Ethan

Is this a coincidence or a setup?

I doubt it could be a setup, considering Umberto is hosting the dinner. If it’s a coincidence, have I screwed up royally by showing up here with Nicolina? It doesn’t look good that I’m here, last minute, with another woman. It sure as fuck doesn’t look good that she’s here on a date with some asshole that’s not me either.

Trying to control a deep exhale, I steady myself after seeing Singer—surprise in her eyes she tries to hide, black dress that hugs her curves in all the most enticing ways, lips the color of ripe strawberries.

Fuck.

Some things need to be clarified before we both jump to the wrong conclusion. I’ll try to give her the benefit of doubt, but I’m not sure she’ll give me the same. I may be a plus-one tonight, but Singer needs to know I only have eyes for her.

If only I could tell her why I’ve not kissed her with passion, kissed her deeply until we roll into bed, kissing even more. Fuck. I’m sitting here with Nicolina like I can’t go one night alone. This looks really fucking bad.

Lifting my eyes to the woman seated across from me, her eyebrow rises and a grin tickles across her lips as she attempts neutrality. She’s not upset with me?

She’s amused?

Who is this goddess?

Singer Davis.

I let one side of my mouth ride up and lower my voice. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” she replies in a whisper just for my ears alone.

The sexy siren.

The combination of that black dress and those damn tempting red lips, teases my cock, making my pants feel tighter. Despite the vixen image she’s exuding, I want to see that demure smile that drives me wild. I’d do anything to watch it grow just for me. It’s become my night’s new goal.

My attention shifts to her left when a man breaks our connection. “Mr. Everest, it’s good to finally meet you. I’ve been meaning to contact you. I’m Chip Newsom of Newsom Manhattan Financial.”

“About?”

“Handling your finances and looking into your assets and holdings.”

I glance to Singer who is attentive to the conversation. All business. I hate it. I want to hear her laugh over baseball metaphors. I want to see her look at me like she did after I made that guy apologize for running into her, that delicious mix of seeing the me I used to be and the predator looking upon its prey. It’s heady and levels me every time because I can’t act on my feelings for her.

Chip goes on, “I’ve called your office, but unfortunately, you were traveling at the time. Maybe we can schedule something now?”

My assistant had the portfolio on Chip Newsom delivered right before the drive over—Singer’s boss, old money from Dick Newsom, his father, and Richard Newsom, his grandfather. Not impressive on paper and a class-A jackass on the social scene. I glance at Singer, who is still focused on him and a growl rumbles through my chest. I can see now that this is a work dinner, so I shouldn’t feel put out. But yet . . .

I want her time.

I want her eyes on me.

I want her smile, and I don’t want her to learn about who I really am from this guy. I just want to be Ethan to her Singer. “Give Rhett Matthews a call. He’s the CFO.”

Chip puts his elbows on the table while the first course is being set down. “Great. Does next week work for you and Mr. Matthews?”

I try to keep from sounding curt, but I’m not sure if I succeed when I say, “As I said, contact Rhett. He takes the initial meetings on behalf of the company.”

Singer’s slender fingers reach over and touch his forearm, and a breath fills my chest. Fuck. I hate feeling jealous, and that’s all I feel when she touches him. She should be touching me. She whispers to him, “You have the name of the CFO. Let Mr. Everest enjoy his meal.”

Chip nods and removes his arms from the table as his soup is served. As hungry as I was, my jealousy is spiking to another level. Is she on a date with her boss? I told her to date others . . . Fuck. I hate feeling confused.

It’s hard to play it cool. It’s even harder to not lunge across this table to pummel him. My ego is dented and my pride is wounded. I should have never fucking told her to see others. I thought she should count me out until my case is settled, not rely on me for more than a few friend hangouts. But this won’t do.

She’s mine.

Motherfucker.

Chip is engaged in a conversation to his left, going through his cheap spiel again, but this time, she lets him. An opportunity arises. He becomes secondary to my main concern, which is Singer. The beautiful woman across the table won’t look at me, and I’m struggling to read her mood. She seems discontent.

“Pasta e Fagioli is one of my favorite soups,” I say, making small talk, saying anything to bring her attention back to me.

She bursts into sweet laughter, seeing right through me, until Nicolina, who is sitting next to me, comments, “Mine, too.” Singer’s laughter comes to an abrupt halt.

Nicolina is stunning and from a family of well-known blue bloods, but she has one dirty little secret—a penchant for a blue-collar construction worker in Brooklyn who likes to get as dirty in the bedroom as he does at work. She told me about him one night when she was wasted on dirty martinis. The drink apparently reminded her of him. Although she keeps him under wraps from the public, she’s always very open with me.

Her brother, who has a closet of his own secrets, bailed on her and hopped a flight to Mexico with his new boyfriend. She told me he was interested in our host, but Umberto isn’t open to new relationships at this time. Since she hates breaking her commitments, she called me. We’re only friends, the spark never there for me. We enjoy each other’s company, so here we are.

How Singer and Chump play into this night, I have no idea, but I plan to find out. Nicolina introduces herself to Singer. “We were not introduced. I’m Nicolina Luchesa.”

“Hello.” She sounds meek, and it’s all wrong on her. Come on, Singer. Show her the woman full of moxie and fun. Then she adds, “I’m Singer Davis.”

“What a unique name.” Nicolina sets her sights on Singer, narrowing her eyes.

“It was my mother’s maiden name.”

“Oh.” Nicolina voices her disappointment with a sigh.

I’m quick to say, “It’s unique like Singer herself.”

“You know each other?” Nicolina’s gaze bounces between Singer and me.

Singer’s are set on me, a slow blush blooming. I add, “We’ve met before. She has a quick wit and a creative sense of style.”

Nicolina’s smile is tight. “You seem to know each other quite well to know such details.”

She doesn’t ask the question, but it’s inferred. My legal team has “approved” Nicolina as someone to be seen with. She’s a socialite and someone Page Six loves to write about, but she’s scandal free and apparently makes me look good.

I would think by that definition, Singer would make me look like a saint. But it’s not about how she’ll make me look, but how I’ll make her look. Fuck. I should have kissed her last year when I had the chance.

Singer shifts in her seat, readjusting her napkin in her lap. I slide my feet forward until they bump into the tips of her shoes. Nicolina is pulled into a conversation on the other side of her, so I speak only to Singer, “You cancelled on me.”

Taken aback, she whispers, “I had to. I was given no choice.”

“You had a choice. You chose him.”

“No, it’s my job.”

“What is?”

“Can we talk about this later? Please?”

Strands of her hair have come loose, framing her face and distracting me. She’s even more stunning, but she quickly tries to smooth them back in place.

Without thinking, I say, “I like your hair down.”

Her hands freeze in place as her lips part. Her hair is unpredictably wild and free, so much like the girl I’ve discovered her to be. But tonight she’s reserved, and her bright greens are shadowed in the candlelight. I like her brave and bold, carefree and smiling.

Nicolina whispers, “You haven’t taken your eyes off her since we arrived.”

“I can’t.” This time I speak so Singer can hear me, “The first time I met Singer she was wearing a navy-blue dress that had red dots all over it.”

“That must have been quite a sight,” Nicolina states distastefully.

“She was. Quite the sight,” I add, staring into Singer’s eyes. “Every guy in that apartment had their eyes on her.”

“Maybe I should wear more polka dots,” Nicolina teases, and then sips her red wine.

“It wasn’t the dress.”

Nicolina sets her glass down, the sound of crystal colliding catches everyone’s attention. “I thought we were talking about fashion.”

Singer’s staunch disposition softens and her feet lift. I slide mine forward until her shoes are resting on mine. A small smile appears on her lips and damn, I wish I could taste those instead of the second course placed before me.

“Who was the designer of this special eye-catching dress?” Sarcasm drips from Nicolina’s lips, which is unlike her normal tone.

Singer’s smile fades and her bloom begins to falter. “Nicolina,” I warn.

“It’s a simple question. The way you speak of this dress intrigues me. I’d like to see the full collection.”

I glance to Singer, who has just finished her drink and is now filling her mouth with lettuce, I’m assuming to keep from saying what she really thinks of Nicolina. To save her the trouble, I respond, “It was Singer—”

“She made the dress?”

“No, all eyes were on Singer. The dress didn’t matter.”

A fork clatters and Singer stands. “Please excuse me.”

I stand automatically. When Singer starts to leave, Nicolina touches my hand, wrapping it around mine. “You can sit down, Ethan.”

“Please excuse me.” I walk out the door, trailing Singer a good fifteen feet or so. I catch up to her before she has a chance to disappear into the bathroom. “Hey.”

She stops and looks back but keeps walking. “Hey.”

Maneuvering in front, I put my arm up to halt her. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I wasn’t expecting you either, but here we are.” Her tone is off, her eyes everywhere but on me.

“I’m not your enemy, Singer.”

She leans against the wall, her hands twisting together. “Then what are you? Because I really have no idea.”

“I’m just a guy.” I check to make sure no one is coming down the hall and lean forward, resting my hand above her shoulder. I move a foot between her feet and press my body to hers. “You’re just a girl. Togethe—”

“What are you doing, Ethan?” Her breath catches.

“I meant what I said back there.”

“Which part exactly? I’m starting to feel like I’m a pawn in a game you’re playing. A challenge you took a year ago that you’re ready to end and claim victory.”

“The part about not being able to take my eyes off you then or now.” I may not be able to be completely open about everything, but I need her to know the truth about how I feel. “You’re not a game. Not to me.” My breathing picks up, matching hers. Like my heart, my chest feels open, my emotions wanting to pour out.

She makes me feel too much—vulnerable, bare, but important. I should push her away, but I can’t. I press my middle to her, exposing my physical attraction to her. Her dress is thin, and my body naturally reacts to the feel of her anger, her heat against mine.

I move my lips closer as one of her fingers hooks around a belt loop, holding me to her. She asks, “Are you drunk?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you’re looking at me like you are.”

“I want to kiss you, Singer Davis.”

She sucks in a breath and says, “Then kiss me, Ethan—”

“Everest?”

Fuck. When will I get to kiss those lips that linger in my mind late at night? Pushing off the wall, I stand and straighten my suit jacket while Singer’s hand falls to her side. “Chip.”

He comes toward us. “Singer, everything okay?”

“Fine,” she replies.

“The main course is served. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

She tidies some of her hair that’s fallen again, this time tucking it behind her ear. “I’m fine, Chip. I’ll be right there.”

“You coming, Everest?”

This guy’s overprotectiveness makes me wonder what the fuck their relationship really is. I catch Singer’s eyes on me, concern shading them darker in the dim light. I want to smooth away the worry from her forehead and kiss the lips that have twisted nervously. But that will only make it worse, so I reply, “Sure. I’m coming.”

Like an asshole, he stands there with his arms crossed like he’s won the war while waiting for me. What’s he’s so worried about?

I walk past him and back to the dining room. As soon as I sit down, Nicolina says, “She’s not your typical type, Ethan.”

“That’s why I like her.”

The bite she’s about to take hovers in mid-air. “Ethan?”

“What?”

“You just said you like her.”

“And?” It doesn’t dawn on me at first, the response coming so easily, but when I look over, I see it. Hurt. Fuck, I hurt Nicolina.

“You like her,” she repeats, the words sinking in as a revelation seems to cross her face. She lowers her gaze to the table. She drops her napkin to her seat and grabs her purse. Clearly upset, she hurries to the door.

I’ve managed to upset two women in the span of ten minutes, and I don’t know how. When I look down the table, Umberto is watching me. Shit. I dash through the restaurant, catching up to Nicolina before she reaches the sidewalk. “Nicolina, wait.”

The door opens, and she rushes out with me fast on her tail. Outside, I reach for her just as she takes another step, slipping through my fingers. “Don’t, Ethan.”

“Please talk to me.”

“You know why I’m upset,” she says. I do, but I’ve pretended I didn’t for a long time. Stepping closer to me, she looks at the valet before turning to me. “I know I shouldn’t be. You’ve always made your feelings for me clear, but deep down I always thought maybe we might find a way to each other.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be. You did nothing wrong.” When she looks down she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before looking back up at me. “She seems very lovely. If not me, she’s exactly the kind of woman I want you to be with.” Reaching up, she touches my cheek. “I’m hurt now, but I’m happy for you, too.”

I step forward and we embrace. “You’ve been a good friend to me.”

“I still am. I think I just need to get some rest. I’m tired from the long week.”

“Brooklyn’s not that far.”

The reflection from the streetlamp sparkles in her eyes. “No, maybe I’ll detour.”

“Maybe you should consider doing more than detouring. Maybe stay awhile.”

Shaking her head, she replies, “He’d like that. He always asks me to stay the night.”

“Why don’t you?”

“What would my family say? What would the papers write?”

“That you followed your heart.”

“Are you going to follow yours?”

I can’t see Singer while standing outside the restaurant, but she’s starting to feel like a part of me. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

“So you’ll hurt yourself instead?”

“Yes.”

“I was wrong before.”

“About?”

“You don’t like her.”

“I do. Very much.”

A soft smile slides across her face. “No, Ethan. You don’t like her. You’re in love with her.”

My mouth falls open and my eyelids tighten as I stare at her. “I don’t love her.” The words feel wrong as soon as I say them.

Nicolina’s grin expands. “Okay. You don’t love her.” She signals for the valet to call the next cab. “But remember, while you’re busy not loving her, someone else will. Then you’ll be wishing you had listened to your heart instead of your advisors, who have your business in mind and not your life.”

The valet opens the door to the cab, and she starts to go. She stops and looks back. “I think I’ll head to Brooklyn and surprise him. What are you going to do?”

“The only thing that feels right.”

“Good for you.” She gets into the cab and rolls down the window. “Take care, Ethan.”

“You too.”

When I return to the dining room, dessert has been served. Singer’s dish remains untouched, and she’s restless. Chip has given her his full attention, and though she doesn’t seem to be listening to him, she refuses to look my way.

As soon as I sit down, I whisper under my breath, “Look at me.” I don’t care if Chip or anyone else hears me anymore. I only care about her. When she looks, I add, “She’s a friend. Who is he to you?”

“My boss.”

“Is that all?”

She snaps, “You’re out of line, Mr. Everest.”

“Am I?” I challenge.

“Yes, you are. You have made yourself more than clear on several occasions that not only can you not practice with me, but how you feel about me.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Ms. Davis. I may have said we can’t practice together, but I’ve never shared my feelings. Though I should have, from the beginning.”

My breath comes short as I hold the weight of everyone’s eyes on me. But as I stare into the only eyes I care to see, I realize what I’ve done. Standing, I back away from the table. My confession leaves Singer staring at me. “If you’ll excuse me.”

I leave the room and in seconds reach the valet. Where the fuck is Aaron? Shit. He’s driving Singer. I raise my arm just as I hear, “Ethan?” The melody of my name draws me to look back. When I do, she says, “Tell me how you feel.”

I struggle. Voicing my feelings for her is selfish in many ways, but risks her life in others. However, keeping my emotions to myself will surely send her away.

She pleads, “Please.”

The words don’t come. Instead, I’m moving. My hands wrap around her waist, and I spin her to the side. Just when her mouth opens to speak, I cut off her words and replace them with a kiss.

Delectable, plush caresses, pillow talk at night, sex in the morning. Fuck. I’m hard. I want her. I want her so fucking much, so when the kiss crosses that imaginary line where we should stop, I keep kissing her because she tastes too good to stop.

But we have to. Our lips part, and I say, “I may not be able to do everything I want with you, but I can’t resist your lips any longer.”

“I don’t want you to resist. I want you to want me.”

“I do, Singer. From the moment we met, I’ve wanted you.”

“Then why won’t you take what you want?”

I turn my back. I can’t think clearly looking into her green, hopeful eyes.

“I’m tired, Ethan. I just want to go home, get out of this dress and these shoes, and take a bath.”

Trust me, sweetheart. That’s all I want, too. I’m determined to help keep her faith. I promised I’d keep her hopes alive. “Let me make tonight up to you. Come to my place. I have an amazing tub that never gets used. I’ll explain everything if you’ll just give me a chance. In private.”

With wide eyes, she tilts her head, her gaze piercing mine. “You want me to use your tub?”

“I want you to use my apartment. It’s yours for the night. You can be my guest.”

Despite that her forehead is crinkled incredulously, she asks, “What about sleep? Where will I sleep?”

Present tense. That means she’s halfway there. “I have guest rooms.”

“Rooms?”

“Yes, Singer. Rooms. Spare rooms. Several.” Not to brag or anything . . .

“You live in a fancy apartment . . . I now have a driver on call . . . Chip wants your business.” The pieces connect as she stares at me. Discovering I’m rich isn’t the secret I’m trying to keep from her. It’s the other stuff that I want to hide.

“Yes,” I reply quieter. “Can we please talk in private, at my apartment?”

The question seems to break the ice. “And I can bathe?”

“Yes, absolutely. You can bathe above the city lights.”

There’s the smile I’ve wanted to see all night. Goal achieved. A shiver zips up her spine, and she rubs her arms. “It’s getting chilly. How far do you live from here?”

“Ten minutes. Max.”

“Your place is nice, isn’t it?”

“The apartment is amazing.”

“I meant the tub,” she says, smiling.

“The tub is incredible, and you’ll be the first to use it.” I see the fight leave her shoulders. She wants to give in, and damn do I want her to. Stepping closer, I say, “Please.”

“Well, tomorrow is Saturday, so it’s not like I have to wake up early. I love a great tub. And you did say you’d tell me all your secrets. That’s very tempting. Does that still hold true?”

“Yes.” Taking her wrist, I pull her gently toward me. “Say yes to me, Singer.” I have never wanted to hear one word more than I do now. I’ve never craved someone’s answer as much as I desire hers now. If only she could see how much she means to me. I’m wearing my heart on my sleeve, my soul exposed.

Looking into her eyes, I silently plead, “You’ve fucking reduced me to this.” Yet surprisingly, I don’t feel vulnerable. I feel empowered around her. I feel like me again for the first time in a long time, because she accepts me as I am. Please say yes, Singer.

With her gorgeous eyes ablaze, she answers my prayers. “Yes.”