19. Jules
CHAPTER 19
Jules
Taylor’s voice bounces off the walls before the door even finishes closing. “Jules?”
“In the kitchen,” I say, leaning against the counter, a glass of wine cradled in my hand. Second glass. Or maybe third.
She bursts in and pulls me into one of her signature bear hugs. “Miss me, bitch?” she teases, grabbing the bottle of wine on the counter. “Wow, St. émilion Grand Cru. The good stuff. We celebrating something big?”
“Not exactly.”
She catches the look on my face, and her smile fades. “What’s wrong?”
“Massimo fired me.”
“What?”
“Lisa and Dave smuggled this to me as a quick parting gift. For a red, it’s remarkably smooth. I was tempted to finish the whole thing myself. But since you’re here, I guess I’ll share.”
“You’re damn right, you’ll share,” she says, grabbing the bottle and studying the label, her perfectly arched brows lifting in appreciation. “This is a four-hundred-dollar bottle of premium red. No way you’re keeping all this to yourself.” She takes a deep breath, savoring the scent from the cork like it’s pure oxygen. “And let’s be real, you hated Salvatore’s anyway.”
“I know. But still.” I take another sip, the frustrations from last night seeping into today, settling deep into my bones. “I needed something—anything—to take the edge off, and we were out of tequila.” I swirl the rich purple liquid in my glass, staring at it for a moment. “It was awful.”
“Then I quit, too.”
“Taylor, no. You need that job. I can’t let you do that.”
“Oh, thank God. Because after this trip, I really do need that job.” She grins, taking a sip from my glass before handing it back. “Come on. You get the blankets; I’ll grab the snacks.”
We shuffle out to the balcony, our little slice of vintage Brooklyn. The rustic fire escape, once all rust and practicality, has been transformed with faux wooden floors and a sleek metal railing, turning it into our cozy perch.
Three floors up, we swing our bare feet like kids, imagining the passing cars below as part of a parade. On particularly tipsy nights, we might’ve even thrown in a royal wave or two.
Taylor drops a silver tray between us—one of the many vintage treasures she has a knack for finding. It’s piled high with pretzels, mixed nuts, and marshmallows—every bit of comfort food she could scavenge from the pantry.
Wrapped in blankets softened by time and way more fabric softener than anyone recommends, we settle in. The jagged skyline of old brick and steel stretches out before us as Taylor launches into a story about her latest almost-fiancé.
“I had to give him the ‘ it’s not you, it’s me ’ speech, because what could I say? I can only make a square peg fit in a round hole for so long.”
I laugh so hard, I nearly shoot a mouthful of expensive French wine out my nose. “No one should jam a square peg in anyone’s round hole ever.”
She clinks her glass against mine. “Amen, sister.” We sit in companionable silence for a moment before she suddenly tosses a peanut at my face. “All right, miss ‘drunk after half a glass,’ spill it. What got you fired? Drunk and disorderly?”
I take another swig and slump back against the cool brick, the warmth of the booze crawling up my chest. “Butthead Brian happened,” I mutter, letting out a sigh that feels like it’s been lodged in my throat for days.
“Oh, my God,” she says, chomping on a pretzel. “Did you get caught making out with him in the bathroom?”
I blink. What on earth? “No.” I shudder at the thought. “And why would I? That bathroom might look clean, but I know the guys who mop it—they’re mostly just smearing the urine sprinkles around.”
“Ewww,” she snorts, cringing and laughing as she scrunches up her nose.
I stare at her, genuinely wondering where she comes up with this stuff. Who is this person?
I continue and steer the conversation back on track. “Brian Bishop is the reason I’m fired. Apparently, he’s not just good-looking—he’s obscenely rich, has three kids, and hangs out at places like Salvatore’s. Drinks thousand-dollar champagne, barks orders, kills careers, and drools over beautiful women like Roxana Voss. ”
Her eyes go wide, and that goofy smile spreads across her face. “Someone sounds jealous.”
I gasp. “Jealous?”
“You have nothing to be jealous about. You’re way prettier,” she says, topping off our drinks like it’s no big deal.
I snap, narrowing my eyes. “I am not jealous.” Am I?
“You did say he was hot. And rich,” she reminds me playfully.
“It’s Brian. He’s also arrogant, immature, tackles womanizing like an extreme sport, and is a colossal capital D. As far as I’m concerned, he can suck it. Even if he came crawling back on all fours, begging for forgiveness for every last dish of crap he’s ever served me, it’ll be a sub-zero day in hell before that happens.”
“Is that so?” a deep, gravelly voice calls up from the street below, “What if I fed you lobster Thermidor and a chocolate soufflé?”
Taylor and I look down, and there he is—Brian Gabriel Bishop himself. He’s leaning against a shiny black Mercedes, wearing a smile a mile wide, jeans that fit too well, and a T-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and biceps in a way that should be illegal.
In his hand, he’s holding a large picnic basket. Standing next to him is a man who gives us a casual salute. Must be his driver. Because, of course, Brian and his kind would have a driver.
“Hello, Jules,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet.
“Ms. Spenser,” I correct instantly, tossing another nut into my mouth. “And I hate prissy food.”
“That’s right. You do,” he says, tossing aside a red-and- white-checkered handkerchief. “Then perhaps something more along the lines of barbecue chicken, green beans, mac and cheese, and cornbread.”
Mrs. D’s barbecue dinner. My favorite.
But he doesn’t stop there. “I don’t have three-layer chocolate cake, but a friend made dark chocolate cherry brownies.”
God, he’s playing dirty. Brownies are my kryptonite, and throw in berries? I’m completely defenseless.
I stiffen my posture. “I’m not hungry,” I lie, though my stomach betrays me with a growl loud enough to wake the dead—like a bullfrog strapped to a megaphone, of course, at the worst possible time.
Then, clear as day, I hear him say, “I just want to fuck.”
“What?” I snap out of my expensive booze fog, heart racing.
“I said I just want to talk, Ms. Spenser. Just. Talk.”
And the way he says “Ms. Spenser” sends a phantom finger trailing down my spine, making my pulse stutter and my knees go weak. Suddenly, dinner is the last thing on my mind. I’m picturing him wrapping a fist in my hair, bending me over a desk, and demanding to know if I’ve been naughty.
I eye the fancy wine. The good stuff really should come with a disclaimer: May impair hearing and trigger X-rated fantasies.
“Come on up!” Taylor cries out, her voice full of cheer.
What?
“It’s my place, too,” she says, all coquettish and smug.
The room tilts a little as I stand and watch her buzz them up. Before I can protest, or walk a straight line, there’s a knock at the door .
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Taylor teases, nudging my body in the direction of the door.
“No,” I grumble, reaching for the bottle in her hand. She keeps it just out of reach, grinning like she’s won the lottery. “Not until you let my future husband in.”
A flicker of jealousy ignites. Her future husband is—“Brian?” I ask, completely thrown.
“What? No. The hunky guy downstairs. I’m telling you, he’s the one.” She sets down the bottle and clasps her hands together, pleading. “Please?”
I roll my eyes, exasperated. “Ugh, fine. But don’t blame me when his freakishly big square peg doesn’t fit in your round hole.”
She squeals, smoothing my hair like a toddler.
Reluctantly, I crack open the door.
His stupidly gorgeous face greets me with a wide smile, just the right amount of scruff to catapult his heat factor to scorching. “Hi,” he says, his voice low and rumbly.
I fuss with the blanket, trying to hide my body’s betrayal—flushed cheeks, hard nipples, and a molten heat pooling between my thighs.
Still, I don’t budge. “What do you want?”
He raises the basket. “Dinner. And an offer.”
“An offer?”
He nods, his eyes locking on mine. “Hear me out, Ms. Spenser?”
With his Calvin Klein looks, aroma of food, and my inebriated state way beyond tipsy, I’m in way over my head.
And don’t even get me started on that chiseled jaw. And those ocean-blue eyes—any woman would drown in them.
My mouth opens just as my brain completely shuts down. “Fine.”