25. I Still Havent Found What Im Looking For, U2
"I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," U2
Victoria
Glancing through the foyer’s front window, I smoothed Kate’s magic dress as I waited for Lawrence’s BMW. Our second date had gone well, polite small talk over ravioli and Chianti—well, he’d had ravioli, the restaurant hadn’t had anything gluten-free so I’d had a salad.
If things went well, I’d invite him to Richard’s 80th birthday party next weekend. It was short notice, but he’d be a fool not to rearrange his schedule to meet an industry icon. One meeting could launch his entire career … and prevent me from facing those judgmental faces alone.
My phone buzzed, and I knew what it would say:
Lawrence
I’m sorry, a surprise popped up. Rain check?
My shoulders slumped. I couldn’t invite him now, it would seem desperate. Alexander's absence had thrown off my plans, but I’d had a backup option. Lawrence was bland, but he would have been a decent shield.
I closed my eyes, imagining the Forbes cover again.
No strapping man to lean on his broad shoulders.
Just me. Alone.
Staring straight into the camera, like looking down the barrel of a gun.
I winced, imagining Beverly’s smug smile when I showed up alone. The only silver lining was that Spencer would be in London.
I’d avoided these family functions when I lived in California, blaming flight schedules. Dodging events became infinitely harder living here. But Dad told me that Sinclair Larsson was at a precarious moment, imploring me to swallow my pride in support of my grandfather.
I gathered my wits, planning to retreat to my apartment and order a dress so stunning that nobody would notice my solitude … and came face-to-face with the last person I wanted to see: Eric, mopping the foyer floor.
It was one thing to meet him for morning runs. He handed me a headphone, prepared with a new daily playlist and different path to explore the city. We quizzed each other on music trivia as he reminded me to drop my shoulders and lengthen my stride.
It was quite another to bump into him while actively being ghosted.
“Bad news?” he asked, leaning on his mop. He wore khakis and the building polo that pulled across his chest, his hair pulled back into a bun but for a few face-framing strands.
“Change of plans,” I said blankly, brushing past him and punching the up button with unnecessary force. The elevator floor indicator counted down to my freedom from this embarrassment.
“It’s a crime for a dress that sexy to go back in your closet unseen. Let me take that dress out. You can come too.”
I bit back a grin he hadn’t fully earned. “Fine.”
After he changed into torn jeans and a black t-shirt, we left the building. I stepped carefully to keep my heels out of the brick sidewalk in front of Donnelly's. The black-framed windows revealed dark walls lit by golden pendant lights. I’d scanned their cocktail menu—and realized I'd been looking forward to the bourbon Manhattan more than the small talk.
And my gaze caught on a familiar face waiting at the hostess station …
Lawrence, with his arm around a brunette’s waist.
My footsteps faltered. Eric steadied my elbow. “Is that him?”
I tried to continue down the sidewalk, to escape the blow to my pride.
“What a freaking moron, passing on the filet for a cheeseburger,” Eric scowled. He interlaced our fingers and walked straight to Lawrence’s date, flashing his brilliant smile. “Susan! I thought you were in Spain.”
Scratch that: I didn’t just want to escape. I wanted to set myself on fire, to burn it all to the ground. And Eric brought me in here to confront the problem. I wanted to pour gasoline on his superhuman smile to bring him into the blaze.
“Took an early flight home," Susan said. "Cruz, this is Larry, my husband.”
Husband. My date was this woman’s husband.
My vision tunneled to Susan’s cushion cut diamond.
Memory snapshots slammed into me like a freight train.
Feeling triumphant about finishing top of my class at Yale Business School.
Leaving New Haven early to surprise him.
Taking the train straight to Sinclair Larsson.
Noticing his secretary’s vacant desk.
Letting myself into his office.
His secretary bent over his desk, expression worried.
Spencer meeting my gaze.
A flash of surprise before his light green eyes turned cruel …
Replaced by ecstasy as he finished.
Tucking back into his pants without discarding a condom.
Smacking her ass to dismiss her.
His hands on my biceps, tight enough to bruise.
You’re my wife, but you’ve been at school. Men have needs .
Tearing out of his grasp.
Escaping past his secretary, her head bowed to avoid eye contact.
Power walking to my office as I held back a sob.
Staring at the seven-carat cushion-cut diamond on my hand.
Richard’s first wife’s diamond. My grandmother Patricia’s ring.
Being summoned to my grandfather’s office.
Spencer, flanked by his father and my father.
Four imposing white men, towering over me.
Richard imploring me to make the right choice for our family.
Because this business was my family. My future. My legacy.
Spencer’s father’s reminder that I was Victoria Sinclair Larsson now.
My future children’s reputation was dependent on my discretion.
Spencer’s smug expression, arms crossed, waiting for me to crack.
Richard yelling, “Talk sense into your daughter, Arthur.”
Meeting my father’s calm gaze, reassured by his fortitude.
Dad's whisper: “You know what to do, Princess.”
A touch on my back startled me. “You okay, baby?” Eric asked softly as his large palm on my lower back grounded me in reality.
I jolted, blinking at the much smaller ring, then up to Lawrence’s shamed face, I pulled on a mask of indifference. “I’m fine.”
Eric tucked away his concern, slipping his arm around my waist. “Larry, have you met my girl Victoria?”
Lawrence shifted, probably wondering if I would throw him under the bus—and even now, his slimy gaze slid down the low-cut magic dress. Eric’s grip tightened but stayed firmly in the friend zone around my ribs.
“We’ve worked together. Good to see you, Lawrence,” I said, holding my hand palm down as if expecting him to kiss my ring.
If I still had a ring.
Eric squeezed my waist, enjoying the discomfort he was sowing. I pasted on a pleasant smile to Susan, grateful for her ‘change of plans’ so I didn’t unwittingly sleep with her husband, the lying, cheating son of a bitch.
Seemingly oblivious, Eric forced his goofiest grin, his voice saccharine. “Tonight’s full of surprises, huh? When I found out Victoria was free I jumped at the chance to take her out, which is why I’m underdressed,” he gestured to his torn jeans.
When I tilted to Eric, rage flashed across his face.
“Eric, sweetheart,” I said, tapping twice on his pec in a request to drop it. “We should let them enjoy their dinner.”
He flicked his fingers in a subtle ‘I’m watching you’ gesture to Lawrence, who followed the hostess before we were led to our own table. The backlit bar cast a romantic glow over the small candlelit tables arranged intimately around a small stage. When I'd met Eric here months ago, these tables had been cleared for a dance floor—nothing like this awkwardly romantic space.
Eric pulled out my chair then rested his hand on my knee. I stared at the menu without processing it, resting the edge on the table so he wouldn’t notice it shaking. He clenched and unclenched his hand on my knee to check his emotions. Gaze on his menu, he asked quietly, “Why did you let him off the hook?”
“No reason to cause a scene,” I murmured, not meeting his gaze.
“You don’t think she deserved to know?”
“Would you please drop it?” I said, my tone curt with a hint of pleading.
His lips drew into a firm line, like he was biting back a retort. “Did you cause a scene last time you caught someone cheating?”
My body tensed, and his hand squeezed my knee. He’d noticed my reaction, and I’d just confirmed his suspicions.
“No,” I said, willing the pulse in my veins to slow.
“Alex?” His jaw clenched so tight he might crack one of those perfect teeth.
“Before him.”
The rest of that day’s memories flashed across my mental canvas.
Spencer, radiating quiet confidence that I’d fall in line.
Knowing in my gut this wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Weighing that this decision would chase me for the rest of my life.
Catching the defiance lurking in my father’s cool gray eyes.
Gazing in adoration at my gorgeous engagement ring and wedding band.
Twisting both rings off my hand, feeling lighter almost instantly.
Dropping them onto my grandfather’s famous mahogany desk, their metallic ping echoing in the giant glass office.
Hailing a cab straight to LaGuardia with no luggage and no idea where I was going, just needing to get the fuck out of New York.
“Did you let him off the hook too?” Eric asked, seething just below the surface.
“No. I filed for divorce,” I said calmly. Eric coughed abruptly and took a sip of water. “I’m thinking pork, or maybe the steak. Do you want to split oysters?”
As the live band returned from their break, Eric took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He slumped in his seat, lifting the menu. “Definitely not oysters. Maybe a burger?”
I reviewed the menu, noticing he selected the cheapest option. I opened my mouth to tell him that I was sorry for being bitchy and not to worry about the price because dinner was on me.
After another covert glance around, he lifted the menu to block his face. Was he embarrassed to be seen with me? Or hiding from a woman who wanted another night?
I snapped my mouth closed.
The band started playing. Eric drummed his hand on his thigh in perfect rhythm—more accurate than their drummer. When the server came by, I ordered pork and the bourbon Manhattan I’d been craving. Her gaze lingered on him, squinting like she recognized him. He ordered a burger and water, and her hand brushed his when she pried the menu away.
He slid his chair closer, tucking himself behind me with his arm resting on my chair. “You know, if you want it to seem like we’re dating, you might consider talking to me. Maybe pretend to like me.”
Sensing Lawrence’s gaze from across the room, I tilted my legs so I faced him, our knees brushing under the table sending a jolt up my thigh.
His warm breath fanned the hair along my neck. “You’re still not going to pretend to laugh at something I say right now, are you?”
I bit back my amusement. “I still don’t think you’re funny.”
He chuckled, twirling a lock of my hair with lazy familiarity, like there was nobody else in this candlelit restaurant but us. If we were really dating, I’d want his hand on my leg, sliding slowly under the fabric of my dress, tracing inside my thigh …
But nobody could see that, so arm around my shoulder was better. And his body heat so close must be the reason that my face felt so goddamn hot.
His voice dropped to a murmur, warm and teasing. “U2 songs. Go.”
Relief flooded me—he’d let the breakup questions go, reverting to the easy game we played on our morning runs: If I could name more songs than him, I’d get a pass on the final sprint.
So I always did the final fucking sprint.
“One.”
“Sunday, Bloody Sunday.”
“Pride.” I pressed my knee into his under the table.
“Parenthesis, In the Name of Love, end parenthesis,” he corrected with a smirk, because he was endearingly particular about song punctuation. “The Sweetest Thing.”
“With or Without You.”
“Desire.” His fingers curled around the strand of hair he’d been toying with, giving it the gentlest tug.
The waitress set down my cocktail, a welcome respite. I lifted the glass, praying the cool whiskey would sear through the heat simmering under my skin. When I lowered it, his gaze was fixed on my lips, still damp with liquor, his pupils dark and heavy-lidded.
“Desire,” I murmured.
His lips quirked, voice like silk. “I already said that one.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “Um… Beautiful Day.”
His arm slipped down my bicep, drawing me closer, his scent clean, minty, and unmistakably him . His mouth ghosted near my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
“All I Want Is—”
“Is that Cruz I see?” The singer’s voice echoed through the speakers as the guitarist tuned between songs. Nope, still flat.
He leaned back in his chair, concealing his frustrated sigh with a cocky smirk. “Definitely not me, Stacy.”
The bassist—was that my neighbor Kevin Rodriguez?—said into his mic, “Is he on a date? I didn’t think you dated, man.”
Eric’s boyish grin twinkled. “She’s making me work for it.”
“First date?”
“Third,” he said in an assured tone. While people whooped at the implication, I examined my cuticles.
“She doesn’t seem that impressed,” Stacy said.
“I’m more impressive behind closed doors.”
“Come up and impress her, Cruz. She’ll take you home if she sees you play.”
Ugh, nobody in this restaurant wanted to hear the band’s annoying banter.
“He won’t have a problem with that,” I hollered to the stage. He was already so close that it was easy to take his chin in my fingers and brush my lips against his. A pained groan rumbled in his throat. I nudged him in the ribs. “Go on, shut them up.”
The crowd applauded his reluctant agreement as he strode towards the stage and took the guitar.
As he conferred with the band, I marveled at the guitar strap over his broad shoulders, painted fingernails on the frets, torn jeans slung low on his hips and a lock of long hair falling into his face. I shifted in my chair, uncomfortably aroused as the drummer counted them in.
Holy shit, he was superb. His hand moved effortlessly over the frets. Over his talented plucking, Stacy’s melodic voice sang about climbing mountains and scaling city walls, but still not finding what she was looking for.
Her voice had an ethereal quality like Sara Bareilles, the style Beverly had paid vocal teachers for me to replicate. ‘Can’t she sound less like a pack-a-day smoker?’
As it turns out I couldn’t, so I stopped singing in public. When I was home from boarding school, I holed up in my room or the music conservatory. I embraced the raspier voices of Fiona Apple, Tori Amos, Melissa Etheridge and Ani DiFranco, listening through headphones so Beverly would stop reporting to Dad that my music was turning me into a lesbian.
But my musical tastes were the outlier. Most people preferred sweet voices like Stacy’s.
Eric took the lead vocals, singing about kissing honeyed lips. Good freaking god, he was hypnotic. Compared to Stacy’s breathiness, Eric’s voice was rich and complex. His elegant fingers plucked the strings, not missing a beat as his eyelids closed. The words rose out of him, allowing his soul to shine. He didn’t hold back, his riveting voice capturing the longing and frustration of chasing but never catching. As the song ended, they held a sustained chord beyond his final strum as the audience applauded and his band stepped off the small stage.
“I obviously hadn’t planned to play tonight,” he confessed to the audience into the microphone, strumming over an E chord. “But as long as I’m here, an artist has been haunting me. I can’t get her voice out of my head. Can I play a solo number for you?”
Then Eric’s eyes locked on mine, like a tractor beam.