Made to Love (14 page)

Reagan

My eyes slid open, squinting against the
morning light coming in through the window beside my bed. 

Wait, what? 
I didn’t have a window
beside my bed.  
Where was I?

I sat up, but was not prepared for the
immediate throbbing coming from the back of my head.  I felt as if I had
smashed it against a ton of bricks.  I sat on the edge of the bed, willing the
swirling room around me to right itself so I could make sense of where I was. 
Definitely not my apartment. . .not unless I’d been the recipient of an Extreme
Makeover at some point during the night.  Speaking of, what exactly had
happened last night?

My stomach lurched violently.  Figuring out
where I was and how I’d gotten here would have to wait.  I was about to be very
sick, and I needed to find a bathroom immediately.  I ignored my pounding head
and stumbled to the bedroom door.  Stepping out into the hall, a hazy memory
floated around the edges of my hungover brain, but I had no time to dwell as my
stomach roiled again.  Spotting an open door to a bathroom to my right, I
sprinted through the doorway and fell to my knees at the toilet just in time. 
I sat there, with my cheek against the toilet seat, and closed my eyes.  I
didn’t want to move.  I just wanted to sit here, unmoving and in complete
silence, until this raging headache went away.  The thought of having to get up
and walk back to the room I’d been in horrified me. 

Shit, how much had I drunk last night,
anyway?

After several long minutes, I opened my eyes
and scanned the room.  A gorgeously decorated bathroom, done in stark tones of
grey and white.  It wasn’t mine, though, and I remembered my brief recognition
of the hallway.  Flushing the toilet, I stood up and rinsed my mouth out in the
sink, then surveyed myself in the vanity mirror.  I looked like hell.  My eyes,
red-rimmed and feeling like sandpaper covered the insides of my lids, took in
the matted hair, pillow lines crisscrossing my cheek, and the wrinkled maxi dress
I’d been wearing last night.  My headache lessened to a dull roar, I searched
the various drawers in the vanity, finally locating one filled with rolled
washcloths.  I scrubbed my face, letting the warm cloth rest on my burning eyes
for a few moments.  I didn’t have my bag with me, so did the best I could
finger combing the snarled mess on my head.  Satisfied I at least would no
longer frighten small children, I poked my head out into the hall. 

 I knew this hall.  I’d walked this hall
three days ago.   My headache and churning stomach took a backseat to the
nervousness I now felt at realizing I was in Nathan’s house. 

I had spent the night here.

Holy shit!

I tiptoed back to the room I’d slept in,
searching around for my bag.  I found it resting on the nightstand near the bed
and grabbed my phone. 

Eleven-thirty?  I had slept like a dead
person in Nathan’s house until
eleven-thirty? 
It just kept getting
better and better, didn’t it?

I slapped on some gloss, and ran my tongue
over my teeth, wishing like mad that I had a toothbrush.  My post alcohol and
vomit breath would probably kill zombies.  I fished around the bottom of my
bag, and threw up a mental “Hallelujah” when I found a wrapped peppermint stuck
in the corner.  Popping it in my mouth, I hastily made the bed and turned to
the doorway. 

I cringed as all the possible scenarios for
last night began to race through my foggy brain.  I remembered the dinner with
the Johnson’s, and how much Nathan being there had thrown me off kilter.  I
also remembered slamming back a few in an effort to mask my nervousness.  It
was obvious I had drunk more than my share, but that didn’t explain how I’d
ended up here.

Had I made a complete fool of myself at the
meeting?  Had I passed out?

Holy mother of God, please tell me I had not
spilled my guts in Nathan’s presence, both figuratively and physically.  The
thoughts of me rambling on about my childhood, how he made me feel, or actually
puking in his car were enough to have me wanting to crawl back in the bed and
hide beneath the covers.

Squaring my shoulders, I hoisted my bag and
hesitantly walked down the stairs.  It was fast approaching noon; he had to be
wondering if I’d ever get up. 

I’d only been here once, but the kitchen was
easy enough to find.

And there he was, all gorgeous and sexy in
faded jeans and a tight, white t-shirt, his blond hair falling in heavy, unruly
locks, as if he’d been running his hands through it.  He did that a lot, I’d
learned.  His tattoo was on full display on his right bicep; an intricate
design that covered his bicep and disappeared under the sleeve of his t-shirt. 
He was barefoot, drinking coffee, as he leaned back against the counter.  It
was clear he had heard me rustling around upstairs and had been waiting for me
to appear.

I hadn’t thought it possible, but the tattoo
and the bare feet exponentially increased his hotness level.  I may have
actually sighed a bit at the sight of him, and only hoped that if he’d heard,
he’d assume it was the result of my obvious hangover. 

 “Morning, sunshine.”  He reached behind him
to a waiting mug of steaming coffee, and held it out to me with a raised
eyebrow. 

I took a small sip, the mocha flavored drink
sliding down my scratchy throat.  “Thank you.”  I felt his eyes on me as I took
another sip of coffee, and hoped I no longer looked like I’d just shut down the
local bar.  “Uhmmm. . .and thanks for. . .last night.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was thanking
him for, but he had made sure I’d not passed out in the street, so for that I
was at least grateful.

He placed his empty cup in the sink and moved
closer to me.  “Yes, last night.  Interesting evening we had last night.”

I looked up in panic.  Had the Johnson
account been pulled?   In my efforts to calm my raging hormones, had I somehow
given cause to the Johnson’s to believe I wasn’t capable of overseeing their
account?  “Was it. . . .is everything okay?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and let me
assure you that the Johnson account is still intact.  All is well.”  He pulled
out a barstool at the large granite island and indicated I should sit.  He took
the stool beside me.  “How are you feeling?”

I buried my face in my hands, embarrassed.  Although
we hadn’t spoken of it, I knew his mom drank excessively, and his brother had
been killed by a drunk driver.  And here I was, hung over in his kitchen.  “Like
shit,” I admitted.

Nathan laughed.  “I don’t doubt it.  Royce
Johnson couldn’t keep the drinks coming fast enough.  You gotta watch out for
those two,” he warned.   “And to answer your next question, I brought you here
because you were not capable of providing me with your keys to unlock your
door.  I figured rifling through your purse would push the boundaries of our newfound
friendship, so I brought you here instead.”

I glanced down at my wrinkled dress, back at
him and then out the window.  I’d woken up in the guest room, so obviously
spending the night here had not had any benefit outside of ensuring I wasn’t
sleeping it off on my doorstep. 

“And no, nothing happened.  I put you in the
guest room and I slept in mine.  I won’t pretend I didn’t think about you in
the room next to me all night, though I prefer that you be sober the first time
we share a bed.”

My eyes widened, as I stared at him in both
horror and excitement, but was saved further comment as he threw up his hands
in mock surrender.  “I know, I know.  I’m just saying,” he conceded.  “By the
way, remind me to never let you get that wasted again.  You’re not as light as
you look,” he joked, lightening the sudden tension in the room. 

I reached over and punched his arm.  “Jerk,”
I answered with a laugh.  My headache had lessened further still, and the
coffee was helping take the edge off.  I supposed I should probably get going. 
“Well, thank you for being there.  It won’t happen again; I promise.”  I was
shocked I had allowed it to happen in the first place, but there was a first
time for everything, apparently.

Nathan waved his hand in the air.  “It’s
okay.  I’m just glad I was able to help.  Speaking of, I think it’s past time
we exchange numbers.  You never know when you’ll need me to come to your rescue
again.”  His tone was totally serious, but there was a twinkle in his eye. 

I rolled my eyes at him, but reached into my
bag for my phone.  We exchanged phones and I punched in my name and number.  I
wouldn’t deny the tiny thrill of pleasure I got when he handed my phone back
and I saw his contact information. 

“I should go,” I said as I got up and carried
my empty cup to the sink and placed it beside his.

Nathan stood up as well.  “Can I drive you?”

It would have been so easy to just say yes. 
I wanted to say yes; wanted to prolong this time with him.  But I couldn’t
continue to blur the lines.  I needed to stick to my plan.  “No, thank you.  I
can just call a cab.”

Disappointment flashed across his features,
before disappearing.  “Okay, I’ll make the call.”

Forty-five minutes later, I was home,
showered and back in bed, feeling sorry for myself.  My headache was pretty
much gone, although the nausea had yet to subside. 

Nathan had said there was nothing to worry
about with the Johnson account, but I couldn’t help worry that my misguided
decision to get rip roaring drunk last night would come back to haunt me.  I
wished Brooke was home, if for no other reason than to just listen.  I’d never
had a real friend before, but it was at times like these that I wished I did. 
I needed someone to vent to, about last night, about Nathan. . .about
everything. 

I got up and opened my closet, pushing
hangers out of the way until I saw my mom’s dress.  I stared at it, feeling a
rush of sadness that despite having lived with her for thirteen years, I’d
never really known her.  Sometimes, in rare moments of soberness, she would
look at me and smile, smooth down my hair and even go so far as to let me curl
up beside her as I watched cartoons on the thrift store TV Charlie had found.  It
was those times when I think that had circumstances been different, she would
have made a good mom.  That had life been kinder, and had she not fallen in
love with a powdered poison that would eventually kill her, then she and I
would be having a good, long talk about Nathan right now, and she’d been giving
me all sorts of motherly advice.

I needed, wanted, to believe that. 

And I instantly felt guilty for even wishing
it, as I turned and flopped back into my bed.  Helen had been that person for
me since she’d taken me home all those years ago.  It was she that had calmed
the nightmares of a pre-teen girl who couldn’t be hugged.  It was Helen who had
religiously taken me to countless therapists until she’d found one she believed
could help sort through the traumatizing events that had highlighted my young
life.  She had dried my tears, kissed my skinned knees and seen me through my
first period, when I’d believed I had contracted some fatal disease and was
surely on the brink of death.

She was my mom, and she would give me all the
advice I needed if I would just ask.

Making a mental note to call her later, I
closed my eyes and soon fell fast asleep.   

I awoke several hours later, feeling
tremendously better.   I called Helen and while I brought her up to speed on
work, I couldn’t bring myself to discuss Nathan or my drunken shenanigans from
the night before.  She was missing me, worried about me, I could tell, and I
did my best to put her mind at ease.  Telling her I’d drank myself to oblivion
while at a client dinner would not score me any points in the ‘make her feel at
ease’ department. 

I texted Gabby to let her know the website
was complete other than her approval, and asked her to take a look and let me
know her thoughts.  I then logged on to my work email, but there wasn’t much in
the way of anything pressing so I grabbed a yogurt and a bottled water, then
made myself comfortable on the couch. 

As I lazily flipped through the channels, my
mind drifted to Nathan. 

What was he doing right now? 

I had a sudden desire to talk to him, but
squelched the idea.  What would I say?  What would be my reason for calling? 
Just because I had his number now, didn’t mean I should start calling at
random. 

Sure, we were friends, but still. . . .I had
left his house this morning in a drunken haze.  It was embarrassing , to say
the least, and navigating this friendship was still new to me.   Were we just
work friends, or were we let’s-get-together-for-dinner-and-a-movie type
friends? 

I didn’t know.

I should probably just wait until Monday and
see him at the office.   Play it safe.

Probably.

Nathan

Le Bernardin was one of New York’s highest
recommended French restaurants that specialized in seafood.  Elite had done
some security work for the owners in the past, and it had become one of my
favorite places for French cuisine. 

I was meeting my mother here, having made dinner
plans with her earlier this afternoon.  She had never sent me the phone number
for the mysterious Whitney yesterday, and I hadn’t reminded her.  Thankful to
have dodged that bullet, I was eager to relax and spend some time with my
mother; it was long overdue. 

I just hoped we could get through the evening
without a complete breakdown.  Two drunken women in as many days were too much,
even for me.

I had woken early this morning, after a
rather restless night spent tossing and turning, all too aware of the woman in
the room across the hall.  I felt every bit the lecher as I imagined all sorts
of things I wanted to be doing with and to her, despite the fact that she was
completely wasted and passed out; oblivious to her surroundings.  It had not
been how I’d envisioned her first sleepover. 

I’d known the instant she’d gotten up,
hearing her soft but unmistakable footsteps cross the floor above me.  Hearing
her in the bathroom, I’d resisted the urge to go to her and make sure she was
alright.  Hangovers were a bitch, and I didn’t know her experience level at
dealing with them.  I avoided them for the most part, but I’d had my share in
my college days, and I knew she’d probably been wishing for death right about
then. 

Instead, I had simply brewed some coffee and
waited patiently for her to make an appearance.  It had been my intent to
coerce her into spending some time with me today, maybe head to Central Park,
see an afternoon show, or just simply hang out.  I grimaced at the thought.  I
didn’t just ‘hang out’, and the idea seemed laughable now, but I had surprised
myself by realizing that spending time with her, doing nothing at all, was
preferable to how I had actually spent my day:  at the office, followed by the
gym. 

But she had insisted on leaving, and there
was something in her tone that suggested I refrain from making the offer. 
Regardless that I knew she was attracted to me, she was hell bent on remaining
friends. 

It was frustrating.  I couldn’t pretend
otherwise.  She seemed determined to keep me at bay, and I wasn’t used to
having to exert this much effort for a woman.  Any woman. 

So it was with pleasure that Mom had agreed
to dinner, hopefully providing me with some much needed distraction from the
complex woman that occupied my thoughts.  Handing my keys to the valet, I
headed inside.  The smells hit me instantly and my stomach rumbled in joy. 
Sylvain DuPont was nothing short of an artist in the culinary world, and it had
been too long since I was last here.

 “Nathan, it is nice to see you again.  Come,
your party is already seated.”

I followed Veronica as she led me to where my
mother was seated.  We’d had a moment, or four, a year or so ago, but things
had fizzled out when her fiancé had moved back to town.  I briefly wondered if
they’d ever gotten married. 

My steps slowed as I approached my mother’s
table.  She wasn’t alone.  I recognized Anna Bradshaw immediately, and could
only surmise that the platinum blonde boldly undressing me with her eyes was
none other than her niece, Whitney.  I was immediately on edge.

“Mother,” I said between clenched teeth,
leaning in to kiss her cheek.  She was oblivious to my upset, wine glass in
hand.  She was already well on her way to tipsy.  Just how long had they been
here before I arrived? 

“Nathanial, so nice to see you.  You remember
Anna Bradshaw, and this is Whitney.”  My mother swooped the table with her
hand, as if I couldn’t tell who was who. 

I nodded politely to Anna, and then turned to
Whitney.  She held out her perfectly manicured hand for me to shake.  “Whitney,
Nathan Preston.  Nice to meet you.”  I glared at my mother as I pulled out a
chair and sat, but again, she was unaware.

Whitney Bradshaw leaned toward me once I was
seated, giving me an unrestricted view of her silicone D-cups.  The black
cocktail dress she was wearing looked painted on, and left nothing to the
imagination.  “You, too.  I was delighted when I heard the news you wanted me
to join you for dinner tonight.” 

I almost laughed.  That was
not
how
the conversation had gone with my mother.  But Katherine Preston was an expert
at taking in a conversation, and gleaning from it only the bits she could use
to justify whatever agenda she was working toward at the time.  And seeing me
married off was always on her agenda. 

I watched as Whitney eyed me with all the
anticipation of a predator stalking its prey.  She was bored and looking for a
good time.  I decided to play along. “Yes, well, I am just happy to see you
could fit me in on such short notice.”

I signaled to the waiter.  What with my
mother’s hare-brained match-making schemes, and Whitney purring like a cat in
heat next to me, this was going to be a long night.  I needed sustenance. 
“Bombay, on the rocks.”

“Nathanial, I was just telling Whitney about
your work.”  The way my mother said it, it was as if I was some great
humanitarian on my way to Africa to feed the children.  “He is quite the
successful businessman.”  This was said to Whitney, who leaned even closer to
me, where I could practically see the dollar signs dancing in her eyes.  “You
should really tell her more,” my mother encouraged.

Mom drained the rest of her glass and began
scanning the room for our waiter, hoping for a refill.  My heart swelled with
sadness as I watched her laugh loudly at some mundane comment made by Anna. 
She was undeniably drunk, yet we were all, as always, choosing to ignore it. 

“Mother, I’m sure Whitney doesn’t want to be
inundated with boring office chatter.”  And by that I meant I had no desire to
talk myself up to this woman whom I had no intention of becoming involved with.

Whitney laid her hand on my arm.  “Of course
I would love to hear about your work.”

I bet you would.

Eyeing the three women looking at me,
wide-eyed and expectant, I figured what the hell.  I launched a rather detailed
and admittedly exaggerated account of my career at Elite.   I may have
embellished a few things here and there, but the more I talked, the more
Whitney saw stars and I couldn’t help myself by egging her on.   Even my own
mother looked stunned when I was finished.  The waiter delivered our courses
and I hid my smile by turning my attention to cutting my perfectly braised
salmon.

“Nathan!  Bonjour!  Comment allez-vous?”

I looked up to see Sylvain Dupont approaching
our table.  I broke into a grin at the sight of my old friend, and stood to
greet him as he reached us.  “Sylvain, bon de vous voir.  J'ai été bien.”

“Good, good.  I see you have guests,” Sylvain
turned to our table with a flourish.

“Yes, you remember my mother, Katherine.  And
this is a family friend, Anna Bradshaw, and her niece, Whitney.” I sat back
down while he greeted each woman with a kiss on the cheek. 

“I trust you have enjoyed yourself, and the
food?”

“Oh yes,” my mother immediately gushed. 
“Everything has been simply fabulous!  You truly are a food god!  Please say
you’ll come give my chef some tips?”

My eyes slowly closed at hearing my mother’s
words.
A food god?  Seriously?

Mom was laughing good-naturedly over what she
considered her quick wit.  Anna was laughing as well, but I had the feeling it
was more to play along rather than from her actually finding the statement
funny.  Whitney couldn’t have cared less and was occupying herself with what
she thought were covert brushes of her foot against my leg, unseen because of
the heavy white linen tablecloth.  The woman was certainly determined, I’d give
her that.

Sylvain smiled politely, as I hastened to cut
in and save the poor man from any further drunken nonsense from my mother.  “Sylvain,
it was nothing less than superb.  We are actually just finishing up.”  I
signaled for our waiter, handing him the bill along with my AMEX.  I wanted to
be out of here and wasn’t going to waste precious time quibbling about who was
going to pay for what.  “I will come by next week, and we’ll catch up,” I
promised as I stood. 

He patted my back, and nodded.  “Au revoir, everyone.”
 He moved on to another nearby table, greeting the patrons there. 

“Mother, why don’t I drive you home,” I
began, but she quickly cut me off.

 
“Nonsense, Nathanial.  Ronald drove
me and will be likely waiting outside.  He can take me and Anna; and you can
take Whitney.”  She nodded once, having it all planned out.  I clenched my
teeth in irritation and resisted the urge to point out that Anna and Whitney
were going to the same place so what sense did it make for them to take
separate rides? 

I desperately wanted to deny her the
satisfaction of leaving here with her handpicked debutante, but knew that would
only upset her and cause a delay in departure.  I’d get Whitney to her aunt’s
house and leave, even if I had to push her out the passenger door as I sped
away. 

Whitney clutched my arm possessively as we
walked outside to await my car to be brought around.  I said nothing as I
attempted to maintain some distance between us.  Whitney Bradshaw had a
voluptuous body, and was using it to her full advantage, pressing her breasts
against my arm.  My own body responded involuntarily, even as I swallowed my
distaste for the blatant come-on. 

“It’s still early, you know,” she murmured,
her voice husky with undisguised desire. 

I looked down at her through hooded eyes. 
This woman was like the countless others that had come before her, in heat and
dazzled by the Preston name.  I’d danced this routine more times than I could
remember, but what had for so long been my normal, suddenly seemed
unacceptable.  Despite my body’s increasing response, I wanted nothing more
than to be rid of this woman. 

I thought of Reagan, wondering what she was
doing at this exact moment.  The valet handed me my keys and Whitney slid along
the front of my body, pressing the full length of herself against me as she
placed a hand on my chest.  The invitation was clear, and I asked myself why I
was determined to walk away from what she was offering, all for a woman who was
insistent on ignoring the attraction between us to keep her distance.  Reagan
and I were just friends, so it wouldn’t be like I was cheating on her. 

Even to myself, the justification was weak. 
But as I stared down at the woman who was here, now, and was offering me
unrestricted use of her body, I made a choice I knew I would hate myself for in
the morning. 

“Well, then.  Let’s not waste any more time,
shall we?”