CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
A cab whisks me up Tenth Avenue to 750 Milliliters in Hell’s Kitchen. The wine bar’s street-facing wall is rolled up like a garage door and a half-dozen tables line the sidewalk. Behind the long, slender bar more than a hundred bottles of wine are fitted in an electronic pouring system to give patrons freedom to sample everything.
Anthony’s behind me in a heartbeat, his hands circling my waist before I have a chance to speak to the hostess. I melt against his chest and offer a heartfelt smile of gratitude—I don’t want to sit alone for one more minute tonight.
The sultry night feels decadent and alive, and Anthony suggests I try a flight of sparkling wines. We spread baked brie on pepper crackers and fresh pear slices, eat candied pecans and morsels of chocolate, and laugh as we catch up on the last two weeks.
Is that all? It seems like our last date was years ago, considering everything that has happened. I don’t mention Gavin.
I have another glass of champagne and it’s the one I know I’m going to regret in the morning, sending me on an ugly slide from seriously buzzed to seriously drunk.
It’s not pretty. If I were more sober, I’d be apologizing to Anthony for acting like an ass.
But I’m not apologizing—I’m being a goddamn flirt, my hands cruising dangerously up his Thighs of Steel and teasing him to distraction. He actually grabs my wrists to restrain me from touching him, which makes me even hornier.
I feel my hair slipping out of its up-do and I don’t care. I shake it out and lean into Anthony’s shoulder, my tongue tracing the cords on his neck.
“We’d better get you home,” Anthony says finally, helping me to my unsteady feet and wrapping his arm around my waist to keep me from stumbling as we walk. “Where are you living now?”
“Oh, I’m between places,” I say, waving my hand to dismiss the details. “I thought we’d go to yours.”
Anthony’s eyebrows peak but I slip my hand in his back pocket and squeeze, encouraging him to hurry us home faster. He moves us along, my fuck-me shoes barely touching the sidewalk on our way to his brownstone.
I collapse in a lump on his couch and ask if he has any wine. Or whiskey. Or tequila. I’m on a roll.
“Have some of this first.” He pushes a big glass of water at me.
“Wine.” I pout.
He drops his voice an octave and it’s threatening and thrillingly dangerous. “Drink. This. First.”
I obey.
I hear Anthony in the bathroom brushing his teeth and he comes out in nothing but boxers. I stick out my lower lip. “No fair! I wanted another strip-tease.”
“Maybe another time, darlin’.” He pulls me to my feet and gives me a soft kiss on the forehead. “Now we’ve got to get you undressed and in bed.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” I holler, and Anthony shushes me, pointing to the ceiling to indicate neighbors. I drop my voice to a stage-whisper: “Finally, someone who’s ready to jump into bed and have some fun.”
Anthony looks pained and he turns my shoulders away from him, indicating I should climb up the ladder. He gives my butt a push and I wiggle it back at him, enjoying his hands on my ass.
“Get up there, Beryl.” He follows me closely up the ladder as I fail to connect with a couple of steps. But I make it, and I let Anthony find the zipper of my dress and inch it down, revealing a burgundy strapless bra and matching panties—more of Lulu’s things.
My Eugene underpants were Jockey For Her. Lulu’s lacy unmentionables make me feel like the New York-Beryl I want to be tonight and forever.
Anthony’s hands trace my ribcage gently and he leads me to bed, laying my head on a pillow and pulling the covers up to my chin. He sits on the edge of the bed by my hip.
What the hell? This is the lamest seduction scenario I’ve ever experienced.
Not that I get seduced much. But I watch chick flicks. That counts.
I reach out to feel the hard planes of his tanned chest and pull him closer. Anthony’s eyes tighten, then he yields to my pull and gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“Right now, you should be tearing off my panties with your teeth,” I slur, trying to form a stern expression. “You should be ravishing me.”
“Aw, Beryl, you’re not playing fair,” Anthony’s thumb traces my lip and I move to bite it. I miss. “I’ve got a million reasons to do what you want—you’re sassy and sexy and sweet.”
I muster my sauciest expression and move my hands to the obvious bulge in Anthony’s boxers, but he grabs my wrist, halting my progress. Again.
“As much as I’d love to ravish you, I think there’s something else you’d better do first.”
I stick out my lower lip and pout. “What?”
“Tell you what, you just snuggle in here and I’ll be back in a few minutes and show you, OK?”
I yawn but promise I’ll wait.
***
My mouth is coated in cobwebs, my throat is sprinkled with sand and my head is full of concrete.
I turn on my side and run into a hot wall of muscle beneath a smooth blue duvet.
Anthony.
Yesterday thunders into my brain: Gavin comes home. Gavin pushes me away. Gavin stands me up. Anthony takes me home. And then?
And … I’m not sure.
I know I got into this bed on purpose.
I know I saw Anthony stripped down to his boxers, his hard length pressed against me as he unzipped my red dress.
OMG. WTF? WTFFFFFF!
I need to trade Lulu’s scarlet dress for a scarlet letter.
I close my eyes against the light creeping into Anthony’s apartment and imagine the Walk of Shame branded on someone who is sleeping around while living at another guy’s place.
I roll my tongue around in my mouth, trying to find some lubrication. I reach down my body and feel my panties still on, which is a good sign, and I don’t feel that intimate ache of the morning after.
Maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought.
Maybe I didn’t just throw myself at Anthony like a brazen hussy. Maybe I didn’t just cheat on my non-boyfriend with another guy who is also not my boyfriend.
Shit. When I put it that way, I do sound like a brazen hussy.
“Morning, sunshine,” Anthony rolls over to face me. His liquid chocolate eyes are sparkling with mischief and I’m suddenly very, very aware of how naked I am. I clutch the sheet to my chest. “Aw, don’t worry about that,” he drawls. “I won’t peek at anything I haven’t already seen.”
He chuckles and my look of horror only makes him laugh louder.
“What did you … uh, did we … what did you do to me last night?” I stammer.
His face is suddenly serious. “I’m an honorable guy. And I promise I didn’t do anything other than get you out of your dress and into my bed so you could sleep off the ridiculous amount of drink you got yourself into last night.”
My mouth falls open with no words and no smart-mouthed retort.
“How’s your head?” He hands me another tall glass of water and I down it.
“Horrible. Sangria’s a saucy bitch. Champagne’s an evil temptress. They had me in a three-way and I might be scarred for life.”
Anthony laughs again—a deep, throaty noise that makes my brain pound in pain. “Then I’m not going to make you feel any worse. It’s just after six and I have to get to work. When do you have to go in?”
Dan’s not expecting me until nine or ten since I’ll be visiting the Steens’ to feed and walk Aleah before I go to the office, but I sense Anthony’s urgency to get the day moving.
“Hey. I’m sorry. Really, really sorry for being a bad date last night,” I start, and Anthony nods slightly, his concentration on buttoning his jeans and pulling on a safety-orange T-shirt.
He tosses my dress to me and I continue. “I wish I could give you a better explanation, but I’m so scrambled up in my brain I don’t think I can explain it to myself. I like you. I think you’re sexy and chivalrous and such a good catch.”
Anthony sits on the bed and pulls on thick socks. “But someone else has already caught you.”
I nod, standing unsteadily as I zip the final inches on my dress. “He’s caught my heart but I haven’t caught him—not even close. He stood me up last night.”
“Well, I won’t pretend that doesn’t sting a bit, but I’m glad you told me the truth, Beryl.”
“Thanks for being a perfect gentleman.”
“Tell your friends, OK?” Anthony’s smile is warm and sad. I can feel his longing but I know it’s no longer aimed at me.
“I will. You’re a good one.”