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Brodie
I’d put myself out there for Nara, something I rarely did with women.
But my gut told me it would be worth it, and when she walked out of that office building, I knew I’d been right.
Luck must have been on my side, because she exited just as we pulled up in the limo. She’d stood outside the door, phone stuck in her face, reading what I figured was my text.
Under the overhang in the building’s light, she struck a pose that about killed me. In her slim skirt and skyscraper heels, she was the definition of elegance.
What was different about her, though, was how she held herself—so unselfconscious.
She had a ridiculously large bag thrown over one shoulder. It must have been heavy as hell because she had to lean in the opposite direction to keep from toppling over. And while she wore those expensive, fuck-me style pumps, she was a little pigeon-toed. Not enough to look dopey, but enough to look like she wasn’t trying too hard.
Her hair had been pulled back into some messy confection at the nape of her neck and from where I sat, it looked like strands were poking out all over. She looked real.
As she got closer, I rolled down the window and waved her over. I popped out of the limo, still not entirely sure she’d go anywhere with me. But there was no harm in asking, right?
She must have had a crap day like me, because she looked like she needed a drink, so we headed over to Brooklyn to a cool new place called The Speakeasy. Supposedly, it really had been a speakeasy back in the day.
“I should have known you ran around town in a limo,” she said with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah, well. I guess membership has its privileges.” I laughed and shrugged.
Hey, I worked my ass off and made a good living. I deserved some of the convenience money could buy in New York.
Not to mention that having a pleasant way to get around town was the balls.
“So you never take the subway?” she asked.
Snarky. I liked that.
“Sure I do. You can’t live here and not take the subway. But I grab the hotel limo whenever I can. It takes a lot of stress off the day.”
She looked around, smoothing her hand over the leather seats. “Well, it sure is a nice treat. Hey, have you talked to Page Six yet? About our Avenue A auction date?”
I couldn’t stand that useless gossip column.
“No. Not interested,” I told her, shrugging.
She nodded. “I get that. I only spoke to them to get a little free publicity for my company.”
Smart girl. “What’d you tell them?”
We hadn’t spent much time together. Yet. What could she possibly have to say?
“Just that it was a lovely evening, and that maybe auction dating wasn’t so bad.” She laughed.
“Do you really feel that way?”
Now, it was her turn to shrug. “I wouldn’t make a habit of it, but when it’s for a good cause, why not?”
She reached up to gather some loose pieces of hair, and as she did, her blouse pulled out of her skirt. I spied a small amount of smooth, flat stomach, but it was the pierced belly button that caused my cock to twitch.
“I’m with ya on that,” I agreed.
“You are?”
“I’ve been in a few of these auctions now, and the resulting dates are sometimes…shall we say, painful?”
That damn crooked smile of hers washed over me. “Tell me! I want to hear the dirt.”
Not gonna happen. “Let’s just say some of the folks I’ve met were not...people I’d usually spend time with.”
She tilted her head, smart enough to read between the lines. “Okay. I get it. So you’re saying you haven’t picked up another auction girl after work, and offered them a ride in your big, bad limo?”
Wow. She made me laugh, something few people did. “I’ve never had a second date with someone I met through an auction.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Oh. This is a date?”
“Jesus, you’re a ball buster. Can we just have a nice time?” I asked with a wink. “Miss Happy?”
“You know, even though Nara means happy, I’ve never been called that.”
“Do you like it?” I asked.
Nodding slowly, she said, “I don’t know. It’s kind of nice.”
I leaned forward to knock on the window separating the driver from the back seat. “You can drop us here.”
“Yes sir. Just give me a call when you’re ready to return, Mr. Harcourt,” the driver said.
I took Nara’s hand as she climbed out of the car and held it until we reached the restaurant. In return, she gripped my fingers tightly, and it felt damn good.
The Speakeasy was gimmicky, but it was the perfect place to take a date.
We knocked on a nondescript front door—which was funny, because everyone knew it was the hottest new bar—and a tiny window opened as if we were sneaking into someplace forbidden. On the inside, the low lights and dark wood made for a cozy set up, and a waitress in 1920’s-style gangster garb ushered us to a corner booth.
“This place is great,” Nara said, flipping through the drink menu.
Up for trying the old Prohibition drinks, she ordered a highball and I got a sidecar.
“So what else did you tell Page Six about us?” I asked.
Having already read her brief interview, because I’m a spying bastard, I knew full well what she’d told them.
But I planned to have some fun putting her on the spot.
