3. Chloe
three
It might be a numbers game, but I like to know the basics of the industry I’m going to be working in. So I booked myself a food conference in Boston that lasts several days and covers everything from finance to marketing to, well, food itself.
I left my U-Haul at Aunt Dawn’s, drove back to Massachusetts, and now it’s the night before the conference and I’m sitting at the hotel bar, on the phone with Fiona who’s in her hotel room after another concert. It’s already tomorrow for her, wherever she is.
We’re trying to have a chat, but my earbuds keep going in and out of sync with the phone, and it’s getting annoying. I should hang up, and I tell Fiona as much.
“You go, girl!” she says, then brings her face so close to her phone it looks distorted on my screen.
But I barely hear her when she adds, “You need to get laid! Tonight!” She has her screaming face on, but her voice sounds muted to me.
Oh crap. Crapcrapcrap!
I fumble with my phone, but it’s too late. The damage is done. Everyone within a large earshot heard what Fiona thinks I should do with my night. The bartender jolts, and it’s like everyone in the bar freezes to see what I’m going to say.
Including the hot-as-sin man sitting four stools down.
He’s not dressed in the usual conference attire. Instead of a suit or dress pants and a blazer, he’s wearing black jeans and black leather boots, and a dark cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, one of which is tattooed down to the back of his hand. Since I got here, I’ve been eying him—discreetly I hope—and I can’t say that my mind didn’t jump to him when Fiona blurted her now very public suggestion.
To my horror, his green eyes slice sideways to me, his mouth twitches, then he drops his gaze to my legs and takes a sip of his drink.
But before I can figure out what to do or say, his gaze flicks back in front of him.
He slams his glass on the counter. “Shit,” he growls, jumps down from his stool and rounds the bar. I freeze as my eyes narrow on the bartender dropping a lime, holding a knife in one hand, his other hand gushing blood, the gash profound. “I’ll call you back,” I tell Fiona and hang up. Hot-as-sin is running the bartender’s hand under water, then wrapping it in a rag that I hope is clean, then he leans through a door at the back and barks orders.
“Shouldn’t we call 911?” I say when he gets back.
“Paramedics in a hotel bar isn’t a good look.”
The bartender nods his agreement.
A young guy comes out of the back, wearing a long white apron and a skull cap. He takes one look at the bartender’s hand and winces. “Yeah, let’s go.”
The bartender seems to hesitate. From where I am, he’s bleeding out. What is he thinking?
“I’ll cover your shift, man,” hot-as-sin slash awesome guy says, and it hits me.
The bartender needs his tips.
A discussion follows between the three about the floor manager being gone for the night, keys change hands, and codes are scribbled on paper napkins. Seemingly halfway satisfied, the bartender leaves with the prep cook for an urgent care place, and hot-as-sin is clipping a name tag that isn’t his on the dark shirt that hugs his muscles in a way that should be illegal.
“D’you actually know what you’re doing, or is bartending on a bucket list of yours?” I say in a voice that’s way more assured than I’m feeling.
Fiona’s comment notwithstanding, I’ve always been curious about guys the likes of him. The muscular guys who don’t spend their days in an office. Chatting up the bartender is almost an expectation. Now’s my chance to flirt with a guy like that.
His gaze drops quickly to my lips, and I wonder if he’s still thinking about what Fiona said to me. He’s probably judging my likelihood of going with one of the men who just walked in, all suited up.
“We’re about to find out.” He smirks with a chin tip to the group of men coming in.
The men order drinks I’ve never heard of, with modifications or specifications that sound only meant to make them look important—a twist, a dash of this, a splash of that—and he takes it all in stride.
For the next hour or two, the ambient music mixes with the rhythmic sound of ice shakers in the guy’s long, muscular hands, the thud as he plops them open, the jingle of the expert pour in the iced glasses, the woosh of beer as he fills glasses.
He owns the length of the bar, here one second, there the next, pushing back his thick hair, flashing his boyish smile at patrons as he hands them their drinks, swiftly followed by their tabs. Women’s eyes follow his every move. Men engage him in conversation, and he responds easily, all while serving a seemingly endless stream of people.
Finally a lull hits, and he leans toward me across the bar, his mouth twitching into a cocky smile. “How am I doing?”
I’m caught by the green in his eyes, and my core heats up. “Better than bucket list.”
“Yeah?”
“Is this your day job, in real life?”
He pushes himself from the bar to run a tray of glasses through a small dishwasher. “Kind of.”
I’m insanely curious about him now. “What brings you to Boston? Or are you from here?”
“I just had an inkling I’d be needed here, so I walked in.”
I giggle. “So you’re what—like an angel bartender?”
He cocks the most adorable slow grin. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Well, you have the hair for it.” And he does. Thick, dirty blond curls that frame his strong face, curl up his ears, slightly bunch at his collar.
Call for my hands to run through it.
“Shit.” He chuckles and combs through his locks as if he could tame them. “Last person to call me an angel was my mom, and I didn’t even like it then.”
Ohmygod. Straight up adorable. There’s nothing like a man who’s all man and still brings up his mom without being a mama’s boy.
I fiddle with my phone with unsteady fingers. Fiona’s text messages echo her last words to me. “Get laid! That guy is so into you!” She had a glimpse of hot-as-sin in the background before he jumped to the other side of the bar.
And I considered it, I really did, until he chose to play savior of the day. Which I can’t blame him for. Who doesn’t like a guy who saves some stranger’s day? But that doesn’t help Fiona’s mission, which was to get me laid.
And it’s not like I’m going to proposition him. Not that there’s anything wrong with a woman making the first move, but that’s not what I need right now. Right now, if I’m engaging in anything with a guy, even if just for one night, he’s going to have to work for it. I’m going to make sure I’m his priority.
Who am I kidding? This guy wouldn’t possibly be into me. I’m wasting my time.
I pocket my phone and stifle a yawn. “I’m going to settle,” I say, and watch his face fall.
He leaves his station across from me and takes purposeful steps to go dim the bar lights. “Last call!” he bellows across the bar as he gets back to standing across from me. He scans the room to see if anyone needs a last drink. Seeing no one, he scribbles something on a napkin and tucks it on the register’s screen. He prints what I assume is my receipt, but then pulls cash from his pocket and stashes it in the register, which he locks before rounding the bar and ending up at my side.
“I need to settle,” I say, pulling my credit card from my wallet.
“On me. As a thank you for keeping me company tonight.”
My cheeks burn. “I didn’t keep you company.”
He takes two more steps that place him squarely in my space, and I can’t say that I don’t like it.
It actually feels really, really good to have all his attention. All six foot something, lean muscle, tousled hair, dancing green eyes, square jaw animated by a mischievous grin, focused solely on me.
And he says, in a soft and low rumble, “I was hoping to make small talk with you, get to know you a little, see if maybe you were on the same page with your friend as to what you should do with your night, but duty called.” He extends a hand to a spot right above my shoulder and touches a strand of hair. Not tucking it behind my ear like he’s trying to fix my appearance, not pulling on it like he’s just an overgrown kid. No, he just touches it like it’s the first time he’s seen hair, and he’s amazed by it. Like he can’t believe his eyes and is calling his hands to the rescue. “And instead of leaving, or chatting with any of the other customers, you followed my every move with your gorgeous, deep-blue eyes, gave me a smile when I needed one, and just stayed there in my corner when I had no clue how many rules I was actually breaking for helping a guy in need and how much trouble I might get into.”
I swallow with difficulty. And then I confess, “It was a real pleasure,” as raw desire zings through me.
His voice is coarse as he says, “So… What are you doing with the rest of your night?” He extends a hand to me as if inviting me to dance. “And whatever it is, can I join you?”
He’s pulling my leg. He has to be. “I… I was going to go to bed,” I blurt out.
How did I think this could possibly mean ”No thank you”?
“Perfect,” he whispers, his eyes getting deliciously dark. “Let’s go.”
I straighten my spine. “That’s… that’s not what I meant,” I stammer.
His face does the falling apart thing again, like it did when I asked to settle my bill, right before he closed the whole bar to be with me.
“How about I join you…” he starts.
My eyes bulge but my body… oh… my body is all in.
And maybe parts of my brain too.
“… in the elevator,” he finishes with a smirk.
That’s more like it. He was kidding. Or was he? But what would a guy like him possibly want with a girl like me?
The elevators are far down the hall. I’ll have time for an executive session with myself on the way there. “Okay,” I whisper, but stay glued to the bar stool.
“However, your friend has a point.”
“Yeah?”
He takes my hand between his fingers, like he’s afraid to break it, and with the pad of his thumb draws circles on my palm that send ripples of pleasure through my core, down to my toes, and back up to my scalp.
God. He has no right being that good with just his fingers being just on my hands.
“Nothing to lose,” he adds.
My pride. My dignity. A good night sleep, if he’s a tool in bed. Which I’m sure he’s not, if whatever it is he’s doing to my hand is anything to go by.
“I’ve never had complaints.”
Shit. Is my face so expressive?
He chuckles, a bitter sound.
Then lets go of my hand as his face does the falling apart thing again.
And he walks out of the bar, long purposeful strides taking him toward the elevators, his hair like a halo, his shoulders rolling, his muscular frame filling the whole space by his mere presence.
I’ve never been with a man like him. Built like he works outside. Strong and confident.
This is a one-time opportunity, Chloe.
I jump down from the bar stool and run after him, my heels clack-clacking on the marble floors.
He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t slow down. He just extends his hand, and I slip mine in, and he clasps it around and tugs me to him.
Panties on fire.
We stop at the bank of elevators. He doesn’t hit the call button. “Look. I get it. It’s not for everyone.” He dips his head to look at me. “If we’re going to sleep together, we’re not doing this getting to know each other thing.”
“No?” That’s the weirdest thing.
“Nope. That’s the whole point. Forget about everything you are. Everything other people think you are or think you ought to be.”
That sounds awesome. “Okay, I’m in.”
He flashes his beautiful smile at me. “Just like that? You sure?”
It’s not just that he’s hot as sin. There’s the way he was looking at me at the bar, and the way he took charge when the bartender got hurt—and did it only to help him. And then there’s the fact that when he looks at me, he doesn’t just look. He engulfs me in his attention. And that he doesn’t just hold my hand. He embraces my palm and fingers with reverence, in a soft and strong way that speaks of respect and desire at the same time. I tilt my head back at him. “You having second thoughts?”
He laughs. “Hell no.”
His laughter is infectious, and I giggle like a teenager as he hits the call button.
“Rules,” he says. “No names, no phone numbers.”
What am I going to call him? “Okay,” I whisper.
“And tomorrow, we’re two strangers again.”
Excitement courses through me, tamping down the tiny disappointment I feel. It’ll really just be the one night, then. “’Kay.”
The elevator dings and the doors swoosh open. Why is he doing this? My blood turns to ice as the obvious becomes clear to me. I pull my hand from his. “Wait.”
He turns to me, blocking the door with his foot.
My heart hammers in my ribcage. “You’re not cheating on your girlfriend, are you?”
His jaw sets, and he looks me straight in the eye. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Never did, never will.” The elevator doors slide back open.
“What? Why?”
He shrugs. The elevator doors bump against his foot again. He doesn’t answer.
“Why not?” I try again.
“You ask as many questions as a six-year-old.”
I gasp. “Are you divorced? Do you have a kid? Is that why you don’t want a girlfriend?” That’s it! That explains the no-girlfriend rule. Ohmygod he must make an awesome dad. My ovaries are in turmoil.
“Never been married, never will be, and certainly don’t have a six-year-old. But my best friend does. And she’s a handful. Asks almost as many questions as a certain young woman I just met.”
He gives my hand a squeeze. “You’re beginning to break the rules, here.” Are you in or not?
I take a deep breath as I step in. This is good. This is going to be great.
I focus my gaze on his long, strong fingers as he bleeps his room card and hits the button for his floor.
Twenty. Holy shit. That’s going to be a long ride.
But then he wraps his arm around my waist, pulls me to his side, and kisses my head. “You nervous?” he whispers.
“No.”
“You’re trembling.”
“I hate elevators.”
“You’re a bundle of nerves. You sure it’s the elevator?”
“Happens every time.”
“Shit,” he whispers. He turns me to face him and places my hand behind his neck. “Hang tight. I’m gonna change your mind about elevators.”
His nape is corded and warm, his fabulous hair brushing against my knuckles as his face slowly tilts down to meet mine. Between the warmth of his body and his scent of spice and soap, I’m a melting mess. Taking hold of my free wrist in a firm grasp, he brings it up above my head, against the mirror, and growls as my breasts brush against him. He ropes his other arm around my waist to pull me tight against him, his whole, strong, warm body encapsulating me, begging me to surrender my need for control.
“You’re safe with me,” he says and brushes his full lips against mine, sending fire through my core. Needing more of him, and needing it now, I lift a leg and twine it behind his, and his hand on my back slides down to my ass to give me a lift. I give into my instincts and rub myself against his muscular thigh. God, it feels so good. “That’s it, baby. I got you,” he whisper-growls. “You can let go with me.”
My tongue wets my lips, and a slow whimper forms in the back of my throat as he leans into me, his gaze narrowed on my mouth.
Nothing exists except the two of us, his desire throbbing against my belly, and our impending kiss.
Until the lights flicker and the cab hiccups and stops amidst the terrible sound of machinery going dead.
Then all I hear is faint beeping in the distance and the thump-thump-thump of my heart.
Darkness shrouds us, except for the emergency light.
He tilts his head up, giving it a few seconds. Then a few more. Then he gives me a quick squeeze to the waist and lets go of me to reach for the call button.
Everything around me starts to sway, nausea grips my stomach, and as my legs give out under me, I slump to the floor, my heart pumping to fly out of its cage. I close my eyes.
Breathe in. My mouth is like sandpaper.
Breathe out? I have no air.
I breathe in again. And again. Still no air.
Warmth spreads through my back as his voice echoes in my brain. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s gonna be alright.” He leans into my space, the warmth at my back registering as his hand stroking me. Two fingers gently pull my chin up. “Open your eyes. Come on. Please. We’re gonna be alright. I’m here. Come on. Open your eyes. Clover…”
My eyes fly open at his use of the nickname my grandmother gave me.
His worried eyes are locked on mine. “Hey. Welcome back.” His hand locks behind my nape, bringing our foreheads together. “You okay?” His voice sounds distant, unreal, but his breath on my mouth warms me.
Then he starts kneading my skull. Ohmygod. I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s like his fingers know exactly how much pressure to add and where. The effects spread to my entire being.
It’s divine.
Yes, I’m going to be okay. Just keep doing that.
After a while he moves to sit cross-legged on the floor, and I lose the connection to his hand. My breathing becomes more difficult. I lean my head against his chest, grabbing his shirt for purchase.
His voice rumbles softly under my ear. “Wow, wow, wow, come here.” He lifts me and plops me on his lap, cradling me.
“I’m s—sorry,” I whisper.
“Shhh.” He rocks me in his arms, his warmth enveloping me, his scent of spice and soap comforting, his slow heartbeat a rhythm mine tries to emulate. He drops a kiss on my hair.
I relax, just a bit. Open my eyes and fix my gaze to the point where his shirt is open, revealing tattooed skin.
We’re still in a tiny, locked space, suspended midair… oh god. God. I shut my eyes.
He gives my whole body a squeeze. “Hey, where’d your mind go just now.”
I move my tongue in my mouth to try and get everything to work. “Here. It’s right here,” I croak.
“Okay then, let’s talk about other things. Tell me about you.”