That New York Minute. Abby Gaines
on the bar.
She knew the guy was a loner—small wonder, with that scowl on his face—but drinking a bottle of champagne by himself?
“—and it feels like you’re clinging,” Piers said, finishing a sentence she’d failed to hear.
She jerked back to face him. “I don’t cling!” She was loyal and committed, sure. But those were good things. “I admit, punctuality is important to me, but I never meant to make you feel, uh, pressured.”
What was wrong with him, that a glance at her watch could terrify him into thinking she wanted a pledge of undying love?
Which she didn’t. Not yet. She just wanted to be certain the relationship would last more than five minutes.
“We shouldn’t rush to break up at the first obstacle,” she said, “when there’s every chance we can get past it.”
Piers was an actuary, a man who calculated risk to the nth degree, and she liked the way his analytical approach spilled over into his personality. There was a lot she liked about him, frankly. His low-key sense of humor, his easy conversation. She was attracted to him physically, and they’d done some serious making out to prove it.
Though now, when she eyed his receding hairline, she saw it for what it was. Imminent baldness, not a sign of dependability.
Nothing wrong with bald. Hair was unarguably a nice-to-have, but it was nowhere near the top of the list.
“When I’m late,” Piers said, “I get the feeling that you worry I’m not going to show up. When we’re together, I feel like you’re always watching me, to make sure I’m still interested. That’s a lot of pressure, Rachel.”
She forced a laugh. “Piers, I’m a businesswoman with a high-level job and an excellent salary.” She felt as if she was interviewing for the role of Steady, Nonclinging Girlfriend. “I hardly think I’m that insecure.”
She didn’t assume a guy was a no-show after five minutes. It was more that she started to wonder just how reliable he was. She knew it was illogical, so she tried not to let Piers’s occasional tardiness color her opinion of him.
She reached across the table for his hand. A nice hand. Neatly squared fingernails. Pale, but that was okay. “I don’t think we should be too quick to end a good thing. How about,” she continued, lowering her voice to what she hoped was husky, “we go back to my place and … work this out.”
Wariness flickered in his eyes. Then his gaze dropped to those two buttons she’d undone—about time—and the hint of black bra she knew he’d see there.
Rachel wriggled her shoulders just a little.
He let out a sigh. “You are a very special woman, Rachel,” he admitted.
That was more like it! He’d simply had cold feet. Rachel pushed her chair back. It scraped loudly on the wooden floorboards. “Let’s go,” she said.
Piers stood. “Just so you know, I have an early start tomorrow. I won’t be able to stay the night.”
She paused as she reached for the jacket she’d slung over the back of her chair. “That’s okay, I have a meeting first thing, too.” The most important meeting of her life, in fact. But was now the time to be discussing work? “We can do dinner tomorrow, instead of breakfast.”
If her meeting went the way she anticipated, they’d be celebrating her inevitable promotion come dinnertime. She grinned at the thought, and her worries about her love life eased.
Piers helped her into her jacket, then pulled some bills from his wallet. When he frowned, Rachel knew he was calculating the seventeen-and-a-half percent tip he liked to leave.
Shouldn’t he be tossing money onto the table willy-nilly, in his haste to get out of here and into her bed?
Rachel turned away. And once again met Garrett Calder’s gaze. His scowl had gone. He raised his glass to her in a toast that was intended to be ironic, if the tiny, mocking curve to his lips was anything to go by.
What was that about? She didn’t know Garrett well—no one did—but he always managed to unsettle her, even when she was at her most together. Not because of the stupid nickname they gave him in the office: The Shark. That little piece of hyperbole didn’t bother her at all. What disturbed her was the blend of intelligence and aloofness in his eyes, the suggestion that he knew everything and he didn’t give a damn.
Now he looked as if he knew exactly what had just transpired between her and Piers. Knew they were headed to her bed.
She willed the sudden heat in her cheeks to subside. There was no way Garrett could have overheard their conversation. None.
At last, Piers wedged some neatly folded bills beneath the pepper grinder, and they could leave. The bar’s layout and teeming Thursday night crowd meant they had to walk past Garrett. As she drew level with him, she gave him a polite nod.
“Let it go, Rachel,” he said.
She stopped, unsure if she’d heard him correctly over the hubbub of reveling office workers. “Excuse me?”
Piers bumped into her, jolting her toward Garrett. Who leaned back against the bar, as if he didn’t want her in his space.
“Begging never works,” he said, his enunciation careful and unfortunately crystal clear to both her and, she was certain, Piers.
Her heart lurched in her chest. Mortification … and fear.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “You’re drunk.”
An exaggeration, maybe, but he sure wasn’t sober. The bottle next to him was empty.
“Who is this guy?” Piers asked.
“No one. A colleague.” She tugged the lapels of her jacket together, because Garrett’s eyes were definitely straying in that direction. Maybe, when she got her promotion, she could fire him.
The delightful fantasy didn’t last more than a moment. Garrett was too good at his job. Which was how he got away with acting like a jerk.
The bartender removed Garrett’s empty Dom Pérignon bottle and began peeling the foil from around the cork of a second bottle.
“Oh, look, Garrett, your date’s arrived,” Rachel said. “Let’s go, honey.”
Piers looked startled at the endearment, but he took her elbow.
“Just so you know,” Garrett said, “offering a guy sex so he won’t break up with you smacks of desperation.”
The bartender paused in his loosening of the wire cage around the champagne cork and looked Rachel up and down. Was it her imagination, or did he register the black bra and give her a knowing look? Piers let go of her.
“Whatever’s driving you to drink alone, Garrett—” her voice shook “—keep it to yourself.” That was the way he usually operated. Could he have picked a worse time to attempt something resembling a conversation?
“Sleep with him, by all means,” Garrett said, with a generous, alcohol-fueled sweep of his arm toward Piers. “Though, personally, I think you could get a guy with more hair.”
Piers’s hand went protectively to his head.
“But whatever you do, do it on your terms,” Garrett said. “Not his.”
“Uh, Rachel, I’m going to take a rain check,” Piers said. “My early meeting …” He kissed her cheek—were his lips always that dry?—and was gone.
“Wait!” she called.
Too late.
The champagne cork popped; the barman poured the first gush of frothing liquid into Garrett’s glass.
Garrett picked up the glass and raised it, once again,