A Fine Mess (Over the Top) (5 page)

My food poisoning worsens. As does my arrhythmia.

I haven’t puked since I downed enough tequila on my twenty-fifth birthday to fill a hot tub. I’d have happily converted religions that night: Judaism, Buddhism, Scientology…if you stop my head from spiraling, I will be your most devoted subject.

I’m about to become a praying man again.

Lily’s eyes flare as she watches the brief interaction. Either the lights hit her face wrong or tears gather. She shakes her head. She looks down. She sticks a finger in her mouth and chews her cuticles. I swallow the bile creeping up my throat.

I should march over, grab her, and show her how much I’ve wanted her since Aspen. How much I want her right now. Suck her bottom pink lip between my teeth and worship her like the goddess she is. But I smell like another woman, and my idea of a relationship is swapping spit at thirty thousand feet. She’ll get over me. I’ll get over her. This is just a glitch.

The longer I stand here, the weirder it gets, and Kolton specifically said, “Don’t make things weird.” I weave around a hugging family and stop in front of Lily. Prior to National Cockblock Day, I would’ve wrapped her in my arms, making sure to graze her ribs and brush my lips over her jaw when kissing her cheek. I would have savored the feel of her against me until it got inappropriate enough I had to let go. Things shouldn’t be different. But they are. They so fucking are. I lighten the mood the only way I know how.

“I hope you’re on the pill,” I say.

Her mouth drops open, the tips of her ears turning pink.

I nod to Shay and Kolton, the two of them still pressed together. “I think every woman within thirty miles just got pregnant.”

She blinks a second longer than normal, her shoulders falling a fraction, then she laughs.

Jesus, that sound.

Her gaze travels from my black boots, up my jeans—where they linger over my crown jewels—wandering up the length of my blue long-sleeved T-shirt, until she meets my eyes. She sighs. “Hi, Sawyer.”

Fuck me hard. How does a mortal man resist that voice? This is when I should move in to hug her. If things weren’t suddenly different between us, that’s exactly what I’d do.

Don’t be weird.

Don’t be weird.

Don’t

be

weird.

“Hi, Lil,” I say as I step forward.

I hesitate, then I wrap my arms around her waist, and her hands slide over my shoulders. Normal. This is normal. But the second her nose touches my neck, skin against skin, I pull her tighter. Not normal. Better than normal. It feels too damn good, and I’ve never been one to deny myself. She stiffens briefly before her back expands with a deep inhalation, the movement pressing her chest to mine. That’s when she stops breathing. I feel it the second it happens. And I know why. That damn perfume.

She pushes away, and I drop my arms.

She chews her lip, and I study the floor.

It totally gets weird.

She looks at every face in the room but mine. “Is everything organized for the party tomorrow?”

“Yep.” I try to catch her eye, but she won’t glance my way. Dismissing her last week left my throat feeling like it had been doused with lighter fluid. Now it’s been blowtorched.

New superpower wish: time control,
ability to rewind
.

She nods to Shay and mouths something I can’t see, the two of them making their way toward the exit. Kolton and I bring up the rear. If he didn’t have Jackson, I’d kill the bastard for not warning me sooner that she’d be here. Not acting on my feelings for Lily is one thing. Rubbing it in her face with my almost-airplane-escapade is another. At least she’ll get over the idea of being with me. Not only did I treat her like crap when she called, but I showered in another woman’s scent on the way to see her. She’ll stop swooning at me with those big gray eyes. She’ll move on with her life. I’ll move on with mine.

Things will stop being weird.

God, things are weird. I thought seeing Sawyer at the airport yesterday would be as hard as it would get. Wishful thinking. The Christmas party is in full swing, and I glance at my watch, unsure how I’ll last the night. Months ago, when Sawyer and Kolton were planning this event, I was excited. Any extra time spent with Sawyer was a bonus.

Now it’s a curse.

The restaurant is hopping, our group of thirty given the run of a room at the back. Talk and laughter bounce off the massive ceilings, hanging globe lights illuminating the wall behind the bar, its length lined with liquor. Shay is on the far side of the room, bopping to the soul-funk tunes. Kolton’s hand stays on her back while he talks to his store manager, Ethan. Most guests are on their second drink, everyone loosening up.

Everyone but me.

Work parties are my own personal hell—the large groups of people, conversations forced beyond our shop talk. One-on-one, I’m not Chatty Cathy, but I manage all right. Shove me in a standing cluster, and I become a wallflower, long sips of wine filling extended lulls. Add Sawyer into the mix, and I’m a disaster.

I return my attention to my circle of four and attempt to chat with the group,
attempt
being the key word. I’d blame my poor social skills on the situation, but it’s hard to focus when the blond waitress with the corseted top finds every excuse to walk by Sawyer.

And touch him.

“What about you? How’d you end up working for the company?”

When I realize the question is directed at me, I peel my eyes off Sawyer’s snug jeans and face the group. “I met the boys in Aspen last March. When Sawyer saw a purse I made, it sparked conversation. They hired me to work freelance from here. I help with the ski stuff, but my main focus is expanding the accessories.”

I smile at the girl opposite me, sure we haven’t met before; the red streak in her black hair is too striking to forget. When one of the sales staff, Chris, puts his arm around her waist, I realize she’s a plus one. If this party were two weeks ago, Kevin would be here. Although I miss his presence, it’s because he’d stand with me, talking or not talking, and I wouldn’t feel so out of place. Not because I miss my boyfriend.

But I do miss Sawyer.

I glance at him again and catch him looking at me. I’m not sure how long he’s been staring, but he looks away the second he’s caught and continues talking with his staff.

So freaking weird.

We should be hanging out like always, the two of us often inseparable at work functions, but he’s barely acknowledged me.

“I love your dress.” The girl on the other side of Chris nods to my strapless ensemble cinched at the waist with a leather belt.

I fight the urge to check if Sawyer glances my way again as I try to recall her name. Chris I know. He often works the floor when I’m using the design room in the back of Moondog. I tease him when he goes out for smoke breaks, worried the gobs of gel in his hair will catch fire. I don’t remember his date’s name, but I think the girl with the pixie cut, who complimented my dress, is the new salesgirl, Sasha.

I flutter my skirt, the white-and-beige stripes fanning as the linen settles against my knees. “Thanks. It was fun to make.”

Sasha nods, her face expectant, as though I should continue the conversation. I sip my Riesling and roll my tongue around my mouth, notes of peach and honey lingering.

Say something.
Speak, speak, speak.

I could mention how I made the piece from my nana’s skirt. How every time I wear it, I feel like she’s with me. But that invites questions. Comments. I never wear this dress at home. Worried Mom will recognize the fabric, I keep it out of sight.
Donate the boxes
, she said.
Give them to someone in need.
I couldn’t let Nana’s things go. At fourteen, I lived with her for six months while my parents went to Florida to see about breeding horses. She taught me to sew, spending hours each evening, telling me stories as we’d push and pull threads. She smelled like lavender and spoke in soothing tones. I’d point to different antiques, and she’d light up, reliving her youth with each anecdote. When she died, it took a while before I came up for air.

Instead of elaborating on my dress’s origin, I say, “I like recycling fabric. I often use old clothing and accessories to create something new.” That sparks some conversation, and easier dialogue passes between us, until the topic dies off. The lull stretches. Chris whispers in his date’s ear, the smell of smoke from his clothes pungent. Sasha lets her gaze roam the room, no doubt looking for a quick escape. That’s when the excuses come.

“Time for another drink.” Chris winks at me and drags his plus one away.

Sasha follows with, “I’m gonna use the bathroom.”

Then I’m alone. In a crowded room.
Sip wine. Fix belt. Smooth hair.

I’m about to escape for a breath of air when a hand lands on my back. “Having fun?”

Ethan steps beside me, his hand lingering in place. I’m petite to begin with, but next to him it’s like I’ve shrunk. I tilt my head back. “Yeah. It’s nice to see everyone outside of work.” It’s not a lie, per se. Nice and awkward can commingle.

He leans closer to my ear. “Some more than others. You look beautiful tonight.” His hip brushes mine, his proximity hard to ignore. When the boys hired Ethan to manage Moondog, he fished around for my relationship status. Once he realized I was taken, our banter found an easy rhythm, the two of us often having lunch together. The flirting stopped. Until now.

Assuming I grasp the laws of flirting.

I avoid looking toward Sawyer—the man who confounds such laws. “Did your landlord fix your front door yet?” I ask, ignoring Ethan’s compliment.

He shakes his head. “Nope. The guy refuses to spend a dime on that place.”

“You should file a complaint. It’s not safe living in an apartment that won’t lock. Anyone could walk in.”

He sips his drink, then runs his tongue over his lips. “I wouldn’t complain if
you
snuck in.”

Okay, definitely flirting.

This is normal. No, this is good. With just the two of us, my shyness dissipates. I’m single and allowed to bat my lashes and pout my lips. Ethan is lean and fit, his crooked nose and shaggy hair handsome in an Owen Wilson way. But Sawyer’s presence crowds me. Even without looking at him, he’s all I see. This shouldn’t be so hard. He brushed me off on the phone, and I’m pretty sure he hooked up with a girl on his flight to Toronto. Yet here I am, wishing he’d swap places with Ethan.

I need to rethink my priorities.

I wiggle my toes in my ankle boots and attempt to dust off my flirting skills. “You say that now, but there’s a strong possibility you’d wake up startled and use your kung fu on me.”

He laughs and moves his hand to my hip. “It’s tae kwon do, and I promise I’d be gentle.” His fingers travel toward my backside.

I gulp my wine, unsure how to reply. Verbal banter is one thing, feeling his body so close something else. The attention is nice. After Sawyer decimated my ego, the interest of a man as cute as Ethan is reassuring. I’m still desirable. Men still find me attractive. Some men, that is. His hand, however, is getting friendlier than I’d like.

I cough and twist away, a not-so-smooth move that has people glancing over. I chance another look at Sawyer and nearly drop my glass.

Sawyer is a blast. He’s goofy and loud and always brings the party with him. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, never seen so much as a dirty look, so I’m unprepared for the daggers he’s shooting our way. He’s glaring at Ethan like he wants to impale the man.

He says something to the group he’s with, then strides toward us, gaze unmoving, frown in place. I swallow the rest of my wine and grip my empty glass.

When he reaches us, he loses the scowl and nods to Ethan. “Mind if I talk with Lily a moment?”

Ethan slumps but recovers quickly. “Sure.” Then to me, “We’ll chat later.”

I smile in return, a forced lift of my lips, dreading being alone with Sawyer and the feelings I can’t shake. Once Ethan’s gone, Sawyer steps close and waits for me to make eye contact. Slowly, I lift my gaze to his gold-flecked brown eyes, but I can’t find my voice. It’s like I don’t know how to talk to him anymore.

He grins. “Hi.”

From my angle it’s easy to see the scar running down his neck, the remnant of a fall he took through a coffee table while wrestling with his brother. I’ve always wanted to touch it, feel the puckered skin under my fingers. I drop my gaze, but it doesn’t help. The cuffs of his gray button-down are rolled to his elbows, roped muscle exposed below. Something else I’d like to touch.

I blink hard. “Hi,” I say to my feet.

“Look at me, Lil.” I rock on my heels, then do as asked. He raises an eyebrow. “How fucking weird is this?”

My giggle surprises me, and I loosen my grip on my wineglass. “Totally weird.”

Thank God for Sawyer’s candid nature.

He sips his drink, probably Scotch, and a sheen of liquid clings to his bottom lip.

Touch that arm. Kiss that scar. Taste those lips.
None of these urges are new, but they’re heightened. Magnified. He watches me watching him, his gaze as probing as mine. What is he thinking?

Then the music changes.

A remix of Madonna’s “Holiday” plays, and Sawyer does Sawyer. He tips his head to the right, his shoulders following, then he pushes out his hip and rolls his torso through. The guy does body waves, alternating from side to side, like he’s in an eighties music video.

People stop. People look. People laugh.

I snort, an unattractive sound I make when my laughter takes over. Sawyer says it sounds like a hyena with sleep apnea. When I snort a second time, he dances harder, and I crack up. My belly aches as he gets into it, the entire room watching now.

I suck in a breath, place my empty glass on the table behind me, then clasp his shoulders. “What are you doing?”

He stops dancing. “Making things less weird.”

“Less? What about you channeling Paula Abdul is less weird?”

“Did you laugh?”

I grin.

“Mission accomplished. Let’s get a drink.” He swigs the rest of his Scotch and clasps my hand. With the show over, our audience returns to their conversations, but Shay catches my eye and mouths,
What the fuck?
I shrug and mouth back,
No idea.

Sawyer rests against the marble bar and pulls me in front of him, our fingers still intertwined. The corseted waitress leans forward, offering him a view of her cleavage. He takes an eyeful, because that’s what Sawyer does. He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do monogamy. He does sex in airplane bathrooms.

I slip my hand from his.

He smiles at the flirty waitress. “I’ll have another Scotch, and a glass of”—his attention shifts to me—“Riesling?” When I nod, he says, “And a Riesling for the lady.”

He doesn’t watch as she turns to start our order, so he misses her pursed red lips and the once-over she gives me. He leans heavier on his elbow. “I’m sorry.”

The music vibrates in my chest, or maybe it’s his proximity. “Sorry about what?”

“Last week, when you called, I was a dick. You caught me by surprise, and I didn’t handle it well. So, I’m sorry.”

His admission pumps through my core like helium, my body nearly weightless. The confession shouldn’t be surprising, not with how he speaks his mind, but it’s been a week of silence. I was losing hope things could return to the way they were, or progress past it. I step closer, so he can hear me over the noise. “Apology accepted, but do I get an explanation?”

He drags his gaze down my body. Not how he ogled the waitress. It’s a thorough perusal—intimate, penetrating—flames sparking along my skin. It reminds me of the first night we hung out.

The boys were lounging in their Aspen condo, and Shay spotted them from the street. The three of us gawked and giggled, then knocked on their door,
uninvited
. Raven’s reasoning: while in Aspen, live a little. The second Sawyer’s eyes landed on me, it was like my layers of winter clothes vanished. I’d been struggling with Kevin for a while, missing the fire and lust in our relationship. One look at Sawyer, and my sex drive roared back to life. We sat kitty-corner on their sofa, bent in conversation while he studied the purse I made, talking design and market trends. I kept watching his mouth, wondering what it would feel like to kiss him. But the first thing I had said when we walked in was, “I have a boyfriend.”

We didn’t kiss, but his hand grazed my thigh a few times, and I nearly died.

Like that night, his eyes linger on me now, but he doesn’t speak. He rolls the pinky ring on his left hand the way he does when he’s puzzling something out. Drinks are placed beside us. Still, he stays quiet. The extended pause is nothing like the awkward silence with Sasha. This silence is agonizing in an altogether different way. An ache travels up my thighs, heat expanding below my ribs. The longer he stays quiet, the more my skin tingles.

Finally, he releases his ring and slides his hand over my lower back. He leans forward and whispers, “I’ve wanted to do very dirty things
to
you and
with
you since Aspen, but I care about you too much to act on it. Hence my dickishness and the weirdness.”

He stays close, and my breath hitches—long inhalations and abrupt exhales that are dizzying… Sawyer wants me. He’s touching me. And
dirty things
? The past year, my sex life has been nonexistent, before that it was “nice,” and I’ve only ever been with Kevin. The dirtiest thing I can think of is my kitchen sink.

I place my fingers on his forearms and trace the muscled indentations. “I thought I misread you. I assumed you didn’t feel what I feel. And then at the airport…” I don’t say how the perfume on his shirt smelled like cyanide. I don’t mention how I wanted to go
Mean Girls
on the woman who whispered in his ear.

The pressure on my back increases, his hand fanning wider. “I feel it, all right. And nothing happened on the flight. It almost did, but I couldn’t follow through.” His lips brush my ear, the pressure so soft I can’t tell if it’s his breath or his touch. Then he pulls away. “So you understand?” He grabs his Scotch and takes a large swallow.