Shit. Why is this happening? Why now?
“The view isn’t bad, either,” he adds as he continues to watch me. Mischief sparkles in his night-lit eyes.
He’s sexy as hell. And if I don’t keep my distance there’s a very real chance I’ll go with this.
Because I want to be whole again. I want to have fun and go wild and not have it turn into something that breaks your goddamn heart.
With him, it would be wild, you can just tell. It would be the wildest thing in the world.
Can I handle wild, is the question.
He’s so muscular. Big. Heavy. Powerful enough to—
Damn it. I thought I was over all this stuff. “If that’s a pick-up line, it should have died in the nineties.”
He smiles at my reply. The humidity has made his hair curl lightly around his ears where it touches his collar, taking the edge off his businessman vibe. The shadow of his stubble is visible on his square jaw and his eyes are the color of stolen aquamarines. If you dressed him up differently, he could be a renegade gypsy king. There’s something exotic about him.
How many women would this man have clocked up over the course of his sex life? I can’t help wondering. A hundred? Several hundred? A thousand?
Has he ever done things they didn’t want him to do?
“Ready for that drink yet?” He’s wearing a different shirt. A navy blue polo shirt, which makes the color of his eyes even more striking. He probably keeps an extra in his bag for all those glasses of wine that get thrown in his face. He must have checked into his hotel and come back for a nightcap. “When does the night shift take over?”
Jimmy walks through the door. “Here he is now.” We tend to get a steady stream of visitors into the small hours of the morning, especially on holidays. A lot of people drink their way through Thanksgiving and Christmas, for whatever reason. I get it. It’s something I’m tempted to do myself. My father will be happily ensconced in his Westchester McMansion with his new family, his better family, the one he didn’t walk out on and who were willing turn a blind eye to his extracurricular activities. My mother will be misery-pounding apple martinis with her old, ugly sugar daddy.
I wonder what this guy’s reason is. What he’s running from or trying to avoid. “No family get-together back in Connecticut to rush home to?” I say blithely, serving him another Jack Daniels on ice and pouring myself a rum and Coke. I will take a risk again one day, but not today. There’s enough upheaval in my immediately future to deal with already. One drink before bed then I’ll head upstairs and see how Josie is doing.
“Chicago, actually,” he says. “And no.” He takes a sip of his drink, watching me in that relaxed, confident, hyper-alert way. “What about you? Not heading home to Iowa this year?”
I meet his gaze. “Wow, you really did listen in to our—clearly not that it matters to you—private conversation.”
He barely shrugs, non-repentantly. His perfect mouth quirks. “As I said, I was innocently enjoying a drink and couldn’t help but overhear. Sounds like you’ve got a small problem.”
I’m tired. I’m scared of what might happen over the next few weeks. I’m not in the mood for his playful scorn. His alpha male aura is messing with my calm, mostly-stable outlook. There’s an edge to my well-trained politeness that isn’t polite at all. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business. Besides, shouldn’t you be shacked up with your harem by now? It’s late.”
His not-quite-smile is more amused than offended. He traces his finger around the rim of his glass but his eyes are still on me. His hands are tan and strong-looking. “I’m not in the mood for my harem tonight.”
Is that a joke? I shake my head lightly as I slide the last flute into place. “That’s surprising.”
“I guess I should be flattered you think I’d be up to the task.”
I feel a flush rise to my cheeks as I can’t help picturing him up to the task. I have no doubt he would be very much up to the task and the thought sends a surge of awareness through me. His self-assured charisma, his obvious athleticism and his raw masculinity make it kind of obvious that … oh, God, I do. I want to know what it would be like to feel good. To feel loved instead of—
No. I’m deluding myself.
He’s a playboy. Obviously. He’s exactly what I’ve been running from. A textbook example of what to avoid at all costs. What I need is to find myself someone who’s less threatening, who doesn’t scare me, who calms me and won’t try to control me.
“I’m Gage,” he says. “Gage McCabe.”
The name sounds vaguely familiar to me, but I have no idea why it would. I finish my drink and place the empty glass in one of the dishwasher trays. “And I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Mr. McCabe. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”
Don Juan is persistent. “I’m working tomorrow night.”
“On Thanksgiving?”
“It’s one of our busiest days.”
“Friday night, then.”
I’ve already decided I’m not going anywhere near this guy, as to-die-for as he may be. He’s got hot sex and heartbreak written all over him, and as much as I might crave one of the above—more and more, as though urges of my body are on overdrive even as they clash violently with the voices in my head—I can’t deal with the combination. “Also one of our busiest days. The whole weekend is basically mayhem. You have a good night now.”
With that, I leave him to his drink. As I close the door to the stairs of my apartment behind me, I glance back at his face. There’s a determination there I don’t like the look of.
I check on Josie, who’s fast asleep. I take a long shower to wash off the day and I collapse into bed, hoping tomorrow isn’t the beginning of the end of everything I’ve worked so hard for.
Gage McCabe.
Where have I heard that name before? And why does my brain keep retracing the lines of his face, the intense look in his eyes and that raw, dark-edged magnetism …
… which promises only a world of trouble.
Go on, girl. Get some of that angst out of your system. Take the risk. Replace the bad memories with a few good ones. You know he’d take you on a wild ride. Live a little.
Once again, I scuttle the devil-voice in my head forcefully back into her cage. I’m living enough. I’ve got a business to save, a best friend jumping ship on our lifelong dream because she has no choice, and a very busy weekend ahead of me.
With any luck, Mr. Smug—Gage McCabe—will be gone by morning.
Before I can recall where I might have read about him or why, I’m fast asleep.
I see her standing there, on the other side of the room. I recognize this place. We’re in the convention center downtown. It’s crowded. It’s one of those fundraisers, with dozens of round tables set up for dinner. There are decorations and a stage with a podium for the speakers and the presentations. Everyone is dressed in black.