Derek

I hear the TV before I unlock the door, and by the time I step inside, I find Serena laid up on the couch, mindlessly flipping stations and eyes glued to the screen like a transfixed zombie.

“Hey,” I say.

She shakes her head, blinking her eyes and refocusing them on me.

“You been watching TV ever since I left?” I ask.

She stands up, rising on her toes and stretching. At some point, she changed into something more comfortable—fancy, lace-trimmed pajamas, it appears—and the little cotton top she wears lifts as she stretches, showing off a patch of soft belly above her waistband.

“Shameful, I know.” She clicks the TV off. “It was either that or go snooping through your off-limits bedroom.”

“I hope you’re joking.” I drop my bag on the kitchen island and yank the door to the fridge, fishing out a Heineken.

Seriously. She wouldn’t like what she finds in there. I’ve got a whole drawer full of condoms in my bathroom, and an assortment of handcuffs and silk ties and blindfolds in my nightstand. I’m not saying I’m a manwhore, but I am a red-blooded, American man with working plumbing, and I go through spells from time to time. And during those spells, nothing seems to remedy me better than some good, old-fashioned, no-strings fucking.

“Of course I am. What kind of guest would I be if I invaded your privacy like that?” She steps toward the island.

“You a beer drinker?” I ask.

She eyes the green bottle in my hand, and I twist the cap off until it hisses.

“Not really.”

I shove it toward her. “You are tonight.”

She brings it to her nose, taking a sniff, then tasting it. Her face puckers. It’s bitter to her, but she’ll get used to it.

I grab myself another and take a seat in a barstool.

“So is this what you do after work?” She takes the seat beside me.

“Sometimes . . .”

“What do you do when you’re not drinking alone?”

“I see friends. Family.” I shoulder-check her. “Just because I work, doesn’t mean I don’t have a life.”

“They say drinking alone is the sign of a problem.”

“I say they’re full of shit.” I take a swig of beer. “Nothing better than a cold beer after a long day.”

“It is stressful?” she asks. “Being a lawyer?”

I take another drink and shrug. “Sometimes.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I do?”

I angle myself toward her, head tilted and feeling guilty for assuming she was a full-time Park Avenue princess.

“And what is it you do, Serena?” I ask.

“I’m the CEO and founder of a not-for-profit organization that raises awareness for boat safety,” I say. “Things have been on hold the last couple of months, but before that, we were quite active. It’s more work than people think, and most of the time, people would laugh when I told them I had a job. It’s just as much of a job as any other job anyone else has. I was putting in forty, sometimes fifty hours a week.”

“You miss it?”

She nods. “I miss helping people. Spreading awareness. My mother died in a boating accident.”

“I’m sorry.”

She takes a long sip and doesn’t flinch or pucker this time. “It was a really long time ago.”

“You want that tour?” I ask. “Want to get out of the apartment? I couldn’t stay cooped up in here all day.”

“Sure,” she says.

I pour the rest of my drink in the sink. “There’s a restaurant down the street. Let’s eat first, and then I’ll show you what you’ve been missing your whole life.”

I offer her a wink, and she pads away softly, heading down the hall toward her room to get ready, and I’m left standing here like some schmuck, wondering what the fuck this smile is doing on my face and why the hell, after dedicating my love life to no one but myself for the last two years, am I standing here with a stomach full of goddamned butterflies over some woman I hardly know.

I stuff it all down and remind myself to be professional. To not think about how fuckable those heart-shaped lips are. To not focus on how soft her skin would be pressed against mine. The way it would feel to run my fingers through those glossy scarlet locks.

This. Is. Not. A. Date.

And in honor of this not being a date, I change out of my suit and into a pair of ripped jeans and a faded Aerosmith t-shirt I bought in a thrift shop five years ago.

“Ready?” Minutes later, Serena treks down the hall in heels, her legs wrapped in leather and a sheer ivory blouse hanging off her shoulders. Her hair is twisted into a loose braid down one shoulder, and her lips are slicked in red.

It hadn’t been more than five minutes, and now she’s dressed like we’re going on a date.

“Yeah. Okay.” I try not to trip over my words, try not to stare too long, and try my best to keep my cock from expanding. But I think it may be too late. “Let’s go.”

* * *

She smells like a department store. In a good way. Like perfume and new clothes and fancy candles.

Like new everything.

And that’s exactly what she is.

On any given day, Rixton Falls smells like water. Surrounded by waterfalls, fishing streams, and an inlet sourced by the Atlantic, we’re at the mercy of the direction of the wind. Sometimes, the breeze is fresh and reminds me of vacation. Of fishing with my grandfather. Of his musty, nostalgic lake house. Other times, the breeze is rank, carrying the sickening scent of dead, dried fish and human waste from the water treatment plant north of town.

But tonight, Rixton Falls smells like a million bucks.

But it could also be because I’m half a step behind her. Those legs of hers take elongated strides, and although we have all the time in the world, she moves like she’s in a hurry to get somewhere.

“Hey, slow down.” I place my hand on her shoulder like a makeshift brake, pulling her back toward me.

“Sorry.” She turns back to me, brushing a wisp of hair away from her face. “In the city, I walk fast. I guess I forgot where I was for a second.”

“Yeah. Happens all the time. People are constantly confusing Rixton Falls and Manhattan.”

Serena’s lips spread wide and she gently punches my arm.

“This is us.” I point to a green awning above a quaint café four windows wide. It’s not swanky, and it’s not the kind of place I’d take a date or someone I’m trying to impress, but that’s the point. It’s neutral.

I hold the door and follow her in. The hostess seats us next to a front window with a sweeping view of the Vine street passersby. Serena asks if I’d mind if she drinks wine tonight, and I offer to split the bottle with her. It’d be rude to let her drink alone.

A TV over the bar area flashes to some emergency presidential address, and the café grows quiet. While President Montgomery rambles on about a devastating earthquake in Indonesia taking six-figures worth of lives, my heart sinks. We’re dispatching troops, he tells us. They’re calling on relief workers, volunteers, supplies. Anything we can give, they’ll take over there.

Serena places her fork on the side of her plate and folds her hands in front of her mouth. “You think we could free up some money from my trust? I’d like to donate something.”

“Absolutely. We’ll figure something out. I’d like to donate too.”

“So tragic.” She shakes her head, staring at her half-eaten food like she doesn’t have the heart to finish it now. “And we’re just sitting here, eating this lovely meal and fretting about our first world problems.”

“We’ll do what we can from here,” I assure her.

Serena watches the TV screen once more, glued to every word the president speaks.

“You were engaged to his son, Keir, isn’t that right?” I ask.

Her eyes snap to mine. “Really? You’re going to bring him up? Now?”

I reach for my wine and pull in a sip to buy time. “I guess I felt comfortable enough to ask you about him. My apologies.”

She refuses to look at me as she crosses and uncrosses her legs, and she carelessly flips through a drink menu as I finish my dinner. When our server finally brings our bill, I slip some cash inside. She’s said fewer than two words to me since I mentioned Keir.

“Ready?” I ask.

Serena gathers her purse and stands, pushing her chair in. Her full lips are puckered, her brows meeting. At this point, I’m unsure if she’s still mad at me or if she’s thinking about her ex. Regardless, I never should’ve said anything, and this serves as a reminder as to why I don’t fucking date.

I don’t get women.

I can only appreciate them. There’s nothing I love more than to run my hands along their curves, devour the hot sweetness between their thighs, and revel in the dig of their nails against the flesh of my back.

But that’s where it ends.

Women bring drama. And complications. And most of the time, they’re more trouble than they’re worth.

And I can say that because I grew up with three sisters. Their love lives were filled with more drama and angst than a Lifetime movie. I’m expecting the same for Haven’s teenage years, given that she’s half-Rosewood and all girl. Thank God, I’ve got plenty of time before those days are here.

We exit out the front. The moment fresh air hits our faces, Serena reaches for my arm and pulls me aside.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you in there.” Her eyes rest on my lips, as if looking into my eyes is to be avoided at all costs. She tucks her chin against her chest, folding her arms. “I don’t want to talk about Keir. I don’t like thinking about him. I don’t need any casual reminders, okay?”

“Serena, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have brought him up. It was insensitive.” I rub my hand along her arm, despite the fact that I’m not normally the comforting type. It kind of just . . . happens. She lifts her gaze to mine. “But please, if you ever have an issue with me, don’t wall off. I can’t fucking handle the radio silence bullshit. My ex-wife . . .”

I don’t finish my sentence. I don’t need to. I shouldn’t have said anything, and it’s really none of her business.

“Just . . . don’t do that again.” I let my arm fall to my side, and she nods. “As your attorney, there can be no bullshit between us. You need to be honest and open with me, and I’ll do the same. Let’s keep this professional. Save the drama for the courtroom.”

“Absolutely.” The wind whips her hair across her face, framing her sparkling blues for a fraction of a second.

“Is this night a bust or do you still want your official tour?” We walk back toward my apartment.

“A tour would still be nice.”

I slip my hands into my pocket and pull out my key fob. The walk to the parking garage is at least fifteen minutes, and I’m more than fine to drive.

“All right. Let’s do this.” We forge ahead, and my phone buzzes from my pocket. A quick check, and I find myself the lucky recipient of yet another topless selfie from Amanda, only this time she’s sitting spread eagle on her bathroom counter, her fingers three knuckles deep inside a slick pussy. Lovely. I shoot back a quick text, reminding her that sending naked photos via text messaging is a misdemeanor in most states. A felony in some.

She responds with a quick, “Fuck you.”

And that should take care of that.

Putting my phone away, I slide my hands in my pockets and watch the way Serena moves. She glides. Floats. Glancing at the awnings and street signs, the night sky rains warm light on her red locks.

When I’m least expecting it, she whips around, stopping and waiting for me to catch up.

“Am I walking too fast again?” she asks.

I place my hand on the small of her back, and we press ahead. “No, Serena. You’re perfect.”