I tune into the music drifting out to us from inside.
“Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”? I ask.
“It was his favorite Christmas song,” she whispers and clunks the champagne bottle down on the balcony ledge. “It’s awful.”
She squeezes her eyes closed, but more tears slip over her cheeks. I want to put my arms around her again like I did at her apartment, but she’s been so unpredictable tonight, I don’t know how she’ll respond. I hesitate, not sure what to say. I hate it when people say stupid shit to a grieving person. I don’t want to be that guy, and I’m not known for my sensitivity.
“I know this is a hard time for you.”
She stares at me, sadness and uncertainty suspended between us like a rope bridge, before bringing the bottle to her lips and chugging without answering.
“Hey, hey.” I urge the bottle down and away from her mouth. “That won’t solve anything.”
“Oh, you’re so acquainted with grief, are you? That you know just what to do in these situations, huh? I’m so damn tired of being a situation. Of knowing everyone’s wondering how I’m holding up, and wondering if I’m ready to date again. Wondering if I’m still . . .”
“Still what, Ave?”
She draws a deep breath and clutches the bottle to the smooth skin between her breasts displayed by the dipping neckline.
“You still on the top floor?” she demands. “Or has the network kicked you out already?”
“Nah.” I draw the word out a little, buying a nanosecond to figure out where she’s going with this. “I’ve got the penthouse for a few more days.”
She nods, draws her brows together like she’s processing what I’ve told her; like she’s working out some problem. And then she says the words I would have given my first-year salary to hear the night we met, but now have no idea what to do about.
“Let’s get out of here. Take me to your place.”
9
Avery
I know this is a mistake. I’m huddled in the corner of the elevator, my eyes fixed on the illuminated ascending numbers taking us inevitably to the top floor where Deck has been living the past few weeks. If I knew what was good for me, I would push the red emergency button; alert maintenance that there’s an accident in progress right inside this elevator. But I can’t. I woke up with this numbness spreading over my body like a plague. It’s even frozen over my heart. I knew today would be painful; that it might hurt like a fresh wound, but nothing hurts and nothing feels good. Not the deceptively innocuous champagne bubbles zipping through my bloodstream. Not the many guys I danced with tonight or the secret touches they stole while we moved to the music. Nothing has made me feel all day.
Except him.
Call it lust. Animal attraction. Whatever it is, I felt it like a shot of adrenaline as soon as I saw Decker tonight. I study him from under surreptitious lashes, roving my eyes over silky hair the color of nutmeg brushed with honey. The slightest curl of it at his nape softens the hard line of his neck. His brandy-flavored eyes watch the climbing numbers, the bold nose and thick brows and wide, mobile mouth harmonizing his features into handsome. I study the impressive width of his shoulders and the bulge of his arms straining against the dress shirt. His jacket around my shoulders douses me in his scent and his warmth. I discretely snuggle deeper into its embrace, even though the arms hang limp and empty at my sides.
Yes, he makes me feel something. I want it to be as simple as lust; as the sad, horny girl who woke up with her dead fiancé on her mind and her hand between her legs, but it’s not that simple. I’ve always known with Decker it wouldn’t be.
“I don’t think . . .” I struggle to wrangle my thoughts set on a wild goose chase by the alcohol I’ve consumed. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
He looks at me sharply just as the doors open to his floor. We consider each other, neither making a move. The doors start closing and he catches them with one long arm.
“Come on.” He tilts his head toward the landing beyond the elevator doors. “At least let me get some coffee in you. Sober you up and save you from bad decisions you’ll regret tomorrow.”
He thinks the bad decisions are back at the party with idiots like Mike Dunlov. No, the bad decisions are behind his closed doors, but I find myself half-stumbling after him to the penthouse. As soon as we’re inside, I lean my palm onto the wall for balance and take off my stilettos. I lose another four inches, and now have to tip my head farther back to see his face.
“You’re tall.” I want to retract the obvious statement to a basketball player as soon as it trips past my liquor-loosened lips. Humor flits through his eyes briefly before concern swipes it away.
“Comes with the territory.” He walks toward the small, neat kitchen. “Come on. Coffee.”
I very carefully climb onto the leather stool at the counter, looping my bare feet on the slats. Decker makes even a simple task like making coffee look tantalizing. The play of muscles under his thin white shirt when he reaches for a mug. The efficiency of his big hands, quick and deft in the mundane preparations. There’s a rugged grace to him; like rough metal that’s been polished and chiseled until it gleams.
“You’re beautiful,” I blurt, causing him to stop what he’s doing and stare at me.
I really am drunk. I’d never say that sober.
“Wow, you really are drunk.” He echoes my thoughts, laughs and shakes his head, sliding the coffee across the marble counter top. “Drink this and I’m sure I’ll be less beautiful soon.”