Вечер накануне Нового года. Народное творчество
few replies and then went to her calendar. It was a masterpiece of organization born of necessity. Every day of the month was broken down into half-hour segments, and each segment was tied to her agenda, including breaks for meals, phone conversations that might take longer than five minutes, blogging, teaching, wine tasting, writing, editing... The list went on. What she was looking for now was evenings when she was free. She usually ended up sleeping or working on her evenings off. Occasionally she’d read, but mostly for research. In the past six months, she’d met Donna for drinks three times.
Ever since she’d gone to her first trading-cards meeting—ironically in the basement at St. Marks Church—she’d been shifting her schedule just enough to clear two possible nights next week when she could meet her date, have a meal or a drink, have sex and make it back to her apartment before one the next morning.
She found them on the following Thursday and Sunday. Granted, it would have been better if she’d blocked out a Friday or Saturday night, but those tended to get booked up months in advance with wine tastings, lectures, classes. She had an all-expenses-paid four-day event coming up in the Hamptons, and she’d had to do some serious reshuffling to attend that.
She dialed the number on the card, her heart beating rapidly, her mouth dry as a desert until her call went directly to voice mail.
Cameron sounded nice. And sexy. And polite when he asked her to leave a message.
“Hi, this is Molly Grainger. I’m calling about your trading card. I’d like to talk to you about meeting for a drink next week. I’m into wine as a career, and you’re into beer, so...give me a call.” She left her phone number and cut the connection, hoping she hadn’t sounded too much as though she wanted to sell him life insurance. But at least it was done. He’d probably call. Just hopefully not while she was stuck in a sardine sandwich on the subway going home.
She’d just made it out of the building when Bobby came jogging up to her. He was dressed in his regular uniform of raggedy jeans and a loud T-shirt, this one declaring his passion for zombies. To be fair, her tailored slacks and starched white blouse were her own version of a uniform. Ever since she’d set her sights on becoming a world-class wine expert, she’d dressed for the part, even back when she hadn’t had ten cents to rub together. God bless the Goodwill and consignment stores.
“Hey, Mol, this whole trading-cards thing. Can I get in on that action?”
She didn’t even hesitate. She wouldn’t wish that upon any poor woman. “Sorry, but no.”
“Seriously?” Bobby’s breath still carried the distinctive smoky notes of Cannabis sativa.
She took a step back. “Seriously.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “See you next week.”
She stopped for a moment to watch him flirt with a young woman standing outside their building holding an armful of books before he went back inside. Had Molly ever been that relaxed, that young? Sometimes it felt as if she’d spent most of her life on a treadmill, running as fast as possible and gaining little ground. But that wasn’t completely true. At twenty-seven she’d already accomplished so much. As long as she stayed on track, there was nothing but success ahead of her.
Which reminded her...it was four-fifteen already, and she had a wine-tasting class at six, which meant she just had time to make it home for a quick shower and change before she had to be at Winesby to do her setup. She’d given the kitchen at the restaurant and wine shop the menu before the classes had begun. Tonight’s tasting was Focus on Red, which she particularly loved.
She made it onto the D train in the nick of time. Not surprisingly, she didn’t score a seat, but she wasn’t so squished that she couldn’t steal another glance at Cameron’s trading card. A brewmaster. A great-looking brewmaster with wavy dark hair, sinfully dark eyes and a mischievous smile. Okay, if he called while she was on the train, she wouldn’t answer. She’d wait. Call him back on her own time. The idea of finding someone she could actually talk to while they were in bed was proving to be very enticing. She just hoped he would be free on Sunday or Thursday, because she honestly didn’t think she could make it much longer with just her vibrator and fantasies of Benedict Cumberbatch to get her through.
AS HARD AS the air conditioner at Bistango’s tried, it couldn’t keep up with the entry area. The summer sun was still out at seven, and the heat followed everyone who walked in.
Cameron hadn’t been to the restaurant in years, but he was happy to be back. Especially when it meant meeting someone who sounded so interesting. Ever since Molly had called to set up the date, he’d become a little too invested in the outcome. Although he knew he shouldn’t get ahead of himself. One-night stand didn’t necessarily mean same-night stand.
But he hoped it would.
One more glance at the door, and there she was. She was prettier than the pictures on her website, and those had been damn good. He hadn’t realized she’d be so slim. That wasn’t even the right word. Delicate was more accurate. Five-seven or so, auburn hair that curved and swirled across her shoulders, and big dark eyes that might have captured every bit of his attention if it hadn’t been for her figure.
Online, she’d appeared trim and sophisticated. What the photographs had failed to show were her curves.
“Cameron,” she said, holding out her hand. Her handshake was firm, and her gaze roamed down to his chest before it came back up to meet his eyes. “Molly Grainger,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Nope. Just got here myself.” Neither of them had let go yet. “Nice to meet you, Molly. You can call me Cam.” She had one of those smiles that made him automatically grin in return. “Well, I guess I’ll go check on our reservation.”
He nodded toward a brunette holding menus. “The hostess is waiting for us.”
“Oh, good.”
Walking slightly behind her, he stole a glance at her round, pert bottom and slender legs. Things had gone from good to great, and they hadn’t even talked yet. After weaving their way through the dinner crowd, they were seated in a relatively private booth.
Molly stared at him for longer than he was expecting, but it wasn’t the eyes-meet-and-linger of a sexual connection. More of an oh, God, what have I done? look.
“I was impressed with your website,” Cam said, hoping to ease her discomfort. “I read some of your articles. Very interesting. Our professions dovetail in so many areas.”
“My website?” Her shoulders sagged on a sigh. “Oh.”
Cam’s grin faded. “Is that against the rules or something?”
“What? No, of course not. It’s just—” She straightened. Her shoulders were neatly squared by a white blouse that looked old-fashioned to him, but then again, he knew nothing about trends. Besides, who cared when she was so pretty. “So much for making small talk. You already know everything about me.”
“Somehow I doubt that. Unless all you do is work.”
“Basically, that is all I do, yes.”
“So that explains why someone so attractive is doing the trading-card thing.”
Her cheeks turned a little pinker. “And what’s your excuse?”
“A meddling sister.”
Molly raised her eyebrows. “So you don’t actually want to be here.”
“No, no, no. I didn’t say that. In fact, I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.” He meant it. Whether it was just nerves or something else, he could tell she was struggling to hold her reactions in check, but, in fact, she was very expressive. Fascinatingly so. Even now, the blush that had been on the apples of her cheeks was spreading to her temples. “Which doesn’t mean