It doesn’t.
Instead, the driver opens the door to usher in Mrs. Worthington from downstairs, who is dressed to the nines in a cacophony of silk and sequins.
“Good evening, Mrs. Worthington,” I manage to smile through my disappointment. The much older woman nods at me fondly, taking in my equally formal attire.
“Oh, good evening, dear. I see you have a steamy rendezvous tonight as well.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink before dipping into the backseat of the dark car, leaving me surprised and a little envious. I snap my mouth closed and turn to the doorman of my building to ask for a cab when the seductive purr of a V8 engine captures my attention, just as a black metallic Maserati GranTurismo pulls up to the curb. Without even seeing his face through the dark tinted windows or smelling his scent of spiced smoke and earth, I know Ransom is behind the wheel. No one else could drive a car this sexy and pull it off so flawlessly.
With almost feline elegance, he unfolds himself from the car and comes around to where I stand on the sidewalk. He’s dressed in all black—tailored black slacks, black dress shirt with the top few buttons undone, and clean, black boots. And although this is the most dressed up I’ve ever seen him, he wears the tighter clothing just like he does his worn jeans and tees—like they were made to grace his body.
“You’re here.” What was supposed to be skeptical is masked by the breathy sound of my voice. Dammit.
“I said I would be.”
He doesn’t greet me or tell me I look beautiful. He hardly even looks at me. He just opens the passenger side door and steps aside to let me in. Reluctantly, I slide onto the crimson leather seat, taking extra care with the hem of my dress. He doesn’t want to look, so God forbid I give him something to look at.
“Nice car,” I murmur as he filters into bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“Thanks. It was a birthday present to myself,” he replies stiffly, keeping his eyes on the road. Somehow, he seems to find every open spot and zips his way between lanes. I’m pretty sure the sweet ride has something to do with it too. Respect must be paid when a Maserati is on the road.
“Well, you sure know how to spoil yourself.” It’s a lame comment. Lame. One out of nervousness just to fill the empty space. Music plays quietly in the background, and I take it upon myself to turn it up, breaking cardinal rule number 1: Never touch a man’s stereo. Nev-er.
“What are you listening to?” I ask, as the enchanting sounds of a male voice comes through the speakers. I feel like I’ve heard the singer before, but I can’t pin down a name. The musical accompaniment is minimal, as it should be. The man has a beautiful voice, his upper register so impressive that it’s almost feminine. However, there’s a raspy attribute to it that gives it a certain edge.
“Matthew Koma.”
I nod but silence the questions on my tongue to take in the music. His song is one of desperation, pain, and surrender. It’s heaven to my ears, yet stirs something dark and hot within me. I know the name, I just didn’t know he could sing like this.
“We’ve been working with him on our new material,” he answers without me asking.
“New material?” That gets my attention and I turn in my seat to gaze at him through our capsule of darkness. Shadows play across his sharp features, brilliant, neon lights brushing kisses across the edge of his jaw. His hair is completely slicked back tonight, making him seem even more severe. Almost menacing.
“Yeah. We’ve been writing. Got to step into a booth earlier. Felt good.”
“Wow.”
He doesn’t miss the hint of disbelief in my voice and turns momentarily to face me, his brow furrowed in offense. Artists are sensitive motherfuckers. “What?”
“Nothing, that’s great,” I quickly assure him. “It’s just . . . his sound is so different from yours. The artists he works with are just . . . not like Ransom.”
He shrugs with nonchalance, yet the tick in his jaw gives him away. “We sing—we play—what we feel. Change is good. Growth is good. Especially when it’s felt. We’re still Ransom. We’re just evolving. Shouldn’t that make you happy?”
Make me happy? Why would he even care about my happiness?
“Stay off of Page Six with drunken brawls and sorority girl hookups, and that would make me happy.” I tack on a nervous laugh, which Ransom doesn’t return. Damn. Something surely crawled up his ass.
Luckily, we pull up to the venue, which is a popular hotspot in the Meatpacking District. After his baby is secured with valet, Ransom comes to stand beside me, of course, drawing every flashing camera and catcall on us. I keep my head down and go to stand off to the side so Ransom can do his thing, but find that he keeps perfect pace with me, gently placing a hand on the bare skin of my lower back to guide me into the building. I’m flattered for a hot minute before full-on terror coils in my gut. Well, that surely will be front-page news. Ransom Reed Steps Out with Older Woman. The press will not be kind.
Once we cross the threshold, servers with shots of the featured tequila bombard us with offers. We each take one to be polite, especially since my clients are in attendance. Ransom looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to join him in a drink.
“What? You don’t actually expect me to drink this, do you?” I say low enough that no one hears.
“Why not? It’s free booze . . . that you happen to represent. Shouldn’t you have faith in your client?”
I roll my eyes, all the while shooting fake smiles and waves to familiar faces around the room. I don’t want anyone to think that Ransom is any more than a business associate. “Forget it, Ransom. Tequila and I don’t mix.”
“Just one drink, Heidi. Just have fun with me. Loosen up. Please?”
I finally allow myself to gaze up at him, and I plunge into the dark depths of his onyx eyes. Even with the nose ring and keen features, there’s something soft and vulnerable about him. Something that I can only unravel when I get this close to him. I saw it that night we spent together, right after he sang to me while stroking me from behind. And when he kissed me, I felt it too. I felt it all over me, intoxicating me. Filling my lungs with his own brand of potent smoke. I inhaled deep and held it in, refusing to let it go. And when it hurt too much to hold on to, I exhaled, gasping his name in my desperate need for air.
“Yes.”
It seems like I’m always saying yes to Ransom Reed. I can’t fathom any woman ever telling him no.
He taps his shot glass against mine, and then raises his glass in salute. But instead of tipping it to his lips, he brings it to mine. Eyes locked, breaths ragged, I let him feed me a sip of the fiery elixir. It burns all the way down, but I lick my lips in craving, needing more. Just one taste is all it takes to hook me. All it takes to break me down.
“Heidi! Girl, where have you been? The caterer thinks we’re going to run out of crab cakes within the hour. We got some stragglers outside trying to get in with fake invitations. And I swear, some of these old ass rich bitches are smuggling bottles in their bags.” Tamara throws her hands up dramatically and wraps me in her thick arms. Luckily, I hand my shot glass to Ransom before she spills it.
“Ok. Calm down. I can handle this.” I pull away from her and nod toward Ransom. “Tam, this is Ransom Reed. Ransom this is my assistant Tamara, the person who usually keeps just anybody from walking into my office.”
Ransom nods and smiles to a starstruck Tamara, who gushes and squeals like a brace-faced Belieber. Ransom accepts graciously before excusing himself so we can get down to work. Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I need if I want to get through this night unscathed with my dignity in check. I have the caterer put out bacon-wrapped scallops to replace the loss of crab cakes to the menu. I double up on security at the entrance. And I make sure the staff keeps the alcohol behind the bar when they pour, replacing the ones on display for decoration with empty ones filled with colored water. Let those cheap old biddies steal that. Ha!