Chapter 20 Like You’re Mine #2
Wes couldn’t find Sasha. Granted, they’d agreed to meet out front at nine, and he was fifteen minutes early.
But he was nervous. He was downright losing it.
First of all, the last time he wore a tux was at Brooke and Timothy-Joshua’s wedding.
But his sister made him tailor it to hell and back, so at least it fit well.
But he felt weird walking in it. He also felt weird pacing back and forth along Sixty-First Street between Madison and Fifth, keeping an eye on the Pierre’s grand entrance.
Waiting, waiting. Waiting for his date who wasn’t a date; his lover who wasn’t his lover.
Even though he was the one who stopped them from going further, it was still a near-impossible thought.
He needed Sasha Cruz in his life—in an urgent, undeniable way.
And Wes didn’t know how to deprive himself from what he wanted.
But this time, he had to. He’d suffered enough humiliation. Every time he touched her, he lost.
No more. Wes was no more than a hired hand in her love story with someone else. And he’d be stupid to keep forgetting it.
Wes stopped across the street from the Pierre.
Throngs of well-heeled guests mingled at the entrance.
A few publicists were standing in the grand doorway, checking in couples and ushering them inside.
Wes fiddled with his cuff links, squinting at the guests from across the street.
Was Teo already in there? Was he waiting in the line?
Nah, he didn’t strike Wes as someone who’d wait in line.
He just wanted to meet this motherfucker, face-to-face.
He knew, deep in his bones, that he was a bad guy.
A possibly dangerous one. Too many red flags, too many unanswered questions, too many inconsistencies.
And when it came to Sasha, all his protective instincts kicked in.
He wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. He had to protect her.
Where was she? Taking a deep breath, he looked to his right at the massive Central Park vista, glowing a dusky, russet gold as the sun disappeared in the sky. To the left was Madison Avenue, she’d probably be coming from there.
Just then, his phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket—it was Imani.
“Hey, I. What’s going on?”
“I saw him. I just saw him, Wes.” She sounded out of breath. The words tumbled out of her. “I just left the gym in his building, and I saw him walk out the front door and get into a limo. He was wearing a tux. What does the tux mean?”
Wes sucked in a sharp breath, and then let it go. He was coming. He was near.
“It means he’s on his way to the Two Tunics gala. And Sasha’s finally gonna meet him.”
“Lucky girl.” She giggled. “He looks like a spanker.”
“If he ever laid a hand on her, I’d fucking kill him.”
“Listen to you. You’d kill him? Over a healthy, mutually negotiated spank?”
“I’d kill him over nothing, Imani. He’s not a good guy. And I don’t want him anywhere near Sasha.”
“Mmm, the plot thickens. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I saw him yesterday, too. Walking down our block with an older gentleman. My third eye homed in on him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“I have my own life! Anyway, the man with Teo was wearing priest garb.” She paused. “Or maybe he was a neo-goth.”
“That’s a staggering difference.”
“I think I’m just seeing priests everywhere, because of my article. Did I tell you they launder the stolen church money by funneling it into fake businesses? If you were a shady priest, where would you put your cash?”
“I’ll get back to you on that. Gotta run. I owe you and your third eye.”
Wes’s pulse was racing. A vein in his temple throbbed. It was all but confirmed. Teo D. Scera would be here tonight. Where the hell was Sasha?
Fucking calm down, he thought. Just go in, you can wait for her in the lobby. You look like an asshole.
Quickly, he looked both ways and walked across Sixty-First, toward the hotel entrance.
Used to making himself as inconspicuous as possible during investigations, he kept his head facing down, so as not to look anyone in the eye.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse that took his breath away.
He stopped dead just outside the entrance.
It was Sasha, stepping out of an Uber several feet away from him.
A Pierre doorman reaching his hand in and helping her out.
Seeing her was a punch in the stomach. She was more beautiful, more utterly, intolerably, irresistibly scrumptious, than he’d ever seen her.
She was poured into a slinky dress the exact color of the sunset over the park.
Had he ever seen a cleavage so creamy, so golden-bronze and succulent?
With her tousled hair and puffy, red lips, she looked like she’d been making out for six hours.
That’s how she looked after he kissed her, devoured her, made her come. It’s how he dreamed of her.
“Fuuuuck,” he groaned under his breath. Frozen in place, he watched her walk—no, saunter—to a publicist at the door.
In a daze, he watched her mouth form the words, hihowareyou.
Wes realized he was entering creep territory, so he forced himself to make a move.
Clearing his throat, he walked up behind her.
Wes wanted to get her attention, but was careful not to scare her. He knew how jittery she was in crowds. So, in lieu of tapping her on the shoulder, or calling her name, he simply cleared his throat. She whipped around, a blur of waves, creamy shoulders, and rose-crushed lips.
Her chest rose sharply as she sucked in the smallest gasp. Her eyes scanned him, from his face, down to his shoes, and back to his eyes. Wes didn’t know if it was the lights from the Pierre—or something else—but her chestnut eyes were sparkling.
“Hi,” she breathed.
“Hello,” he managed stiffly. “Hey.”
“H-how long have you been standing there?”
“Me? I just got here.”
“You look . . .” Trailing off, she tried again. “You look cinematic in this tux.”
“I feel like a limo driver.” Wes couldn’t take his eyes off her. “But you? You’re so beautiful. You look . . .”
. . . like you’re mine, he thought.
And for a moment, just one, dizzying, perfect moment, he allowed himself to pretend it was true. That she’d shown up for him. Not Teo, just him.
He’d never wanted anything or anyone this badly, in his life. It was a helpless, crazy feeling. But Sasha wasn’t his, and never was. Unless he was on the other side of the phone at a vulnerable, horny moment at 2:00 a.m. on a Tuesday.
Or if she’s scared for her life in a detective’s office.
Brain scrambled, he repeated himself. “You look beautiful.”
She smiled shyly. “Thank you.”
A light in her eyes flared and then faded. Just then, Wes noticed the redness in her eyes. Had she been crying? He couldn’t bear the thought.
The air was thick with emotions—regret, want, exhilaration—and everything that they weren’t saying.
“So,” he started, “should we go in?”
“Let’s do it,” she said, and her bright tone sounded forced. “Quick question. Can we wear surveillance earpieces?”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You think you’re in Mr. and Mrs. Smith, don’t you?”
“I told you, I love to theme dress,” she said, and then pulled two pods out of her clutch. “I bought these earpieces at the spy shop on Seventh Ave. Here’s yours.”
Wes bit back a chuckle. “I figured you’d do that. So I brought real ones. Here’s yours.”
He pulled an actual, legit set out of his jacket pocket, and handed her a pair. She grinned conspiratorially.
“One step ahead, huh?” she teased him.
“Always. Let’s go.”
With his palm on the small of her back, he led her inside. As flares went off inside him, he kept telling himself, Remember it’s a job, it’s a job, it’s a job, you fucking idiot . . .
. . . you fucking idiot, Sasha thought. How could she let herself be so nakedly obvious?
When she first saw Wes, she couldn’t pretend not to care.
She wasn’t prepared for Tux Wes. Crisp and impeccably tailored, it was cut to flatter the hard lines of his long legs, the breadth of his chest. She swore she could see the bulge in his groin.
He looked like a Pinterest-board boyfriend, or a vintage Old Spice ad, or a dating app billboard blatantly misrepresenting the caliber of idiots truly on the app (ugh, why was she always casting).
When she met his eyes and he smiled at her, she was gone.
Fucking gone. For a moment, she didn’t have the strength to pretend that Wes Dane hadn’t turned her inside out.
For God’s sake, he knew not to creep up behind her, because it would scare the shit out of her.
When it came to her, Wes grew a Superman cape out of thin air. That’s how it felt. He was her hero.
Why did she hire him in the first place? Did she forget how it felt, that one night, to be close to him? To feel grounded in the fortress of a stranger’s arms? Did she forget how good he felt? It was pure insanity, calling him back into her life, without expecting complications and confusion.
But the timing just wasn’t in their favor. She had to face it. People were wildly attracted all the time, it didn’t mean they were supposed to be together. The examples were endless. Issa and Lawrence. Carrie and Big. Joker and Harley Quinn. Olivia Pope and President Fitz. Miss Piggy and Kermit.
Look at J. Lo and Ben Affleck, she thought. They can’t stay away from each other, but the marriage never sticks. There must be a reason for that. Beyond them both being problematic Leos.
She just had to move past it. He could have a place in her life. But it couldn’t be romantic.
This is what she told herself as he placed his wide, strong hand on the small of her back, leading her through the grand doors.
The heat from his palm radiated through her, tingling her skin.
They got on a mirrored, art deco elevator with an older woman, draped in a red duchesse satin gown.
They all nodded hello to each other. And then, Sasha and Wes stood behind her, a respectful distance from each other.
The ride seemed to take forever. Her eyes darted toward his, and then away.
He stole a glance, too, and then focused on the floor numbers.
A slow smile played on Wes’s lips. Then, he chuckled a bit, quietly.
What? she mouthed.
Your earpiece is on backwards, he answered.
Oh, she said, fumbling.
“I got you,” he said out loud. The woman glanced up at them in the mirror.
Wes stepped toward Sasha, gently backing her against the wall. With furrowed concentration, he readjusted the piece in her left ear. His scent was intoxicating. For a moment, she allowed herself to drink in his beautiful face—blatantly and indulgently.
Kiss me, she thought, kiss me, please, I know we’re not supposed to, but I can’t go one more second without it.
“Is that better?” he asked.
“Sorry?” Her brain had short-circuited. She had no idea what he was referring to.
“Your earpiece.”
“Oh! Yes.”
“Good.” With a satisfied, rascally twinkle in his eye, he dropped his hand. “And Sasha? Stop staring at my mouth. I’m not doing your commercial.”
The door opened, and the woman stole one more look at them, eyes wide, before walking off.
With inside-joke chuckles and intoxicating closeness, the two stepped out of the elevator together, glamorous beyond measure, momentarily forgetting the real reason they were there.