Zander #2
I scrub my hand across my face, feeling the rasp of beard and grit from a day in the trenches of business. “I need a drink,” I say, more to myself than to her.
She sighs. “There are bars strewn all across this city and you chose to come all the way out here to get a drink from me.” She’s quiet for a beat, and I’m readying for the disappointment when she turns me away.
“Get your ass inside and be quiet about it. And do not, under any circumstances, make me regret letting you in.”
I’m out of the car before the call ends.
There’s a lightness to my step that shouldn't be there with the weight of responsibility and the shattering of rules put in place to protect me and those around me. I rap my knuckles against her door, stilling in anticipation, and she opens it a moment later. Warm light spills out onto the dark porch as she’s revealed in a blue and white striped pajama set that, while not skimpy by any means, hugs her curves and looks adorable on her.
Her face is bare of makeup, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders and calling for my hands to twist in the long tresses.
Just seeing her calms some of the manic energy in me. I'm able to take a full breath for what feels like the first time since I saw her last. She stays silent, wariness in her expression as she looks at me on the threshold of more than just her home.
I’m bathed in her presence, memories of nights spent with her barreling straight to the forefront of my mind like a good bourbon on an empty stomach.
The thoughts tangle around my limbs and trip me as I hesitate on the doorstep.
Every instinct in me says to gather her in my arms and crush her against me, to take those full lips with mine and kiss the hell out of her.
To touch her the way I know she likes. But, while I’m acting irrationally and against my better judgment, I’m not my baser instincts, and I know better than to rush into her space and take what isn't offered.
Who the fuck am I to want her this badly after walking away?
I made my decision, knowing full well it was the best option.
I shouldn’t want her still, after having had my fill of her.
But there is something more than our explosive chemistry and memories holding us together, and that’s what is driving me to be this out of control of myself.
If I can just get some answers from her, maybe I can stop this madness and get back to what I do best—no attachments.
“Are you going to stand there all night, or are you coming in?” she finally asks, cocking her hip and placing a hand on it. My eyes are drawn to where her hand rests, the new fullness calling to my hands, asking me to sink my fingers into her lush curves and pull her tight against me.
I blink the thought away. Being around her and not putting my hands on her is going to be a nearly insurmountable task. Good thing I like a challenge.
I follow her inside without a word, softly shutting the door behind me.
She pads over the warm-toned hardwood, her bare feet peeking out from under the cuffs of her pajama pants, her ass jiggling through the stretchy material, and I have to will myself not to grow hard at the tantalizing sight.
We pass a comfortable-looking living room and make our way into a spacious kitchen that has been done in the home’s modern-meets-traditional style.
“I have a bottle of merlot open, and I may have some gin and tonic around, but this bar ain’t stocked with much else.
” She pulls open the fridge and eyes the contents, arranged to perfection with carefully labeled containers holding a host of ingredients, and fresh produce stocked in the crisper drawers.
“I have sparkling water, milk, and juice boxes, too.” She turns back to me and shrugs a shoulder, not apologizing for her lack of drink options.
A heavy pour of bourbon is what I really need.
“The wine is fine.” I settle myself at a stool along the island, the thick marble veined in a deep blue-green that reminds me of the Indian Ocean we swam in together and I can’t help but trace it with a finger while she pulls out a wine glass.
There’s one glass sitting in the sink, so I know she opened the wine for herself.
At least there’s not a second glass in that sink, so she wasn’t drinking with the fucking jock she’s seeing.
Rage fills my blood at the thought of him and the feeling of—what the fuck is this? Jealousy? I look up when she sets the wine in front of me. I smooth my thoughts away to contemplate later and let a smile touch my lips. It’s my disarming expression, but her face hardens when she sees it.
“Are you going to tell me why I’m playing bartender to you tonight, or should I guess at your nefarious intentions?”
She leans on the island across from me, the undone first few buttons of her pajama top gaping with the movement and showing me the swell of her tits.
It’s hard to drag my gaze back to her face when memories of her incredible body and how responsive she is under my touch surface in my mind.
On Monday, her nipples grew hard when she saw me, so even if she hates me now, her body remembers and may not feel the same way.
Mine fucking knows what it wants, my cock twitching at the very sight of her.
“I was dealing with a lot of shit at work today. You may have heard about the cyber attack on Olympus?”
She nods warily. “Who hasn’t?”
“The attack was to get into a project that isn’t ready and the hackers stole proprietary information that is likely already sold to our competitors.
It means years of work down the drain if we can’t push production and get our product out before anyone else.
It’s also tanked a bunch of our subsidiary stocks and we’re losing millions due to investors thinking we’ve had all of our data mined, so it’s been a stressful few days. ”
“Oh, I see. You’re actually taking this bartender thing seriously and plan to spill your woes all over my kitchen.
” She rolls her eyes and arches a brow before continuing.
“Let me be clear. I don’t care. I don’t care what’s going on for you, professionally or personally.
It doesn’t concern me and I’m not being paid to pretend otherwise.
So what really brought you here tonight? ”
I can’t stop thinking about you. “What do you think threw us together again earlier this week?” I say instead of the thoughts that bang around my head.
“Uh, traffic?” she says, her beautiful face twisting in confusion. “Wrong place, wrong time,” she continues sardonically.
I take a sip of the wine—it’s good, and a far cry from the tropical cocktails she enjoyed in the Maldives with me—and wave a hand through her explanation.
“I saw you on the Atlanta Haute List just before Javi hit you. There’s a reason you were thrust back into my life twice in the span of a morning.
I think you know why,” I say, hoping her thoughts run parallel to mine.
“Please enlighten me,” she says with another roll of her eyes.
“I thought it was bad traffic navigation on your friend’s part.
As for why you saw something about me, I never asked to be the focus of a local gossip blog, but you should know they don’t exactly take our feelings into account before writing about us. ”
So she has read about me, too. She crosses her arms and cocks a hip, striking a pose worthy of being photographed when she’s just in her pajamas in her kitchen, dark hair tumbling down her back, calling me out on bullshit I didn’t even realize I was stepping in.
I skip the preamble, going for the real reason I’m here, hedging my bets that I may get more out of her this way. “You have a kid now. One who could conveniently coincide with a trip we took years ago, and you never mentioned him to me. All I have are questions, Lowe. You hold all the answers.”
My fingers grip the stem of the wine glass tightly while my words are looser than I would normally hold them, knowing she doesn’t want to play games any more than I want to.
I realize I misjudged the situation when her posture changes, straightening up and closing off.
How can I know her body so well, yet not know the right thing to say to her now at all?
She plants her hands on the island and stares me down. “My son is of no concern to you.”
“You think not?” The words come out quick and incredulous. Entitled.
She stiffens and I wonder why I’m making it my concern when clearly she doesn't want to share it with me. But I can’t let it go. Not when I saw the similarities for myself. I rub a hand across my face and feel what little patience I have waning.
“He has my eyes, Harlowe. I can see that from a grainy cell phone photo published on a gossip site. It could be a coincidence. Who knows if you found another gray-eyed man to fuck right after me, but I’m thinking that’s not the case.
” The words are sandpaper in my throat, tearing up from a locked-down vault and exiting before I can carefully filter them out.
I know as soon as I speak that I hate the idea of another man touching her and fathering a child with her.
I hate that I could be wrong when I don't even know if I want to be right.
I hate that I want to move around the island and bend her over it, making more gray-eyed babies with her.
Fucking hell, get a hold of yourself, Olsen!