Page 21 of Rules in Love
“Promise. Here. Have some more lime.
Finn
Teddy promised me it would be a work meeting. We both knew he was lying.
Not a word regarding our project or anything related to the office passed our lips for the rest of the night. Knees, hands, and feet brushed, and each ‘accidental’ touch led to a maddening set of blue balls. And a big, big problem. One that wasn’t attached to the blue balls.
I was very much at risk of falling for Scarlett Grant.
“Number three, number three, number three,” she repeated in a whisper barely loud enough to hear.
“What’s number three?” I quizzed.
“What? Did I say that out loud?”
I nodded, noting how her ill-behaved curls somehow fell gracefully over her collarbone as she chugged her drink, her green eyes darting up to mine nervously. “Number three…on the cocktail menu. Yes. That’s it. I was thinking of ordering number three next.”
I don’t know what Scarlett was fibbing about, but she was clearly fibbing and pleased with herself too. But only for a second. Regret quickly appeared in her eyes. “I’m not an alcoholic or anything. I don’t go around memorizing cocktail lists. Teddy and I come here every other Monday, so I know the menu by heart.” She paused and blinked slowly. “That probably doesn’t make me sound less like a wino.” The blush that radiated from her ample cleavage made her skin glow more than it already did. So, I decided to make it worse.
“What is it?”
She froze. “What is what?”
“Number three on the menu. Let me know what it is, and I can order it for you.”
“Oh. No, that’s okay. You got the last round. This is on me. I’ll go get them.” She moved to push out her chair, but as she did, our waitress, Jen, floated by for the fiftieth time. I seized Scarlett’s hand to hold her in place and waved over Jen with the other.
“Can I get you anything? Another drink? More tapas? My number?” she asked with a well-practiced hair flip.
“Just some drinks. Thanks, Jen. Scarlett would like a number three on the cocktail menu. I’ll get one too, but a virgin, if you have it. And don’t tell us what it is. I want a surprise.”
Finding the words to explain the look on both Jen’s and Scarlett’s faces would be difficult. “Sure,” Jen said slowly, “coming right up.” She then flitted away, looking confused.
Scarlett’s lips formed a smile, but every other feature read panic and screamed FUCK. I was the one who was fucked. She was cute as a button. Sexy as hell and mad as a cut snake. I loved it. “I’m just going to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” she laughed and bolted.
I settled our bill in her absence, fended off Jen one last time, and by the time Scarlett returned, her drink was waiting for her on the table. The relief on her face was precious. “Espresso martini. Good choice, Scar. I hope you enjoy it.”
“Oh, I will.” She sat, sighed, and took a sip, her eyes closing as she swallowed. Damn, she looked good swallowing. Without my consent, my eyes zoned in on her lips and occasionally lowered to the cleavage I would forever remember as potato valley. She was stunning, even with a tiny espresso moustache. The view made my virgin version—basically a tiny, twenty-dollar iced coffee—taste even better.
It was midnight. The bar staff began vacuuming around our feet, and we took the hint to leave. Keen to act the gentleman, I pulled out her chair as she stood and then undid the deed by being caught in a not-so-subtle, not-so-gentlemanly checkout of her ass.
“Eyes up, Austen.”
Thankfully, it was a short trip home, and I didn’t say that because of the company. That was awesome. No, my gratitude was born more from the desire to remain alive. My driving was appalling, and we found ourselves on the wrong side of the road several times. Partly because I was distracted by her jokes about me being the last person in New York to drive anywhere, and partly because I was still not accustomed to driving in the States. And a bit because of the way the seatbelt highlighted potato valley.
Facing the wrong direction in a one-way street, I parked a few houses up from Scarlett’s. There, we sat in the New York version of the dark, breathing like we’d run, not driven. My hand was resting on her seat, dangerously close to the exposed thigh I wanted to bite into. I could feel the heat emanating from her body as my fingers swept back and forth along the stitching. I wanted her heat on me, her hand caressing me as I did the bloody leather.
“So, what are we gonna do?” I whispered.
“What are we gonna do for what?” she parroted back, mimicking my accent.
“Hmm, you’re a cheeky one, aren’t you? Terrible at accents, though.” I paused, smirked, and eyed her up and down. “Tomorrow night. What would you like to do? Maybe we could get together again, talk more about work, improve your accent…”
Edging closer, I accidentally-on-purpose began to play with the hem of her dress. It was the smallest action I could think of to make while resisting the urge to launch across the center console and pull her atop me.
“Oh, I don’t remember agreeing to tomorrow night. I’ll check my calendar and have my assistant get back to you. I’m terribly important, you know.” She turned and made a move toward the door handle.
“Lemme get that for you!” I bellowed, rushing from my seat, out of the car, and running to hold open her door. Warmth engulfed me again as I took her hand and helped her slide from the seat, watching her long legs the entire time. Her heels hit the road with an elegant clunk, and we stood in silence, face to face on the curb.
