I pull away like some sensual Casanova and cock a satisfied smile.
Her wild green eyes soften for a millisecond before her brows twist.
“Why did you do that?” she asks.
I step back, two steps actually, and run the side of my finger against the warmth of my lower lip. Her spearmint taste settles on my tongue.
“Enjoy the rest of your day, Odessa.” I step off the elevator, wicked gratification sinking into my bones, and send her off with a signature ambiguous nod.
Only the last thing I see in the moments before the door slams shut is her middle finger pointed straight up.
I slam the call button over and over. I need the elevator to stop now, but the clunk-clunk and whoosh tells me it’s too late.
I scramble to my room, tugging on last night’s slacks and pulling a white button-down over my tight shoulders as I make a mad dash for the emergency stairway. I’m not sure if I can beat her to the ground level, but I’m sure as hell going to try.
Two steps at a time, the whole way down. Ten flights. I’m glazed in a coat of sweat by the time I get to the bottom and my shirt clings, but I catch the backside view of her as she slips past the doorman and heads west down twenty-sixth street.
“Odessa.” I call out the second I hit the pavement behind her. She stops dead but doesn’t turn around until I get closer.
Her arms fold. “Seriously?”
“What the hell was that?” This is not my finest hour, but this woman brings out insecurities I never knew I had.
“The kiss.” Her head tilts. “It was rude. I didn’t want it.”
It’s still early enough that the streets haven’t filled with Friday morning commuters.
“You’re a piece of work.” My gaze narrows. I refuse to release her from my stare. “I can’t thank you... I can’t kiss you...Women like you are the reason I don’t date.”
Well, one of the many, many, many reasons.
“Give it a rest. God, what’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem?” I ask.
“I went home with you. I fucked you. I wanted to leave. You had to take the perfectly nice, no-strings-attached thing we had and make it all about you and your little bruised ego.” Her head shakes. “I had higher expectations for you.”
I’m dreaming.
That’s got to be it.
This is some strange dreamland where up is down and left is right. Yes means no. North is south. This never happens in real life. I don’t chase women. Shit like this doesn’t bother me. I love ‘em and leave ‘em and pray to God I don’t run into them around the city in the foreseeable future.
“Everything about you screams manwhore.” Her right fist clenches before releasing. “All I wanted was a night of fun. That’s it. And you said back at the bar that you could give it to me.”
I’m sure I said a lot of things back at the bar.
“I thought you went home with me because you felt sorry for me?”
“That too.” She lifts her chin, shoulders squaring. “You have sad eyes.”
“I do not have sad eyes.” Fuck. I need to check the mirror when I get back upstairs.
“You do. You look lonely.”
That’s it.
“You know what, Odessa? You don’t know me. We’re done here.”
Xavier warned me about redheads, claiming they don’t just screw your body, they screw your mind too. I’m not even sure how I ended up with her anyway. My cock tends to prefer women of the carefree, blithe variety. Everything about Odessa is clear as mud. She’s as opaque as they come.
She shrugs, eyebrows lifted. “Okay. Bye.”
I turn and walk through the doors to my building, past the doorman, and toward the elevator bay.
I’m not sure what the fuck just happened, but I want to scrub it from my memory with a healthy combination of bleach and rubbing alcohol, and hope to God I don’t run into her ever again.
Chapter Two
ODESSA
Bad idea. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.
I shake my head at myself because someone needs to. I’m hunched over my bathroom counter, wiping away what remains of last night’s face with a Pond’s makeup wipe.
Of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, going home with a handsome stranger from some uptown Manhattan cocktail lounge takes the cake. I knew there had to be something wrong with him. Men that attractive are always too good to be true.
Hunched over his drink last night and wearing a black suit jacket that hugged his broad shoulders, I had to step closer to get a better look. And when I stood next to him to order my drink, that’s when I saw his profile: perfectly straight nose, the promise of a dimple in his right cheek, strong jaw, thick hair the color of my impure thoughts.
The striking stranger possessed a raw, unapologetic virility, radiating sex appeal like a nuclear bomb that dispatched a quiver down my spine and stopped at my weakened knees.
And then he turned my way. Noticed me. It was all over from there. My night’s destiny was sealed with one wicked smile and the mischievous glint in his eye.
Sigh.
There was also the fact that he was everything Jeremiah wasn’t, and God knows I needed a palette cleanser.
My debaucherous evening went so well, too, until he had to go all psycho-jealous-boyfriend on me. I’m not sure why he felt the need to kiss me in the elevator or chase me down twenty-sixth street, but I’ll let that serve as a reminder that people are never what they seem.
Nothing about Beckham is sad or lonely. Aloof perhaps. Arrogant for sure. Too good looking and well dressed? Yeah. Sad and lonely? Not at all.
I am lonely, and that’s the sad truth.
My gaze falls on my deserted engagement ring, which rests in a ceramic ring tray on my bathroom vanity. I’m not sure how many carats it is or if it’s platinum or palladium. I was too excited to care when Jeremiah popped the question after six years of dating.
Six months ago, I said yes.
Two weeks ago, he asked to take a break.
I told him I understood, and I removed the ring without making a big fuss like some other women might do. My southern Jeremiah wouldn’t know what to do if I unraveled anyway. Women where he’s from are strong as hell. They care more about leaving impressions than making them. They’re grace and strength even in their ugliest moments.
My insides are currently glued together with two parts hope and one part dandelion wishes. I’m not sure if Jeremiah and I will get back together, but nothing’s off the table for now. We’re stuck in this gray area until he decides what he wants to do.
A buzz from my phone on the counter notifies me it’s now fully charged. Not only was I an idiot for going home with a stranger, I foolishly did so without a full charge on my phone.
Looks like haste and excitement got the best of my common sense last night.
I leave it plugged in a little while longer and peel last night’s shameless, fuck-me-now dress from my sticky curves before stepping into a steamy shower. Two hours from now, I’m to report to Townsend Energy Holdings on Park Avenue for some PR consulting. Apparently the Chief Branding Officer is in dire need of a right hand and since the last firm I worked for closed up shop two months ago, I’m officially freelancing.
The water rinses remaining remnants of the night before clean off, swirling down the drain along with any shame that may have consumed me on my walk home this morning.
Last night loneliness struck me across the side of the head as I hummed along with the microwave that heated my Lean Cuisine. After polishing off two Lifetime movies and a pint of tiramisu gelato, my wallowing morphed into determination.
If Jeremiah wasn’t tossing and turning all night, staying in eating frozen dinners, then I shouldn’t either.
Jeremiah was living it up, surfing the wave of his newfound celebrity status. It was as if someone had given him some special key and he had to go around and stick it in every lock he could find to see how many doors would open for him.