Never Say Never, page 5
“Huh.” He leans back, studying me like I’m a science project fileted open for dissection. “Well, that’s a first, but I can understand. I mean, you’re drop dead gorgeous.”
My cheeks burn. It’s the one compliment that never gets old, though I’d never admit that out loud. I’d take “gorgeous” over “beached whale” any day of the week.
“Am I allowed to say that?” He laughs, and I realize I’ve been holding in a breath. “I don’t want you to think I’m, like, superficial or anything.”
“Thank you.” I accept his compliment with grace, unwrapping and then dipping my straw into my water. I suck in a drink, a lemon seed getting caught in the current and lodging itself on the back of my tongue. Of course that would happen. I swallow it with a smile, and he’s none the wiser. “So how was your day?”
His energy saturates the space between us. I feel something. Lust? Chemistry? He pushes his sleeves up to his elbow, as if he’s suddenly grown too warm. “Kind of shitty until you walked in here.”
I toss my head back and chuckle. “Is that some kind of pick up line? Does that really work on people?”
“I’m being honest,” he insists. He leans in, placing his hand across my forearm. “I had the worst fucking day imaginable. And then you walked in here.”
His eyes fall to my breasts, though I forgive him because he’s a hot-blooded American man and there are certain reflexes they cannot control. I’m wearing a push-up bra because it’s the only strapless one I own that fits Nina’s little black dress, and my red-bottomed heels are hooked onto the legs of the bar stool.
Ryan’s leg bounces under the table. He’s about to say something when our waitress returns to take our orders. I request an agave margarita and he orders some kind of wheat beer. We split a plate of grilled buffalo wings and share a slice of fresh strawberry pie for dessert.
“Entrees are overrated,” he says when dessert comes a little while later.
“Couldn’t agree more,” I reply.
He dabs the corners of his full mouth with his napkin and gives me the final bite of pie. When the check comes, he slips a few bills in before I can protest. I’m beyond giddy when we walk outside and he slips his hand into mine.
I like him so far. He is sweet. Kind. Well-mannered. He was willing to give “Whitney” a chance, and therefore he deserves “Skylar." He politely laughs at my nervous little idiosyncrasies, and I don’t feel judged by him. Ryan’s face has been lit up like Christmas since the moment he saw me, and I’m doing an invisible little happy dance with every tandem step we take along the sidewalk.
“I enjoyed talking to you tonight,” he says as our walk breaks to a leisure amble. “I want to get to know you more, Skylar. I can’t help but feel like I’m barely scratching the surface with you.”
He would be correct.
“I hope I’m not being too frank here,” he says, “but would you like to come back to my place?”
My heart dips down before ricocheting into my chest. “Oh, um…What would we do there?” God, I sound like a fucking idiot. He’s probably laughing at me right now. “I mean…”
“Nothing you don’t want to do,” he says. He stops, backing me against the brick façade of a little Italian deli. His hand reaches for my face, brushing away a tendril as our eyes lock. My mouth parts, as if it’s expecting a kiss from him, but he doesn’t kiss me. He’s a gentleman. “I want to get to know you more. I don’t want this night to be over yet. That’s all.”
I’m relieved. Kind of. I want to kiss him, but I don’t want to rush anything. There are a million girls in this city looking for a guy like Ryan, and I don’t need to show my hand yet. Dating is like a poker game. Just ask Lady Gaga.
“I can come over for a little bit.” I clear my throat as quietly as I possibly can and purse my lips. Being this close to him, I’m able to breathe him in for the first time. The crisp evening air mixes with his cologne and tickles my lungs. I wonder what he smells like underneath his layers upon layers of Brooks Brothers clothes. Maybe someday I’ll find out.
Ryan’s lips curl as he takes my hand once more, pulling me north toward his apartment.
***
I’m seated on a leather sofa the color of mocha. Exposed brick walls and a crackling fireplace set the mood. His place is rustic and manly and industrial chic all at the same time. There are strategically placed photos and ornamental metal objects lining his bookshelves. A woman decorated the place.
I stop thinking about that the second he sits next to me and places a glass of white wine in my hand.
“You decorate this place yourself?” I ask, kicking myself all the way.
His eyes light up and he shakes his head. “A couple years ago I took a part-time job at a furniture store. Had a pretty steep discount. Just went through the pages of our catalog and picked rooms I liked and copied them.”
Tacky, but at least he’s being honest.
I appreciate his honesty. “I see.”
The sofa shifts as he leans in closer to me. The fire in front of us cracks and pops, and it’s the only thing I hear besides the rush of blood in my ears that accompanies my runaway heartbeat.
“Skylar.” His voice is low, throaty yet soft.
“Yes?” I swallow the lump in my throat. It comes back bigger.
It’s all happening so fast. I thought we were just going to talk?
Ryan grabs my wine glass, placing it gently on a reclaimed wood coaster resting on the coffee table. I know what this means. I lick my lips. My fingers tingle. I haven’t kissed anyone in months, maybe longer.
His body invades my space and my mouth opens, accepting his the moment he claims it. Ryan lowers himself over me as he guides me to my back. His knee presses between my legs, widening my hips as he lies on top of me.
His kisses set my mind on fire. I can’t think. I can’t form a comprehensible thought to save my life. All I know is I like this. His mouth on mine. His hands all over my body.
Being wanted.
I’m perfectly fine with making out. Making out is innocent. Making out can be sexy. I skipped that milestone in high school, but I’m making up for it now.
“Your lips are sweet, like strawberries,” he moans between tasting me. “I’ve been staring at your mouth all night.”
His words send heat to my core, and his hips push down onto mine as he breathes into my ear. His teeth nip my ear lobe, and the hard sensation pressing against my tingling sex takes things to a whole new level.
My body flushes with heat, only this time it’s not from his kisses. I am powerless. I don’t know where this is going. This was not part of the plan.
What happened to the gentleman I had dinner with? The one hurling compliments at me like it was his job? The one staring at me like I was most magnificent thing he’d ever seen?
“Wait,” I whisper. My hands slide up his side and land on his chest, my palms pressing him away.
He ignores me, pushing back against my hands. His mouth on mine, which felt so harmless a second ago, is now invasive.
“Ryan,” I say, louder this time. “Stop.”
His hips buck against mine, making me realize that my dress is hiked up to the top of my hips. When did that happen? The only thing separating us is my black lace panties and his Brooks Brothers khakis. He releases a moan into my ear that distracts me from the fact that his right hand is skimming southward, down my side, past my hips, and trailing between my thighs.
“What are you…” I moan as his fingers slide under my panties and between my folds. He massages my clit with small circles. My body likes it. My mind does not. A warmth wetness trickles between my legs. My body is betraying me, and I’m not comfortable with any of it. I’m pinned beneath him. “Get off me.”
He slips a finger inside, which prompts my body to summon superhuman strength I never knew I had. My palms press against his chest with one hard thrust and he flies back. My eyes land on the bulge in his pants that indicates he had no intentions of stopping anytime soon.
“What the fuck?” His eyes are wild. They’re not stormy blue anymore. They’re not trustworthy or kind. Ryan’s face twists. I don’t recognize him.
I stand, fixing my panties and tugging my dress down. I want to burn them all when I get home. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
His bulge subsides second by second as his face turns cherry red. “I thought it’s what you wanted.”
“Ha!” My hands fly to my hips. My eyes scan the room for my clutch. It’s sitting on top of his kitchen counter. By the door. And my shoes. I’m two seconds from leaving, but I want to give him a piece of my mind. “You’re exactly the kind of guy I was trying to avoid tonight.”
“Really?” He stands up. His sneer terrifies me. He’s grinding his teeth and his fist is clenched. I can only assume I’ve bruised the fuck out of his poor, defenseless little ego. “You walk in there tonight with your tits up to here and those fuck me shoes and you expect me to walk you home with nothing more than a goodnight kiss? What the fuck did you think when I invited you back here?”
“You said you wanted to get to know me.”
“Read between the lines.” He shakes his head, as if this whole thing is my fault. He leans down, grabbing his wine glass and tossing the remaining liquid back with a single gulp. He almost flings the glass into the fireplace and then stops short. “I should’ve known when you walked in that this wasn’t going to end well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I wanted the girl in the picture.”
“I am her.” I trek across his apartment, stepping into my heels. My hand grips the doorknob. I’m two seconds from bolting, but I want to know what the hell he’s getting at.
“No,” he shakes his head. I’m not understanding him. “I wanted the fatty. I wanted to get laid, and fat, ugly chicks are easy.”
I’m in the area, so I pop into Van Cleef Agency. I need to tell Skylar myself, in person, that I won’t be needing her services anytime soon.
I also want to see her again.
In person.
I greet the receptionist and breeze past, catching a glimpse of Addison’s office door and a hint of my cousin, Wilder, standing across from her desk. They’re smiling, drinking coffee and discussing something.
It must be lovely to have that bond with someone.
It must be grounding to have someone you can trust – someone who has your back no matter what.
I see it in the honeyed way she always looks at him, and it’s a stark reminder of the fact that no one’s ever looked at me that way before.
I keep walking until I reach the end of the hall, stopping short in front of the door labeled “Skylar Presley.”
“Knock, knock,” I call out. The door is ajar, so I feel foolish knocking. I can hear the frenetic clicking of a keyboard, so I know she’s in there. “Hello?”
I push the door open. Her dark eyes snap toward the door and she jumps. Her hand flies to her chest. “Oh, God. You scared me.”
“Didn’t mean to. You okay?”
She doesn’t look okay. Her eyes have dulled and are packing major baggage, and her hair isn’t styled the way it usually is. Her outfit is plain. Gray and simple.
“I’m fine,” she says, closing her laptop and turning toward me. “Come on in.”
I take a seat, drawing in a sharp breath and letting it go. “I have some news.”
She draws her shoulders back, almost as if she’s bracing herself. Her eyebrows lift and she waits. “Bad news?”
“I’m going to have to postpone my apartment search,” I say. “I’m not in a position to buy quite yet.”
“I can help you find a rental,” she says almost immediately.
My lips part. I don’t know how to turn down her offer without adding more shit to the shit-tastic day she’s clearly having. “I appreciate that, but for now, I’m going to be staying at a hotel. I’m not wanting to sign a lease on anything until I know what my situation is going to be like.”
Skylar leans back into her chair, sulking, almost but not in an overly showy fashion. “It’s because I’m a bad realtor, isn’t it?”
I don’t recognize this self-doubting side of her, but then again, I hardly know her.
Yet.
“No,” I spit back, my face scrunching. “Not at all. Skylar, you’re new at this, but you’re not bad at it. My finances are tied up at the moment, pending my legal situation.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t ask, and I’m grateful.
“How was your date?” I switch gears. I want to stay and talk to her more, even if that means discussing the douchebag that she spent her Friday night with.
Her face falls.
Shit.
“I’m not talking about it with you,” she says.
I’m sensing a little misdirected anger. “And why not? I thought we were friends?”
“You are my client.” She shakes her head. “Were. You were my client. We’re not friends.”
“I take it your date didn’t go well,” I state.
“Like I said, I’m not discussing it with you.” She cracks her laptop open and directs her gaze toward the screen. She’s trying to hint that we’re done, but I don’t budge. “You should let me take you out on a real date sometime.”
I don’t know where my offer comes from. It escapes my mouth before I can determine if it’ll even be well received.
Her brown eyes soften somewhat before squinting at her screen. She still won’t meet my gaze. She’s typing something, her fingers darting over the keys at a million miles per hour. “You’re not my type.”
“How do you know that? You don’t even know me.” I’m insulted, but I have to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
“I know you enough to know that you’re not my type,” she reiterates. She clicks her track pad and shuts the lid of her laptop, gracing me with her attention. Skylar stands up, slinking her purse over her shoulder. “I’m meeting a client for a showing in twenty minutes.”
Her icy stare glides over my shoulder and toward the door behind me. Everything about Skylar is cool, aloof, and guarded, but it doesn’t deter me. She’s putting up walls, and I’m going to break them down brick by brick.
“What is your type?” I back up to the doorway, blocking her exit. I want my answer.
She pushes past me, and I follow. Skylar tugs the door closed and checks the lock. “Not you.”
Challenge accepted.
I don’t know what the hell her date did to piss her off over the weekend, but she’s clearly taking it out on me. It’s almost kind of cute because I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it. It’s okay. I’ll take the beating if it’s something she needs to get out of her system.
We walk together toward the elevator. She pulls out her phone and fires off a text. I peek over her shoulder. She’s texting her client an address. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume she was angry-texting her date from Friday night.
The elevator deposits us on the ground floor and she impatiently bursts through the doors the second they open. Her heels click against the tile floor and she pushes through a group of people. I nearly lose her. I step lightly, catching up with her outside.
“Skylar,” I call out. “Skylar!”
She stops short and turns to face me, drawing in a deep breath. One fist clenches her purse strap and the other is balled at her side.
“I’m sorry if I upset you in there,” I say, hoping my words would ease her tension. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Our gazes lock, yet she says nothing.
“Look, if I’m not your type, there’s nothing I can do about that.” I want to touch her face, but I resist. “I don’t know a lot of people here. I’m still trying to get established. I’m sorry if I came on too strong.”
“I get it,” she says, softening. “You’re lonely. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to move here and know no one.”
We’re getting somewhere. This is good.
“If you ever want to hang out with me,” I say, “I promise, I won’t make you uncomfortable.”
Her weight shifts from one foot to the other. She worries her lip and stares down at the sidewalk before returning her gaze to meet mine. “Yeah, Theo. That’s fine. We can hang out sometime.”
Victory.
“I have to get going,” she says, pulling out her phone and checking the time.
I slip my hands into my pockets and step back, watching as she disappeared into a crowd of tourists.
***
My fingers drum across the dustless oak table in Vic Valotti’s conference room. The midday sun sears my back through the Venetian blinds behind me.
“Would you like a glass of water?” his assistant asks. I don’t know her name, and I don’t care. She reminds me of my ex, Amber, with her ebony hair, cappuccino complexion, long neck, and hypnotic golden eyes. I shudder.
“Thank you. No.”
“He’ll be in shortly,” she says, her gaze sticking to me like gum to a shoe bottom. She peels out of the room and disappears.
“Theo, how’re we doing?” Brayden says as he walks in. Tyler is behind him. They’re swimming in their expensive-looking suits, and his voice makes him sound like a child.
They sit down and pour themselves water from the glass pitcher Vic’s assistant left behind.
“How do you two know Vic?” I ask.
Their eyes meet again, and I swear they’re sharing the same brain.
“My dad works here,” Tyler offers, clearing his throat.
“My dad was a client of Vic’s,” Brayden says, lifting his water glass to his lips.
Nailed it.
As long as Vic’s leading the case, I am fine with his minions. “I see.”
Vic enters the room out of breath, as if he's rushing to get there. That or he’s woefully out of shape. He carries a folder with him stuffed full of paper, and he slaps it down on the conference table before plopping into the seat across from me.
“All right,” Vic says. “Here’s the deal. He’s willing to settle out of court. He wants ten mil.”
