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“But first…” He rises and walks to a small bar cart with glass shelves matching the tables and the wall behind us. His house is a shrine to gleaming glass and expressive woods. His handsome face and broad chest are reflected in a round starburst silver mirror over the bar cart. He winks at me when he notices I’m watching.
He has good taste. His style is masculine and clean. Add a few more throw pillows and a coffee table book about France, and this could’ve been my old apartment in Chicago.
He turns with two shot glasses of clear liquid. “Truth serum.”
“Vodka?”
“Tequila.”
I’m already shaking my head, but a smile sneaks onto my lips anyway.
“Come on, Viv. Live a little. I’ll go easy on you.”
“I don’t believe you.” I accept the shot glass. “But I enjoy living dangerously.”
Nate
Two shots later, Vivian is snuggled into the corner of my sofa giggling. She was a little wobbly on her last trip to the bathroom, which means she’s not going to need her car tonight. She will need a deluxe hangover breakfast tomorrow if she’s not careful.
I’m not a snuggler after sex, but I like conversation. What started out as an excuse to keep her here a while longer has turned into genuine curiosity. She’s curious about me as well, which is fun. She’s been aloof and cool until tonight. Peeling back her first layer and then a second has only made me want to peel back more.
She chucks back a third shot—a small one since I’m a gentleman—and waves the empty glass at me. “You told the truth. You’ve been taking it easy on me.”
I have. I asked her where she lived. Drysdale Avenue in Clear Ridge. I asked her where she worked before she worked at the CRBI and gave me a blah answer of “I worked in management at a financial firm.”
I didn’t press, somewhat satisfied I was right assuming she’s overqualified for her position at CRBI.
“You’re in need of a meal,” I tell her. “The chef left dinner in the fridge. I never ate it. Veal parmesan and spring mix salad if memory serves.”
She throws herself into my arms and I accept a tequila-flavored kiss. “Your mouth makes a nice snack.”
I give in and kiss her again, making out long and slow to the music in the background. I selected a playlist earlier. The chill atmosphere leads to thoughts I don’t intend to have. Thoughts of her here on the regular, in my arms, relaxed and cozy. Me bringing her a martini after a hard day’s work—with olives. A fire in the fireplace in the winter. A lit Christmas tree in the corner.
I’m not one for homey fantasies. They’re mildly alarming.
“Question three,” she purrs up at me, her eyes half-open. “Who broke your nose?” She untangles one arm from my neck to tap my nose with her finger. Her first two questions were about my family. How old was I when I was adopted, and when did I make my first million. I was honest. Fifteen and twenty-two, respectively. Well, twenty-two was the age when I made the first million on my own. William Owen gave me seed money when I turned twenty-one. Which came with many, many lessons from him on how not to blow it.
“Which time?” I kiss her palm. “You know you’re staying tonight, right? I can’t let you drive like this. You’re a mess.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know I’m staying.” Her tone is haughty, like she’d planned to stay all along. Hell, maybe she did. Maybe she’s controlling my mind and I’m powerless to resist. I admit, there are worse ways to go. “How many times has it been broken?”
I look to the ceiling in thought. “Three and a half.”
“Okay, tell me the story of the last time and a half.”
“Both courtesy of my druggie father,” I answer.
Her smile vanishes.
“He was trying to take our rent money from me. I was thirteen. If I’d given it to him, Mom and I would have been out on the street. January’s cold in Chicago.”
“I know,” she whispers, running her finger down the bridge of my nose tenderly, tracing the bump. Her “I know” was less a confirmation and more of an “I remember.”
“Chicago girl,” I say. “I wondered.”
