by Measha Stone
“You don’t seem the type to consider failure as an option.” She climbed onto the steps of her apartment building.
“Failure is always an option. Just not the best one.” He leaned against the railing, a step below her. Their positioning brought their eyes level. “I’m not concerned I won’t be a good fit for the position.”
“Ah, you’re not sure if the job is the right fit for you.” She glanced at the neighboring building where a couple walked down to the street together. The woman, a beautiful brunette, walked with a small, almost unnoticeable limp, as though she felt tender with her movements. The man walked behind her as a cab pulled to the curb, then skipped ahead, opening the door.
He slid his hand under her hair, cupping her head, and pulled her to his lips. They exchanged a passionate kiss, which he broke, causing her to frown in disappointment. He laid a hand on a pendant she wore around her neck and said something Jessica couldn’t make out. The woman’s lips spread in wide smile—raw joy—as though his words hugged her.
Jessica heard the woman say, “Yes, sir. Thank you,” before she sank into the cab. The man paid the driver and waved to her as the cab drove away.
“Jessica…Jessica…” Royce’s voice brought her attention to him.
“I’m…wow. I’m sorry. I was…” She watched the man jog up his steps and into his building. Was he whistling?
“You were eavesdropping on that couple.” Royce’s eyes glistened with amusement, his lips curving.
She paused, thinking of a good excuse, but came up with nothing.
She laughed. “I was. It’s just…they seemed so entwined with each other.”
“Some couples are actually happy together,” he pointed out.
“She didn’t call him by his name. She called him ‘sir.’ Isn’t that an odd thing to call your lover?” she asked, using her forefinger to push a lock of hair behind her ear.
Royce’s expression changed. Grew darker. The laughter died out of his eyes, leaving a shadow over his features, her words struck a nerve.
“No, it’s not odd at all. To some, it’s as endearing as calling him honey or sweetheart—perhaps more intimate than even those.” His voice was smooth, firm, and controlled. She swung her eyes to the door of the man’s apartment and then to Royce.
“I should probably get inside. I’m getting cold. Thanks for walking me home.” She nodded and started up the stairs.
“You aren’t one for hugs and such.”
She stopped mid-step. “That’s a weird thing to say.” Facing him, she slid her hands into her pockets. Just because he’d been on target didn’t mean she needed to give him credit for it.
“Not really. I noticed when we left the restaurant you didn’t hug anyone goodbye, and Alex’s kiss made you feel awkward.”
She didn’t know what to say to him. He was right. “Not every woman likes to be hugged and kissed all the time,” she shot back, and he smiled, though not with humor. It was a knowing smile, as if she’d answered a question he’d been contemplating.
“You’re right.” He pushed off the railing. “Do you think we could have dinner together? Tomorrow maybe?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t know.”
“I’m not proposing marriage. I’m asking you to dinner.” He smirked, that damn dimple taunting her.
“Just dinner?” She shouldn’t even contemplate it. Dinner could turn into something more, something…complicated.
He chuckled. “Yes, just dinner. I won’t be proposing marriage then either,” he promised lightheartedly.
She hesitated. He worked with Alex. Nothing more than a casual friendship could ever develop between them, but turning him down would be rude. Royce was new to town and looking for some company. She’d be doing him a favor really.
“Sure. One less night of Ramen noodles is fine with me,” she answered, waving her hand in the air like it was no big deal. Because their evening together couldn’t be anything more than a shared meal.
“You know, you’re not as complicated as you would like everyone to believe, Jessica.” He paused. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Before she could respond, he turned and walked away. She watched him for a moment, then ran up the steps to the safety of her apartment. She needed distance, space—somewhere he couldn’t read her thoughts so damn easily.
Royce walked into his two-bedroom apartment, unsure of what he might find when he turned on the lights. The woman he’d spoken of at dinner had been a more serious breakup than he’d let on. She hadn’t taken the split well and was still trying to persuade him to take her back.
Melody hadn’t been a flimsy dalliance, but she was not what he wanted for the rest of his life either. The time had come when he’d had to break off their relationship because she needed more than he was able to give. The job offer in Chicago could not have come at a more convenient time. Unfortunately, Melody found out from a mutual friend where he had landed and began sending “housewarming” gifts once a week.
When he called to thank her for the first gift, a new set of wine glasses, he kept the conversation short. He deliberately called during her lunch break, knowing she’d have to run into a meeting shortly after the call began. He sent a thank you card after the second gift—a set of martini glasses—assuring her no more gifts were required. The third gift, a set of shot glasses, generated no reply from him at all.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he turned on the lights and didn’t see a missed delivery slip on the floor. He tossed his keys on the nearest table and went to the bedroom in search of something more comfortable to wear.
He didn’t know what to make of Jessica, other than he found himself drawn to her. Her attempt to remain aloof and offer him indifference had failed. He’d noticed the tapping of her fingers on the table. On several occasions, her gaze had drifted to him, but quickly shot away as though she’d wanted to survey him, wanting to see what he was up to, but forcing herself to keep her eyes anywhere else.
The peck Alex gave her before he left had made her uncomfortable. She’d wiped the kiss from her cheek as soon as he’d turned away. The situation appeared awkward, as though her brother had just made a pass at her. She wasn’t one for open affection, no hugs to any of her friends as she left, just a simple wave of her hand. But her controlled features had warmed at the sight of the couple outside her apartment building. She had watched the passionate embrace intently, and she’d listened with keen precision as the woman spoke to her lover.
What an odd thing to call your lover, she had said.
How beautiful her voice would sound when she called him “Sir” for the first time.
Chapter 2
The cool winds of fall swirled leaves in miniature tornado fashion on the sidewalk. Jessica stood on her steps, hugging her jacket closed. She debated going up into her apartment to grab a scarf but decided against it. He would be there any moment, and she did not want Royce in her apartment.
Keeping things casual would be the best thing for them both. Dinner as friends. Nothing more, nothing less. She wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend, her plan was to remain as platonic as possible. He seemed to be a respectable man; he’d honor her choice. She only wished the weather would cooperate with her decision to wait outside.
“Hey!” Royce’s voice called out. He walked down the street toward her, not in a cab like she had expected. She stepped down and greeted him.
His clothing indicated he had the same idea as her about being casual. He wore jeans—very nicely—as well as a cotton shirt peeking out from where he left the top button of his coat undone. His hair had a carefree disheveled appearance, like he’d combed his fingers through a few times and left the rest to chance. The severe business look he had at their first meeting was gone. This Royce was even more handsome— tempting and dangerous.
“Am I late?” He checked his watch.
“No. No. I just wanted some fresh air,” she lied.
He looked her over with a blank expr
ession, making her fidget under his scrutiny.
“That’s one.” He held up a single gloved finger in the air, his left eyebrow raised. “Okay, let’s go.” He smiled, turned on his heel, and began walking.
She stared after him for a moment, then rushed to catch up. “Where are we going?” she asked as she met his stride.
“My place. Did you bring gloves?” He took a pair of knit gloves from his coat pocket and handed them to her before she answered.
“Thanks.” She slid her fingers into the warmth and stuffed her hands into her pockets. They walked in silence for two blocks before turning down a third. She wasn’t sure about heading to his place. Dinner was supposed to be friendly—nothing serious. And what did he mean by “that’s one”?
“Just there.” He pointed down the street toward a high-rise apartment building.
She stopped mid step to take in the beautiful building. The marble tiling of the lobby fed her love of the gothic architecture slowly fading from the city. Lights shone from random windows, giving the building the emblematic downtown appearance.
“You okay?” He stopped walking and turned toward her.
“Yeah, it’s just…well…never mind.” She shook her head and caught up to him again. “Don’t you want to go out for dinner? You don’t have to cook for me.”
“Restaurants are too impersonal, this way we’ll have some privacy. And I love cooking. Good evening, Robert,” he greeted the doorman as they walked through the door.
“Privacy for what?” She allowed caution to ease into her tone.
“Talking. It’s just dinner, remember?” He flashed her a smile as he pressed the button for the elevator. They rode in silence. Numbers flashed at each floor, but she only noticed how close he stood to her. Their fingers would touch if she moved slightly to the right. She wondered about his fingers, how they would feel on her skin, taste on her lips.
“Just across the hall.” He motioned when the doors slid open. Clearing her throat, she followed his directions.
His apartment was enormously luxurious. Her one-bedroom condo could learn a thing or two from this apartment.
“I started cooking already. I just need to get the chicken out of the oven. Can I get you a glass of wine?” He helped remove her coat and hung it up in the front closet.
“Uh, sure.” Still standing in the front hall, she admired the abstract art pieces on the wall while he disappeared. “It’s weird how close we live,” she remarked when he returned, handing her a glass of white wine.
“Weird in a good way.” He winked at her and headed back to the kitchen.
She stood there for another moment. He was becoming more interesting and terrifying as the night progressed. He’d thought of bringing her gloves in case she had forgotten hers—which she had. His glances wrapped around her when they spoke, as though he were circling her, waiting to strike. Sensations of fear and comfort mingled, stalling her thoughts.
Taking a relaxing breath, she followed the warm aroma to the kitchen. If she was going to make it through the evening, she would need to stop analyzing everything. Just go with the flow. Casual, stick to casual.
She leaned against the doorway, watching him pull a tray of chicken from the oven and setting it on the countertop. Everything in his apartment seemed to be state of the art. The stove alone would most likely cost her a month’s salary.
“I hope you aren’t too impressed. The apartment came fully furnished,” he said by way of explanation. “I couldn’t put two pieces of clothing together properly if I had to, much less decorate an entire apartment.”
“You seem to do a fine job of dressing yourself.” Her cheeks flushed as soon as the words fell from her lips. “I mean you don’t dress unfashionably.” There. Fixed.
“Thanks…I think.” He slipped the oven mitt from his hand, looking beautiful even while standing in the kitchen. His shirt hugged his biceps, but she didn’t think he would be able to find one that didn’t fit him in such a way. The firmness of his stomach could be seen through the front of it. The narrowness of his hips…
She swallowed hard and pushed away from the doorway before her imagination got the best of her. There were a few drawbacks at being skeptical of the opposite sex. Spending nights alone was one of them.
“And you can cook,” she said more to distract herself than to add to the conversation.
“Yes. My mother taught me how to make one really good meal.” He grinned at her as he plated the chicken.
“Would you like some help?” She looked away from his stare. She wasn’t sure why his undivided attention affected her in such a way, but it made her face flush every time.
“Nope. All done. The dining room is right through there.” He pointed to the second door of the kitchen.
“Have a seat in the chair farthest from the kitchen, and I’ll bring in the food. Pour the wine; the bottle is on the table.” His tone succeeded at casual where she’d been faltering, but she sensed a deeper meaning lingered beneath his words.
An open bottle of pinot sat on the table next to an empty wine glass. She refilled her glass and filled the empty one for him, placing it at the end of the table. A second place-setting was at the other end, and she put her wine beside her plate. Sure, the distance wouldn’t get in the way of their ability to talk, but she still found herself a little disappointed she wouldn’t be close to him.
Once she was seated, Royce entered the room with two plates. He placed one before her, and the delicious aroma of lemon chicken floated through the air.
“Thank you for pouring.” He took his seat across the table, shook out the napkin, and draped it over his lap. What would it be like to sit on his lap—to have his arms wrapped around her while she snuggled into his chest? She forced her focus to the meal. Those thoughts would only get her into trouble. She needed to play it safe. Eating should be safe enough.
She watched him begin his meal and followed suit.
“This is wonderful. I haven’t had lemon chicken since I lived at home.”
“You don’t visit home much?” he questioned.
“No.” She shook her head and reached for her wine.
“Why not?”
“No reason to.” She sipped the pinot. “How about you? Any family here? If I remember correctly, you said you were from around here originally.” She turned the topic before he asked any more questions about her family—one of many topics she wanted to avoid. Too much drama and history. She didn’t need to trudge through that mud. Casual. Friendly. Nothing serious. That was the night’s theme.
“My parents both passed away shortly after I moved to New York. They were my only family here. They originally came from Montana, but I never knew any of the relatives they left behind.” He wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin.
“I’m sorry.”
“About what?” His brow wrinkled.
“Your parents.”
“It was a few years ago. A car accident.” He stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork. “So, your family lives here?”
“Just my mom. She’s about thirty minutes north of the city. My parents are divorced. Dad moved to Ohio with his mistress—now fiancée. My sister married and relocated to Europe. Her husband’s in the military. And my brother took off to California to chase some surfer chick.” She avoided his eyes while handing over the information, unsure why she just broke her own rule. Her father’s infidelity hadn’t just ended his marriage, it had split their family apart. Karen couldn’t get on a plane fast enough, and Robert barely stopped to say goodbye on his way out of town. Jessica’s move to the city had been her escape. Her mother didn’t need her children—having them around her only seemed to worsen her depression over the affair. Constant reminders of the life she’d lost when her husband packed his bags and walked out.
“Do you see your mom often?” he prodded.
“No.” She pushed her food around. “Too busy pining after a love that didn’t last.” The fork pinged against the plate as she dropped
it.
“Well,” he sighed heavily, “aren’t we depressing?” He took a swig of wine and grinned. The dimple made its appearance, and she wondered if it would show up on his cheek while kissing.
The idea of his lips pressed against hers made her body react; a familiar tingling in her panties. Shoving the idea of anything more substantial than dinner from her mind, she refocused on his words instead of his lips.
They finished their meal with small talk about upcoming events in the city. She mentioned a few writer groups he might enjoy. His pleasure was expressed with more than a simple grateful grin. Her memory of his original goal of becoming a writer seemed to appeal to him.
“Did you ever dream of being something besides a paralegal?” He picked up his dish and brought it to the kitchen. He nodded to her plate, giving her an unspoken request to follow him.
“I stopped dreaming a long time ago.” She rinsed her dish in the sink and laid it gently on top of his.
“Before you stopped,” he pressed, handing her a towel to dry her hands.
“When I started college, I majored in English. I wanted to be either a high school English teacher or an editor at some huge publishing house in New York,” she admitted with a laugh.
“What changed?” He scraped the last of the potatoes into a Tupperware container. He looked so natural working in the kitchen, doing ordinary things. It gave her a sense of comfort, of home.
“I don’t know.” Her smile faded, and she shoved away from the counter to retrieve her wine glass from the dining room.
“That’s two,” he said as she walked back into the kitchen.
She slid the empty glass into the top rack of the dishwasher.
“What’s two? What was one?” she asked with obvious annoyance in her voice. One minute, she managed to keep the night secured safely in the friendzone, but then his voice, or his gaze, would shatter her resolve and have her acting against her own rules.