Better Than Chance (8 page)

I
SAT
down at my cluttered desk a couple of days later with a large cup of coffee, thanks to the ever loyal and wonderful Rebecca, and took my first peek at my e-mail. There was one from Aaron. Weird. Aaron never e-mailed me unless he told me first that he wanted to send me a link or a picture. He was a texter or a caller, not an e-mailer.

“Meet me at Koi tonight! I feel like sake and sushi. 7:00 p.m. Don’t be late!”

When Aaron didn’t respond to any of my phone calls, texts, or e-mail, I began to suspect that he was up to something. He can be quirky at times. It’s part of his charm. I got on with the day at hand and put my suspicions aside until Rebecca popped her head into my office at the end of the day to say good-bye.

“Hasta mañana, handsome.”

“Damn! What time is it?”

“Time for me to get home. I should miss the worst of the traffic now. Go home, Jay. You must be hungry. You barely ate lunch.”

Rebecca loved mothering me. However, she was right. I was starving and… Aaron! Sushi. I checked my watch. I had half an hour to finish up and make my way over to the Japanese restaurant he suggested. Luckily it was nearby. I could walk if I hurried. I tried his number, and once again it went to voice mail.
That little shit had better not stand me up
, was all I could think.

“I’m going, I’m going. See you tomorrow, beautiful!”

Rebecca batted her eyelashes at me playfully and promised me a large latte first thing in the morning.
Flattery will get you everywhere
, I mused. I picked up the phone and dialed Aaron’s number.

“You better not be up to anything. I’m feeling very suspicious right now, A,” I breathed deeply into the phone. “Alrighty, I’m leaving the office now. See you in a few.”

K
OI
WAS
a hip new downtown hot spot. Because of its location, it was popular with the business crowd and tourists alike. The interior was ultra-contemporary with a tasteful blend of glass, concrete, and reclaimed wood. I tended to prefer this type of modern design rather than the ubiquitous dark-wood paneling, crystal chandeliers, and portraits of ancient politicians that grace many of DC’s elegant restaurants.

I was
running a few minutes late, which wasn’t unusual, so I checked to see if Aaron was waiting for me at the bar before I gave my name to the host at the main desk. A quick scan of the bar told me he wasn’t there. I was about to take my cell phone out to send him a text when I spotted none other than Peter Morgan sitting at a high bar table off to the side, nearest the concrete wall at the back. For a moment I wasn’t sure what I should do. Should I say hello? He was alone. Maybe he was waiting for someone. I was irritated at my hesitation. I was overthinking and being an idiot. Of course I should say hello and take the opportunity to thank him for helping me last weekend. And probably apologize for the weekend before.

He caught my eye and waved a greeting, which solved my internal dilemma. I swallowed hard, hating that I suddenly felt nervous. Maybe my stupid crush was back now that I’d revised my opinion of him. God, I was hopeless. I pasted a smile on my face as I reached his table, extending my hand to shake his outstretched one.

“Well, wow. I seem to be running into you everywhere in town these days.” Great. I thought I heard a tremor in my voice.

Peter looked at me quizzically, his dark brow raised in surprise.

“Actually, I was under the impression I was meeting you here tonight.”

What?
I couldn’t say a word. What was he talking about? He looked blankly at me as though I was the one with the answers.

“Um….”

And then it dawned on me. Aaron. That little asshole. He had set us up. I was absolutely going to kill him! I gave a weak chuckle, still at a loss about how to deal with Peter. I decided to throw it back at him. Pretend I had no idea that my friend was a conniving matchmaker who didn’t believe there was such a thing as gay or straight exclusivity. He was a terrible optimist.

“Why? I’m sorry. I was supposed to meet you?” Cowardly, I know, but I was stalling, and the diversion was giving me the space I needed to regroup and shed my silly bout of nervousness.

“Your friend called and invited me tonight. He said that you and he wanted to thank me. Not necessary, but… actually he called Monday, but I just got back in town today, so….” His dark eyes surveyed the crowded bar searching for our third party, I guessed. “Aaron, right?”

“Right. Well… um.”

Awkward. Fuck. I took my cell out and punched another quick message to Aaron to get the fuck over to the restaurant pronto; then I turned my attention back to Peter. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored navy suit jacket with a crisp white-collared shirt and no tie. I had to do a double take when I saw that he was wearing jeans. I’d never seen him in anything but full suit-and-tie work mode. He was probably wearing jeans when he came to our rescue the other night, but I couldn’t remember in all the excitement. Once again I found myself admiring his effortless style and damn… he made end-of-day stubble look very sexy indeed.

“Earth to Reynolds.” Peter waved his hand in front of my face, waking me from my trance. I was glad the bar was dark because there was no doubt that I was blushing furiously.

“Sorry. I was just trying to think what could be keeping Aaron. Uh… well, I just sent him a message, so….”

“Sit down and order a drink.”

I couldn’t protest without seeming like a total idiot. I needed to see this through. Whatever it was that Aaron had set into motion. Ugh. I took a deep breath and planted myself in the chair opposite him, giving a short nod of acquiescence. A drink would help. But only one, I cautioned myself. A gorgeous waitress with long honey-colored hair hastened to Peter’s side when he turned to get her attention. I couldn’t help it. I snorted at the overly anxious beeline she made to our table. Peter gave me another one of those funny quizzical looks, like he couldn’t quite understand me.

“What are you having, Reynolds?”

“Jay,” I reminded him, giving the pretty waitress a big grin.

“Hi, Jay.” She beamed at me. Oh brother. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a… let me think. Tell me about the sake selection, please. I can never remember which one I prefer.”

Our cheerful waitress set her hands on one hip in a flirtatious manner before she began a recitation of the bar’s impressive selection. She was one of those overly touchy types, and I was beginning to regret having asked as the list seemed to never end and my shoulder was beginning to feel bruised. I made a choice and she finally left our table, giving me a wink and a big smile. I turned to the sound of Peter’s deep soft chuckle.

“What is so funny?” I asked with my own eyebrows raised in question as I rubbed my shoulder.

“You.” His smile was kind, and his beautiful eyes sparkled with warmth. He was dazzling. I shook my head, willing my libido to behave.

“Me? How? How was I to know there are thirty-plus different sakes and each has a slight nuance that blah blah blah…?”

Peter laughed out loud this time and raised his beer glass to me in a toast.

“You might just order a beer next time,” he sagely advised.

“Sure. But then I’d have to decide if I want imported or domestic, tap or bottle, local brew or….”

“Okay, okay. I get it.” His eyes were still twinkling with humor. I couldn’t help smiling in response. “Can I ask you something?”

I nodded, quietly thanking the waitress when she set the bottle of sake in front of me.

“Aaron isn’t coming tonight, is he?”

I had just taken a sip of the sake, so his timing couldn’t have been better, or worse, actually. I swallowed what I could, choking with the effort while unfortunately dousing the table with a portion of my Japanese beverage. I struggled to regain my composure, using my napkin to dry my eyes as I took a sip of the water Peter pushed in my direction. Heat rushed to my face. I was mortified.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to….” I managed to choke out.

I gave in to curiosity when I was met with silence and lifted my head to meet Peter’s intense gaze. I couldn’t read him, but he didn’t appear to be disgusted. Simply thoughtful… most likely wondering how he got saddled with a moron like me at a posh restaurant after several days of traveling. The guy had to be exhausted. He didn’t look it, but this had to be the last place he wanted to be.

“Um….” I tried again, this time holding eye contact.

“Don’t worry, Reynolds. No harm, no foul.” He offered another smile and I clung to it like a lifeline.

“Why do you insist on calling me by my last name? That’s what guys do when they’re on a team in high school. It reminds me of my brothers’ friends calling them out. It was always ‘Hey, Reynolds!’. You know what I mean?” He gave me a funny smile but didn’t say a word. “Well, just do me a favor, please, and call me by my first name.”

“I can do that. But is it Jay or John? I saw when you were first listed as a candidate to work on the solar energy project that your name is John.” His voice was thick with humor, but I didn’t think he was laughing at me. Instead, I think I entertained him, and I found I didn’t mind that so much. I could be very entertaining indeed.

“My birth certificate and all other legal documents list my name as John, the name my parents gave me. My mom calls me Johnny, but everyone else—and I mean
everyone
—calls me Jay. I don’t know where or when it started. Maybe they were too lazy to say John? Nah, that doesn’t make sense. Like I said, who knows?”

Peter chuckled again. “So, Jay it is.”

“Yeah.” I was sheepish and now feeling a little silly about my name outburst.

“Where are you from? I hear a southern accent every once in a while, but I can’t make it out exactly.”

“I’m from Virginia. And before you say it, because everyone does… yes, some people, maybe not all, some people from Virginia have accents.”

“I believe you.” He held up a hand in self-defense. “Where in Virginia?”

I smiled as thoughts of home popped into my head. My family had owned our land for a couple of centuries. Literally. At one time it was a plantation with acres upon acres of fertile cropland. Over the last century, it had been transformed into a very profitable and highly exclusive horse farm. My family raised Thoroughbreds on a large expanse of the most beautiful green rolling hills and pastures in the country. My father was very particular about always referring to us as farmers, though. He may have a fondness for his Mayflower story, but the truth was that he was a humble man and didn’t care for artifice of any kind. At the end of the day we were country people, and I was a country boy trying to make a go of it in the big bad city. My expression was no doubt wistful as I refocused my attention to Morgan’s question.

“A small farm town smack in the middle of the state. Chatham. My family raises horses. It’s about a two-hour drive from the city. Not too bad.” I tried another sip of the sake. Thankfully, this time I was able to drink it without showering my tablemate.

“Nice. So, do you ride, then? Horses?”

“Oh yeah. Probably before I could walk.” I shrugged, a little embarrassed again. I didn’t want to talk about me anymore. “What about you?”

“Do I ride?”

“Well, no…I was going to ask where you’re from originally, because let’s face it… almost no one is really from DC. But sure, I’ll ask that one too. Do you ride? Horses, I mean. Because you could ride motorcycles too, but well, that isn’t what I was asking. Do you? Ride motorcycles? Never mind. I think I should just be quiet and let you do the talking for a little while. My mouth doesn’t seem to be working.”

Peter’s face was a mixture of amusement and once again, something I couldn’t quite read. I felt my face redden. Oh, would this night ever end? I’d only had two sips of sake, so I really couldn’t blame my odd behavior on excessive alcohol consumption. In fact, I needed a shot of something stronger if I had any hopes of making it through.

“You are a fast talker, Reyn—sorry, Jay. Let me see. Do I ride horses?” I nodded bashfully, thankful that he was going with the flow. “Not really. I’ve been on a horse before, but I don’t really have any skill there. And though I’ve ridden motorcycles a time or two, I don’t own one. I went through a phase when I was younger when that’s all I wanted, but… my mother did not approve.”

His smile was sheepish and sweet when he spoke of his mom. I looked at him curiously hoping he’d explain. He didn’t disappoint.

“My mother is from Italy originally and….”

“I knew it!”

“How would you know that?” Peter asked, seemingly unperturbed by yet another weird outburst from me. In fact, if anything, he looked more at ease as he took a healthy drink from his beer glass and then leaned forward with both forearms resting on the small table.

“I didn’t, but I guessed it.” I fumbled. “You look Italian. That’s all.”

Peter smiled, his grin transforming his handsome angular features into something truly special.

“Hmm.” We stared at each other for a heartbeat or two before he continued, “Where was I?”

“Riding?” I offered. I wished I knew him better and could make some off-colored remark about what kind of riding I really liked to do, but I reined in my strange impulse to skewer my probably already tarnished reputation with him. I smiled in encouragement, hoping he’d just start talking so I would stop.

“Right. So, no to both. And I’m from Atlanta. I think that was your other question.”

“Well, what happened to your accent?” I demanded.

“I lost it.” He winked at me and took another drink.

“But why? Atlanta accents are fabulous. They’re soft and… pleasant-sounding. Not crass and awful. And Atlanta is a great city!”

“I’m not saying it’s not a wonderful place, but I didn’t want to keep my accent. Ever. I don’t even know that I could explain why I wanted to lose it, but….”

“I bet it’s never really gone. Say something.”

“What?”

“You know, say something so I can hear your old Georgia accent.”