One Night With Her (2 page)

Shayla bit her lip and looked away, perhaps
not wanting to deal with the
something else
possibility that
had brought her here in the first place. Not that it was her fault
that her husband had a dick that needed to be locked up and sent
straight to jail for its one eye that wandered ALL. THE. TIME.

Shayla faced a different set of challenges,
and that’s what Michelle needed to help her with. She gently
prodded her client, who sat frozen like a statue, her jaw set hard,
as if she needed to hold all her fears inside. “Or is it because
you think it’s your fault that he isn’t faithful?” Michelle asked
cautiously.

“It is my fault,” Shayla squeaked out,
insistent. “I haven’t wanted to have sex ever since we had
kids.”

“And you think that makes it your fault that
he’s cheating on you?”

“Isn’t it?”

Michelle shook her head. “Of course it’s
not. He’s responsible for his actions, and only you can decide if
you want to hold him accountable for them. But we also need to keep
getting at the root of the
why
for you. We spend a lot of
time focusing on him and his actions, but we need to dive into why
you don’t want to have sex with him. Because you lost interest well
before he started cheating on you,” she said. That’s why Shayla was
here, to focus on her own intimacy issues, since that was
Michelle’s specialty—helping patients work through relationship
challenges and fears of closeness. Shayla’s were compounded because
her husband was an ass. But first things first. There would be time
to deal with him later.

“Let’s talk about why . . .”

Forty-five minutes later, Michelle flashed a
small smile at Shayla, pleased that her client was making a modicum
of progress. Some days, progress was glacial, and sometimes it was
cheetah fast. All that mattered was that Shayla seemed to be moving
forward. Michelle said goodbye to her, then checked her schedule
for tomorrow on her laptop. It would be another full day, with a
new patient appointment, too. The evening ahead of her was packed
as well—she had a presentation to give at a sexuality conference,
sharing some of her findings with other psychotherapists on sex and
love addiction. She had experience in that area, having helped
guide several patients through the throes of addiction and into
recovery, and the president of the New York Chapter of the
Association of Intimate Relationship Psychologists had invited her.
Carla Kimberly had been a mentor to her over the years, and had
referred patients to Michelle, so it was a double honor to have
been asked to speak tonight.

She smoothed a hand over her pencil skirt,
adjusted the collar on her crisp white blouse, and changed from
flats to her black pumps. She grabbed her work phone from the
clutter of papers on her desk, but the battery was almost
drained.

Crap.

Having two phones, an iPad and a laptop
turned into a juggling act when it came to keeping them all
charged. She forwarded the work phone to her personal cell in case
her service called. On the way out, she stopped in the office
bathroom to brush her teeth and touch up her lipstick.

There. Now she was ready for a quickie
meeting at The Pierson.

She laughed to herself.
Quickie
. Too
bad she wasn’t having a quickie of another kind. It had been a
while since she’d had one of those. She’d dated an actor for a few
weeks in late spring, and she replayed some of her dates with Liam
fondly. He’d been outgoing, gorgeous and quite capable with his
hands, so they’d done plenty, but nothing close to a quickie.

The problem was even when she’d been pressed
up against Liam, she’d been thinking of Clay. Her very good friend
who also happened to be the man she’d been madly in love with for
ten years. Clay, the gorgeous, sexy, smart entertainment lawyer,
and best friend of her brother.

Oh, but there was one teeny, tiny little
problem with that overflow of feelings she had for Clay. He didn’t
love her, and hadn’t even known how she felt about him. To add
insult to injury, he was happily in love with another woman. A
month ago, he’d gone and married that woman in Vegas.

Yep, Michelle Milo, one of Manhattan’s most
sought-after shrinks, a true specialist in intimacy and well known
for helping to heal heartache, was the poster child for unrequited
love. Might as well slap a big
L
on her forehead. God, she
was an idiot, and the definition of an oxymoron—she spent her days
advising others, and her nights longing for someone she couldn’t
have.

She was doing her best to move on and push
Clay far out of her heart. Like, ideally, into another galaxy.
She’d been taking her medicine for the last few months, blasting
loud anti-love songs in her apartment from her favorite musician
Jane Black, trying out bowling with some of her colleagues,
dabbling in Spanish lessons, and finally training for a 10K
marathon she finished last month. She’d never been a fan of
running, but it was growing on her solely because the relentless
pound of her feet against concrete was starting to numb her
feelings for her good friend.

The best method for moving on, though, was
work, and she loved her job more than anything in the world.
Burying herself in other people’s woes was her deepest passion; the
chance to help someone else change and become healthier her
greatest joy. She headed off to the conference, eager to dive into
work for the rest of the night as she shared some of her findings
at the meeting.

The Pierson was only a few blocks away so
she arrived ten minutes later at the swank hotel, one of those
upscale establishments that doubled as a den for both sin and
business with its lobby bar boasting blue neon lighting, its drinks
in toweringly tall and thin glasses, and hip music playing in the
background.

As she waited for the elevator she couldn’t
help but notice a smoking-hot man in the hotel bar, chatting
animatedly with others at his table. She catalogued his features
quickly—broad chest, dark hair with the slightest wave,
crystal-blue eyes like the ocean, and a smile that was quite simply
. . . beguiling.

Perhaps she lingered too long, or perhaps
she lingered just the right amount of time, because he glanced
across the open lobby bar, past the other tables, and his gaze
seemed to land on her.

At least, she wanted to believe it had as
she stepped inside the elevator and the doors closed. She’d try to
remember his face for later. It could never hurt to put a face to a
fantasy when one was alone in bed with her toys.

Favorite Parts

They hadn’t asked to see The Mona, but
there’d been no need to see it.

Henry’s partner in business and love,
Marquita, had proudly boasted about the windows that had nearly
shattered in her apartment building when she’d used The Mona last
week. Jack simply smiled and said, “I’m pleased that you were
pleased.”

“So pleased,” she’d reiterated, then planted
a kiss on Henry’s cheek, one that suggested there’d be much more
than kissing going on between them later tonight. That was one of
the perks, so to speak, about working in this line of business. Not
watching business associates lock lips, but rather, that the people
he dealt with didn’t have too many sexual hang-ups. Of course, he
ran into plenty of over-sharers too. Some folks assumed if you
peddled sex toys, it meant you wanted to hear about every single
thing someone did with one, and Jack most decidedly did not want to
be told about every escapade. But hey, it came with the territory.
Besides, he was used to it with these two—they’d been business
partners and friends since Jack and Casey had started Joy
Delivered. They were like family.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Marquita,”
Jack said, because she’d battled a serious illness most of last
year.

“And The Mona helps,” Marquita said with a
bright smile.

“And now there’s something else we need to
talk about,” Henry began, steepling his fingers together, his tone
shifting to serious as he motioned for someone to join them at the
bar—a suited man with black hair, and a blue-and-red striped tie.
Only politicians wore such ties. Jack tensed; politics was not his
favorite playground.

“Jack, I want to introduce you to Marquita’s
brother, Paul Denkler. He’s running for city councilman in our neck
of the woods and he’s been focused on safe streets, schools and a
balanced budget. But somehow that message has been subverted by his
opponent, who’s decided to fight below the belt and attack our
business. If Paul doesn’t win, it could be very bad for business,”
Henry said, and Jack’s ears pricked at the words
bad for
business
. He didn’t like those words. Not one bit. He preferred
good for business
, so if this fellow played on the good
side, then he’d hear him out.

“Lay it on me,” Jack said, and a meeting
about selling The Mona quickly became something else entirely.

* * *

The deal had been signed. The new product
would have both prominent in-store and online placement, and Jack
had promised an extra shipment for Marquita and Henry’s personal
stash. The undecided part? How he felt about Denkler. How he felt
about getting involved in politics. He didn’t have a thorny past
with a politician; he didn’t have a senator dad he detested. He
simply followed the news, and knew that politics was a slimy, dirty
battlefield. Jack had served his country for six years and that was
about the extent of his interest in matters of state. This thing
with Denkler, though—it wasn’t a matter of state, so much as a
matter of business, and a matter of personal business. Jack cared
deeply about Henry; the man was a business partner, and had been
through hell and back during the past year as his wife battled and
beat breast cancer.

What pissed him off was the opponent’s
tactics, and how the other guy was going after Paul Denkler through
his brother-in-law’s business, which had nothing to do with the
race. That was underhanded, and that didn’t sit well with Jack.

But whatever he decided to do, he’d do it
with Casey on board. The two were a team, and always had been, so
he’d have to table Henry’s request until he spoke with his sister
and laid it all out for her. For now, he shoved thoughts of
politics and campaigns and consequences aside. Henry and Marquita
were off to a dinner meeting, and Jack was alone, so he settled in
at the bar and ordered a vodka tonic, scrolling through his phone
as he waited for his drink.

He’d been planning on having a drink with
his good buddy Nate tonight, but Nate had to work late on a
last-minute deal. They’d agreed to still meet tomorrow morning for
a round of hoops before work. That meant Jack’s agenda for the rest
of the evening was simple—a quick drink, then he’d watch some of
the Yankees game from the comfort of his living room. Those twin
activities would help him crash later, because he sure could use a
decent night’s sleep before the appointment that Casey had arranged
tomorrow at two. Just the thought of dealing then with the shit
that was in his head gave him an ulcer, but he knew Casey would
kick his ass if he didn’t give it a shot.

She wanted him to start dating again. She’d
told him the upcoming charity event they were sponsoring next month
for breast cancer research would be the perfect time to get back on
the market, or at the very least, to slough off all his regret from
the past. As if that were possible. But Casey had her mind set. She
seemed ready and eager to get him back on the scene, judging from
the story link she’d just emailed him. The note was titled,
New
York’s Most Eligible Bachelors.

Look! You’re on the list! Sex-toy mogul Jack
Sullivan tops this year’s list of the city’s most eligible
bachelors in business. Don’t you think he needs a new woman to mend
his broken heart? Makes you just want to nab that man even
more.

He rolled his eyes, and replied,
The
depth of their insight never fails to astound me.

He turned the damn thing to silent. He could
do without the reminders tonight. Reminders of anything. Of the
woman he’d lost, of the fascination the gossip rags seemed to have
with his dating or non-dating status—as the case had been for the
last year—and of the claws some women wanted to sink into him,
thanks to the growth trajectory Joy Delivered had been on. While at
dinner with Casey last week, he’d been propositioned by a young
woman who’d said she was on the hunt for an eligible bachelor
businessman.

Call him old-fashioned, but the next time he
got involved, he’d like it to be with someone who actually gave a
shit about him, rather than what he did for a living, the company
he ran, or his prior love life.

Or with the absolutely stunning brunette who
was walking past him and—hello, lucky stars—was now sitting at the
other end of the bar. The same one who’d caught his eye when she’d
stepped into the elevator earlier in the evening. Her hair was in a
twist that showed off her neck. She had a fantastic pair of legs,
strong and muscular, a nice trim waist, and she was rocking some
kind of buttoned-up-on-the outside vibe with her blouse and pencil
skirt that made him wonder if she was buttoned up on the inside
too.

* * *

Michelle hadn’t been expecting the barrage
of questions, but what an eager bunch of counselors she’d
encountered after her talk. She’d never felt so popular ‘til
tonight, when she was nearly mobbed by fellow psychotherapists as
she attempted to walk away from the lectern. They fired off
questions for her on treatment and guidance for love and sex
addicts, and she happily answered all of them to the best of her
ability. Then she gathered up her notes, and made her way down to
the lobby. She adjusted her purse strap, and sighed deeply, pleased
with her work for the evening. Sharing insights and learning was a
true passion of hers, and she’d had the opportunity to do so
tonight with colleagues.