“Maybe you’ll get to know her better now,” James said. “Because there she is.”
As Brent turned the corner, Shannon was waiting by the front door of Edge.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The club had a different energy during the day. No music played. The lights were bright, shining in every corner. Shannon felt as if she was wandering backstage and peering at all the pulleys and levers, the sets and costumes that made a Broadway show go ’round. Because there were no smoke and mirrors now. Those would only come with an audience or a crowd in the evening.
Even with the lights switched on, Edge still possessed the sleek sensuality it was known for, with its silver bar, low divans, gauzy curtains, and its rich colors—colors of desire, like wine reds and deep purples.
Her footsteps echoed across the black tiled floor that would be lit up tonight, illuminated by rays of smoky light from the ceiling, by crescents of blue from the stage, by shimmery gold beams.
The click of her high heels punctuated the strained silence between the two of them as they walked through his quiet club. She wasn’t sure what to say next. She’d simply asked Brent for a minute alone to chat, and James had scurried off. No one else was there, as far as she could tell, except the two of them.
“It’s like seeing how a magician pulls off a card trick,” she said as she turned to survey the scene, eager to break the quiet.
“Speaking of, I have a new one I can show you.”
“You do card tricks now?” she asked, because she could picture it. It seemed like his style. He’d always loved cards and had played in poker games at school now and then. She could see him brandishing a deck with a ‘now you see it, now you don’t’ sweep of his hands.
He laughed, and she sneaked a peek once more at the man by her side—so much taller, so much bigger than her small frame. Her eyes definitely hadn’t been playing tricks on her last night. He was still devastatingly handsome, even more so with his casual look today—jeans and a navy blue button-down. It was untucked, and with the cuffs rolled up it revealed his strong forearms, and some of the ink he’d gotten in college. She’d gone with him for his first tattoo, the black sunburst just above his wrist. She’d joked that it fit his “sunny disposition” and he’d promptly scowled and glowered. But then he’d draped an arm around her and flashed her his winning smile.
“Nope. But I’ll need to work on that next. Can I get you something? Water? Soda? I’m happy to serve you something stronger, but I don’t imagine you’ve started drinking at eleven in the morning,” he said as they reached the silver bar. A small red bag was on the counter, as well as the usual accouterments of napkins and cocktail straws.
She shook her head. “I have a meeting at noon at the Cosmopolitan. So, a Diet Coke could be great.” Being near him, and needing to say the words Michael had told her to say, made her throat dry.
Brent offered her a stool at the bar, then walked behind the counter and poured a soda from the tap. He handed her the glass. “I’m not a bartender. I just play one on TV,” he said, imitating the deep tones of a TV announcer. His attempt at humor made her smile.
She downed some of the soda. She’d never been so grateful for a sip of Diet Coke before. It quenched her thirst and gave her some newfound courage to own up to her actions last night. She held the glass in one hand and parted her lips to speak. But he was already talking.
“Shannon,” he said, his voice intensely serious, his deep brown eyes focused on her. “You’re right. You’re completely right. I need to apologize for so many things. But first I need to apologize for pushing things too far last night.”
She froze, her fingers gripping the glass. An unexpected bead of worry streaked through her. She didn’t want to hear that he might not want her. Not when she couldn’t extinguish her desire for him.
But she didn’t show up at his club to satisfy the sweet ache in her body. She was there to right her own wrong. To soothe the shame in her soul. She held up a hand as a stop sign and shook her head. “You have nothing to apologize for. I came here to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have slapped you last night.” She put down her glass as she fidgeted with a silver bracelet on her wrist. She took a breath to center herself, then looked in his eyes. He was regarding her intently, as if she were an equation he didn’t understand.
“I have no idea why you would apologize to me,” he said, walking around the bar and joining her on her side.
“I shouldn’t have behaved like that. Hitting you. That’s not the kind of person I want to be.”
He laughed deeply. “One, I deserved it. I was a dick. Two, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it makes you like your mother. But you’re not. That was completely different.”
She shook her head, her voice rising as she disagreed with him. “You didn’t deserve it. I shouldn’t have done it.”
He took a step back and narrowed his eyes. His voice was strong, overriding hers. “You are completely wrong. I’m the one who needs to apologize—”
“No, you’re not!” she said, and now she was borderline shouting.
“Yes, I am,” he said, his voice like a stake in the ground.
Then it hit her. The two of them were actually arguing over who had the right to be more wrong.
She reined in a laugh. “Do you realize what we’re doing? We’re fighting again. This time over who should apologize.”
A small smile formed on his lips. “Yes, we are,” he said. Then he turned serious as he dropped his hands on her shoulders, parking them there. She loved how he held her. His firm grip sent a flurry of sparks across her arms, bare in a silky black tank top. “But I’m winning this round,” he added, a glint in his eyes. “Like I said, you have nothing to apologize for. You are nothing like your mother. And I deserved that slap because you were right. I haven’t apologized to you and there’s so much that I need to say, and I wanted to start by just giving you a little something.”
He let go of her to reach for the bag on the counter. “I picked this up this morning. Dropped it off here,” he said, handing her the shiny red shopping bag with slim handles. Her heart beat faster. He had always given her little things when they were together. Pretty postcards of London, Paris, Vienna, and all the places where she wanted to go someday. A song she’d heard at a coffee shop and wanted to listen to on her computer. A mini lemon cupcake, because every now and then she permitted herself little treats.
She opened the bag, rustled around in the tissue paper and pulled out a thin, blush pink, silk scarf. She didn’t even try to contain a smile. “This one’s a scarf,” she said.
“I know. And I bet it looks amazing on you. I also thought if you wanted to leave it behind, I can steal it again, so I can say I’m sorry another time. I’ll say I’m sorry ten thousand times if I have to. And I know this scarf doesn’t even begin to cover all of my crimes, so I hope you’ll take it in the spirit I’ve given it. It’s just a little something because I thought it was pretty and I thought it would look good on you. But then, everything looks good on you,” he said, his hands clenched at his side.
She could tell he wasn’t angry. Instead, he was holding himself back. He probably wanted to put the scarf on her. She probably would have let him in the past, but everything between them now was too raw, too new, too dangerous. So she tossed it around her neck, striking a pose. She was flirting, and surely she shouldn’t be. But it was so easy, so familiar to play like this with him. And it felt so good, even for a sliver of a moment in time.
“Thank you. I love it,” she said, stroking the fabric. His breath hitched as she touched it, and she let go quickly, reaching for the glass of soda and taking another sip. Her hands felt unsteady. She looked at him again. His hands were in his pockets now, and he was shifting back and forth on his heels.