He’s interesting, this Rhett.
And there’s something guarded yet deep about him. I wish I could open him up and pour him out to see what’s inside. I bet it would be fascinating.
“Who’s the asshole that stood you up tonight?” he asks.
I’m confused, narrowing my gaze, and then I realize what’s happening here: he thought I was meeting someone special at The Prescott Club.
“Oh, that was my friend, Bostyn.” I wave my hand. “We were meeting for a drink. Something came up. I wasn’t stood up.”
“Whatever you say.” He takes a step closer, his eyes gliding over my tight dress.
Maybe I overdid it in the outfit department. So what? I rarely get a chance to dress up, and Bostyn made it sound like The Prescott Club was swanky. And it was.
No regrets.
“It is my story.” I laugh, not meaning to sound as nervous as I probably sound. But his warmth suddenly fills my space and our close proximity suddenly makes me want to know what his mouth would feel like against mine. I inhale, dragging in the scent of his natural musk.
“What do you do for a living, Ayla?”
His question catches me off guard, if only because he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who cares what his object of lust does for a paycheck.
“I’m a writer.” I hate giving that answer, but it’s become a bit of a blanket statement these days because there are so many different kinds of writers and so many different paths for writers, and no one seems to care which kind you are because to a non-writer, they’re all the same.
“What do you write?” He asks the dreaded second question that so few people dare to ask.
“Are you asking because you’re genuinely interested or are you trying to make small talk because you think it’ll help you get laid?” My response amuses me and catches him off guard. His eyes lower to my mouth, and for a split second I can almost hear him deciding he wants to punish it for being so brassy.
Good luck.
“You want the truth?” he asks.
“What kind of question is that? Of course I want the truth.” God, there’s not nearly enough truth in this world.
“You look really uptight,” he says. “Like you could use a good fuck. And I could use a good fuck. So can we just cut this conversation, getting-to-know-you bullshit and get on with it already? Because you haven’t stopped staring since I came out here, and it’s clear as day we’re on the same fucking page.”
I could slap him.
But instead I laugh because I’m amused.
If he were anyone else ...
“You want my truth?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“I’m oddly fascinated by you.” I want to reach out, touch him. Brush the sandy brown hair from his temple and let him place his hand over mine.
“Why oddly? Why can’t you just be regular fascinated?” Boy’s got a smart mouth on him.
“My fascination is odd because you’re odd,” I say.
“How am I odd? Exactly?” I can’t tell if he’s offended or not.
My arms fold across my chest, and I’m not sure why I’m so defensive all of a sudden. I stand by my conviction that Rhett Carson is a weirdo.
A sexy hockey-playing Adonis of a weirdo.
“You’re odd,” I say, clearing my throat and straightening my posture, “because you have the nerve to insult a woman’s drink, then imply that you want to fuck her, then you convince her to take you home because you’re so drunk you can barely stand and the second you’re home, you seem fine. On second thought, maybe that doesn’t make you odd. Maybe that makes you something else entirely.”
“Pathetic.” He says the word like it sours his mouth.
I pause. “I was going to say manipulative.”
His hands form a peak and he breathes into them.
“You’re right,” Rhett says, his façade dissolving. “You’re fucking right. And you had absolutely no intention of fucking me, did you?”
I bite my lower lip. The insane little thought crossed my mind halfway home, when we were in the back of the cab and his leg kept intentionally brushing against mine, and I caught him staring a few seconds longer than he should have been.
“No,” I lie.
Why couldn’t he have just picked me up like a normal guy? Casual conversation. Flattery. Feigned interest. The usual tricks would’ve worked just fine because this man could easily be my sexual napalm, but now—if I sleep with him, I will be the pathetic one.
Not to mention something about it just feels wrong. It wouldn’t be fair to leave out the one crucial little detail that might make him want absolutely nothing to do with me.
Hey, just so you know, I’m the kid sister of the guy who basically ruined your life the other week …
The screen of my phone lights up, and I notice from the corner of my eye. My phone is charged, or at least it’s charged enough. He sees it too. It would be awkward if I stayed at this point.
My phone blows up, text after text, from when Bostyn had been trying to reach me earlier. Her roommate got locked out of their apartment and was late for her London red-eye, so she had to head back and help her out so she didn’t miss her flight.
“I should go.” I sigh.
His eyes are focused now, and there’s something tenser and tighter about him. The alcohol must be wearing off, and this must be the real Rhett. His expression is stoic. He doesn’t seem upset that I’m leaving, and he doesn’t ask me to stay.
“Yeah,” he says. “You should.”
I let my gaze linger on his lips and the curve of his strong jaw. I visualize a pair of dimples and try to imagine what his corded steel arms would feel like wrapped around me, holding me against his solid chest.
Shaking myself out of my own trance, I open my Uber app, order a ride, and shove everything into my purse.
There’s a curious silence lingering between us, like we each feel the weight of what could have been had we thrown caution to the wind and fulfilled our reckless, alcohol-fueled desires.
I show myself to the door, turning to say goodbye to Rhett one final time. His expression is hard, his eyes glaring. Either he’s pissed because I didn’t sleep with him, or he’s thinking of something else, someone else. I wonder if his mind does that sometimes, if it slips into the dark shadows where hurt and anger reside. I imagine it does.
“Bye, Rhett,” I say, giving a small wave with my fingertips.
He seems to snap out of it, his eyes growing clearer as they land on mine, but still, he says nothing. I don’t take offense because this is the man who pummeled into me earlier today and didn’t grunt so much as a solitary “sorry” in my direction.
I leave his place feeling a little sad. For him, mostly. Sad because beneath his guarded persona, I see he’s deeply unhappy. He’s drowning in all the shit life has flung in his direction lately. His head is barely above water, even if he doesn’t realize it yet.
Or maybe he does realize it—he just doesn’t care.
Life called and this is his answer.
Standing outside his apartment building, I check up and down the street, watching for my ride, which is supposed to be a red Chevy Impala with New York plates. It’s early July, but there’s an unusual chill in the late night air, so I wrap my arms around my sides. I turn to look at his building and watch as the lights go dark in his apartment.