This Changes Everything (13 page)

S
omething had changed
. It was written all over her. Sly wanted to get closer and read every word.

“What happened?” he asked, forcing himself to stay a few feet away. “You look… excited.”

“I do?” Her voice was throaty. It made him want to get her talking and listen to it for hours.

“Yes,” he said softly.

“I’ll tell you at dinner,” she said. “Where are we going?”

“A little place.”

She wore a sleeveless black dress with a loose skirt, but not too long for him to miss her girly shoes and even-more-girly toes. Had she dressed up for him?

A hint of perfume drifted over to him. He’d warned her before what happened when she smelled too good. Yet she’d done it again.

Heart rate quickening, he turned and began walking the convoluted route to the exit. “It doesn’t have any dancing.”

The sound of her laughter was like a kiss. He smiled, ridiculously pleased.

“Does it have music?” she asked.

“Don’t spoil it. Just be patient.”

“Then it does,” she said.

He was trying to seduce a musician. Of course it had music. “Maybe.”

“What kind?”

“Will you be patient?”

“Seriously. I just want to make sure we’ll be able to talk.”

He stopped walking and looked at her. Her fair hair was loose, framing her face with a platinum curtain he imagined sliding between his fingers. Now that he’d given himself permission to think about her in his bed, it was all he could think about. She was the same person, but she was a stranger. A familiar, delicious mystery.

“We’ll be able to talk,” he said.

She stared back at him. Her pupils were dark pools in the center of a blue sky.

“Is it far?” she asked.

“We could get room service.”

Smiling as if he were joking, she walked through the doors to the hotel’s circular drive entrance where several uniformed valets waited at a podium. “Are we driving?”

He paused, taking a deep breath before he followed. “No.”

“I don’t mind walking.” She unfurled a wrap and slung it around her shoulders. “I bought this today for fifteen bucks. Can you tell?”

“That you just bought it?”

“That it was only fifteen bucks,” she said. “Duh.”

“Well, yes, but only because you left the price tag on it.”

In alarm, she craned her neck around, picking at the fabric as she searched for the tag.

“Just kidding,” he said.

She smacked him on the shoulder and, to his happy surprise, slipped her arm through his. “Funny guy.”

He was feeling funny, but not the way she meant. “Oh, good. Right on time.” Ahead of them sat a black stretch limousine. “Our ride.”

Her pace didn’t slow down.

“Seriously,” he said, flagging the driver. “The restaurant sent it for us.”

She frowned. “Oh, come on.”

The elderly chauffeur jumped out and opened the back door for them.

“Thank you,” Cleo said to him, giving Sly a skeptical smile as she climbed in, and in minutes they were seated in the vast backseat, creeping through the Saturday-evening traffic.

“Do you like it?” Sly asked.

Her hands stroked over the leather. “What’s not to like?” But she didn’t say anything else until they’d reached the restaurant and were climbing out again.

She thanked the driver and reached for her purse, but Sly was already handing him a few bills. “Cut that out,” he told her.

“I was going to give him some of my blackjack winnings,” she said.

“Save it. This is my treat.”

The restaurant was old-school Italian, with dim lighting, black-and-white Sinatra photos on the brick walls, and a drum set and keyboard on a small stage near the bar. Most of the tables, small and close together, were already filled. Their waiter led them to the dark corner booth Sly had negotiated over the phone. He watched Cleo’s face as she took it in, not happy with the unease he saw there.

The waiter took their drink order, mentioned the specials, and left them with the menus.

“What’s the matter?” Sly asked her.

Shaking her head, she opened the menu. “Do you like calamari? Let’s get that as a starter. And maybe the baked clams. Too much seafood?”

“Not too much.” He inched closer on the smooth, padded seat. “Whatever you want.”

Without moving her head, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Then back at the menu.

Their drinks arrived. He didn’t want to seem too eager to pour it down her throat, but she was too tense. He sipped his own and smiled at her like a mother encouraging her baby to eat the mashed peas.

A moment later, she did pick it up, her frown melting away, but not because of him. Two guys had started playing jazz on the small stage, one on drums, the other the keyboard. Warm, crusty bread and a plate of olive oil appeared, and soon she was actually smiling and wiggling in her seat to the music.

“This is great,” she said, staring across the room at the band.

“You’re great,” he replied, staring at her.

She froze with her head turned away from him toward the stage.

“Cleo,” he said.

Slow, sensual jazz drifted around them. A bassist had joined them.
Boom-da-boom-boom-boom…

She turned. “Sly…”

He had to fight down the impulse to compliment her lips. They were pink and rosy, round and soft-looking morsels. Instead, he broke away and sipped his martini. “Sorry. What happened to you earlier?”

After a pause, she tore a piece of bread apart and dipped it in the oil. “I’m not sure I want to spoil the… meal… talking about it here.”

Spoil the date, she meant. He moved another infinitesimal sliver closer. “It looked like good news. You seemed happy.”

“That’s because I’m a bad person.”

“Something bad happened to the ex?”

Her mouth dropped open. Then she smiled. “I’m that predictable, aren’t I? But no, it wasn’t Dylan. I wouldn’t feel guilty if it was Dylan. It was Ashley. Which I do feel bad about, sort of. Almost. If I try really hard.” She shoved the bread in her mouth. “In time.”

“She lost the Prius at craps?”

“She and Dylan are getting divorced,” she said. “He’s cheating on her.”

“Who told you that?”

“I heard it from her sister during my pedicure.” She cleared her throat. “She was talking to a friend of hers, didn’t see me.”

“Wow.”

She tapped her glass against his. “I know. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. He did it
again
.”

“The wow was for the coincidence of overhearing. I’m not surprised he cheated again.”

“Oh, come on. If you’d seen him back then, you would be.”

“Why?”

“He was obsessed with her,” she said, rolling her eyes. “When he told me about what they’d been doing, he was weeping, begging me to understand. He said he’d never—whatever.”

“Never what?”

“Nothing.”

It was dangerous to push her now, inviting the ghost of her failed marriage to join them, but it haunted her, berating her to stay safe. Time to kill it for good. “He’d never what?”

“All right, listen. This is the thing. He’d said he’d never felt that way about me. And I believed him.” She popped an olive into her mouth and licked her lips. The sight of her tongue distracted him for a moment. “Because I was an idiot.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. You trusted him. That makes him a dick, not you.”

“Yes, yes, he’s a dick. But… this is different. Do you know what this means?”

“His next wife should get a prenup?”

“It means it wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t your fault.”

“Not anything I did, of course,” she said. “But even the things I couldn’t help. You saw Ashley. If he could do it to
her
, well then. What chance did
I
have? You see?”

If Dylan had been there at that moment, Sly would’ve stuffed his fist down his throat. He looked at Cleo, saw the remnants of shame in her blue eyes, the hurt pinching the corners of her mouth, and almost got up and left her there so that he could go find the asshole, wherever he was, and kill him.

“So that’s why I’m happy,” she continued. The calamari had arrived, and she picked up a long, crispy tentacle between her fingers and wiggled it at him. “I’m not repulsive after all.”

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and gently guided the fried cephalopod onto her plate. Then, with his other hand, he caught her by the back of the neck and kissed her.

Cleo’s first thought was that the music was all wrong. Soft instrumental jazz was a terrible soundtrack for pounding, burning lust. Fingers stroking her nape, Sly licked the seam of her lips and teased them apart. She sank against him, aware only of the feel of his tongue sliding into her mouth and how good he tasted. His strong hand behind her head held her in place, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Ever since Carmel, all she’d really wanted was to kiss him again. And do everything. Everything.

But he broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers, gazing into her eyes. His breath was warm and coming fast, mixing with her own. “I have really, really bad timing. I planned to do that a little later,” he said in a low voice. Tangled in her hair, his fingers brushed the skin of her neck, arousing a shiver.

Every cell in her body screamed for him. She leaned in for more, not caring where they were.

“See? Not repulsive.” With a grin, he pinched the tip of her nose.

His comment struck like ice water down her back. He was just proving a point. He was playing around, teasing, not really serious.

She shouldn’t do this. They were too mismatched. She wouldn’t call him a womanizer, but she knew he’d had plenty of one-night stands in his life, relationships that lasted three dates or a weekend. As his friend, she could hold her own. A good listener, fun at a party, quick to order a pizza or remember a birthday—she was confident in her friend skills.

But this… she didn’t know how to be this woman who necked in Italian restaurants while Sinatra looked on in chilly, sexy cool. Her speed was to date, fall in love, have sex, and get married. Except for the order of sex and marriage, she was embarrassingly traditional.

“Gee, thanks,” she said, pulling away. Hand shaking, she picked up her fork and impaled a tangle of calamari.

He leaned in again and nuzzled her cheek. “Cleo,” he said softly. His hot breath tickled her neck, standing the hairs all over her body at attention, a sensual electrocution. Molten pleasure pooled between her legs, ready for the next step.

The other diners at the restaurant, however, certainly weren’t ready for any more steps than they’d already taken. A girl, not quite a teenager, was watching them from the next table while her parents were feeding each other cannoli.

“Eat,” she said. “Please.” They’d enjoy their meal and the show and figure out the finer details of their friendship later. Or never. Never would be smarter.

Slowly, he moved away. “That’s probably for the best.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I’m going to need my strength.” He took a bite, eyeing her while he chewed.

“Earlier you said you were just having a crisis.”

“If I am, I’m really enjoying it.” He signaled the waiter and ordered a bottle of wine to go with their meal.

“I shouldn’t drink any more.”

“Whatever you want, Cleo.”

“You’re not listening to me.”

He propped an elbow on the table and gazed at her. His heavily lashed eyes were dark and inviting. If she leaned forward a few inches, she could kiss him again.

With the hint of a smile, he turned away and put a clam on her plate. “I’m listening to the music,” he said. “Just like you.”

“Fine. We’ll argue later.”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” he said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

They sat in silence until the rest of the dishes were served. She wiggled a foot away from him on the seat and picked at the meal. It was probably delicious. It could’ve been leftovers from a junior high cafeteria’s Dumpster and she wouldn’t have noticed. Focusing on moving the utensils around the plates and bowls used up all her limited executive functioning. Lift, cut, lift, chew, swallow. Mostly she just moved the food around the plate.

“Good drummer,” she said.

“They stopped playing five minutes ago.”

She looked up from her eggplant, now a brown hill on the side of her plate, and stared at the empty stage. “I knew that.”

“Ah,” he said. A moment later, she felt his hand stroke her thigh. Just a feather touch but enough to leave a trail of fire along her skin.

It took her a moment to suck enough air into her lungs to say, “That’s my leg.”

“Is it? I was so engrossed in the music, I didn’t notice.” With his free hand, he lifted his wineglass to his mouth. The other stayed where it was. Just resting there like a kitten.

Ten long, dizzying seconds passed before she said, “Leggo my Eggo, buddy.”

He laughed and, after a tantalizing squeeze, moved his hand away. The mirth continued for several minutes as he ate, drank, and shot her admiring glances. “I’m crazy about you, Cleo. Did you know that?”

“You’re crazier than you used to be. That’s for sure.”

He lifted his glass in a toast. “I’ll drink to that. No, I’ll drink to you.”

“Drink all you want, just leave my limbs alone.”

“I’ve always been creative within the parameters I’ve been given,” he said, dropping his gaze to her chest. “Define ‘limbs.’”

“Is this biological, do you think? Have you had your hormones tested? Some men go through a mini menopause. A
man
opause. I think you should see a doctor.”

He only laughed and kept eating. “Are you going to want dessert? Their cannoli is supposed to be good.”

Her stomach was already suffering enough. Nerves, liquor, olive oil, tomato sauce, garlic, cheese. Churning, unrequited, impractical lust. “No. I couldn’t.”

“Fine with me. Let’s pay up and get out of here.”

The service was quick and efficient, perhaps because of the demand for the table, and in several minutes he was holding out his hand to help her out of the booth. Reluctantly, although not reluctantly enough to refuse, she put her hand in his and felt his warm fingers slip around hers and tighten. He didn’t release her as they walked to the front. She hadn’t thought he would. She’d also known she wouldn’t insist.