot. He takes some deep breaths, and as I stroke the hair at the base of his neck, he lets out a noise that’s a mix between a groan and a sigh.

  “That feels good.”

  Comforting him feels oddly affectionate, but then, that’s a perfect summation of my feelings toward Max.

  “It’s ironic,” he says as we sway to the music. “So many women hold me up as the paragon of a perfect man, and they couldn’t be more wrong. If they only knew the truth.”

  His statement surprises me. I mean, I know he’s too good to be true, I just don’t know why. But to hear him admit it confirms something I’ve thought all along.

  “What truth are you talking about?”

  He pulls me closer. “Can we just dance? I’d like a little more time before you look at me like I’m a piece of shit.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I hold him closer and keep moving.

  By the time the song ends, his muscles are less bunched, but he doesn’t step away from me. He just stands there, pressing against me and breathing deep.

  “Have you ever felt true joy, Eden?”

  I think about it for a few seconds. I’ve spent so long dulling my pain, joy kind of got lost in the mix. “I don’t think so. Or at least if I have, I don’t remember.”

  “Me, neither. I’ve found a lot ways to simulate it over the years, but that’s like renting a fancy car for the day and pretending you’re a millionaire. It’s self-delusion, and that’s the saddest, most pathetic delusion of all.” He runs his hand up my spine, until his palm is pressed against the skin between my shoulder blades. “But standing here, holding you ... this feels like the real deal.”

  The next song starts, and we sway once more. I wish I could turn my brain off around him, but I can’t. Distrusting smooth men is second nature to me by now, and I have no idea how to train myself out of it.

  “Did you like my gifts today?” he asks softly.

  “To be honest, I don’t usually go in for the whole hearts and flowers deal,” I say. “But I must admit, you doing all of that ... going to so much trouble ...” I take a breath. “It made me feel like I’m not ordinary for once. I felt ... special.”

  He pulls back and looks at me as if I’ve just said the most obvious statement in the history of language. “That’s because you are special. But sometimes it’s nice to have someone remind you. ”

  I look up at him. “And that’s what you do, isn’t it? Remind these women of their worth?”

  He smiles. “My God, she’s finally got it.”

  I pull a face and dig my fingers into his shoulder. “Yes, I catch on fast. Doesn’t mean I don’t still have a ton of questions.”


  “I’d expect nothing less of you, Miss Crane.” A furrow forms between his eyebrows. “You know what? Let’s kill the role-playing. I just want to dance with you. No characters. Just us. Okay?”

  I try to drop my thorny demeanor and find out if I’m able to unlock my joy. “Okay.”

  For a few minutes, I let my guard down and enjoy being a regular girl who’s dancing with a handsome man, but I’m brought unceremoniously out of the moment by my stomach growling so loudly, Max looks down at it and laughs.

  “Jesus. Are you keeping wildlife in there?”

  I put my hand on my abdomen. “Wow. So, that’s what it sounds like when I forget to eat. It’s never happened before.”

  Max puts his hand over mine. “Do you want to get out of here? I know where we can get New York’s best pizza.”

  “God, yes. Please.”

  He takes my hand and leads me toward the exit. “Great. And since I sprang for the diamonds, you’re buying.”

  SIXTEEN

  Pizza and Epiphanies

  I laugh as Max stands as far away from me as he can in the elevator, both of us carrying a pizza box.

  “Max, come on.”

  “No. Keep your disgusting fruit pizza away from me. It’s an abomination that will frighten my pure-blooded pepperoni.”

  “It’s a little bit of pineapple, for God’s sake. Not the Pizzapocalypse.”

  He glares as if I just insulted his mother. “Fruit on pizzas is unnatural, and those who eat it are monsters.” He looks up at the lit numbers as we climb floors. “God, I was really starting to believe we could have something, Miss Tate. A real connection. But, now that you’ve revealed your true nature, I can barely look at you.”

  “Max –”

  He holds up his hand. “No. Don’t talk to me. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

  I suppress a smile as he grimaces in disgust. This is the most relaxed we’ve ever been with each other, and I have to admit, I like it. His mood from earlier has completely gone, and I wonder if ending the official part of the ‘date’ had something to do with it. Now that he’s not playing a role, he’s a mixture between Kieran, Caleb, and Maxwell, and I wonder if that’s his secret to being so believable – all his roles are just different shades of himself.

  “Max, can I –?”

  “Stop talking. In fact, don’t even look at me.” He gestures with his head. “Turn around and face the wall. Go on.”

  I roll my eyes and humor him, and I hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Good girl. Now, take some time to think about what you’ve done.”

  I laugh, surprised that when he lets his guard down, he’s actually a regular guy. I decide that for tonight, I’m going to try to ban all thoughts of mistrusting him. I still need to get answers to my questions, but maybe I can do it while enjoying hanging out and eating pizza.

  I peek over my shoulder to find him staring at me. More specifically, at my ass.

  I clear my throat, and he looks away.

  “So,” I say, feeling smug. “We’re going to Maxwell’s penthouse?”

  He nods. “Each character has a different apartment. Maxwell’s is kind of ... impressive.”

  “Do you own all of these?”

  He snorts. “If I owned that much real estate, I could retire a wealthy man. Most of them I book through Air BnB.”

  Now it’s my turn to snort. “Yeah, right.”

  He shrugs. “Don’t really care if you don’t believe me. You’re a disgusting lover of fruit pizzas. You’re barely human.”

  I’m still snickering when the elevator doors open to reveal the most incredible apartment I’ve ever seen.

  “Oh ... my ... God.” I walk into the huge penthouse, mouth gaping. It’s plush and luxurious and has an entire wall of glass that showcases the breathtaking view, including the Empire State Building, front and center.

  “What sort of freakazoid puts this up on Air BnB?”

  “Someone who’s not here a lot and wants to share the view.” I barely notice when he takes my pizza box and walks into the kitchen. “Now, get your butt in here and eat. I can hear your stomach still growling, and it’s getting louder.”

  I gawk at the view for another thirty seconds before turning to see him moving around in the gleaming white kitchen. He places a plate and napkin next to my pizza box then takes up position at the opposite end of the huge granite island.

  “You stay down there with your monstrosity,” he says as he opens his lid. “And if you tell me you need utensils to eat pizza, then we’re done. Get the hell out of my presence with that nonsense.” He shoves a giant slice of pizza in his mouth as I walk over and open my box.

  God, it smells amazing, but there’s no way I can eat pizza in the most beautiful dress on the planet. I’d ruin it within seconds.

  I look at Max, who’s inhaling his slice with impressive speed. “I don’t suppose you have a robe or something. There’s no way I could live with myself if I got pizza-grease on this gown.

  He puts down his slice and wipes his hands on a napkin. “No robe, but I might have something that could work. Come with me.”

  I follow him across the living room and into the bedroom. The leather duffle bag he used as Caleb is there sitting on the bed, and a few articles of clothing are poking out the top. After throwing his phone and keycard onto the nightstand, he rifles through the bag and pulls out black sweatpants and a gray Led Zeppelin T-shirt and hands them to me. “These should do the trick. They’re clean, in case you’re wondering.”

  The shirt is the same one he wore as Kieran when we ‘ran into each other’ at the bar. It seems I’ve come a long way since then, because I no longer have the urge to smack him for that deception.

  “Thanks,” I say as I put the clothes on the bed and pull my hair over my shoulder. “Could you unzip me?”

  “Uh ... sure.” He steps behind me, and I freeze as he slowly lowers my zipper. When it’s all the way down, I hear him exhale but don’t turn around. I assume he’s just gotten a full view of the expensive underwear he sent me, and if I want to have any chance of resisting my attraction to him, I need to avoid seeing his face right now.

  “Thank you. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I feel tension in the air for a few seconds, and then the warmth behind me disappears before the door closes with a quiet click. I blow out a breath as I take off the dress and lay it carefully on the bed. Then I remove my shoes and pull on the soft T-shirt.

  Oh, Lord. It smells like him. Well, like Kieran, anyway. Lemongrass. My sense memory makes parts of me pulse uncomfortably. The shirt’s so big it reaches the top of my thighs, and my body registers that Max’s size definitely isn’t a turn-off.

  I pull on the pants, but the legs are so long, they cover my feet. Not to mention they fall straight down over my non-existent hips.

  I pick them up and fold them neatly on the bed then take a deep breath.

  Okay. I’m just going to eat pizza with him. Press him for information about his past. Get the story. Easy.

  I pad back out into the kitchen to find Max has already polished off half of his pizza. When he looks over at me, he freezes mid-chew, his eyes wide and his jaw slack.

  I go to my end of the bench and attack the largest piece in the box. He wasn’t wrong about this being the best pie in New York. Even with my heathen fruit tainting the flavor, it’s freaking delicious.

  “Oh, God. So good.” I moan as try to fill the black hole inside me. Of course, only part of that hunger has to do with food.

  When I finally look up from stuffing my face, Max is still frozen, watching me. After he catches me looking at him, he chews and swallows what’s in his mouth, his eyes flashing with something that looks a hell of a lot like irritation.

  “Where are the pants?”

  “What?” My speech is muffled by the huge bite of pizza stuffed in my mouth.

  “The pants I put out. You decided to not wear them?”

  I shrug. “They were too big. I
figured the shirt covered the important parts.”

  “Okay,” he says. “No problem.” He swipes the napkin across his mouth before placing it onto the counter. Then he slips off his jacket, throws it onto a nearby stool, and unclips his silver cufflinks before placing them next to the pizza box. While keeping his eyes locked onto me, he removes his tie and slowly begins popping open the black-enamel buttons on his dress shirt.

  The temperature in the apartment suddenly skyrockets.

  It takes effort to swallow as I watch him. “Uh ... what’s happening?”

  “I’m taking off my shirt.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’ve apparently reached the portion of the evening where we get semi-naked to torture the other person.”

  He pulls off his shirt and throws it onto the stool with his jacket, and I’ll admit it, I gape. He looks at me coolly as he goes back to eating, as if he can’t tell I’m being engulfed in the most scorching bout of lust to ever be felt by a human female.

  Sweet Hot-Bodied Moses.

  I’ve seen glimpses of his naked torso before now, but never the whole thing. And here he is, standing there wearing only his slim-cut dinner suit pants and a pissed-off expression, and I can’t remember a single reason why I haven’t licked him yet. I’m so turned on, my entire head could be on fire right now, and I wouldn’t even notice.

  His body is divine. Lean, hard pecs, beautiful arms, abs for days, and those amazing little muscles on the sides of his ribs that you just know would look like tiny waterfalls when he takes a shower.

  I can feel my mouth hanging open, but I don’t have the focus to do anything about it.

  Jesus.

  Who knew eating pizza would require so many muscles to bulge and flex? It’s mesmerizing.

  He notes my expression and smiles while chewing. “Are you done eating, Miss Tate? Or are you just hungry for something else now?” I don’t understand how his face can do absolutely nothing and yet say so much.

  Through sheer unwillingness to let my attraction dictate my actions, I pull my gaze away from him and go back to my pizza, which doesn’t help banish the urge to eat the rest of my pie straight off his abs.