“That’s all I’m mentally prepared for at this point. I’m so rusty I feel bad for my next sex partner,” she confessed.
Somewhere along the line, she’d started talking to me like we were friends. As if that moment of honesty in the bar, those emails exchanged, had somehow made us friendly. And while I craved her next confession, I also couldn’t handle the intimacy. I was ripped down the middle. Torn between wanting to know everything there was to know about this woman and wanting to forget she existed.
Something caught her eye, and she slid off my desk, wandering across the room.
I hated it when she walked away from me. It always felt like she took the light and heat with her.
I added that to my Hate List.
Unable to help myself, I got up and followed her to the lightboard, where she studied the series of shots for an inside spread. I’d pulled two that I thought might work with the intent of dragging Linus in here to tell me which one made the most sense to show my mother.
“These are fun. I love that dress,” she mused and pointed to a model in a gold silk gown. “Do you have one with her in motion?”
She scanned the subsequent shots, and I leaned in with her, just wanting to be closer to her. There was something about her that lured me in like a siren yet made me feel… safe. Comfortable. Fucking hard.
I tapped a shot that I’d pulled to the side. It had initially caught my eye, but the point of the shoot had been twofold: To showcase the vibrant red Galliano front and center and to subtly include a transgender model. The woman in gold.
“Oh, now that’s a shot,” she said, plucking it from the board and studying it.
The model in the gold gown twirled off to the side, the breeze from the fan had caught her hair and the skirt, lifting them both. She was the only one in motion. The red was still front and center, the model on the first rung of a ladder. The others were in varying traditional poses that in real life looked painful and contorted but through the lens showcased cuts and fabrics and colors.
“How did you meet?” I asked. Please, for the love of my sanity, say a church group promoting abstinence.
“Who?” she asked, rearranging the photos leading with the twirl.
“Your date.”
“Oh. On a dating app,” she said cheerfully.
Fuck.
“Here. Look at these. Now they tell a story. You’re giving the eye an anchor point with the red. It’ll land there, but it needs a secondary focus. You can’t miss her, gold, twirl, smile. Her red lip plays off the focal dress and makes the whole piece visually satisfying. Headline goes here.”
What she was saying made good sense, and I could have visualized it if I hadn’t been so busy picturing her on some fuck buddy app shopping for a one-night stand.
“What kind of dating app?” I demanded.
She turned away from the lightboard and rolled her eyes. “I know. I know. Gola insisted on setting up a profile for me. By the way, from my sex to yours, a dick pic is not the right way to start a conversation.”
I fantasized about hunting down every fucking weasel who’d sent her a cock and kicking them in the balls.
“Where’s he taking you?” I asked, hating that I couldn’t not ask. Hating that I needed to know.
“I’m meeting him at some bar called The Market. Have you been?”
Nicknamed the Meat Market, the lights were low, the drinks were strong, and there were two hotels on the same damn block. I’d been.
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll see you there,” I said, pretending to scan the shots again. I couldn’t forbid her from going. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t make up a fake meeting that required her late-night presence. Not without her knowing it was a sham.
“You’re going?” She sounded happy, and I wanted to ruin it. I wanted to make her feel as twisted up as I did.
“I’m meeting someone there myself. A date,” I lied.
If I had to be tortured by thoughts of her hooking up with some random guy she met on a fucking app, then she could enjoy seeing me out on a date with real potential.
Her eyes narrowed, and I knew she could smell bullshit. “It’s not on your calendar.”
“I don’t put my personal appointments on my work calendar.” Another lie. I had no personal life. In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had sex. But I could remember every single fantasy I’d had about Ally.
“Then maybe I’ll see you tonight,” she said, grinning up at me.
I watched her leave.
And the second the door closed, I stalked into the bathroom. All I could see was that flash of red fabric between her legs. All I could think about was someone else getting to take them off her.
It was 9:30 in the morning, and I was fucking my fist wishing it was her sweet, wet pussy clamped around my aching dick.
At this moment, I didn’t like a single thing about Ally Morales.
26
Ally
Austen was cute and smart and clearly in need of either a palate cleanser bang or some therapy.
But I couldn’t take my eyes off the door of the bar long enough to decide if I was interested in him.
Because I was waiting for a man who didn’t want to want me.
Ugh.
Purposefully, I turned my back to the door and my attention on the forty-two-year-old, divorced civil engineer. He’d ordered a glass of merlot and given the bartender a hard time about the pronunciation. I’d ordered a cheap, draft beer in case he insisted on splitting the check. He’d told me fifteen things about his ex-wife, and I’d mentioned Dominic’s name twice.
As far as I was concerned, neither one of us was a catch.
I could feel it the moment he walked in. The air in the bar became electrically charged as if a bolt of lightning was about to strike the liquor bottles. I willed myself not to turn around, to focus on what Austen was saying.
“God, you must think I’m such a loser,” he said, slumping his shoulders.
“What? Why?” I couldn’t quite remember what he’d been saying. I was too busy trying to look like I was listening.
“I’ve told you more about my ex-wife than myself. I’ve asked you like one question, and that was just so I could lead in to another story about my ex. I’m so not ready for this.”
“You and me both, pal,” I said, raising my beer to his wine glass.
“My friends told me I needed a palate cleanser,” he confessed, then blanched. “And I probably shouldn’t have told you that. I’d find that really offensive if I were you. I am so bad at this. I’m not ready to date.”
He was adorably bad at this.
“Don’t feel bad,” I said, bumping his shoulder companionably. “I’m not exactly in a healthy relationship space either.”
“We’re not going to hook up, are we?” Austen guessed.
I shook my head. “Nope. But you can tell me all about your ex and your divorce if you want.”
He brightened.
The adorable man started at the beginning. Sophomore year of college. I felt a tingle between my shoulder blades and knew. I didn’t even jump when a familiar hand closed around my shoulder.
“Ally.”
I turned and almost choked on my own damn tongue. Dominic had ditched his jacket and was rocking the rolled-up sleeves and suspender look. I finally felt like I understood what it was like to swoon. But there were no fainting couches in this place.