Tangled (33 page)

You see where I’m going with this?

“The ball’s in your court, Kate. I told you that from the beginning. You want me gone, all you have to do is go out with me on Saturday.”

She bites her lip. And looks down at her desk.

“Okay.”

Come again?

Sure, I’d love to. With Kate.

Okay—not the time to joke.

“I’m sorry? Could you repeat that, please?”

Her eyes meet mine. They look hesitant but resigned. Like someone waiting in line for a rollercoaster. Determined to get on but not exactly sure what the hell they’ve gotten themselves into. “I said yes. I’ll have dinner with you on Saturday.”

It’s official. Brace yourselves. Hell has actually frozen the fuck over.

“After talking with your sister, I realized a few things…”

You love me? You need me? You can’t live without me?

“…I think you need closure, Drew.”

Oh no.
Not closure. Anything but fucking closure.

Closure
is a made-up word that women invented so they can overanalyze something and talk about it—to death. And then, after it’s been blessed and buried, closure gives them the excuse to dig the poor fucker up and talk about it—some more.

Guys don’t do that. Ever.

It’s over. Fade to black. The end.

That’s all the goddamn closure we need.

“Closure?”

She walks toward me. “I think things with us started and stopped so fast, you didn’t have time to acclimate yourself. Maybe if we spend some time…if we talk away from the office…you’ll understand that after everything that’s happened, the best we can hope to be is friends.”

I’m pretty sure she means without benefits. And that just doesn’t work for me.

A guy can’t be friends with a woman he’s actively attracted to. Not really. Because at some point his dick will take over. It’ll walk like him and talk like him, but—like one of the poor schmucks infected by those freaky face-sucking things in
Alien—
it won’t be him. And from that point on, every move, every gesture will be geared toward accomplishing the dick’s goal. Which sure as shit won’t have anything to do with friendship.

Besides, I have friends—Matthew, Steven, Jack. I don’t want to fuck any of them.

“Friends?”

She doesn’t notice my disgust with the idea. Or she just doesn’t give a damn.

“Yes. We should get reacquainted as coworkers. Equals. Not a date. Kind of more like a business meeting between colleagues.”

Denial is a powerful thing. But at this point I’ll take what I can get. “So, what you’re telling me is you’ll go out with me on Saturday? That’s the bottom line, right?”

She hesitates. And then nods. “Yes.”

“Perfect. Don’t say anything else. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I’ll meet you.”

Interesting.

I speak slowly, “Now, Kate, I know you haven’t been on many dates, considering the moron you called a boyfriend had you engaged before you were out of a training bra. But in cases like this, the guy—that’s me—is supposed to pick you—the girl—up. It’s an unwritten law.”

See how her lips press together? How her shoulders square off? Oh yeah, she’s ready to rumble.

“I just told you this isn’t a date.”

I shrug. “Semantics.”

“Let’s say hypothetically it is a date. It would be a
first
date. And I would never have a man that I didn’t know come to my apartment to pick me up for a first date.”

I push a hand through my hair. “That doesn’t make any sense. You know me. We did sixty-nine. I’d say you know me pretty damn well.”

“Look, these are my terms. If you can’t live with them, we can just forget the whole—”

“Wait, wait. Let’s not be hasty. I give. You can meet me at my apartment. At seven. Sharp.”

“Okay.”

“But I have some terms of my own.”

She jumps down my throat. “I’m not having sex with you!”

I force myself to look surprised. “I’m wounded. Really. Who said anything about sex? I would never require sex as part of our agreement.”

And then I smile.

“It’s optional. Clothing too.”

She rolls her eyes. “Is that it?”

“Nope.”

“What else do you want?”

Oh, baby. If she only knew. Though it’s probably better that she doesn’t. Don’t want to scare her away.

“I want four hours. At least. Uninterrupted. I want conversation, dinner—appetizers, entrée, dessert—wine, dancing…”

She holds up her hand. “No dancing.”

“One dance. That’s non-negotiable.”

She looks at the ceiling, weighing her options. “Fine. One dance.” She points her finger at me. “But if your hands go anywhere near my ass, I’m out of there.”

Now it’s my turn to think it over. “Well…okay. But if you renege on any of my stipulations, I reserve the right to call do-over.”

She waits a moment. Her eyes narrow distrustfully. “And you’ll leave me alone—completely—until Saturday? No priests popping in to say hello? No ice sculptures melting outside my door?”

I smirk. “It’ll be like we never met. Like I don’t even work here.”

Chances are I won’t
be
here. I’m going to be a very busy boy.

Kate nods. “Okay.”

I hold out my hand. She shakes it and says, “It’s a deal.”

I turn her hand over gently and kiss the back—like I did the first night we met. “It’s a date.”

Have you ever walked into a room to get something, but once you’re there, you have no idea what you came for? Good. Then you’ll understand why I turn and start to walk out of the room.

Until Kate’s voice stops me. “Drew?”

I look back at her. “Yeah?”

Her face is downcast. “I don’t…I don’t enjoy hurting people. So…don’t get your hopes up about Saturday.”

Before I can open my mouth, movement out the window catches my eye. And I can’t believe I almost forgot. Wordlessly, I walk forward and take Kate’s hand. I bring her to the window and stand behind her, resting my hands on her shoulders.

I bring my mouth to her ear. My breath gives her goose bumps. The good kind.

“Too late.”

I wanted it to be simple. Something I would have carved on a tree or spray-painted on a wall if we were kids. But I needed it to be clear. A proclamation. Telling Kate and every other woman out there that I, Drew Evans, am off the field.

Kate gasps when she sees it.

Up there in the sky, in huge white letters, for the whole city to see:

Always go out on top. Have I told you this yet?

No? Well I’m telling you now.

I don’t care if you’re a businessman, a singer, or a top-rated television show—leave them wanting more. Never overplay your hand. You can always go back later for an encore, but once they’re sick of you, there’s no taking it back.

I kiss the top of her head. “I’ll see you Saturday, Kate.”

And she’s still staring out the window as I walk out.

Don’t worry—the show’s not over yet. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve, and I always save the best for last. You’re really not going to want to miss this.

I head straight for Erin’s desk. “I need you to get the florist on the phone. And the caterer. And set up an appointment for me—tonight—with that interior designer we talked about yesterday.”

She picks up her phone and dials. “I’m on it.”

Yes, I said interior designer. You don’t know what that’s for, do you?

It’s the grand finale. My winning move.

You’ll see.

On Saturday night.

Chapter 26

S
EE
T
HAT
R
AKISHLY
H
ANDSOME
G
UY
in the charcoal slacks and black shirt with the sleeves half rolled up? The one arranging the china plates on that table?

That’s me. Drew Evans.

Well, not really. Not the old me. I’m new and improved. This is DAK. Can you guess what that stands for? Half the women in this city would give their left tit to have me where I am right now. Pussy whipped. Obsessed.

In love.

But there’s only one woman who was able to put me here. Now I just need to show her I’m here to stay. I haven’t seen her for two days. Two long, excruciating days. It wasn’t as bad as the seven, but it was close.

Anyway, take a look around. What do you think? Am I missing anything?

Fresh flowers cover every available surface. White daisies. Before, I thought seeing them would remind her of Warren, but I’m not worried about that now. They’re Kate’s favorite, so they’re the only kind here. Bocelli plays softly on the sound system. Candles light the room. Hundreds of them—glass-enclosed.

You can’t go wrong with candles. They make everyone look better. They make everything smell better.

Knock-knock
.

That would be Kate. Right on time. I scan the room once more. This is it. My Super Bowl. Game Seven. And everything’s ready. I’m ready. As I’ll ever be. I blow out a deep breath. And open the door.

And then I can’t move. I can’t think. Breathing? That’s not a frigging option either.

Kate’s dark hair is piled high on her head. Elegant tendrils kiss her neck, caressing the very spot that I spent hours nibbling on not so long ago. Her dress is dark red—shiny—maybe satin. It hangs from delicate straps that bridge her shoulders and fall low in back. The bottom rests above her knee, exposing her smooth legs inch by delectable inch.

And her shoes…
Mother of Christ
…her shoes are all heel, held on by an intricate black bow tied at the back of her ankle.

When I’m actually able to form words, my voice is rough. “Is there any way we could renegotiate the no-ass-grabbing clause? ’Cause I have to tell you, in that dress? It’s going to be hard.”

And it’s not the only thing, if you catch my drift.

She smiles and shakes her head. “All previous stipulations stand.”

I stand back as she walks in, looking me over out the corner of her eye. Watch her face closely. See how her eyes darken? How she licks her lips without realizing it? Like a lioness that just spotted a gazelle in the high grass.

She likes what she sees. She wants to compliment me. She wants to, but she won’t. This is Kate we’re talking about here. Post-my-colossal-foot-in-mouth-fuck-up Kate. And despite my recent progress, she’s still defensive. Untrusting. On guard.

And that’s okay. I’m not offended. Her eyes tell me everything she won’t let herself say.

I lead her toward the living room, and she bites her lip as she asks, “So, where are we going?”

And then she stops short when she spots the candles. And the flowers. And the perfectly set table for two.