Her eyes darken as she stares at me. “Is that so? Am I like champagne?” It’s a challenge. A throwdown, it seems, as she sends me back in time to the evening we met.
“You’re a champagne kind of woman. A good glass of champagne delights all your senses. It tickles your nose, and it goes to your head, and it makes you just the right kind of buzzed,” I say, telling her what I told her that night, feeling nearly as buzzed on her now as I did then.
She swallows, looks away, then back to me, taking a deep breath as if she’s centering herself. “Malone, I can’t stand here on the street and flirt with you. You can’t just bump into me and make yourself irresistible again.”
My lips curve up. My skin sizzles. “Am I? Irresistible?”
“You know you were.”
“Were. Are. Which one?”
She sets a hand on my chest. “You were. You are. And nothing has technically changed.”
“I’m well aware of that. And yet I still like pancakes.”
“Same here.” It’s barely a whisper.
She rises on tiptoe and drops a searing, sugar-sweet kiss on my lips. She tastes like honey and fire, and the mere brush of her lips on mine is electric. My bones crackle and hum. For a few intense seconds, I deepen the kiss. As I capture her mouth, she melts against me like she used to.
But she breaks the kiss and curls a hand around my shoulder. “If I stand here any longer, the next thing we know, we’ll be having pancakes.” She lets go of me, shoves her bag up her shoulder, and turns the other way.
“Breakfast. I’m going to call you,” I say.
She waves without looking back.
I walk away too, because she’s right.
She’s not a woman I can call. She’s a woman I need to resist, even when she’s no longer my business partner’s daughter.
And that kiss was more of a goodbye than a hello.
5
Sloane Elizabeth’s Voice Memo to Self on ONE PARTICULAR THING
Okay, so we’ve established a few things now.
You clearly don’t have the antidote yet to the too-sexy-hot-sweet-seductive-clever-witty old flame. Find that. Like, now. Get on that, right away.
But take a deep breath.
All in all, you did fine.
Well, maybe fine isn’t the right adjective. Fine is a B-minus. Your grade was more like a C on the test of self-restraint. Actually, a D-plus. A D-plus says you sucked . . . but you sucked with style.
The only reason you didn’t fail is that you didn’t completely reveal every single detail of your rich inner life when it comes to that man.
Why don’t you just tell him he inspired a pair of socks you designed too? The ones with the words You’re Irresistible and You Know It on them.
Just keep that tidbit close to the chest, okay?
Maybe you should make a new pair for yourself—Resist. Resist Harder This Time.
It's not a huge deal that you revealed you stalk him. And hey, he keeps tabs on you too. You’re just a couple of stalkers.
And damn, that stalker can kiss.
We’re talking the weak-in-the-knees, flip-of-the-belly, tingles-down-the-arms style of smooching.
Just don't do it again.
Also, you’re out of milk. Get some at the store, along with Cinnamon Life cereal. Sublimate with that. Tastes just as good as a hot kiss.
’Kay, thanks, bye. You’re awesome, self.
6
At long last, Friday rolls around.
I’m as antsy as a feisty Chihuahua, a bundle of live wires all through the workday.
When the day ends, I close up and make a beeline for the gym for a quick workout. After I shower, I put on my best slacks and a freshly pressed shirt. Popping in earbuds, I play my lucky Sinatra playlist as I leave, walking among the Friday evening Manhattan crowd on my way to meet Doug at his favorite spot for dinner—Portnoy’s, a tavern on the Upper East Side. As the crowd thins, I switch off “Strangers in the Night” and put in a call to my mother, who answers on the third ring.
“No, Cole. Leave it. Leave it on the deck. Leave it now.”
She’s talking to the dog. My mother is always talking to dogs. With a father who was a vet and a mom who took in strays, it’s not as if I had a lot of choice in my profession. And that’s just fine with me.
“Good boy. Good boy, Cole. You’re so handsome. You’re the most handsome boy I’ve ever known.”
“What am I? Chopped liver?” I ask, managing to get a word in edgewise.
“You’re my smart one,” she answers diplomatically. Then her voice rises. “And you’re the best boy, Porter. The absolute best.”
Yup, we’ve got the handsome boy, the best boy, and the smart one. I have no illusions about the pack order. “It’s a good thing I’m well adjusted, or I might resent your secret preference for dogs over your own son.”
“Oh, please. Don’t be silly. I don’t harbor any secret favoritism of the pups.” She pauses. “It’s blatant.”
“Indeed it is.” I sidestep a throng of long-legged women huddled over phones as I head to the restaurant. “I’m off to my dinner now with Doug.”
“Ooh, is that tonight?”
“He said he had big news about the practice to discuss, and he’s been cutting back his hours in the last year. I even went ahead and prepped the paperwork. Just to get ahead of the game. Be ready, and all that.”
“You were always two steps ahead on everything. That’s wise, to be prepared.”
“Exactly. As soon as we firm up the details, I can move forward with all the specifics.”
“Your dad would be so proud. It’s what he’s always wanted for you. What he wanted for himself. And you’re doing it.” Her voice tightens, but just as quickly she softens. He’s been gone long enough that the pain has lessened for her, for all of us. It’s background pain. Present, but not too intense.
“I wouldn’t have been able to do this without what he’d taught me . . . or without your support.”
“Let me know how it goes. I’m sure it’s going to be great,” she says. “And get your butt out here to celebrate this weekend!”
“Love you, Mom. I’ll catch the first train to Warwick in the morning.”
I stuff the phone into my back pocket, turn into the restaurant, and say a quick prayer that this is the start of the next phase of my career. The one I’ve been wanting since I was still hitting high notes when I sang.
Doug is parked at the bar, his salt and pepper hair slicked back, nursing a gin and tonic.
He’s twenty-five years my senior. The man who gave me my first big chance. I owe a ton to this guy. Doug, though he has his faults, has been impeccable at business. I respect the hell out of him. That’s why I had to stay away from Sloane, even though I had no clue she was his daughter when I started seeing her. They don’t have the same last name.
He stands, claps me on the back, and says hello, telling me the conference he just went to was the best. Everything is the best for Doug. He glances around the wood-paneled restaurant with high-backed red booths. “Want to know why I love this place so much?”
“Tell me.”
“Because I never took any of my wives here.” Wives being the operative word. He’s had enough to need all the fingers on one hand to count.
“So it’s the man zone, then,” I say, peering around.
He smacks the bar for emphasis. “Not a single one of them,” he says, as if proud of this accomplishment. “A man needs to keep some places sacrosanct from the women in his life. It wasn’t easy, but I kept all four away.”
I force out a laugh. “And how’s it going with the fifth?”
“Helena’s my favorite. She’s the only one who’s been here, but then, she’s the keeper among the bunch. She’s been instrumental in so many things.”
“Such as?”
He signals for the tab. “We’ll get to that. Let’s get a table, Malone. I’ve done all my best deals here. This place and me—we’re tight.”
I smile dee
p inside my soul. May ours be the next great deal he inks here.
The hostess shows us to a booth near the back, tells Doug she’ll transfer the tab, then hands us the wine list.
As he scans the offerings, Doug clears his throat. “How do you think things are going with the practice? Did everything go well when I was at the conference this week?”
“Everything was great. We’re running at top levels of efficiency and client care,” I say, since that was one of my goals when he made me a junior partner—give our patients the time they deserve, but don’t make the next appointment have to wait too long. “The staff is great. Jonathan and Sam are top-notch at moving the day along.”
Could this conversation be going any better? This is clearly the start to the next chapter in our clinic.
“I couldn’t agree more. And you’ve done an amazing job in seven years,” he says, and the mention of the time frame is a sharp reminder of what started and ended seven years ago when I spotted the photo of Sloane on his desk at my job interview. When he told me, Don’t get any ideas.
I wiped all ideas out of my head then.
The waiter pops by and asks if we want a drink.
“A bottle of your best cabernet sauvignon,” Doug says with the kind of authority a silver fox can command.
Mentally, I pump a fist. Doug loves red. It’s his celebration drink of choice. He always gets the best red to deliver the best news.
The waiter tells us he’ll be right back, and Doug returns seamlessly to the conversation. “As I was saying, you’ve done a hell of a lot. Your father would be proud of you. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
“And I want you to have all the things you’ve been working toward.”
Damn, I won’t be able to contain my excitement if it keeps on like this.
The waiter brings the wine and uncorks it. He pours a small amount into a fat glass. Doug picks it up and tastes, then declares it fantastic. The waiter pours some for me, sets down menus, and leaves.
Doug raises a glass. “Let’s toast.”
Fuck yeah.
I raise mine, waiting for him to make the next move.
He lifts his glass higher, and we clink. “To another year together.”
All the air leaks out of me. “Excuse me?” I stumble on my words.
“Let’s drink to one more year.”
“Oh. Well. I thought you were retiring? You’ve cut back your hours significantly. You’ve been talking about retiring.” All the freaking time.
“You’re eager to see me go?” He arches one brow.
I shake my head quickly, needing to cover up any enthusiasm I might have shown. “No, I just thought, well, since you’re not there as much, and you’ve been playing golf more . . .”
“There’s plenty of life in this old dog. The ticker is strong.” He taps his sternum. “Energizer Bunny and all. Must be all the horizontal activity I partake in. It’s good cardio, you know. Keeps a man young and fit.”
I groan inside. “I’m sure,” I say, doing my best to present a cheery front.
“In any case, we’ve got another year together, and I’m confident this year will be the best one.”
“Why’s that?” I’m strangling on my own fucking shock. This is not how tonight was supposed to go.
“Because my daughter, Sloane, is going to be working with us.”
7
Sloane Elizabeth’s Voice Memo to Self on ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
Be cool.
Be calm.
The man is helping in the most amazing way.
Lord knows, you need it now. You need it for the cats and the dogs and your own damn dreams. He’s making them possible.
Just walk into dinner like the strong, sharp, kick-ass woman you are. Be grateful, be humble, and don’t let on to Daddy that you want to bang his business partner.
Darling Daddy would not like that for his sweet, innocent daughter.
Sigh. That’s how daddies see their little girls.
You are so not innocent.
Not with the thoughts you’ve been having.
8
Perhaps I am dense.
Maybe I’m clueless.
Certainly, my ex-girlfriend Lucy tried to hang the clueless gold chain around my neck. The time she dragged me to Bed Bath & Beyond to shop for towels then asked which ones I liked for our apartment.
I’d flinched. “Our apartment? But we don’t live together.”
She’d rolled her eyes and flashed a knowing smile. “Why else did you think I wanted to take you towel shopping? You’re so adorably clueless.”
At that point, I picked up on her clues loud and clear, and nixed things before she made a copy of my key and moved in late at night while I was sleeping.
But this seems a little different than Lucy’s off-hand comment. This seems like maybe, in retrospect, I might have jumped the gun.
Still, all the signs pointed to Doug telling me he wanted me to take over the practice, not him telling me his gorgeous, smart, sexy daughter is evidently going into business with us.
Talk about whiplash.
He gestures toward the door. “I think you’ve met once or twice, and I invited Sloane to join us tonight.”
I turn around, my heart squeezing with a myriad of what the fuck do I do now emotions as Sloane walks to our table as if on cue, looking as fascinating, as beautiful, as alluring as she did the night I met her seven years ago. I’d been singing karaoke at the fundraiser, and I’d nearly stopped in the middle of Isn’t It Romantic?, jumped off the stage, and made sure she didn’t leave. She stayed though, and it wasn’t even her beauty that demanded my attention, though of course I noticed her face. It was something in her eyes. A sparkle, a glint. Something intriguing that said there was so much more to her than the surface, and I had to know what was beneath.
Every time I’ve seen her since, it’s the same. The light’s on her, only her.
Like it was the other night on the street when she kissed me.
My dick stirs at the memory. Well, dicks do like kisses. All kinds of kisses.
That’s really fucking inconvenient—a semi when I need to stand up, say hello, and act like I don’t want to do bad things to her.
Not as inconvenient, though, as the rug being pulled out from under me.
“Nice to see you again, Sloane,” I say, stripping my voice to a monotone as I extend a hand.
She shakes. “Good to see you again too, Malone.”
We’re so business-like. I’m looking forward to receiving my Oscar for nonchalance.
“Your names rhyme,” Doug remarks. “That’s amusing.”
“Yes, it sure is,” I say, and honestly, isn’t the rhyming names proof enough that nothing should ever happen with us? Sloane and Malone sounds dippy.
Doug rubs his hands together. “Let’s dive into things, and then we can order. Sloane, why don’t you start with what we discussed earlier today?”
She squares her shoulders. “It’s always been my dream to save all the animals, so I started an animal rescue. It’s been going well.” She knocks on the table. “But you know how hard it is to stay afloat in that business. Well, I presume you do.”
“I get it. It’s tough,” I say, since it’s not an easy field to be in, but it’s such a vital one.
Doug wraps an arm around his daughter’s shoulders, and I wince a little bit at the reminder of who she is to him. Just, you know, his offspring.
“She’s been running it from a little storefront in Brooklyn, and the rent is going up, and the landlord is terrible. I thought we could bring her in-house, and we’ll handle all the spays and neuters. It’ll come from my cut,” he says, and he’s thought of nearly everything.
And clearly this is all he’s been thinking about discussing at dinner. Not my future hopes and dreams.
“I don’t mind providing free spay and neuter,” I say, still flummoxed that my expectations were knocked to their knees tonight. Wait, make that knocked to th
eir ass.
“Nonsense. I’ll take care of it. I insist. But I do hope you’ll be okay with Sloane running the operation from my office,” he continues. “It’s all foster-based, with no animals kept on-site. They’re all placed with volunteers who foster them till they’re adopted, so it’s not a question of space. I should have asked you first, but honestly, I was so damn excited.”
He should have mentioned it to me, but he’s still the senior partner. He started the practice years ago. He hired me as an employee seven years ago and brought me on as a junior partner three years later. But at the end of the day, he’s still the big kahuna.
He still has more say.
But what was her say? Did she know about this plan the other night? Was her kiss designed to soften me up?
Well, it didn’t work.
It made me hard instead. So there.
Doug shares more details then asks if this is all okay.
“Sure.” What else can I say that doesn’t make me sound like a supreme douche? Besides, I have to admit—it’s a great idea for her rescue, and as someone whose father dreamed of going into business with his son once upon a time, I understand why he’d want this too.
Sloane smiles, and it’s full of gratitude. Maybe relief too. “Thank you. I was so worried Best Friends wasn’t going to make it. This gives us a shot in the arm for the next year, and I’m confident I can have everything built up and solid by then.”
Doug lifts the bottle. “Why don’t you have a glass of wine, and let’s all toast together?”
She shakes him off. “You know I don’t like red.”
He arches an eyebrow. “You don’t like red?”
“She prefers champagne,” I cut in, and then I want to smack myself. How the hell would I know that from the occasional run-in with her? I only know it because of our time together.
Doug doesn’t notice though.
“Let me get you some white instead.” He flags down the waiter and asks for a glass of chardonnay.
The waiter brings it over, and the three of us raise our glasses. I take a hearty swallow. Hell, maybe I ought to get drunk tonight. Nothing makes disappointment go down quite like alcohol.
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