Chapter 19
Harrison
Bernadette leans forward and hands the driver a slip of paper. “Here’s the address, dear. Off we go.”
He gives a stiff nod, puts the car in drive, and pulls away from the curb.
“Where exactly are we going?” I ask, aiming for casual.
I miss by a mile.
“It’s a surprise.”
She pats my knee.
My balls shrivel into my chest.
We drive for twenty minutes.
Left turn.
Right turn.
Left again.
At this point, we’re basically carving crop circles into the city.
“I’m pretty sure we just passed that same gas station twice,” I offer.
He ignores me.
The lack of a GPS isn’t exactly comforting.
I am about three seconds from lunging forward and taking the wheel when the car slows and pulls to the curb.
Bernadette sings. “Here we are.”
I look out the window. “Where?”
Because we are absolutely not at a restaurant. Or a hotel. Or the Turkish bath house she mentioned and terrified me with.
The sketchy back alley is dark and desolate. A shadow whizzes in front of the car. She points. “Look, a kitty.”
“Just what you need.”
Before I can ask a single question, Bernadette reaches for the door handle.
I start to get out, too. “Let me—”
She flutters her hand at me. “No, no. You stay put, dear.”
She walks to the back door of an industrial-looking building and knocks.
I don’t like the looks of this. I’m also not armed. And as much as I want to wrap the driver in a sleeper lock and drive away from this “date,” I will not leave crazy cat lady to fend for herself.
I’m about to get out when the metal door to the building opens.
And I see a red, billowy skirt teasing the shapely calves of someone I know.
Pix.
And she is smiling.
I step out as Pix and Bernadette exchange a hug. “Can I get a picture?” Bernadette asks.
It doesn’t look like Pix wants to. Still, she does. I’m not sure what that’s about.
Viviana hands Bernadette an envelope. “This is for your trouble.”
“Oh, the pleasure was all mine, dear.” She waves me over and hands me her phone. “Get another picture of us.”
Pix’s smile withers. I’m about to decline when Pix says, “It’s all right.” When she adds, “Please,” I don’t like it, but I do as she asks.
They pose, and I snap the shot, deliberately leaving Pix’s face out of the shot. Oops.
I also delete the previous one. I have no idea why, but I don’t like Pix looking like she’s being backed into a corner.
Besides, since Miss Bernadette once mistook a sewer rat for a kitty, I doubt her eyesight will clue her in until we’re long gone.
I hand back the phone, and the woman squeezes Pix’s hands, clearly approving of me. “He’s quite the catch, dear.”
Pix glances at me, smiling.
Then Bernadette shuffles into the building Pix just came out of.
“Where’s she going?” I ask.
“I arranged a cab for her out front.”
I scan the dilapidated brick building, every instinct lighting up. “What is this place?”
“My home away from home.”
I nod slowly. “So. Hannibal Lecter’s Airbnb.”
She rolls her eyes and flicks her skirt with flair. “It’s a wholesale fabric shop, Lumberjack.”
I nod, taking in how perfectly the dress hugs her figure.
Her curves.
Her… wow.
“You’re a talented designer,” I say.
“Designer and seamstress,” she corrects, dipping into a little curtsy. “Thank you very much.”
For a moment, the world goes quiet. Just us. The breeze teasing her skirt at the hem. My pulse doing stupid things.
That’s when I notice the familiar backpack in Pix’s hand.
I reach out and take it.
Instead of protesting this time, she just smiles and says, “Thanks.”
I almost forget we’re not alone until the driver finally gets out and opens her door.
Where the hell were you when the Crazy Cat Empress needed her door opened, buddy?
Pix and her criminal curves slide into the seat. I follow, setting her backpack at my feet.
Yes, it shoves my knees that much closer to my ears, but the last thing I want is the dress she worked so hard on getting crushed.
The driver shuts the door, returns to the wheel, and glances back. “Where to, miss A—”
“Viviana,” Pix says quickly.
Confused, the driver repeats, “Where to, Miss Viviana?” He sounds out each syllable of her beautiful name like his tip is riding on it.
I glance at Pix, trying to gauge whether she’s mentally strategizing a polite way to ditch me at the next curb.
“Just drive,” she says. “We’ll figure it out in a minute.”
He nods. “Yes, ma’am.” And pulls away from the curb.
“I’ll make sure the payment is reversed,” I offer. “Your payment won’t clear tonight. I’ll square it first thing Monday.”
“Thanks.” She tucks her hair behind her ear.
Silence settles in as notes of tangerine and rose fill my senses.
Finally, I nudge the backpack at my feet with my shoe. “Feels a little lighter than a kitchen sink this time.”
“I guess,” she says with a small smile. “You probably need some clothes.”
“I’m good.” I don’t want a single excuse to leave her side right now.
Awkward silence settles between us.
I break it with, “Want a drink?” I nod toward the compartment and open it.
Water. Mini bottles of liquor. Nuts. And enough sugar to keep my kids feral until sunrise.
She grins and reaches for a tequila. I grab a scotch. “Cheers.”
Three Hours Later
“What?” I shout, leaning close as the music detonates around us.
Pix grabs my arm and yanks me in like she’s afraid I might float away. “I love this song!” she cries, bouncing on the balls of her feet, like the bass is wired straight into her veins.
She’s said that about the last three songs.
And meant it every time.
Lights strobe overhead, white and neon, flashing so fast the room fractures into moments instead of seconds. Dry ice smoke slinks across the floor, while stray balloons knock into our feet, kicked loose by the crowd.
Pix spins, hair flying, laughter bright and reckless. She throws her hands up and pumps to the beat, all loose limbs and pure joy, and when she crashes into me, I laugh so hard my face actually hurts.
I haven’t felt this free, or this drunk, in I don’t even know how long.
She spins away from me, then twirls back in, slowing just enough for our eyes to meet.
Then she kisses me.
God, can this woman kiss.
It’s fiery and intoxicating and just crazy enough for me to hold her face in my hands. She’s so fucking delicious.
It lasts until “Gone Gone Gone” comes on.
Then all bets are off.
“Help me.” She giggles.
“Huh?” What’s she trying to do?
Oh.
She’s already lifting one foot, then the other, and suddenly, I’m on my knees, undoing the delicate straps of her heels while she laughs and clutches my shoulders for balance. One shoe. Then the other.
We shove them aside.
“Better?” I ask, brushing damp bangs off her forehead, my thumb brushing her lips. She’s warm there.
“Almost.”
I know what she wants. Without thinking, I lift her, easy and sure, and set her on the table. She squeals, and dancing like the room belongs to her.
Like nobody’s watching.
When everyone, in fact, is watching.
Joy spills out of her from all sides as she belts lyrics that don’t match the song in the slightest.
I’m still shirtless.
At some point, it stopped feeling weird and started feeling inevitable.
When she said, “Show me Manhattan,” I almost told her it was getting late.
Almost.
It’s our fourth club of the night. A blur of neon and bass and bad decisions, powered by zero regrets and even fewer fucks. Hardworking, adulting, grieving dad needs a night off. Just one.
Another woman stumbles into me, hand brushing my chest like it’s an invitation.
“Hi,” she purrs.
My little miss drunk and disorderly immediately shuts it down.
“Hey!” Pix yells. “Hands off my man.”
“Your man?” I chuckle. “I don’t see a ring.”
She snorts. “I own you, Lumberjack. I even have a receipt.” She wobbles, and I wrap my hands around her legs, steadying her for balance.
I place a kiss on her thigh because, damn, this slit is high.
When I lick a line up it, she squeals. And I’m not even sure how she ends up on my shoulders, but I fucking go with it as gold balloons and confetti fall from the sky.
A DJ says something unintelligible into a mic. The electric violet lighting hazes to deep amber.
“All right, Manhattan… because you’re all on the nice list, one more song.”
An eruption of applause fills the room as the last song of the night starts.
“Santa Baby” by Eartha Kitt.
I lower Pix down, her body sliding perfectly into mine.
“I like you, Lumberback,” she says, grinning wide as we sway to the beat.
“You’re drunk,” I reply.
“I still like you.”
“You just like my tongue.”
“I like that, too. I only wish…” Her words trail off.
A faint frown tugs at her plush lips. Before she can continue, a woman with a Santa hat on slips between us, cheerful, balancing a tray of shots.
“Merry Christmas,” she chirps. “Drinks are on the house.”
Pix and I each grab one. Fourth or fifth, I’ve lost track. I lift my glass to hers. “To red dresses.”
“And shirtless men.”
She clinks hers against mine as we toss them back like pros.
But when the burn fades, that frown is still there. I don’t like it.
I tip her chin so her big, glassy eyes meet mine. “Tell Santa what naughty little Pix wants for Christmas?”
Her smile breaks through. “A big, goofy lumberjack.”
Someone’s getting what they want.
I kiss her again as we sway together, laughing when we bump into another couple. “Whoops, sorry,” I murmur, holding her closer as I shift us out of the way.
Will I regret the shots I’ve had tonight? Definitely. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
Pix is now. And so worth it.
The song fades, and I find her shoes. Which was harder than it seemed in the sea of abandoned stilettos. Or maybe I’m just seeing double.
When she falls into me again, I throw her over my shoulder. “Hey!” She giggles.
We spill outside, the night cool and buzzing. The driver flicks his cigarette away and opens the door.
I help her in, then slide in after her.
Still riding the high, I blurt, “Come back to my place.” Because fuck it. Why not?
My kids are good. I crushed the auction. And ending the night with this woman feels like an Olympic-level bad decision.
She worries her bottom lip. A spot I’d very much like to taste again. “I’m not in New York for long,” she admits.
Somehow, I knew that. I’m not sure how, but I did. I nod in understanding, dragging her finger across my lips and kissing it. “That’s too bad.”
“I’m supposed to be staying with a friend.” Her fingers drift into my hair, tracing slow, lazy circles that make my brain briefly shut down.
Mmm. That feels good.
“I mean, I could let him know I can’t make it tonight,” she adds, clearly weighing her options. “But with no notice? That would be rude.”
Him?
She’s staying with a guy? Well, I hate that. “A friend?” I ask. “Or a friend?”
She blinks. “Huh?”
“With benefits.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head as her fingers keep doing dangerous things. “A friend-friend. Family friend.”
Somehow, that answer doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should.
Good. Not her fuck-buddy, then.
I nip her ear. “Then I guess we should say goodbye.”
She sighs heavily. “Goodbye, Lumberjack.”
I sit up and straighten my tie.
Just like that, it’s over. Done. Finished.
Then she leans into me, eyes dark, playfully tugging my tie. “Where is your place?”
I look up at the driver.
“Seven Forty Park Avenue.”