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Garrett swaps my empty glass for the champagne.
“See? I knew you were trying to get me drunk. You think you can make me like you.”
“I know I can make you like me.” He smiles, but I don’t miss the sympathetic frown.
I waggle my finger at him. “Like I said, we may have this New York connection now, but Polson Falls is another world.”
He sets my empty glass on a coaster. “Can we call a truce on all the development stuff? You know, clock out for the night?”
“Like Ralph Wolf and Sam Sheepdog?”
Garrett’s face screws up. “Who?”
“You know, the wolf and sheepdog? ‘Morning, Sam. Morning, Ralph.’” I deepen my voice to imitate the two characters.
His blank look tells me he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“The Looney Tunes cartoon. God, what is it with your generation? No appreciation for the classics. But I knew that about you.” I cap that off with a wink to soften the dig.
“My generation, huh? And you’re, what, two years younger than me?”
I gasp and slap his chest, my hand landing on hard muscle. “I am beyond insulted. Five years, Garrett. I’m only thirty.” Thirty-one this year, but who’s counting?
He smirks, looking down at where my hand lingers. I don’t pull away, and he doesn’t step back. “I’m sorry, there wasn’t a readily available bio for you online.”
“Shocking.” But that means he looked.
“It was! I was expecting at least one picture of you doing a keg stand with a skirt around your armpits.”
“Those are only available to my dearest friends on Facebook. Please respect my privacy.” Reluctantly, I move my hand.
His soft chuckle is like music filling my ears. “Come on. Let’s go.” He jerks his head toward the door.
“I can’t. There are too many books to look at in here.” I sweep my hand around the room. “I think I’ll stay here all night.”
“Don’t you have a date to entertain?”
“Who, Dean? Trust me, he’s fine out there on his own. And we’re a hundred percent just friends.” That last part, I felt compelled to add.
“You know you’ll have to go out there eventually.”
“Eventually, yes. But my plan is to not remember any of it. Just please, don’t let me fall over. With these slits as high as they are, I had to forgo certain undergarments”—I drop my voice—“and that could get awkward.”
His gaze drops for one … two … three beats before he sucks back the rest of his drink. “If you insist on hiding, there are plenty of other places in this penthouse.”
“Such as?”
A devilish twinkle ignites in his eyes. “Follow me.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Quick! Go!” Garrett rushes me into an elevator, our drinks sloshing in his grip, my giggles trailing us. “Hit three.”
I fumble with the buttons. He wasn’t kidding about places to hide. We’ve skittered along hallways, snuck up and down staircases, through a staff room, a gym, a movie room, a dining room that seats eighteen, and a bustling kitchen with staff who stole suspicious glances at us.
The elevator doors close, and Garrett sinks back against the wall. “Close call.”
“Why? Who saw you?”
“My father and Richard were waving me over, but I ducked out when they weren’t looking. Here.” He hands me my fresh Negroni and then licks the spilled liquid from the back of his hand, between his thumb and index finger. “Licorice, huh?” The simple move is intoxicating.
Or I’m intoxicated.
Either way, watching his tongue smooth over his skin—imagining it on my skin—quickens my pulse.
But it’s his casual demeanor and the way he seems to enjoy playing hide-and-don’t-seek with me that’s drawing me closer to admitting I like Garrett Harrington. At least, this version of him.
“What’s that?” He frowns at the appetizer in my hand.
“Bacon-wrapped fig. A penguin suit passed by, and I grabbed two. Here.” I hold it up toward his mouth.
He leans in and pulls it off the toothpick with his teeth. The satisfied moan as he chews stirs something deep in my belly.
“This is why I’m suffering without Todd’s soup. He puts bacon in every recipe.”
The elevator doors open into pitch-black and Garrett leads me out.
“Is this where you end me like I’m a Stavro brother?”
“I would never do that in here. Wouldn’t want to ruin it for myself.” He flicks a switch.
I let out a whistle, taking in the all-glass walls of the rectangular room in the dim light. It’s small compared to the rest of the penthouse—kind of like a top hat to cap off a perfect outfit—and empty of furniture, save for a Peloton bike and treadmill in one corner. “Nice place to work out.”
“Morning sun hits here.” He strolls toward the terrace off the far end, leading me through the doors. Outside is a sitting area with a fireplace. A faux vine wall separates the space from view of the terrace below, where low voices murmur and the waft of cigars rise.
