We lock eyes for a brief time as she looks at me.
“Ivan Harley is a player. I’ve heard everything about him. He’s shagged his way through numerous women in the industry, then left them broken-hearted. I want to give him a taste of his own medicine.”
“And you think it’s up to you to teach him that lesson? If he is what you say he is, is that not a dangerous game?”
“Why not? Why should men be able to take what they want and discard you when you’re no longer necessary?” I say, my voice breaking slightly with emotion.
“He’s not Terry, Amz.” My friend steps toward me and places her hands on my shoulders. “Don’t go into this tonight with the intention of hurting anyone. Go tonight because you want to be there and have a good time.” She pauses. “I don’t believe for one moment you would have accepted this invitation if you weren’t at least curious.”
I shrug. She can think what she likes.
I peek at my watch for the umpteenth time: 7:24 p.m. He should be here in six minutes. If he doesn’t show up, I have a bottle of wine in the fridge chilling and a huge bar of chocolate in the cupboard. Perhaps this was his power play, a prank where making me care lets him win.
Katie is pacing our living room; she keeps looking out of the window for his car to arrive. We only moved into our new apartment in Covent Garden a few weeks ago. Katie’s writing career is blossoming, and she’s moved us in here on the understanding that I’ll be here when she must travel for work.
I’m sitting on the sofa, my slick palms pressed together. I haven’t been out with a man other than my ex-husband in twenty years. With my ribs tense, my nerves settle deep within. This suddenly feels like a bad idea.
“He’s here!” Katie squeals, clapping her hands together. Her voice too loud in the tiny room. “Oh fuck, look at his car.”
I walk over and look out of the window to find a long, sleek machine sitting outside, blocking the street. It’s all black and glints in the setting sun. I watch Ivan climb out of the driver’s side, and he glances up toward my building. Hoping to go unnoticed, I duck behind the curtain.
A small blue car drives up behind it, blaring its horn at the obstruction. Ivan signals five minutes with his hand to the inconvenienced driver, who reverses back down the street. Katie and I peek out from behind the curtains and watch him walk up the path to our front door.
“You’re fucked,” Katie says. “He’s a sex god. I’m telling you now, he’ll only have to breathe on you, and you’ll be flat on your back, legs spread.”
I roll my eyes at my crazy friend.
“Amy, look at him. He’s gorgeous. If you don’t ride that, I’ll hunt him down and mount up myself.”
“You’re such a crude bitch,” I mutter, and she grins. “Doubt Mr. American Moneybags would be too pleased with that suggestion.”
“A girl can dream,” she says. “Maybe he’d be up for a threesome.”
“You always have to lower the tone,” I say, pretending to be disgusted but failing miserably.
Our entry system buzzer sounds, and I walk over to let him in. Within seconds, there is a knock at the door. Katie practically pushes me out of the way to answer it. She swings the door open wide, and Ivan moves into the room.
He’s huge, bigger than I remember. The room abruptly becomes more confined, the heat intensifies, and a feeling of intrusion fills the air. Blazing blue eyes focus on me, and he flashes me a dark smile.
Something settles low in my belly. A fire I’ve not felt in a long time.
“Good evening, Amy,” he says, as if tasting my name. “Are you ready to go?” The black shirt he’s wearing bulges slightly at the seams, and dark jeans hug his legs, sitting snugly around his crotch. My breathing hitches, the room narrowing further—only to him. Katie’s right, I’m fucked.
“Yes,” I say, attempting to use my most confident tone. I look at my friend still holding the door open, her jaw practically on the floor. “I’ll see you later, Katie,” I say as I walk past her, snapping her from her trance.
“Yes, have a good night,” she replies. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Ivan snakes his arm around my waist and leads me from the apartment, his palm warm at the small of my back. A light touch that feels like a claim.
We descend the stairs, then step out into the warm summer night. His hand remains on my back, strong and steady as wewalk toward the car. I sneak a look back at my apartment to see my friend standing in the window, grinning.
She mouthsfuck himthrough the glass. I chuckle at my reckless sidekick. No chance.
We’ve made it from the apartment to the car without a word being exchanged. He opens the passenger door, and I slide in, then he closes it behind me. He gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine by pressing a button on the dashboard. The car purrs beneath us.
“Nice car,” I mumble. “You’re a bit of an asshole blocking the road, though.”
His eyes rise, and he smirks. “You’re not the first woman to point that out,” he says. “But I’d rather be called names than have my wing mirror removed by an idiot that can’t drive up a narrow street.” He pauses, taking a breath. The air smells of dark cedar and spice, with an edge of male. “You look lovely tonight.”
