Last Call Page 3

  By now, I’m glad Kar dragged me out.

  “I need a break,” I shout to her.

  She nods and leads the way to the bar. I didn’t mean that kind of a break, but I order a water while Karlene gets her usual club soda and vodka. My friend makes a face as the bartender places our drinks in front of us.

  “Water? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  She should know better. “I hate hangovers. It’s just a pause.”

  Karlene points to her glass. “There’s water in that.”

  I’m almost tempted to reverse course, but I know I need to regroup.

  “Actually, club soda. With vodka. Doesn’t count.”

  We do our best to eke out some space to watch the rest of the bachelorette party on the dance floor.

  “I like them,” I say, meaning Stacey in particular. We need to hang out with her more.

  “I told you. So talk to me about Thursday and the fact that Hayden Tanner eye-fucked you for the entire meeting.”

  I nearly spit out my water.

  “Excuse me?”

  Karlene is definitely feeling good. One telltale sign? She gets even dirtier than normal, and that’s saying something.

  “I almost called you yesterday, but I figured I’d see you tonight.”

  “Were you on a site visit?”

  “Um, deflection won’t work. Spill.”

  Usually I can get Karlene to talk shop, but she has an uncanny way of detecting hot goss and seeking it out.

  “There’s nothing to spill,” I insist.

  Which is not exactly true. I can lie to her but not to myself. My reaction to the pompous asshole was swift. I nearly orgasmed on the spot when he put that bracelet on me. To think I’d considered his proposition, even for a second.

  Stacey waves at us to join them on the dance floor, but Karlene shakes her head. She’s giving me “the look” again. I could try holding out, but the truth is I kind of want to tell her.

  “Fine. So he actually hit on me when I went back to find my bracelet. ”

  Her eyes go wide. “Tell me everything.”

  “There’s not much to tell. We ran into each other in the hall. I didn’t know who he was, and he clearly didn’t know who I was. I put two and two together when he walked to the office with me. After he asked for my number.”

  “Wow. That’s crazy. Hayden Tanner hit on you. Bet that’s the first time anyone’s turned him down. He’s almost as hot as the other guy, and he’s, well, Hayden Tanner.”

  I get that Karlene has a thing for the other guy, Enzo DeLuca. And he’s good-looking too. But Hayden is on a whole different level. The I’ve been having torrid sex with him in my dreams kind of level. DeLuca, however, has one thing going for him his friend doesn’t.

  Hayden Tanner is a total dickhead.

  Which is maybe why I’m so attracted to him. My relationship with toxic men started when I chose Damon over Stephen Salvatore. Or maybe even before that. At least I’m self-aware enough to realize I go for the bad boy every frickin’ time. Or used to at least.

  I know better these days.

  And of course, this particular bad boy is way off-limits. And he may be too big of an asshole, even for me.

  “You say it like you know him,” I say.

  Karlene gives me her patented oh sweetie look. “I keep forgetting you’re not from the city. You fit in so well.”

  I take that as a compliment. “Thanks.”

  “Hayden Tanner. Dad is Harold Tanner. Mom, Nancy Tanner.”

  She says that like it’s supposed to mean something to me.

  “Old, old money, billionaire level. Connecticut born and bred, New York transplants but from like thirty years ago. They’re as society as society gets.”

  “Which explains the entitlement. He nearly had a conniption fit over the transition delay.”

  “I’ll bet. But I also saw the way he looked at you.”

  I pretend my lady parts don’t clench up at that proclamation.

  “Whatever.”

  Surprisingly, Karlene takes my dismissal at face value and drops it. Maybe she knows any type of personal relationship with a sponsor is so far off-limits that Damon Salvatore himself couldn’t tempt me.

  The rest of our party joins us and plans the next stop.

  “You’re coming, right?” Stacey asks with those same puppy dog eyes.

  It’s not a question anymore. I’m in it until last call tonight.

  “Damn straight.”

  Amidst a chorus of whoops and cheers, we leave the dance club to find our limo waiting out front. Next up, Finnegan’s Pub. An odd choice, but hey, not my party. I’m just along for the ride.

  6

  Hayden

  “Ah, shit.”

  For a city with over eight million people, it’s surprisingly small. Then again, I went back to the scene of the crime . . . is it really all that surprising that I’d see her here?

  “Let me guess.” Enzo looks across the bar and figures it out pretty quickly. “The redhead from last week?”

  Man, he’s good. That’s what four years of college and five years of post-college friendship will do. At this point, Enzo is more like a brother than a friend and business partner.

  “Why are you hiding?”

  There’s no point in denying that’s exactly what I’m doing. I slid my barstool to move out of range.

  “Because I want to marry her and have her children. Why do you think I’m hiding?”

  Thankfully, my redheaded bombshell moves away.

  “I can see why you were late,” Enzo says appreciatively.

  “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

  As bottles clink and conversation buzzes around us, I avoid looking at Enzo, knowing he’s still kind of pissed. That he doesn’t get why I make the decisions I do. Neither do I, really.

  I tilt my beer bottle to look at the label.

  “By this time next year, we’ll be drinking our own.”

  It’s a discussion we’ve had countless times over the last year. In his second year at Cornell, Enzo discovered a mostly tasteless formula that could be added to alcohol that in conjunction with a pill antidote takes away the negative effects. He initially thought to sell the patent on it, but I convinced him not to do that. To work with brewers and wine makers, and until deals could be struck, manufacture both ourselves. We met well before that, in a communications class the first semester of our freshman year. On the surface, we didn’t have much in common.

  Enzo’s from a big Italian family in a small town in Pennsylvania. His dad is a pizza shop owner, his mother is a mama bear, and he has two brothers and a sister. They’re every bit as close as you’d imagine. After spending my third Thanksgiving with them, I started calling his mother Mama DeLuca. And Angel, Inc. was barely a blip on our radar back then.

  And then there’s me. Rich kid from Connecticut whose parents can’t be bothered to spend any of the holidays with their only son. I used to tell myself it had nothing to do with me, that they just really like to travel.

  But I’ve gotten old enough to be honest with myself.

  “The next RPM makes me really nervous,” I admit.

  Enzo makes a sound. “No shit? I couldn’t tell in the meeting when you basically told her how to do her job. I swear, if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand you.”

  I take a swig of lager. “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that you catch more bees with honey than vinegar?”

  “Pfft. The only things my mother taught me were how to tip properly and what not to do when you have kids.”

  Another conversation we’d had many times. Enzo was as aware as anyone of my complicated relationship with the two people who should love me most in the world.

  Like his parents love him.

  “OK, Nanny Mary, then?”

  My nanny. My de facto mother. The only reason I’m only ninety-five percent asshole rather than a full one hundred.

&nb
sp; “She might have mentioned it. I don’t remember.”

  “Well, allow me to enlighten you. Pressing Doctor Flemming against a wall isn’t going to shorten the thirty days.”

  The last thing I need to think about right now is the image of the good doctor pressed up against a wall.

  “Lucky for both of us, she’ll be dealing with you and not me. Oh, and don’t hit on her,” I advise. “I’m not sure she cared for that.”

  Enzo’s deep chuckle draws a few gazes his way. Another thing I’m accustomed to. I’ve never had trouble with the ladies, but I’m comfortable enough in my manhood to admit my friend is an especially good-looking guy. The two of us have made quite the wingman duo over the years.

  But I’m not in the mood tonight for anything but a few beers with a friend.

  “Gee, that’s shocking. Because it should be so easy for a woman, especially one who looks like that, to be taken seriously and not looked at as a sex object.”

  I ignore the sarcasm dripping from his tone.

  “Obviously I didn’t know who she was.”

  A commotion at the back of the bar draws our attention. Please don’t let it be a fight. I have a thing for getting in the middle of them. For taking the underdog’s side. Even now Enzo gives me a don’t you dare think about it look.

  I stand up. “Just getting a closer look.”

  “Closer look, my ass,” he mutters from behind me.

  Enzo pegged the reason for my penchant for fighting years ago. Quite simply, it pisses off my father, and so I continue to do it. Every other call from my boarding school in Switzerland back to the States had to do with some scrape or another.

  Curiosity has me edging in closer than the rest of the spectators coming in for a better look.

  Not a fight.

  “A stripper,” Enzo says, joining me.

  “Looks like a bachelorette party.”

  When I get a look at the woman seated in front of said stripper, Enzo’s words are confirmed. We clearly missed the beginning of the show, as the “policeman” is down to his hat and a thong. Pushing back the bride-to-be’s veil, he mounts her lap to an increasingly high-pitched shrill of screams and laughter.

  “Are they even allowed to do that in here?” Enzo asks, echoing my thoughts exactly.

  “Apparently. I’ll admit I’ve never seen it happen before.”

  I’ve been coming to Finnegan’s since I moved to SoHo three years ago. It doesn’t draw much of a tourist crowd—its typical patrons are locals looking to toss back a few beers.

  “Hey, good for them,” Enzo says, turning around to head back to the bar.

  I’m about to join him when a flash of blond hair catches my eye.

  “No fucking way.”

  Enzo stops next to me. “What is it?”

  “You have got to be shitting me.”

  It’s her.

  She’s handing a drink to the woman who sat next to her at the meeting. I watch, still a little bit in shock, as she pulls something off her wrist. Lifting her long, sun-kissed locks up, she twists them around until her hair is piled on top of her head in a bun.

  Very Lauren Conrad-ish.

  I can tell she has a few in her. The hard-edged, all-business woman from a few days ago has been replaced by a white sundress-wearing goddess who is as out of place here as she was in the office.

  I find myself wondering, again, where she’s from.

  “Holy shit, what are the chances?” Enzo says.

  “Pretty good actually.”

  Like I said, big city, small circle.

  The policeman seems to notice her too. As soon as he finishes gyrating on the bride-to-be’s lap to the song pumping out of a jukebox in the corner, he turns toward Ada.

  “Come on.” Enzo taps me on the shoulder, but I don’t move. I can’t.

  A new song comes on, and I recognize the Gipsy Kings immediately. They’re one of my favorite bands and not typically played in this particular pub. Of course the stripper guy can move his hips to the Latin sounds, but apparently he’s not content to dance for the crowd.

  He’s got my project manager firmly in his sights.

  One arm pulls her in, and although I’d pegged her for the kind of buttoned-up woman who doesn’t dance, she starts swaying her hips to the tune without missing a beat, eliciting cheers from her friends.

  “Hayden . . .”

  There’s no way I’m moving now. As I watch, mesmerized, Ada circles into him, making me wonder where she learned to move like that.

  If I continue watching, I’m going to get even more uncomfortable in a few seconds than I am right now. Enzo says my name again, his tone laced with warning, and for once I do the smart thing and start to turn away.

  Except that’s when she sees me.

  And what does the minx do?

  Pretend she doesn’t know me?

  Look away?

  Sneer at me?

  Any of those reactions would have been preferable, but nope.

  She smiles. A slow, sensual, and very teasing smile as she unapologetically glides down the stripper’s body.

  Not that she has to apologize for anything. I, more than anyone, can appreciate the world’s vices, including half-naked bodies.

  But the way she holds my gaze is anything but professional.

  So she wants to play with fire, does she?

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  Enzo’s got my arm. Which is an impressive feat of mind reading since I’ve only just made the decision to go over there. He knows me well.

  “She’s all but taunting me to say something.”

  He glances in Ada’s direction, but she’s not looking at us anymore.

  “You can’t go over there,” he says, stating the obvious. As if he’s worried I’m going to sandwich myself between Ada and the stripper.

  “I won’t cause any problems for us,” I assure him. “Trust me.”

  Enzo’s harsh laugh is not encouraging. “Like I trusted you to not get us arrested at that party junior year? How about the time you told me it was perfectly legal to drink on a boat in the middle of Lake Lugano, and it almost landed us in a Swiss prison?”

  I roll my eyes, taking them off her for just long enough to address my friend.

  “First, we may have gotten arrested, but who was the first one released? No charges, no record.”

  “Thanks to your parents.”

  I don’t dignify that with a response. “As for Lugano, how was I supposed to know the rules were different there than in Geneva? And again, who didn’t end up in prison that night?”

  My parents have a house in Switzerland, and I’ve spent enough time there to navigate the area—and its laws—well enough, until that particular night. I might have been showing off a bit, but as I remind Enzo, we got out of it relatively unscathed.

  Enzo could rattle off countless other examples of how I got myself, and us, into trouble over the years. But then we’d be here all night, and not in a fun way.

  “Trust me like you did with Angel,” I say instead.

  Enzo’s eyes narrow. “The problem isn’t with how much I trust you, Hayden. It’s with how little you trust yourself.”

  He might have said something similar once or twice or a hundred times before.

  Anyway. Of all my fuckups, just one shining exception stands out, and it’s the one that will put Enzo and me on the map. His invention and work ethic. My business sense and my father’s money. Combined, we’re poised to literally change the world.

  We both know what’s at stake, which makes Ada Flemming the least appropriate woman for me to sleep with. Or date. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun. Besides, she started it.

  “I’ll just be a few minutes. Promise.”

  7

  Ada

  It’s odd that I should be thinking about my dad right now. Moments after grinding on a stripper while staring down Hayden Tanner.

  But I am.

  I can still hear the disappoi
ntment in his voice after I told him why I had to exit the research program we’d worked on together, the one I’d chaired. One bad call—a stupid, careless mistake—had cost me so much.

  I’ve spent years compensating for that error in judgment.

  This time, as another potentially horrible decision stalks toward me, I’m more self-aware. I understand my flaws, of which there are many. And a weakness for dangerous men is one of them.

  “Um, someone is coming to talk to you,” Karlene says in an undertone that’s not that quiet.

  The stripper gives me a devilish grin and moves on, leaving me to catch my breath and wait for the confrontation. My eyes are on Hayden. I’ve never come to this bar in my life—in fact, I wouldn’t have come today if Karlene hadn’t dragged me—what are the chances?

  I know I shouldn’t be looking at him. That I should have ignored his gaze the moment I realized he was here. But I can’t. I just can’t.

  From those full lips and strong jawline, which was smooth two days ago but now has a few days’ growth, to the air of confidence oozing from him . . .

  While his Angel, Inc. partner dressed like everyone else in the bar, mostly jeans and tees, Hayden Tanner sports a grey button-down with rolled-up sleeves and a dark grey vest that was probably custom tailored.

  His brown hair is slightly slicked back, but not in a yucky way.

  More like a sexy, sophisticated, you should probably run out of the bar unless you want to get ensnared in my web way.

  “Doctor Flemming.”

  His voice alone could impregnate a woman.

  I don’t trust myself to talk, so instead I make a sound that’s meant to be a greeting.

  He nods to Karlene. “Doctor Lawson.”

  Pretending we’re not surrounded by women carrying drinks with penis straws, Karlene offers a very proper hello.

  “I’m surprised you know my name,” she then blurts. Karlene has no filter, and I love it.

  “You were at the meeting,” he says, “and I don’t forget names.”

  Of course he doesn’t. It’s probably chapter one in the billionaire’s handbook.