CHAPTER THREE #2
“You didn’t.” I finish the other eye, wrap my hair in a shower cap, and flip the water to hot.
“You screwed up, Flora, but this mess isn’t your fault.
The asshole and, more directly, my tantrum are responsible for this.
But you drowning yourself in that wine, knowing what it does to your body?
That’s on you.” Ignoring her indignant gasp, I end the call with, “I gotta go.”
And I get ready for my date in record time.
The night is going smoothly. The restaurant has a spectacular view of the city and the bay.
The food is divine. I’m dressed in a sweater and leggings that serve up sexiness, sophisticated warmth, and get-out-of-Dodge flexibility in equal measure.
And after two lemon drop martinis, my anxiety-ridden day has melted away.
Rod is a decent guy. He’s vice president of an advertising agency, which has amounted to some semi-interesting stories.
That’s really all we’ve discussed. Narcissists make socializing so much less taxing.
While I don’t get a total womanizing vibe from him, the man is in his forties and has been married three times, so I’m not sure he’d qualify as a catch.
Although I’ll be thirty next month, and I have a broken engagement on my résumé. Maybe I shouldn’t judge. My mother insists I can’t sentence every man for the sins of one. I understand her point, but it’s not like there’s a line of tempting convicts surrounding me.
Rod finishes his wine, his gaze latching on to something before he returns to me. “A few of my clients are having drinks in the lounge. Mind if we join them since we’re done eating? Then we can finish with dessert.”
“Coffee and dessert sound good.” I peer around the restaurant, assessing the crowd. It’s thinned out considerably. “Would it be all right if I made a call while you met with your clients?”
“Of course.” He drops his napkin on the table, rises, and pulls out my chair. “The lounge is nice. I reserved a table for after our meal, but I’ll be at the bar. It’s not busy tonight, so you won’t bother anyone.”
So, he had other motives for tonight too. I’m guessing he needed a plus-one to score an account. That eases my guilt. He guides me to a booth that overlooks the gleaming city lights.
Once he leaves me, I order coffee, take in the views of Alcatraz and the shimmery water, and text my mom. He didn’t seem to care if I skipped hobnobbing with his associates, so there’s no need to call her to provide a reason for me not being over there.
Me: I’m almost outta here. Dull conversation, but excellent lobster. We’re sticking around for dessert, so jackpot. I heard the crème br?lée is life-changing.
Mom: Don’t let the dessert do all the heavy lifting. Even bores can provide orgasms with some direction. You went all the way to California. You can’t leave empty-handed.
That is her own brand of concern. She manages to make everything lighter.
Me: He’s not needed. I’ll indulge in the crème br?lée and be halfway to an orgasm by the time I make it to the condo.
Mom: Saving your vibrator some work. Fine. That’s my efficient girl. Text me when you leave the city. Love you.
Me: Will do. Love you.
I tuck my phone into my purse and startle when I lift my chin to find blue eyes I never expected to see again. “What are you doing here?”
Cash Noire is the epitome of bedlam, roguery, and charisma, wrapped up in a conceited blond. Utter disaster. The fact that he knows he’s gorgeous only magnifies it. While his casual attire on Mardi Gras was devastating, this black suit, black button-up, no-tie ensemble is obliterating.
His lips twitch like he’s in on a secret, which highlights the light smattering of scruff on his face—enough so it’s clear he’s all man, but not so much that it devours his boyish charm. It’s as if Brad Pitt’s character from Fight Club and Harvey from Suits spawned. Deadly.
And so obnoxious. Who the hell does he think he is?
“Ahh.” He smiles with don’t-even-try-to-keep-your-panties-on arrogance. “Someone’s been pining for me, I see.”
I scoff and sip my coffee, staring him down. “In what delusional universe did my inquiry lead you to believe that?”
He steps to the side and leans over the back of the booth, facing the city with me, his cheek inches from mine and his citrus-and-sin fragrance enveloping me. “You recognized me without a second glance, after only seeing me once. In the dark, with a mask on. You do the math.”
Mentioning that I saw his license won’t help my case. Nor will pointing out that he’s a quasi-celebrity. I stay composed and fight the dueling compulsions to either breathe him in or slide away. Both will reveal weakness.
“The math says you showed up here on purpose, finagling a false serendipity. Your ego is too large for this state, so you should probably go home.”
“Can’t.” That single word fans my neck, sadly evoking goose bumps on my skin, before he kicks his chin to the far side of the lounge. “I’m having dinner with my family, which means I’m not the one with the ego problem.”
His family? I bend forward to verify his story, and sure enough, there are the Noires, covertly watching Cash, like parents might beam at a child who is playing piano. What the hell is that about?
Maybe this is a simple run-in, which would be bizarre. But what are the chances that he’d recognize me across the restaurant? He really did only see me once, in the dark, with a mask on.
Not giving in that quickly, I scrunch my forehead in doubt. “In San Francisco?”
“Clearly.” He straightens, comes around the booth, plops down beside me, and snatches my coffee. “But”—he takes a swig with a hefty dose of nonchalance—“I’m guessing you’re suspicious because you’re here with an ulterior motive. Who are we conning tonight?”
“We aren’t doing anything.” I take my coffee back, wipe the rim with a napkin, but refuse to drink it. When I swing my gaze to find the waiter, I land on Rod, still immersed in a discussion, but it helps anyway. “I’m on a date.”
Cash chuckles. “Not a real one.”
“Is that what you need to tell yourself to ease the rejection?”
“Rejected is the last thing I feel right now, Sly.” His eyes rake over me, like he’s mentally incinerating my clothing. “There is enough electricity in this booth to light up the city. You and your date couldn’t power a headlamp.”
All of that is infuriating. And true. It’s his use of Sly that stills me though. That’s a nickname for Sylvie, not one that anyone else uses for me, but it’s strange. I suppose he could be calling me that because he knows what I do. Or he found out my name and tracked me down here? With his family?
That’s either brilliant or insane. It definitely pollutes the scent of whatever this is.
I glance their way again, and I have to admit I’m intrigued by whatever wholesome deception the duplicitous Noires are gathered here for.
The men are dashing and formidable, with various shades of corruption dressing their billionaire threads, but that’s unsurprising.
I’ve seen them before, and everyone in my line of work knows who the Noires are.
But the women are another story. One is a girl-next-door type with a blonde bob and a too-pure disposition—she gave a hilarious toast at a banquet I attended once.
Another is striking with silver hair and piercings.
And the last is elegant with thick mahogany waves and a baleful warning scrawled across her gorgeous features.
An odd mix of eloquent power and unruffled buoyancy blankets their table. I can’t make sense of it.
Cash rests his arm behind my head, eating up more space between us.
“If you were interested in that guy, then before I stole you away, I’d be compelled to inform him that only a moron takes his eyes off a treasure as stunning as you for even a second, let alone for this long.
But you don’t want him, so I’m inclined to believe he’s a means to an end that I shouldn’t interfere with directly.
Of course, since he’s preoccupied, you and I should have …
” He trails off, gaping at my lips—which are parted in indignation—and shaking his head.
“Look at your mind going to filthy places, just like last time. It’s kind of desperate. ”
Much to my chagrin, a laugh puffs out of me, which only emboldens him.