“I’m a little confused.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake out my coat and start to put it on. He automatically takes it from me and steps behind me to help me into it. My heart does another thump.
Then we face each other again. He still looks…dazed.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “With this, I mean.”
“Not sure what I’ve gotten into,” he mutters. “But what the hell. Let’s go.”
He barely touches the small of my back to shepherd me into the revolving doors ahead of him. I push through, and then he follows my lead down the sidewalk. The night is clear and crisp, the sky matte black above, glittering skyscrapers towering around us.
He casts a glance at my heels.
“I’m fine,” I say, sliding my arm into his. “And it’s not far.”
“Okay. The party’s not at the Carlyle?”
“No. It’s at my stepfather’s home.”
“I see.”
“It’ll be fine. Lots of people. We can grab a drink and hide. I just have to make an appearance, look like we’re hot for each other, and then we can leave.”
“Jesus.” He rubs his face.
“Are you still okay with this?”
His chuckle is dry. “Like I said, I’m not sure what I’ve gotten into.”
One-way traffic streams slowly past us. We pass closed shops and other businesses, then turn and walk another block to the building where I live. “This is it.”
“Good evening, Ms. Ross,” Anthony, one of the doormen says.
“Good evening,” I greet him. Owen and I step into an elevator. “I guess I should know your last name to introduce you.”
“Right. It’s Cooke. Owen Cooke.”
I nod. “Thanks. I’m Emmie Ross.” We ride silently to the top floor and step out. There are two units up here, and I turn left to open the door to Vince’s apartment. As soon as I open the door, we can hear the noise within—chattering voices, loud laughter, more smooth jazz piano music.
I’m used to this. I’m not sure about Owen. He seems okay with it all.
I knew he’d be perfect for this.
A maid takes our coats to hang them. “Thanks, Sophia. This is Owen Cooke.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cooke.”
I cross the foyer beneath the coffered ceiling, my sharp heels sinking into the thick rug. We enter the living room through double doors. Yep, lots of people. I stop to survey the space, the scent of expensive perfumes reaching my nose, a burst of laughter coming from the far end of the room near the window. That’s Vince.
“First things first,” I mutter. “Drinks.”
Vince has a bar with a bartender set up in here and we make our way over there. I greet a few people I recognize. None of these people are close friends of mine. Finally, I have another dirty martini in my hand and Owen holds a crystal glass of scotch.
We stand to the side.
“I told you everyone would just ignore us,” I say. I sip my martini. “Uh oh. I’ve been spotted. Brace yourself.”
Vince has seen me and is walking toward us.
Owen has his back to him. “Should I look?”
“Don’t look. Be casual.” I give him a loving smile.
“Emerie, you’re finally here,” Vince says. “Where the hell were you?”
“We stopped for a drink at the Carlyle,” I say lightly. “Sorry we’re late. Vince, this is Owen Cooke.”
Owen turns to face him.
“Owen—”
Both men wear identical expressions of shock and recognition.
“Mr. D’Agostino,” Owen says, his voice cracking.
Vince’s eyes widen. “Owen.”
Now I’m staring. “You two know each other?”
Vince gives me an incredulous look. “He plays for the Bears.”
The hockey team Vince owns.
My stomach swoops. I swivel my gaze to Owen. His look confirms this. What the fuck?
For a moment, my head goes empty. Then thoughts rush in. Can I save this? No. Yes. I don’t know. How? How could I not know the guy I’m supposedly dating is a hockey player? Who works for my stepdad? How the fuck did this happen?
“You didn’t tell me you know Vince,” I say with a light laugh, sliding my arm through Owen’s.
He stares at me, as incredulous as Vince.
Shit. I can’t blame him. “Sorry, since our names are different you had no way of knowing we’re related,” I add quickly. I pat his hard chest. It’s very hard. Focus. I turn back to Vince. “I may have kept it a secret from him.”
His eyebrows pull together.
“Way to spring it on me, sweetheart,” Owen says with a tight smile.
“Emerie, for God’s sake. You can’t date one of my players.”
I frown. “You don’t own them, Vince.”
Tension vibrates off Owen’s muscled body.
“And you certainly don’t own me,” I add.
We’re approached by another man, and while I welcome the diversion, it’s Roman. Ugh.
“Hi, Emerie.” He gives me the usual covetous look he always does, gets way too close, and kisses my cheek. His aftershave nearly suffocates me. “Great to see you. You look gorgeous, as always.”
He’s never seen me busking. Actually, he has. One time he walked right by me and didn’t even recognize me. He also didn’t pause to listen. He doesn’t believe in giving money to buskers or panhandlers. He thinks they should “get a job.”
“Thank you. Roman, this is my date—” I try not to choke on the word. “Owen Cooke. Owen, this is Roman Moretti, a family friend.”
Roman’s eyebrows snap together, and he turns a hostile gaze on Owen. “Cooke.”
Owen meets Roman’s eyes. He’s probably six inches taller than Roman and a lot broader. His oblong-shaped face wears an intimidating notch between his brow, his jaw strong. The hand he extends to Roman is large and grips Roman’s in a forceful shake.
Roman’s eyes are slitty. Owen’s face is grim and slightly baleful. Oh hell. That turns me on.
“Good to meet you, Roman,” Owen says.
Vince’s pinched expression doesn’t bode well, but he won’t make a scene here.
Roman looks between Owen and me. “I didn’t realize you’re seeing someone.” Disappointment tugs the corners of his mouth down.
I smile and take Owen’s arm again, hugging it like a life preserver. “Yes.” I flash Owen a loving look.
Roman takes this in then chugs back a swallow of whatever he’s drinking. The air around us is thick and heavy.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Vince says, outwardly calm, but I can practically see steam coming out his ears.
“Owen!” Another man joins us. It’s Brad Julian, the general manager of the Bears hockey team. “What are you doing here?” Brad slaps Owen on the shoulder. Brad’s smiling, unaware of the undercurrents. Clearly, he likes Owen, his smile friendly and genuine.
“I’m here with Emmie,” Owen replies. “Er, Emerie.”
“You can call me either.” I lean into him with another adoring smile, fluttering my eyelashes up at him. Don’t be mad. Don’t be mad.