Chapter 4
4
Some women you never forget.
Your brain won’t let go of the scent of her skin. Your muscle memory holds the shape of your body curved around hers, and your senses recall the feel of your hands in her hair, your lips on hers.
It can be months, even a year, since you’ve seen her, longer since you’ve touched her, and everything rushes back in an instant.
Every damn image collides at once in a traffic jam of sensation. Sounds, sighs, scents. Her back arching, her lips parted, her waterfall of hair cascading over my hands.
But now, she’s three-dimensional, flesh and bone. I blink all those memories aside, and they take a back seat to the woman in front of me.
As I drink in the long blonde hair, the chocolate-brown eyes, a body I wanted to get to know so very badly, I’m reminded of one damn near perfect week seven years ago.
One tempting, tantalizing, torturous week. It’s seared in my mind. We met at a fundraising event in Manhattan, danced, drank, laughed, and stayed out all night. In the seven days that followed, we embodied infatuation. Late nights, lingering calls, chats you never wanted to end. So many sparks you could light up the night sky.
I can recall every moment, I swear.
Including the ending.
The bitter realization of who she was.
One more step, then another, and she stops in front of me, looking impossibly sexy, and she was the sexiest woman I’d ever known when she was a mere twenty-two.
But now? Dear God. She’s not even dressed up. Sloane Elizabeth is decked out in exercise pants, running shoes, and a sporty tank, and I still want to lick and kiss every inch of her. A canvas bag is slung over her shoulder.
I gesture to it. “You’re still shopping at midnight?”
“It’s the best time to go.” She raises her hands in fists. “I don’t have to fight anyone over the last head of radicchio.”
“I bet you don’t have to arm wrestle anyone for radicchio during the daylight hours either.”
“True,” she says with a laugh, then eyes me up and down. Those brown irises. Those red lips. God, I remember exactly how they taste. She punches my arm, knocking my thoughts from the dirty zone to the buddy level. “How the hell are you, Malone?”
“I can’t complain. And you? I take it from the grocery bag on your shoulder that you’re living here. Did you move from Connecticut?” She’s lived an hour or so from the city for the last several years, first New Jersey, then Connecticut, so I’ve run into her every now and then. But it’s been a little over a year since the last time.
“I did. I’m working here now.” She shifts her weight to her left leg, her soulful eyes never leaving my face. “What has it been? A year or so?”
A year and two months. We bumped into each other at a Moroccan restaurant in Chelsea that Truly dragged me to because the drinks were legendary. Sloane was dining with some hipster wannabe with a dangling earring who was clearly an asshole. Who else wears dangling earrings? She introduced me to him that night. His name was Plant. Or Brick. Or something painfully trendy that made me dislike him even more. She was still living in Connecticut at the time, so she obviously took the train into the city to see him. That tipped the scales to loathing for Dangling Earring Boy, who was also too young for her.
Her father would have hated him.
Her father hated everyone she dated.
He once remarked after she'd stopped by the office that he despised the guy she was seeing. No one was good enough for her, he’d said. I'd arched a brow asking, “No one?”
He shot bullets with his eyes. "No one, Casanova."
That was years ago, but it was all he needed to say, especially since he’d already told me not to get any ideas. When the man who signs your paycheck makes it clear his daughter is off-limits, something you already knew by virtue of the fact that BUSINESS PARTNERS’ DAUGHTERS ARE OFF-LIMITS, you listen. You take it to heart.
I remember his warnings perfectly, just like I remember all the times I’ve seen her. “A year or so ago. Yes. It was something like that,” I say, answering her question. The truth is I could give her chapter and verse of all the times I’ve seen her since we met—the time in Grand Central; the anniversary party her dad threw; an awards ceremony where I was tempted, so damn tempted; and the time she stopped by the office when her dad made the comment. Instead, I gesture to her getup. “So what are you doing in the city these days?”
“I just started an animal rescue here. About a month ago, and I’m getting it off the ground.”
I’m surprised her dad hadn’t mentioned it, even though the rescue is in its early days. But a smile takes over my face. “That’s great. You always wanted to.”
“I did. And I’m glad to do it. It’s hard work, but so rewarding. I’m actually living in Brooklyn, in the tiniest place imaginable. But I was shopping here because I’m staying with a friend in the city tonight. Do you still have Evil Genius?” she asks.
The sneaky orange senior cat I adopted several years ago skulks through my memory. He was the wiliest cat around, slinking into cupboards and inside cabinets, even in his old age. I had him for the last five years of his life. “Nope. He crossed the rainbow bridge a few years ago. Good cat. He had a nice, long, and happy life.”
She touches my elbow. “He did. You were good to him, though I’m sorry to hear he’s gone. Is there a new cat in your life?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“Such restraint.”
“I know,” I say with a chuckle.
“But then, you always did have good restraint.”
“And so did you.”
She grins, a little flirty. “One of my great regrets.” Okay, maybe a lot flirty.
She tips her chin at my jacket, shifting gears immediately. “Nice duds. What are you doing in that suit?”
I run a hand down the silk of my royal-blue tie. “I sing now at Gin Joint. A few other places too, now and then.”
Her lips quirk up. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, I decided to take it up. Someone once told me I should.” Ha. Take that, Plant Brick. I bet he doesn’t sing, or wear a suit, or run his own motherfucking business. I bet he can’t remove ovaries from a cat either.
“I’m glad you listened to that someone. That someone always liked the way you sang,” she says, using her sexy bedroom voice, and I don’t even care if Plant Brick is the regular recipient of that smoky, sexy tone of hers. I’ll enjoy it right now, thank you very much.
“That someone has excellent taste.”
Sloane smiles, a bright, gorgeous grin that threatens to rattle loose words. Words like What are you doing right now? and Go home with me .
“I do have good taste.” Her gaze lingers on my face, her eyes locked with mine. The air between us crackles, and for a moment, we’re the only ones in New York City. “I still do,” she adds.
Dear God. Plant Brick doesn’t deserve this woman.
I do.
I fucking do.
I step closer and lift a hand, every instinct telling me to haul her into my arms and kiss the breath out of her.
I don’t, because Truly’s wrong. Sure, the score might technically change when the deal’s done. Her dad won’t be my business partner once he officially asks me to take over the business, as I suspect he’ll do on Friday night.
But Doug has also been my mentor. We have a long history. He taught me how to run a practice from the ground up. He’s a guiding force in the work I do, and my work is everything. Even if we’re no longer business partners, I have a feeling his daughter would still be off-limits.
I backpedal, digging my feet into the ground, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my suit pants. “We should . . . have lunch,” I offer, because lunch is harmless.
“Lunch?” She asks the question as if I’d suggested we take up crocheting. “Really?”
I decide to make light of it. “What’s wrong with lunch? What did lunch ever do to you?”
She hums, as if she’s considering it. Then she lowers her voice, like she’s sharing a tawdry secret. “Sometimes lunch disappoints. What if there’s no burger or fries? What if you can’t get the toasted panini of your dreams? Lunch can get you down.”
“Let’s do breakfast, then. It’s a satisfaction guaranteed kind of meal,” I say, playing along, since I don’t want to say goodnight to her.
“Do you still love pancakes?”
“Do I look like the kind of guy who hates pancakes?”
She studies me once more, her gaze traveling over my clothes. Then she drops the routine. “You don’t look like you hate pancakes. But, Malone, you know exactly why we shouldn’t do that.”
I do know.
I know it too well.
But seeing her tugs on something inside me. Tugs on my desire to finish all our unfinished business. And yeah, it tugs on other parts too. She’s more tempting now than she was the night I met her. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is.
I drop all the teasing and the innuendo. “You look amazing, Sloane.”
She gestures to her casual gear. “I’m super fancy too.”
“You never needed fancy clothes to look great.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, then she runs a hand down my tie for a second before dropping it. “And you are rocking the hell out of that suit. How was your set?”
“I sang some songs, earned some claps. You should come see me sometime.” There I go again, leaving a morsel I shouldn’t be leaving.
“Should I?”
“You should.”
“Will you get me a backstage pass?”
“You hardly need one, but I’d be happy to go to the nearest FedEx and mock one up for you.”
“Will it say A Good Man Groupie ?”
A devilish smirk takes over my face. “You know my stage name.” This delights me immeasurably.
A fierce blush speeds over her cheeks. “Fine. I looked you up,” she says softly under her breath, as if the admission costs her something.
I lean forward, and even though it’s been a while since I’ve checked her out online, I throw in my confession too. “Moment of truth: I look you up sometimes too.”
“Is that so?” Her voice is breathy with a hint of longing.
“It is very much so. I’m a visual guy. I enjoy the photos.”
“Any in particular?”
“All in particular.”
She bites her lip, lowers her face. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
But she doesn’t seem like she wishes that. She doesn’t seem like she misses her dangling earring friend too much either. Nor do I.
Maybe it’s the moonlight.
Maybe it’s the sheer surprise of running into her tonight.
Or maybe it’s just that she’s as irresistible now as she was seven years ago.
I reach for her face, lift up her chin, and meet her gaze. “Sloane Elizabeth, you’re still the most alluring woman I’ve ever met.”
They’re only words. I don’t have to act on them. But saying them feels so fucking good. Hell, saying them is a massive turn-on.
Because of how she reacts.
How she trembles under my touch.
Her eyes darken as she stares at me. “Is that so? Am I like champagne?” It’s a challenge. A throwdown, it seems, as she sends me back in time to the evening we met.
“You’re a champagne kind of woman. A good glass of champagne delights all your senses. It tickles your nose, and it goes to your head, and it makes you just the right kind of buzzed,” I say, telling her what I told her that night, feeling nearly as buzzed on her now as I did then.
She swallows, looks away, then back to me, taking a deep breath as if she’s centering herself. “Malone, I can’t stand here on the street and flirt with you. You can’t just bump into me and make yourself irresistible again.”
My lips curve up. My skin sizzles. “Am I? Irresistible?”
“You know you were.”
“ Were. Are. Which one?”
She sets a hand on my chest. “You were. You are. And nothing has technically changed.”
“I’m well aware of that. And yet I still like pancakes.”
“Same here.” It’s barely a whisper.
She rises on tiptoe and drops a searing, sugar-sweet kiss on my lips. She tastes like honey and fire, and the mere brush of her lips on mine is electric. My bones crackle and hum. For a few intense seconds, I deepen the kiss. As I capture her mouth, she melts against me like she used to.
But she breaks the kiss and curls a hand around my shoulder. “If I stand here any longer, the next thing we know, we’ll be having pancakes.” She lets go of me, shoves her bag up her shoulder, and turns the other way.
“Breakfast. I’m going to call you,” I say.
She waves without looking back.
I walk away too, because she’s right.
She’s not a woman I can call. She’s a woman I need to resist, even when she’s no longer my business partner’s daughter.
And that kiss was more of a goodbye than a hello.