Satisfaction Guaranteed

by Blakely, Lauren

  As I dive into the closing number, an update on “The Curse of an Aching Heart,” made famous by Frank Sinatra, my eyes land on a trio of women in jeans and black tops, likely on a girls’ night out.

  A pretty brunette runs her finger along the rim of her glass and bats her lashes at me. Ah, the telltale sign that tonight could be another lucky night.

  “You made me what I am today. I hope you're satisfied.”

  I’m not saying I sing at Gin Joint a couple times a month to score.

  I’m saying it doesn’t hurt.

  Mic and the piano, the perfect prologue to my first-favorite hobby. But there’s something I want more than sex tonight, so I’m going to be an absolute choirboy when my set draws to a close.

  “That's the curse of an aching heart,” I sing, finishing the tune.

  “Thanks so much for coming tonight. Be sure to keep all your loved ones close. I’m A Good Man, and I’ll see you again sometime.”

  I weave my way through the crowd, and the brunette nibbles on the corner of her lips and offers, “I can break that curse.”

  “Thanks for coming tonight,” I say, setting a hand briefly on her shoulder, then make my way to the bar. I’m giving myself a commendation for good behavior.

  “Whiskey for you,” says my sister, Truly, who owns Gin Joint, as she slides a glass over. “Also, do I need to grab you by the wrists and lead you out of here right away, so you’re not tempted?”

  “Nah. I’m willingly leaving solo.”

  She hums doubtfully and lowers her voice. “I saw the gal making eyes at you. Were they full-on fuck-me eyes or were they flirt-with-me-and-give-me-something-to-think-about-later eyes?”

  I tap my chin, pretending to think. “I do believe they were take-me-to-your-sister’s-office-and-pound-me-against-the-door eyes.”

  I down some of the drink as Truly smacks my shoulder. “Gross. That’s seriously gross. I need to get that image out of my head, stat. Talk about paper clips.”

  I laugh. “Paper clips are a fantastic invention, not only known for their ability to hold pages upon pages together, but also for their ability to float.”

  She blinks. “Wait. Paper clips float? Is it because they’re light?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. It’s because of surface tension. The water molecules hold tight enough to support . . .”

  She waves a hand. “That’s okay. That did the trick.” She presses her palms against the counter. “How is everything looking for the Friday night dinner?”

  I rap the wood for luck. “If all goes well, the practice should be mine, like Doug and I have talked about for years. At last, right?”

  She sighs happily. “We need to celebrate. It’s what Dad always wanted for you.”

  “I know. I’m glad I can finally do it.” This has been the big dream since I left vet school—to finish what my father started. To take the step he couldn’t take.

  “It’s going to be great.” She pours herself a Diet Coke and raises the glass to toast. We clink and each take a drink. “And when it’s all said and done, will you reach out to Sloane again?”

  That name sends a jolt through me. “Sloane?”

  Truly chuckles. “Yes. Sloane,” she says, like she needs to remind me. She doesn’t—the woman hasn’t slipped too far from my mind since that one intense week together that we shared seven years ago. “Sloane, as in the woman you had it bad for once upon a time. The woman you ask me about every time you bump into her, wanting to know if I’ve discovered some giant loophole that would enable you to pursue her, the woman who’s the reason you sing here.”

  I stumble back, like she just blew me over with the force of her gale-strength words. “When you put it like that, I suppose the name does ring a bell.”

  She laughs. “So, will you reach out to her?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Won’t things change once the deal is done? Can’t you finally be Sloane and Malone? Which, by the way, will never not be funny, the rhyming.”

  “It’s a laugh a minute.”

  “So . . .” Her eyes widen.

  I shrug. “Don’t know. Hadn’t thought about it.”

  She leans forward, a twinkle in her blue eyes, a challenging set in her jaw. “Liar.”

  A high-pitched voice cuts in. “Oh my God, are you guys identical twins?”

  Truly rolls her eyes. She is my twin, and because our coloring is so similar—dark-brown hair, midnight-blue eyes—we’ve fielded our fair share of this ridiculous question.

  I jerk my gaze to the questioner—the brunette.

  “It’s just that you have the same hair and everything,” she says, gesturing wildly from Truly to me.

  My sister answers, “Yes, we are. You might have seen us in the Guinness World Records as the world’s first male-female identical twins.”

  Her jaw drops. “That is so cool. I can’t believe I’m meeting identical boy-girl twins. I thought it was always one gender only.”

  I point to my sister. “She had a penis in the womb. It fell off before she was born.”

  Truly tosses a cloth at me while the brunette stares, slack-jawed. “And you became one. One giant dick.”

  “And on that note, I need to go.” I tug Truly in for a quick kiss on the cheek, and then I'm out.

  As I head down the cobblestoned block lined with trees, I unknot my tie, humming “The Curse of an Aching Heart.”

  I’m lost in thought, and then, looking up, I come to a stop.

  I have to rub my eyes.

  I check my surroundings to make sure I haven’t walked into my own dream life. Everything seems abundantly real, from the air I breathe to the ground beneath me.

  And yet this is a fantasy bar none. I’ve definitely dreamed of those legs, that body, that gorgeous face.

  Here she is, walking toward me.

  The one I still wonder about.

  The one who got away.

  3

  Sloane Elizabeth’s Notes to Self on ALL THE THINGS

  What sort of trickery is it for an old flame to appear even more good-looking?

  Surely this is voodoo of the highest order. Some sort of spell, right? What other explanation can there be?

  Malone Goodman, wearing a suit and tie, tailored probably. He belongs on a Pinterest board of hot men in suits.

  Obviously, this is alchemy.

  Just don’t let on.

  Don’t let on about ALL THE THINGS.

  Don't let on that you googled him.

  Don't let on that you checked out his Facebook page.

  And definitely don't let on that you listened to one of his songs.

  You are so not thinking about that right now.

  You are not thinking about that at all.

  It's seven years later, and you don’t still think about what might have been.

  You've got this, girl.

  4

  Some women you never forget.

  Your brain won’t let go of the scent of her skin. Your muscle memory holds the shape of your body curved around hers, and your senses recall the feel of your hands in her hair, your lips on hers.

  It can be months, even a year, since you’ve seen her, longer since you’ve touched her, and everything rushes back in an instant.

  Every damn image collides at once in a traffic jam of sensation. Sounds, sighs, scents. Her back arching, her lips parted, her waterfall of hair cascading over my hands.

  But now, she’s three-dimensional, flesh and bone. I blink all those memories aside, and they take a back seat to the woman in front of me.

  As I drink in the long blonde hair, the chocolate-brown eyes, a body I wanted to get to know so very badly, I’m reminded of one damn near perfect week seven years ago.

  One tempting, tantalizing, torturous week. It’s seared in my mind. We met at a fundraising event in Manhattan, danced, drank, laughed, and stayed out all night. In the seven days that followed, we embodied infatuation. Late nights, lingering calls, chats you never wanted to end.
So many sparks you could light up the night sky.

  I can recall every moment, I swear.

  Including the ending.

  The bitter realization of who she was.

  One more step, then another, and she stops in front of me, looking impossibly sexy, and she was the sexiest woman I’d ever known when she was a mere twenty-two.

  But now? Dear God. She’s not even dressed up. Sloane Elizabeth is decked out in exercise pants, running shoes, and a sporty tank, and I still want to lick and kiss every inch of her. A canvas bag is slung over her shoulder.

  I gesture to it. “You’re still shopping at midnight?”

  “It’s the best time to go.” She raises her hands in fists. “I don’t have to fight anyone over the last head of radicchio.”

  “I bet you don’t have to arm wrestle anyone for radicchio during the daylight hours either.”

  “True,” she says with a laugh, then eyes me up and down. Those brown irises. Those red lips. God, I remember exactly how they taste. She punches my arm, knocking my thoughts from the dirty zone to the buddy level. “How the hell are you, Malone?”

  “I can’t complain. And you? I take it from the grocery bag on your shoulder that you’re living here. Did you move from Connecticut?” She’s lived an hour or so from the city for the last several years, first New Jersey, then Connecticut, so I’ve run into her every now and then. But it’s been a little over a year since the last time.

  “I did. I’m working here now.” She shifts her weight to her left leg, her soulful eyes never leaving my face. “What has it been? A year or so?”

  A year and two months. We bumped into each other at a Moroccan restaurant in Chelsea that Truly dragged me to because the drinks were legendary. Sloane was dining with some hipster wannabe with a dangling earring who was clearly an asshole. Who else wears dangling earrings? She introduced me to him that night. His name was Plant. Or Brick. Or something painfully trendy that made me dislike him even more. She was still living in Connecticut at the time, so she obviously took the train into the city to see him. That tipped the scales to loathing for Dangling Earring Boy, who was also too young for her.

  Her father would have hated him.

  Her father hated everyone she dated.

  He once remarked after she'd stopped by the office that he despised the guy she was seeing. No one was good enough for her, he’d said. I'd arched a brow asking, “No one?”

  He shot bullets with his eyes. "No one, Casanova."

  That was years ago, but it was all he needed to say, especially since he’d already told me not to get any ideas. When the man who signs your paycheck makes it clear his daughter is off-limits, something you already knew by virtue of the fact that BUSINESS PARTNERS’ DAUGHTERS ARE OFF-LIMITS, you listen. You take it to heart.

  I remember his warnings perfectly, just like I remember all the times I’ve seen her. “A year or so ago. Yes. It was something like that,” I say, answering her question. The truth is I could give her chapter and verse of all the times I’ve seen her since we met—the time in Grand Central; the anniversary party her dad threw; an awards ceremony where I was tempted, so damn tempted; and the time she stopped by the office when her dad made the comment. Instead, I gesture to her getup. “So what are you doing in the city these days?”

  “I just started an animal rescue here. About a month ago, and I’m getting it off the ground.”

  I’m surprised her dad hadn’t mentioned it, even though the rescue is in its early days. But a smile takes over my face. “That’s great. You always wanted to.”

  “I did. And I’m glad to do it. It’s hard work, but so rewarding. I’m actually living in Brooklyn, in the tiniest place imaginable. But I was shopping here because I’m staying with a friend in the city tonight. Do you still have Evil Genius?” she asks.

  The sneaky orange senior cat I adopted several years ago skulks through my memory. He was the wiliest cat around, slinking into cupboards and inside cabinets, even in his old age. I had him for the last five years of his life. “Nope. He crossed the rainbow bridge a few years ago. Good cat. He had a nice, long, and happy life.”

  She touches my elbow. “He did. You were good to him, though I’m sorry to hear he’s gone. Is there a new cat in your life?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet.”

  “Such restraint.”

  “I know,” I say with a chuckle.

  “But then, you always did have good restraint.”

  “And so did you.”

  She grins, a little flirty. “One of my great regrets.” Okay, maybe a lot flirty.

  She tips her chin at my jacket, shifting gears immediately. “Nice duds. What are you doing in that suit?”

  I run a hand down the silk of my royal-blue tie. “I sing now at Gin Joint. A few other places too, now and then.”

  Her lips quirk up. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, I decided to take it up. Someone once told me I should.” Ha. Take that, Plant Brick. I bet he doesn’t sing, or wear a suit, or run his own motherfucking business. I bet he can’t remove ovaries from a cat either.

  “I’m glad you listened to that someone. That someone always liked the way you sang,” she says, using her sexy bedroom voice, and I don’t even care if Plant Brick is the regular recipient of that smoky, sexy tone of hers. I’ll enjoy it right now, thank you very much.

  “That someone has excellent taste.”

  Sloane smiles, a bright, gorgeous grin that threatens to rattle loose words. Words like What are you doing right now? and Go home with me.

  “I do have good taste.” Her gaze lingers on my face, her eyes locked with mine. The air between us crackles, and for a moment, we’re the only ones in New York City. “I still do,” she adds.

  Dear God. Plant Brick doesn’t deserve this woman.

  I do.

  I fucking do.

  I step closer and lift a hand, every instinct telling me to haul her into my arms and kiss the breath out of her.

  I don’t, because Truly’s wrong. Sure, the score might technically change when the deal’s done. Her dad won’t be my business partner once he officially asks me to take over the business, as I suspect he’ll do on Friday night.

  But Doug has also been my mentor. We have a long history. He taught me how to run a practice from the ground up. He’s a guiding force in the work I do, and my work is everything. Even if we’re no longer business partners, I have a feeling his daughter would still be off-limits.

  I backpedal, digging my feet into the ground, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my suit pants. “We should . . . have lunch,” I offer, because lunch is harmless.

  “Lunch?” She asks the question as if I’d suggested we take up crocheting. “Really?”

  I decide to make light of it. “What’s wrong with lunch? What did lunch ever do to you?”

  She hums, as if she’s considering it. Then she lowers her voice, like she’s sharing a tawdry secret. “Sometimes lunch disappoints. What if there’s no burger or fries? What if you can’t get the toasted panini of your dreams? Lunch can get you down.”

  “Let’s do breakfast, then. It’s a satisfaction guaranteed kind of meal,” I say, playing along, since I don’t want to say goodnight to her.

  “Do you still love pancakes?”

  “Do I look like the kind of guy who hates pancakes?”

  She studies me once more, her gaze traveling over my clothes. Then she drops the routine. “You don’t look like you hate pancakes. But, Malone, you know exactly why we shouldn’t do that.”

  I do know.

  I know it too well.

  But seeing her tugs on something inside me. Tugs on my desire to finish all our unfinished business. And yeah, it tugs on other parts too. She’s more tempting now than she was the night I met her. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is.

  I drop all the teasing and the innuendo. “You look amazing, Sloane.”

  She gestures to her casual gear. “I’m super fancy too.”
>
  “You never needed fancy clothes to look great.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers, then she runs a hand down my tie for a second before dropping it. “And you are rocking the hell out of that suit. How was your set?”

  “I sang some songs, earned some claps. You should come see me sometime.” There I go again, leaving a morsel I shouldn’t be leaving.

  “Should I?”

  “You should.”

  “Will you get me a backstage pass?”

  “You hardly need one, but I’d be happy to go to the nearest FedEx and mock one up for you.”

  “Will it say A Good Man Groupie?”

  A devilish smirk takes over my face. “You know my stage name.” This delights me immeasurably.

  A fierce blush speeds over her cheeks. “Fine. I looked you up,” she says softly under her breath, as if the admission costs her something.

  I lean forward, and even though it’s been a while since I’ve checked her out online, I throw in my confession too. “Moment of truth: I look you up sometimes too.”

  “Is that so?” Her voice is breathy with a hint of longing.

  “It is very much so. I’m a visual guy. I enjoy the photos.”

  “Any in particular?”

  “All in particular.”

  She bites her lip, lowers her face. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

  But she doesn’t seem like she wishes that. She doesn’t seem like she misses her dangling earring friend too much either. Nor do I.

  Maybe it’s the moonlight.

  Maybe it’s the sheer surprise of running into her tonight.

  Or maybe it’s just that she’s as irresistible now as she was seven years ago.

  I reach for her face, lift up her chin, and meet her gaze. “Sloane Elizabeth, you’re still the most alluring woman I’ve ever met.”

  They’re only words. I don’t have to act on them. But saying them feels so fucking good. Hell, saying them is a massive turn-on.

  Because of how she reacts.

  How she trembles under my touch.