Womanizer

Chapter 9

He lifts his brows, then I tell Wynn, “I’ll get you coffee.”

“You know where to find me,” he tells Wynn.

“At the club?” I want to shout when the door closes behind him.

I exhale and inhale as I make coffee and try to push the odd homesickness away as I come back to Wynn.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. It was just difficult to talk to him. Emmett and I used to be so easy together, but now that he’s my ex, it’s like there’s this whole wedge between us.”

She seems better now. I take a couch opposite hers and curl my feet up under me. “How did you two meet?”

She sighs and stares into space. “He seduced me with food and that smile he has.”

“I’m sorry, Wynn. Should I call Gina or Rachel?”

“Don’t even think about it! They’ll kill me, and they’ll absolutely kill you for being there.” She looks at me and her expression softens. “Thank you, Livvy. I promise nobody will know.”

I won’t ask, I won’t ask, I won’t ask, I repeat like the mantra. Then I ask. “Hey, the guy who brought you home—”

She waves a hand. “Oh, I totally warned him not to say a word.”

I bite down on my lower lip, still aching to know. “Who is he?”

She quirks an eyebrow at the anxiousness in my voice, and her big blue eyes widen even more.

“He works where I work, so . . .” I hasten to explain.

“Hell, I know.” She eyes me in amusement, then scowls in puzzlement. “Ask him.”

Now I’m thinking: I am not going to ask her, it’s really not my business. And then, “Did he and you . . .”

“What? Ohmigod, never! He’s a one-way ticket to Broken Heartsville, even worse than Emmett.”

So they’re just friends? Thank you, god. Though I thought he and I were friends too but he doesn’t cozy up to me in that way. He tried to touch my hair and I moved it back before he could and that was the extent of it.

“He’s single, if that’s what you want to know,” Wynn says. Then her eyes go a little wider in concern as she says, like this is crucial for me to know, “He’s like the testament to singleness. All his friends are taken, so now he’s the last man standing. Please don’t tell me you like him. He’s the last man Tahoe would like to see you with. Trust me.”

“I don’t like him. Not at all. I’m not . . . interested in anything like that. This is why I have this fake engagement ring, see?” I show her my hand. “This’ll keep all the guys away, even at clubs. This year is all about work for me. I want to go back to Texas and get some more experience, then open my own investment firm, helping struggling businesses.”

“Good for you.” She looks wistfully past her shoulder, out to the window. “Love is an illusion. The more you want it, the more it hides.”

“You’ll get back together with him. Your ex, I mean. I saw the way he looked at you. When you stood up crying, he wanted to come after you but held himself back.”

“Emmett?” She turns her attention back to me, looking sad again. “I don’t think so. He flat out said he didn’t want marriage. I thought after I moved in, it would be in the cards. We just don’t want the same things.” She sounds wistful, and then she frowns and waves it away. “Anyway. Guard your heart, Livvy, you’re too young, and I’ve seen too many men steal hearts without giving anything back.”

I should have listened.

But the next day when I’m done with Mr. Lincoln and the preparations for his presentation with Callan Carmichael, which will take place the following day, I feel compelled to ride the elevator up to the terrace again. I tell myself I’ll just thank him for looking out for Wynn. It was gentlemanly, I suppose.

Though maybe his reasons for helping her were just to seduce her because, apparently, he’s an expert at that.

He’s not there.

I ride up to the terrace on Tuesday, then on Wednesday.

He isn’t there.

It isn’t until Friday that I step out of the elevator, already expecting him not to be there, when I see him seated in a lounge chair at the far end, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he types something on his phone, frowning in concentration.

I don’t want to feel the rush of happiness. But I do. It comes with a tangle of pain in my stomach, and that I cannot explain, but I blame it on the terrace railing and the fact that I’m . . . well, not happy at high altitudes.

Funny how the tangle wasn’t here when he wasn’t here, though.

I approach and sit down next to him, and he doesn’t look up from his phone. Once he types something, he puts out his cigarette and looks at me with a smile.

The tangle loosens as if someone burnt the ends and it exploded in a ball of warmth.

“Where were you?” I ask.

“Around,” he says.

I’m feeling bold and admit, “Well, I missed sharing a cig with you.”

I grin mischievously, but his answering grin is about a thousand times more mischievous than mine.

“I couldn’t resist not seeing you either,” he says, low.

Nervous by his nearness and realizing how much he seems to mean it, I reach out for the cigarette pack and the lighter sitting to his right, and he covers it with one big hand. “These trips to the terrace are terribly bad for you,” he warns, still smiling with those hazel eyes.

“Cigs are as bad for me as they are for you.”

He’s silent for a moment, making me wonder if he was even referring to smoking. Then he tsks softly, as if I’m a naughty girl but he seems to kind of like it, and then he lights one up. I watch him, a little breathless as he cups the flame then hands it over. I set my lips around it and they tingle because he just had his mouth on it. I can taste him on the cigarette. I can taste him in the air.