“I found a phone,” he confirms. “I need you to confirm the first number in the contacts.”
I hesitate, but having no other option, admit, “There are no numbers in my phone at all.”
“You are correct,” the guard says, sliding the phone onto the counter. “I’ve never known anyone to have no contacts in their phone.”
“It’s new,” I explain, picking it up and slipping it inside my purse, and realizing it’s a lame excuse, I add, “I need to sync my numbers. Thank you.” I rotate to face Shane to find him staring at me with the kind of interest and curiosity I’m not in a position to invite. “And thank you,” I add, motioning toward the door. “I should go.”
“I was about to go grab dinner and a drink at one of the restaurants nearby. Join me.”
“I really should get home,” I say, trying not to sound as regretful as I am. I’m flattered, but then, what woman wouldn’t be with this man?
“I won’t keep you long.”
“I have plans in the morning,” I counter, and it’s true. I’ll be waiting for the phone to ring and thinking about how much I wish I’d said yes to his invitation.
He glances at the guard, who quickly takes a hint and murmurs, “Good evening,” before stepping back behind his post and busying himself.
The instant he’s gone, Shane once again closes the space between us, this time bringing us intimately close, and I think he might touch me. I want him to touch me. “Here’s how I see us meeting again: The odds are next to zero. That means you have to have dinner with me.”
“Have to? Is that some rule or something?”
“Not just a rule. A hard rule I just made up.”
“Does making up rules work often?”
“Yes. Is it working now?”
Yes, I think, but instead, I say, “I wish I could.”
“You can. Just say yes, Emily.”
Emily. I hate that name, but he has somehow not only remembered it, but made it silk and seduction. He is silk and seduction, a magnificent man who no doubt has so many woman lining up that I am a mere flicker on the screen. And actually, that isn’t a bad thing. In fact, it’s freedom. This is about tonight. Just tonight. He won’t want to know my past or my future. He’s looking for a diversion, and the truth is, if I spend one more night alone, trapped in guilt, worry, and my fast-looping replay of how I got to this point, I might go insane.
“Emily,” he prods, using that name again, my name, and I swallow hard. “Say—”
“Yes,” I supply. “Yes, I’ll have dinner and drinks with you.”
Satisfaction fills his eyes and he waves the guard forward, handing the man his bag. “I’ll pick it up on my way out,” he tells him. The other man nods, and a moment later, Shane’s full attention shifts back to me, and I’m jolted by the way I feel the impact, or rather, I feel him, a warm spot forming in my chest and spreading low into my belly. He offers me his arm. “Shall we?”
I hesitate a few beats, reminding myself that “alone” promises safety, but I can’t live that way forever. This dinner with this man is a no-harm, no-foul way to practice being the new me. I accept his arm.
You just know how to hide, how to lie.
—Tony Montana
CHAPTER THREE
EMILY
Arm in arm, Shane and I cross the lobby, and as crazy as it is, for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel alone. It’s a fa?ade, of course, but one I’m happily wallowing in. A fantasy and an indulgence: this night that can never become another night.
“How’s Jeffrey’s Restaurant two blocks down?” he asks.
“I’ve never heard of it,” I say, “but I’m sure it’s fine.” Because I’m not going with him for the food. It’s for him. No. It’s for me for once.
“It has a mixed menu, a full bar, and it’s relatively quiet,” he replies, releasing my arm to open the building’s exterior door, and wave me forward.
“Sounds perfect,” I say, and somehow our eyes collide, and I don’t know how or why, but that tiny connection has my stomach fluttering. I dart forward and outside, a cold breeze lifting my hair and sliding along the bare skin of my neck. Shivering, I hug myself, chilled on the outside but pretty darn warm in all those intimate places he continues to awaken. I start to turn to face Shane, but suddenly he is beside me, his arm draping my shoulder, dragging me closer, his big body sheltering mine from the cold, and my chest hurts with the silly idea he’s protecting me. No one protects me and suddenly, this dinner seems like a bad idea. I deal with being alone by being alone.
“Don’t you just love Colorado in May?” he asks, angling us left and into the heart of downtown Denver and a cluster of restaurants and shops. “Random snow showers, cold at night, and warm in the day.”
I open my mouth to tell him this is new to me, and snap it shut, frustrated at how easily I almost invited questions about where I came from, and why I’m here. “I should have brought a jacket,” I say simply instead.
“I’m glad you didn’t. Gives me an excuse to keep you close.”
“Somehow, I doubt you’re a man who needs an excuse for much of anything.”
“And you make that assessment based on what?”
“Pretty much every one of the limited, but colorful moments I’ve known you.”
“Colorful,” he says. “There’s an interesting description.”
“I’m just glad it was you whose coffee I stole and not some really cranky person who would have yelled at me.”
“I have my moments, but never over something as trivial as a cup of coffee.”
“The world would be a better place if everyone thought like you.”
“There’s a cynical statement.”
“You’ve obviously not worked retail or you wouldn’t call that cynical.”
“And you have?”
“As a college student,” I say, quickly wishing I could pull back the words that invite questions into my past.
But I am saved as he announces, “And we’re here.” He leads me under a covered overhang toward a wooden door, where he surprises me by stopping, facing me, his hands coming down on my arms. “I’m glad it was me who found you in that coffee shop,” he says, the dim glow of overhead lights catching like fire in his gray eyes, but what steals my breath are the shadows banked behind that fire. He doesn’t want to be alone tonight either, and I find myself wanting to know why.
I dare to reach up and press my hand to his chest. “I found you,” I say, giving him a smile, wanting him to smile. “And you should know that I’m on a roll of mishaps today. The chance that I will spill, dump, or break something during our dinner is high.”
His eyes and mouth soften, any residual effect of those shadows I’d spied disappearing. “Then we’ll laugh and clean it up,” he says, motioning toward the door. “Let’s go inside.”