18
LARA
Week 3: Friday Night, Later
“Lara! Damn it, would you hold up a sec?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ian drop a wad of cash on the table and say something to Taya, but I’m already heading toward the exit.
I luck out. There’s a huge group entering the VIP section. I slip out just before the mob moves in, but a dozen or so tipsy patrons block Ian.
You want to know what I was doing back there?
Great question.
I want to know what I was doing. I’ve been wondering for the past twenty minutes.
Here’s what I do know . . . when I looked across the VIP lounge just in time to watch Ian spill a drink all over himself, I felt alive.
For the first time in a long time.
I don’t know what it was exactly. Perhaps just sheer delight that someone so good-looking isn’t perfect after all.
Or maybe it was the fact that after hours spent in front of a computer screen staring at names and numbers, I needed the visceral reminder that I’m dealing with real people in the real world.
I’d told myself that I’d just take a second to apologize for my unprofessional behavior that afternoon in his office, and then I went and topped that with a whole other layer of unprofessionalism.
If my boss found out . . . if anyone found out . . .
Bye-bye, FBI.
No recommendation letter from Steve, and I’d have to wait who knows how long for another opportunity like this one.
Not that I’m wishing for Ian to be guilty. Quite the opposite. It’s just . . .
Well, I’m all jumbled, in case you couldn’t tell.
I’m nearly to the door when fingers wrap around my arm, pulling me back around. I lose my balance a little bit and bump awkwardly into Ian’s chest.
He keeps me from stumbling, but the contact only makes me feel more unsteady.
“You all right?” he asks.
Damn him. He seems genuinely concerned, and that makes it so much harder to walk away.
I mean, it’s not like I want to have a fling with the guy. I’m not the kind of girl who hooks up with guys like Ian.
But . . . I like him. I like him a lot.
He makes me laugh, and he challenges me, and . . .
“I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll help you get a cab.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “I can’t leave Gabby.” I pull out my phone and text her.
“I’ll walk you back to her table,” he says as I type. “Or back to mine. Or we can talk here.”
I push at his chest in exasperation. “Don’t you get it? I’m SEC. You’re suspected of insider trading. We can’t do this.”
His other hand comes up, catches my other elbow. “You don’t have to cushion the blow, Lara. If you don’t want to be seen with me because of the stain, you can just tell me. I can take it.”
His voice is light and teasing, and a laugh bubbles out before I can stop it, my head dropping forward in defeat. Only he’s right there, so my forehead rests on his chest. I mean to pull back, but his hand moves from my arm, slipping under my hair to cup the back of my neck. He squeezes lightly, as though wanting to take away some of my tension. And maybe he can, because I let myself stay still, just for a moment, and I know it’s crazy, but when I pull away, I feel a little bit steadier.
“Thanks.” My throat is dry, and I clear it, try again. “Thank you.”
His hands fall away. “You’re welcome.”
Our gazes lock and hold for a long moment, and I find myself wishing so badly that things could be different. That I wasn’t SEC. That he wasn’t Wall Street. That there was no investigation. That the stakes weren’t my dream career of the FBI versus his career and reputation on the line.
I wish he wasn’t a notorious womanizer. I wish I knew how to flirt . . .
My phone buzzes, and I glance down. It’s Gabby telling me that she’s going home with her ex but that they’re happy to share a cab back to the apartment to drop me off first.
Third wheel. Just what I don’t need right now.
I text her to tell her I’m fine—that I’ll get a cab on my own.
I drop my phone back in my purse and look up at Ian. He smiles, but it’s a sad smile, like he knows what I’m thinking and he understands. Because he feels the same.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
“Better, yeah.”
“You think people will recognize us.”
I lift a shoulder. Yeah.
“Say no more.” Ian beckons for my purse.
I reluctantly hand it over. “I might have a Tide pen in there, but it won’t make a dent in your stain.”
“You know, most women bring one of those small envelope-style purses to a club, not a suitcase,” he says, rummaging through my stuff.
“Well, in case it wasn’t terribly obvious, I’m not exactly experienced at the club thing. What are you doing?” I ask in a panic as he pushes aside a tampon.
He pulls out my sunglasses case and waggles it at me as he hands my bag back.
“If you’re checking to see if they’re designer, I assure you they’re knockoff.” I stop short of telling him that some of us make a five-figure salary, not a seven-figure one like him.
He ignores me and opens the case, pulling out the sunglasses. Then he slides them onto my face and grins, clearly pleased with himself. “There. A disguise.”
I use one finger to pull the glasses down my nose an inch and give him a look over the top of them. “Seriously? It’s almost one a.m.”
“People will think you’re famous and wonder who you are.”
“Fantastic. Because I was really hoping they’d stare more.”
He jerks his chin toward my purse. “So, about that Tide pen . . .”
I shake my head. “No chance. But if you’re embarrassed . . .”
After a quick glance to see we’re in the shadows near the emergency exit with no one around, I step closer and button the top button of his dress shirt.
Yes, that’s right. I’m re-dressing Ian Bradley.
I try to keep it casual, almost maternal and businesslike. But then my fingers accidentally brush against his throat, and we both have to pretend not to notice. Or at least I pretend. Maybe he really doesn’t notice.
I pull out his pocket square—because yes, the man’s wearing one—and tuck the corner into the neck of his now buttoned-up shirt so it fans down over his chest in a ridiculous diagonal square.
Did I mention the pocket square is lavender?
“There,” I say.
He looks down and smooths a hand over the purple silk. “This is nice. A really manly look.”
I nod in agreement and push the sunglasses back on my face. “Like a man bib. Too bad you weren’t wearing it earlier to catch the spill.”
He looks at me expectantly. “All right. Are we disguised enough to Bonnie and Clyde our way out of here?”
I want to. So badly. But . . . “Ian.”
He sighs. “I’m thrilled we’re on a first-name basis, but I’m not digging that tone.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Do you even know that tone?”
“I’ve heard of it once. Rejection, is it? Never happened to me. Till now.”
I open my mouth, wanting to tell him that I’ve never felt the way he makes me feel before, but no words come out. I don’t know if I’m smart or just a coward. But when he presses the pad of his thumb gently against my bottom lip, I know I’m a fool.
He gives a quick smile. “Come on. Let’s get you a cab home. I’m pretty sure your friend’s gonna be a while.” A moment later, he ushers me out into the warm night air.
“How’d you know the alarm wouldn’t sound?” I say, gesturing at the emergency door.
“They turned off the alarm a few months ago. Too many drunk couples stumbling outside to make out.”
“Speaking from experience?”
He winks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I think I already do,” I grumble.
“Now, now, Ms. McKenzie,” he teases. “Have we learned nothing today about making assumptions?”
“So you haven’t come out that side door and made out with club bunnies?” I ask.
“Nah, I have,” he says, stepping toward the sidewalk and lifting a hand to hail a cab.
“Right,” I mutter, unable to keep the grumpiness out of my voice.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, not looking at me as a cab pulls to a stop in front of us. “When I make out with you, it won’t be against the wall of a seedy club. And I will definitely remember it.”
“What do you mean, when?” I say, staring at his profile. “I told you—”
He puts a hand over my mouth and opens the cab door with the other.
“Where do you live?” he asks, lifting his hand from my face so I can answer.
Too confused to think clearly, I give him my address, which he relays to the driver before motioning me inside.
I pull off my sunglasses as I climb into the back seat. “Ian—”
He puts a playful finger against my lips. “That’s Mr. Bradley to you. For now.” He winks and shuts the door.
I turn around as the cab pulls away from the curb and watch as he lifts his arm, hailing another cab for himself. When it stops, he turns toward me and grins, as though knowing I’m watching him.
He fades from view as my cab takes a right turn, and I flop back against the seat, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”
But I’m smiling.