His voice is husky and serious as he opens his beautiful mouth. “What I did to you, November, is inexcusable. I abandoned you by not being honest with you. Ainsley assumed I’d come running to her, and I haven’t. She feels threatened that you work here and will take every opportunity to try to mark what she thinks is her territory.”
Bo and I ignore the boundaries I clearly set last week, as our bodies buzz inches from one another in silence. We’re in a vacuum; ignoring the past and disregarding the future. I feel his hot breath against my mouth and I close my eyes for a second, reviewing my options for action, before turning my head to the side.
“Bo.”
Without further instruction, he heads for the door while I wait for feeling to return to my legs.
I clear my throat. “You’re still playing at Finnegan’s tomorrow, right?” He stops and turns slowly toward me as I continue. “Josh said he’d text you. I appreciate your concern for me, but there’s no need to tiptoe. They love you there.”
He hesitates with an amused expression before he answers. “I’ll play if you’re going to be there.”
Um.
“What?”
He shrugs and rests against the doorframe. “I heard Monica tell Rae that she and Josh are out of town this weekend. I don’t want to drive all the way down there and not have any friends to hang out with.”
He’s kidding. Right? I tilt my head back and furrow my brow.
He shrugs. “Friends, right?”
I don’t like that word coming from his mouth, directed toward me. I loved him. I wanted to be his.Just his. But friends? No, I don’t want to befriends with Bo Cavanaugh.
I force the smallest smile I can pass off as genuine. “Friends.”
“So you’ll be there.” His sexy authority has returned, kicking the droopy-tailed puppy to the curb.
“Of course. See you Saturday.” I turn back to my desk as he smiles and turns for the hallway. “Oh, Bo?” I call after him.
He leans his head back into my doorway. “Yeah?”
“I’m not singing with you.”
He shakes his head, chuckles, and heads down the hall. I collapse into my chair; my head is tossing in a spin cycle of the lies and mistruths I’ve spewed in the name of this weekend. I could have easily lied my way out of Finnegan’s for Saturday, but what the hell…
*
The W in Boston. This is where Adrian Turner lives, naturally. It’s a world-class hotel that also plays house to over a hundred people who demand luxury full time. As a rule, I don’t use the word swanky, but I make an exception as I stand in Boston’s theater district staring up at Adrian’s “home.” He texted me to meet him at the private entrance. He’s the kind of guy who would live in a place with a private entrance.
I text him when I’m downstairs. The valet has taken my car god-knows-where, but it’s hard to care while looking up at this amazing building. I’m thoroughly grateful I had the good sense to pull over at the last available rest top to change into my green shift dress. Cinched with a black-patent belt and matching black heels, I feel like a knockout. I’m sure The W doesn’t have an undergarment dress code, but I slid on my red lace thong, just in case.
“There you are, Gorgeous. You found the place OK?”
Texts don’t do his cocoa butter voice justice. We’ve largely communicated through texts and email this week because I’ve been so busy at work. As he graces each square of the sidewalk toward me in his black pants and tight black t-shirt, I can’t believe this is happening.
Adrian. Me. Here.
I smirk. “It’s kind of hard to miss, hot shot.”
Away from the watchful eyes of curious friends and family, his arm seizes my waist and I fall into his kiss. Its length is inversely proportional to its explosiveness—as soon as it begins, it’s over—and I’m immediately left wanting more.
“I missed you this week.” He kisses my hand and leads me through the private entrance, down the private hallway, and into the private elevator. He doesn’t release his grip when the elevator doors close. “How was Concord?” He keeps his eyes on the floor numbers as he asks this question out of courtesy.
I shrug and squeeze his hand. “It was good; incredibly busy and exhausting.”
“You make exhausting look good, Blue—even in those damn heels you insist on wearing.” He chuckles as the elevator slows its race to the twentieth floor.
“These are different heels, smartass ...” I think back to the night I sat in Adrian’s hotel room, barefoot and bleeding. He came back from the fight carrying my heels, and I could have kissed him in that moment for his thoughtfulness.
Ding.
Our hands have created their own humidity, but that doesn’t disrupt Adrian; he tightens his grip and leads me down the hall. As he opens the door to his corner apartment, two different views of the city flood my senses. I drop my hand from his and wander to the window that showcases Boston Harbor—breathtaking from this height. Touching my fingertips to the warm glass, I smile.
I lean my shoulder into his as he joins me at the window. “You’ve done well for yourself, Counselor.”
“Ha, I guess. That and Grandma Turner’s trust fund.” He shrugs and tucks his hands into his pockets.
“She passed away?” I pick up my head and study his face.