Over the next few weeks, I make myself a cozy little home at a corner table in the Steam Room on Fifth Avenue. Based on the sheer number of people who frequent this place, it seems to be a popular spot among locals and tourists. I’m not surprised, considering it’s located across from Central Park.
When I first concocted this plan, I didn’t think it would be too difficult to figure out who August Laurent was — note whoever ordered a chocolate hazelnut pastry every morning, then see who was a repeat offender. I underestimated how popular that particular danish is. August Laurent probably knows this, too, which was why he didn’t mind sharing this piece of personal information with his client. The entire population of Manhattan orders these damn pastries, which has made my job even more difficult. I’ve resorted to focusing on men without wedding bands whom I consider attractive enough to be a male escort. Shallow? Perhaps. But I have to narrow down the pool somehow.
On the last Thursday in June, as I sit in what’s become my satellite office, I hear a deep voice order an Americano and the chocolate hazelnut pastry. I tear my eyes away from my laptop, hope building inside me that this may be the man I’ve been looking for.
The instant I do, I inhale a sharp breath, understanding why the timbre of the man’s voice made my thighs involuntarily squeeze together. There he is… Mr. Armani Suit.
Dumbfounded at my horrible luck, all I can do is stare, although all reason tells me to look away, to hide, to pretend I have no idea who he is. What are the freaking chances? Of all the coffee shops in this city, the one person I hoped to never see again walks into this one. Then, in confirmation of my belief that the universe is out to get me, a pair of vibrant blue eyes shifts to mine, a sly smile curling his lips.
“Shit.” I lower my head and stare at my laptop screen, wishing I could disappear into the background. I’ve always loved the unique shade of my red hair…until this moment when I’d give anything to blend into a sea of blondes and brunettes.
As I pretend to read the words I’ve written over the past hour, the aroma of citrus mixed with spice invades my senses, reminiscent of the morning I woke up in a strange man’s bed. I pinch my lips together, concentrating even harder, as if it will make him disappear. Then I hear his voice — low, deep, hypnotizing.
“I thought it was you. But maybe you should get up and run away so I can be certain.” There’s dry amusement in his tone.
I reluctantly look up, about to reply with a snarky comment when I’m rendered speechless. I’d forgotten how captivating this man is. At least drunk Evie doesn’t skimp on good looks, even when she’s had a few too many. Sandy, disheveled hair. Vibrant azure eyes framed with lashes any woman would kill for. Olive skin that appears to have been kissed by the sun. Strong face with angular cheekbones. Broad nose. Two-day scruff along his jaw. And full, lush lips surrounding gleaming white teeth.
I lick my lips as I scan the rest of his frame, the navy blue suit he’s wearing just as impeccable as the one he wore the night we first saw each other. But that’s not what has my mouth salivating. It’s the memory of what lies beneath — firm muscles, intricate tattoo, and mysterious scars on his otherwise flawless physique.
“Evie?”
I snap my eyes back to his, pretending I hadn’t been ogling his body. The smirk pulling on his mouth is all the evidence I need to know he caught me in my mental undressing of him. Again.
“Hello,” I say, exuding all the confidence I can, not wanting him to realize I can’t remember his name…if he even told me. The cocky, self-assured way he carries himself gives off the impression it’s not a stretch to think he didn’t tell me his name. That he saw some drunk girl nearly passed out by his apartment and brought her up to take advantage of her.
But something about the way he gazes at me with heat and a hint of relief gives me pause. Perhaps Chloe was right when she suggested we may not have slept together. Now would be the perfect time to ask him, but I’m too embarrassed to admit I can’t remember much of that night.
“It’s good to see you again.”
He narrows his eyes, unnerving me. “Is that so? From where I’m standing, you seem…flustered.”
“Honestly, when I walked in here earlier this morning, the last thing I expected was to run into someone I made the mistake of going home with after drinking far too much. So, as much as I’ve enjoyed this awkward little reunion, you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”
I return my eyes to my laptop, pretending to look incredibly busy and important. My muscles tense as I wait for him to walk away. Instead, he takes the seat across from me.
I stare at him, annoyed by his rashness. “What part of ‘get lost’ did you not understand?”
“I didn’t exactly hear you say ‘get lost’.”
“No.” I glower at him, then check over his shoulder to make sure I haven’t missed anyone who looks like he might be an escort ordering a chocolate hazelnut pastry. “I was trying to be polite. It seems manners aren’t your thing.”
“Hmm… Manners. Like saying goodbye?” He arches a brow.
“Yes.”
“It seems we both have a lesson to learn in manners then. Where I’m from, we say goodbye when we leave. Is that not customary where you grew up?”
He leans back, brushing his thumb against his lower lip. My eyes float to his mouth and I salivate at the idea of how they might taste. I squirm in my seat, hoping he doesn’t pick up on what a tangled bundle of hormones I am.
“What did you say the name of your hometown is? Hickman? Do you not say goodbye in Hickman?”
“We do,” I answer sheepishly.
He rests his elbows on the table, inching toward me. “Then why did you leave without saying goodbye?”
I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off.
“And don’t say because you didn’t want to wake me.”
I snap my jaw shut. His formerly arrogant expression now carries a hint of vulnerability, at complete odds with the image I’d painted of him in my mind. “Maybe because I was embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” He cocks his head at me. “Embarrassed about what?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I shoot back sarcastically. “Because I got raging drunk and woke up in a stranger’s bed.”
He parts his lips to say something, but I hold up my hand. Now it’s my turn to interrupt him.
“I’m sure you have no qualms about picking up drunk girls at a club or a bar and taking them home with you. What happened a few weeks ago… That’s an isolated incident. I was drunk and dealing with some personal stuff, which caused me to make the horrible decision of going home with someone I don’t even know.”
“You know who I am. I told you. My name’s Julian.”
I blink repeatedly, something about that name sparking a memory. I snap my fingers. “That’s right! Julian! Now I remember. I kept calling you Julius Caesar.” I laugh, recalling the numerous times I’d slurred “Et tu, Brute”, to which he responded that his name was “Julian not Julius”.
“You didn’t remember my name?” He appears genuinely hurt.
I shrink into myself, a momentary feeling of guilt washing over me before I brush it off.
“Listen, Julian, I appreciate you taking the time to come over to say hi and not ignore me. If I were in your shoes, I would have done just that. Hell, I tried to do that. But I’m here to work on a story that could land me a promotion.” Agitated by his presence, I fidget with my hands. “As you overheard at the bar, my boyfriend broke up with me because I’m not serious enough. So this promotion can certainly prove otherwise.”
“A story?” He gives me a wry smile, causing his dimples to pop. If he weren’t irresistible enough to begin with, he has to have dimples, too? It’s like the big guy upstairs put together everything I find attractive about a man, then gave him the opposite personality I need. And as much as looks are important, personality trumps all.