Drivingin New York City sucked. There’s a reason why so few people living there owncars. I was grateful that Sebastian lived just outside of Manhattan, in a smallsuburban town only a twenty minute drive from the city line. But right now, asI waited for a small sea of people to cross over Broadway, I wished he hadgotten himself a loft within the city limits instead. Then I could’ve walked,or taken a cab and have been done with it, instead of spending over fortyminutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“He’spretty accomplished for a guy of his age, too. He’s only forty-one,” Jessinformed me. “So, you can take that bit of info for what it’s worth.”
“Whatam I going to do with that?” I guffawed. “’Oh, Roman, good for you for makingsomething of yourself before your prime. Now, buy this house, for the love ofGod.’”
“Well,I mean, I wouldn’t say it inthosewords, but … complimenting peoplehelps,” she offered.
“I’llsee where the conversation takes us,” I gritted as I hit the horn, beeping at acab that insisted on cutting me off. “God, I should’ve agreed to letting himsend a car.”
“Yeah,probably,” Jess agreed. “Oh, and before I forget, you’re not doing any morework tonight, right? I mean, we gave you a pass with the meeting because itmade sense, but you did agree to the weekend off.”
“Yes,Jess,” I groaned, rolling my eyes. “I know. I’m going straight to Sebastian’shouse after this, to eat some ice cream and watch some crappy TV.”
“Good,”she replied happily. “And speaking of Thor, how was his house last night?”
“Uh…” All brain function stopped as I zeroed in on that one memory. The taste ofhis tongue. The feel of his hair between my fingers. “G-good.”
“G-good?”she mocked around a bubbly laugh. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Itmeans it was good.” I bit my lip, nearing the restaurant. “He cooked dinner andit was really nice. I had a drink, and—”
“Adrink? What did you drink?”
Youknow you don’t have a reputation for indulging in alcohol when your friendsgasp and immediately ask what you had. “Whiskey.”
“Youcan’t handle whiskey,” Jess speculated. I could practically hear the gears inher brain turning. “You had a drink with Thor?”
“Canyou please stop calling him that, for crying out loud? It’s ridiculous. And I’malmost th—”
Shegasped. “Did you guysdo it?”
“Oh,gee, Jess. How mature.Did we do it… you know, weareadults.We’re not kids in high school or something. You can just say—”
“You’rerambling. Why are you rambling?” Her voice was full of mischief. Like she knewsomething I didn’t.
SoI decided to indulge as I pulled into a parking garage. “Because I kissed himlast night, okay? I kissed him, and then I made things weird by avoiding him thismorning. Then,hemade things even weirder by kissing me again to provea point or something, and—”
“Whoa!Wait a minute!Youkissedhim? Tabitha Clarke, I’m impressed!”Jess was downright giddy and I could hear Alex squealing in the background. “I’mputting you on speaker. Alex wants in.”
Whydid I say anything?“I don’t have time for this, guys,” I grumbled,parking the car and unplugging the phone. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Honey,don’t youdare,” Alex responded. “You will tell me if that man kisses asgood as he looks, and you will—”
Ihurried through the parking garage to the street as I groaned. “It was a momentof weakness. I was drunk,” I lied, “and it’sneverhappening again. ForgetI said anything. Now, I’m hanging up. I’m at the restaurant. I’ll tell you laterhow it goes with Roman.”
Ihung up before they could respond and walked down the sidewalk to the quaintItalian restaurant. With a deep, cleansing breath, I forced all thought ofSebastian and his lips from my mind and focused entirely on the job at hand:finding a buyer for Mrs. Worthington’s house. I walked through the door, takenimmediately by the scent of freshly baked garlic bread and the sound of traditionalmusic.
“Tablefor one?” the hostess asked with a beaming smile, and I shook my head.
“I’mmeeting Roman Dolecki,” I informed her, clutching my briefcase to my side.
“Ah,yes, of course. Please, right this way.” I followed her into the dining roomand to a table in the far corner. “Mr. Dolecki, your guest has arrived.”
Aman of about six-feet in height stood, smoothing down his silk tie over a crispbutton-down shirt. Dark, nearly-black hair shone under the warm glow ofoverhead lights, and at the sight of me, his deep-brown eyes glinted withdelight. A smile stretched his lips, encased by a blanket of stubble, as darkas the hair on his head.
“Ms.Clarke,” he bowed his head to me before extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Mr.Dolecki,” I greeted him with a warm smile, sliding my palm against his. It wassmooth and warm. Not the hands of a worker.Or a drummer.
