Shit. Bill might be looking for me. Gretchen and Lucy would be here any second, on the hunt for their alcohol. I didn’t want them to find me here, entranced by another man, but I couldn’t tear myself away. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”
He palmed the lipstick and said frankly, “I’d remember.”
The thing was, I didn’t particularly like or dislike chardonnay. Bill had sounded so sophisticated ordering it for me on our first date, and I hadn’t really been much of a wine drinker before him. It was fine. Lucy and Gretchen both drank white wine most of the time, and it’d grown on me.
Kind of the way Bill had. We’d worked in the same building and it’d taken him more than six months to ask me out. Even then, I’d said no. At first.
“There you are,” came a woman’s lilting voice from behind the man.
His expression closed a moment before he looked over his shoulder. “What—”
The break in whatever spell he held over me allowed me to regain my sense. I picked up all three of my drinks and ducked away.
I’d barely had time to exhale before I nearly collided with Bill. “Where are the girls?” he asked, taking a glass from me.
Andrew appeared, boxing me in. “What do you think of the performance, Liv?”
Bill took a sip before I could tell him the drink wasn’t for him.
Gretchen appeared, taking the other glass. “Finally,” she said. “As much as I’m enjoying the battle of the bulges on stage, I can’t sit through an entire ballet sober.”
Bill wrinkled his nose. “Battle of thewhat?”
“Male dancers in tights,” Lucy said, a seasoned translator of Gretchen’s innuendo. She touched my elbow. “Are you okay?”
“I . . .” I looked back toward the bar. The man’s eyes roamed over the head of the woman in front of him, scanning the crowd. I moved a little closer to Bill, hiding in his shadow, both spellbound and a little terrified by what I’d just felt.
“Liv?” Lucy asked.
I blinked a few times, trying to focus on my friend. “I’m sorry,” I said, offering her my wine. “Bill took yours.”
“It’s okay.” She smiled warmly. “I don’t need it.”
Sweet little Lucy wouldn’t admit if she did. She always made sure others were comfortable before her. “Please,” I said, pushing the wineglass into her hand. “The truth is . . . I really don’t like chardonnay anyway.”
* * *
The heavy door of our Lincoln Park apartment threatened to slam behind me, but at the last second, I caught the knob and eased it shut. With a yawn, I hung my coat, stepped out of my pumps, and peeled off my restrictive tights. In the next room, Bill flipped on the television while I sorted through the day’s mail, tossing half of it into the recycle bin.
I found Bill in his boxers, already stripped of his suit and tie, on the brown polyester couch his mother had given us some years ago. Replays of tonight’s basketball game that he’d grudgingly missed flashed across the screen.
After the ballet, we’d all gone out for dinner and drinks. Three dirty martinis and a smoldering, penetrating stare coursed through me.
Flavorful, rich, complex.
The man’s presence spread warmth from my neck down in a way I’d never experienced—and had told myself many times was impossible for me.
Plump, dark, smoky.
I stripped off my emerald-green dress in one sinuous motion and let it drop to the floor. When Bill didn’t look up, I shimmied over and settled myself onto his lap.
“Hi,” I said in my sultriest voice. He righted a stray strand of my hair, glancing between the screen and me.
I wet my lips and kissed him full on the mouth. I’d hummed with electricity since intermission, impatient to recapture that stranger’s invading eyes, to feel hungry hands all over me, to disappear into dark corners for inappropriate reasons.
“Well, well,” Bill said when we broke. “What’s gotten into you?”
“It’s late. Take me to bed.”
