Drunk on Love Page 6

  Her face lights up. She’s actually a really good mom. Isabella just has a way of souring a good mood. I greet my mom with a kiss to her cheek and a hug. She embraces me and then leans back to get a good look at me. “Honey, you look so handsome in dark gray. Your suit fits you perfectly. Is this custom made? Though you’re too skinny living in the city. It’s so competitive there. You should move back to Connecticut and let me feed you home cooked meals every night.”

  The suit is Gucci and tailored to me, but I know she’s more worried about my eating habits. Chuckling, I say, “I feel better when I’m fit.”

  Wrapping her arm around my back, she leans her head on my shoulder. “I’m allowed to worry about my youngest. You don’t need anything else from me, so give me that. Okay?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  This time she laughs. Loud enough that a few people look our way. She has always had a free spirit, not caring what others thought of her. What she doesn’t realize is that everyone adores her.

  Virginia’s laugh rings through my ears and an image of her pops into my head. My mother whispers, “Are you seeing anyone?”

  The woman has a second sense for when her kids meet someone worth seeing twice. “Nah.”

  Her hands are clasped together in front of her mouth, a smile rivaling the Grand Canyon, and I actually see a mischievous delight dancing in her eyes. That or I’ve been reading too many Playboy stories online. That’s probably it. Yeah, yeah, I read it for the articles. I get enough of the real thing in real life. I don’t need pictures of women who’ve been photoshopped to get me off. I’ve got enough offers and spank bank material in my head to do the job just fine.

  Damn, I forgot I’m with my mom. I shudder, ridding the images now circulating around my brain, I say, “I haven’t seen Dad yet.”

  “He’s here somewhere,” she replies, looking around the ballroom. “We’ve raised over five hundred thousand already.”

  “Big donations.”

  “Yes, the fundraiser is doing well. Can I bother you for a donation?”

  “No bother. How much do you want?”

  “Five thousand would be great. Ten would be better.”

  I reach for my checkbook, pulling it from the inside pocket of my jacket. “Pen?” She hands one to me. I write out a check for the full amount hinted at and hand it to her.

  “Thank you, Son. Now, go get something to eat before I have to force feed you some of my pot roast.”

  “You don’t have to force-feed me your pot roast. I’d take it happily.”

  “Maybe you can come for dinner on Sunday night?”

  Sunday. Virginia. “I can’t Sunday, but maybe another one?”

  A pat on the back is followed by a laugh. She says, “Yes, you’re welcome any Sunday, Son. Now go eat. The food is being served.”

  I find my place card right next to Isabella, and I have a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t there originally. I’m tempted to cut out early now that I’ve made my donation, but I haven’t seen my dad yet and the lecture I would get for not staying isn’t worth it. I spy my parents sitting down five tables to the left front, closer to the stage.

  “I thought you’d be gone by now, Hardy.”

  Pulling my chair out just as a plate is set in front of me, I reply, “Thank you,” to the waiter, and to Isabella, “Soon.”

  “You act like this is painful for you. Are you that much of a snob these days?”

  I almost spit out the water I just drank. “Me? Wow, I’m not sure what to say to that.” Looking at the seat next to her, I ask, “Alone?”

  “Unintended.”

  “Matt always loved his work.”

  She takes her glass and finishes the rest of her champagne. “Yes, he does.”

  I sense her shift in mood, but she has a way of twisting things to turn them back on me and I’m not in the mood to justify my life to her anymore. “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, pushing back from the table. “I’m going to say hello to my dad.”

  “Good seeing you, Hardy.”

  When I look back at her, her eyes seem fixed on her plate, her fork in hand still on the table. “See you around, Isabella.”

  I walk up behind my dad, and pat him on the shoulder. “Hey, Dad.”

  He’s always been strict, not like my mom. They were definitely an opposites attract couple. Tonight he’s smiling and has a beer buzz by the looks of it. “Hardy, my boy.” He stands, setting his napkin down, and hugs me. “Good to see you, Son.”

  “Good to see you, too. You look good.”

  Wiggling back and forth, he tugs at his belt. “Well, the old man’s still got it.”

  I hear my mom laugh. “Don’t encourage him, Hardy. He’s already a handful since he retired.”

  “What? When did you retire?” I ask, shocked to hear my workaholic father has left his top priority in life.

  “Last week. I didn’t make a big fuss to you kids. You have enough going on.”

  “I always want to know what’s going on with you and this is big news. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Son,” he replies jollily. “Maybe I’ll come visit you at The Hideaway. We can have a drink.”

  My dad’s never been there before. My mom has come by a few times before opening hours. She approved but left before as she says, “The ladies show up to bed me.” Besides being grossed out that my mom even said, “bed me,” I quickly escorted her out to catch a cab because she’s right and no mom should have to witness their son in all his charming glory make the ladies swoon. “Sure, Dad. Just let me know. Drinks are on me.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I’m going to take off.” I shake his hand and hug my mom over her shoulder. “Good to see you.”

  My dad, unlike his normal uptight self, says, “Don’t be a stranger.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Thank you for the donation,” my mom adds. “Love you.”

  “Love you.” I snake through the tables and head out before I get stopped again. There are too many ghosts from my past at this charity event and I much prefer the dark brunette with green eyes haunting my thoughts.

  Chapter Eight

  5:35 p.m.

  5:36 p.m.

  5:37 p.m.

  This is ridiculous.

  Why am I a mess over a woman? Since when did I start losing my cool over a chick bringing me food?

  There’s a knock on the door. I run to answer, then catch myself as soon as I grab hold of the doorknob. Fuck, calm down. I take a deep breath. Play it cool. Play it cool. I look down. My heart may be steadier, but someone else just woke up. Fuck.

  I do ten quick jumping jacks and use a trick that’s never failed me.

  Washington.

  Adams.

  Jefferson.

  Madison.

  Monroe.

  Adams.

  Jackson.

  Shit. I’ve forgotten who comes next. I open the door, and ask, “Which president comes after Jackson?”

  She waltzes past me like she’s been here a million times. “Van Buren and then Harrison.” Setting the glass dish on the kitchen counter, she looks up at me, and smiles. “This is fun. Let’s play more.”

  “Tyler.”

  “Polk.”

  “Taylor.”

  And in unison, we say, “Fillmore.”

  She laughs, slipping her coat and scarf off. “So dirty.”

  I hang her stuff up on the hook by the door. “I never thought about it, but now that you say it, Fillmore is dirty.” I join her on the other side of the bar, keeping the marble counter between us. Also, just in case Big Richard is still awake, he’ll need cover.

  “Why are we reciting the Presidents?”

  Shrugging, I play it off. “Just keeping my mind sharp.”

  She opens a bag she set down with the lasagna, which smells amazing by the way. Pulling out a bottle of wine, she says, “I love brain games. My favorite is Memory.”

  I sit on the barstool and watch her as she unpacks. Her expression i
s happy and carefree as she talks about the game. I like hearing about her favorite things. It tells me more about her, and feels personal, instead of the bullshit a lot of people talk about. She asks, “Have you played?”

  “I played as a kid.”

  “This is much more challenging than the card game when you were little.” She twists the cap off the wine, and adds, “Wine?”

  “Yes.” I watch her work around my kitchen, making herself at home.

  She pulls two glasses from where they hang upside down inside a cabinet before returning to the wine and pouring. She sets a glass in front of me and waits. “I hope you like it. I asked a wine guy to help me at the liquor store. He said it would be a good pairing with lasagna.”

  “A sommelier?”

  “No, just the guy who owns the corner shop down by my work.”

  Swirling it around from the base of the glass, I can’t stop from smiling. “You didn’t have to do all this, but please know, I think it’s very thoughtful.”

  “I’m asking a lot of you. The least I can do is get you drunk first.” She laughs at her own joke.

  It was funny, but that she enjoyed it so much is funnier, so I laugh in response. “So you’re trying to butter me up or get me drunk?”

  “Maybe both.”

  “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “I think I’ll feed you, and keep your glass full. Let you relax while I clean up after. And then hopefully we get started.”

  “I meant the lessons, not how you plan to take advantage of me.” I take my first sip of the wine after letting it breathe, although not quite as long as I should. “I’m not as easy as you seem to think.”

  “Really? We were in your office not two hours after meeting.”

  “I found you adorably fascinating.”

  She can only hold our locked eyes a few seconds more before her gaze lowers to the dish on the counter. “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  She looks up and her tongue dips out to wet her lower lip before it tugs under her teeth. She doesn’t realize how sexy she really is—a bombshell that hits you when you’re weak. The air is noticeably thicker. She exhales a heavier breath, but this time her eyes stay on mine. “Lasagna?”

  Slowly, I come around the counter and stand next to her. She leans her hip against the counter, facing me, and I say, “Lesson one. The art of flirting.”

  “I told you the other night that I’m not a total virgin. I’ve had dates. I’ve kissed plenty of men. I’ve made out with them.”

  “This isn’t about sex or making out. This is an art form. If you want my help, and I really hope you do, then we start from the beginning.”

  Tucking some hair behind her ear, I let my gaze drift to her lips and then lower, running over every inch of her without touching her at all. Her sweater is thin as well as her bra, her nipples hardening before me. The deep V displays her delicate neck and teases me with a peek at her collarbone. I’m tempted to run my tongue along the curve of her neck and lower. It’s hard to hold back after tasting heaven.

  When she raises her arm across her body and holds onto the opposite shoulder, I whisper, “No. No hiding from me.”

  “But—”

  “No. Vulnerability is sexy. It’s genuine and real. You’re presenting yourself to me, showing me what’s in here.” I rub her temple gently before taking her hand and kissing the palm.

  “What do you see?”

  “I see the shy girl who hides behind bulky suits and numbers. I also see the woman who wants those layers peeled away and her body bare.”

  She’s breathless, her chest rising and falling quickly. “I thought we were going to flirt.”

  “Flirting is foreplay. Are you turned on?”

  Her gaze lowers this time, and my body awakens in reaction. I don’t hide my erection this time. I want her to see what she does to me. I want her to know how much she turns me on. Reaching for my wine glass, I take it while picking up hers. I hand it to her and make a toast, “To good wine and even better company.” Our glasses clink together and our gazes hold while we drink. “Let me serve you dinner.”

  “But I thought I would.”

  “You made it and brought it over here. Let me do something for you.”

  “You are, Hardy. You’re helping me so much. Lowry will not be able to turn me down. I just know it.”

  The magic disappears from the mere mention of that asshole. He’s a glaring reminder that feelings aren’t always returned. Sometimes they remain one-sided. “Let me do it anyway. Table or couch?”

  She looks around the room, and says, “You have a great apartment. Couch.”

  “Thanks.” I struggle to keep the defeat out of my tone. “You go sit. Relax. I’ll finish in here.”

  Moving into the living room, she walks around the space slowly, looking at everything from the knickknacks on the bookcases to staring out the window at the street below. “You’re only two floors up and there is absolutely no outside noise. You must have some nice windows.”

  “Are we really talking about windows right now?” I’ve heated the lasagna and deliver the plate as she sits on the couch.

  “I guess I’m a little awkward. Sorry. I get caught up in the unimportant stuff when I’m nervous.”

  With my plate in hand, I sit next to her on the couch. “See? That right there is exactly what I don’t want. I don’t want your apologies or for you to be nervous. I just want your—” Body. “—friendship.”

  “You have it.” She leans back with her glass in hand. “Can I ask you something personal?”

  “You can ask me anything. As for answering, that remains to be seen.”

  “Were you always this confident? This comfortable with who you are?”

  “No,” I say, chuckling from the unexpected questions. “I went through an awkward stage in tenth grade. My head finally fit my body, my teeth were straight, and I grew over four inches—my body, dirty girl—and kind of grew into me, into this body.”

  Rubbing her palms down her thighs, she picks her glass back up and drinks. When she sets it back down, she says, “I like the body I grew into. Is that rude of me to admit?”

  She’s so damn sexy. “No, not at all. I want to see you more comfortable in that body though.”

  “Me too.” She takes a bite of her lasagna.

  “What is your favorite part of your body, the one thing or things you enjoy showing off?”

  “My boobs.”

  “You have fantastic tits.”

  “Hardy,” she cautions while laughing.

  “I only speak the truth.”

  As much as she doesn’t want to admit that the compliment pleases her because of the vulgar language, she loves it just as much. With another bite perched on her fork, she asks, “What’s your favorite part of your body?”

  “I know you think I’m going to say my dick, but I’m not.”

  She giggles. “What is it then?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Cheater.”

  “I’m the teacher. I make the rules.”

  Looking me over, she says, “Your fingers. I like how strong and deft they are.”

  I wiggle them just to add to the memory of how they wiggled inside her earlier this week. Heaven.

  “Your eyes because of the hazel color and the way they change, but mostly because of the way they look at me.”

  “How do they look at you?”

  “Like I’m beautiful.”

  “You are so beautiful that parts of my soul ache to touch parts of yours.”

  She takes in a shaky breath and swallows hard. “You can’t go around saying things like that even though you’re teaching me how. Because for a brief second, I believed you.”

  “You can believe me for more than a second. I was telling you the truth. Nothing is sexier than the truth shared between two trusting,” I say, moving closer to her on the couch, “consensual adults.” My breathing changes, the mere proximity to her affecting me. “I wan
t to kiss you.”

  “I thought we were practicing flirting?”

  “Practicing?” I sit forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “Yes, right. Practicing.”

  “We can move on from that if you want. If you think I’m ready.”

  Ready. I’m so ready, but there’s no way I’m rushing my time with her away. “We’ll take it slow, and get it right.”

  “How am I doing so far?”

  “Grand. You almost fooled me, but I saw through the act.” I’m such an idiot.

  “How old are you, Hardy Richard?”

  “Twenty-eight. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five in three weeks.”

  “You were born around Christmas?”

  “People call me a Christmas baby, but. I was born on Christmas Eve. My mom said I wasn’t due until New Year’s Day, but I couldn’t wait to start my life.”

  “Your mom sounds a lot like mine.”

  “I bet you were a hellion.” She rests her head back on the couch, going and looking all beautiful again.

  A smirk slides into place. “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re handsome and personable. You’re running a successful business so clearly you’re smart. You tick all the boxes of having the world fall at your feet.”

  Leaning back next to her, I kick my feet up on the coffee table. “Everyone has their struggles. Mine just came a little after yours.”

  The mood shifts and she asks, “When did you lose your virginity?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “That’s not as early as I was thinking. You’re such a pro at this relationship stuff that I thought you’d say something like fourteen or younger. How’d you lose it? Was it romantic with a girl you loved?”

  “Nope. It was at Clara Duncan’s sweet sixteen party. The party was going on upstairs and we snuck down to the basement and ended up having sex on a ratty old couch down there. And since I know you’re going to ask—no, it wasn’t good and I sucked. I came as soon as I touched the tip of my dick to her. I fumbled and thrust into her fast when I panicked. She almost screamed. I never thought to prepare her or to ease in. Yeah, it was pretty awful.”