“Sorry to be so abrupt, bro,” Gage tosses out apologetically as he yanks his keys out of his pocket and hits the remote, unlocking his car. “I have a client wanting to meet for dinner. He owns a piece of property I’ve been after for months and I think he’s finally going to cave.”
“I understand. You’ll have to call me when you make the deal.”
“Prepare for a call late tonight then.” Gage grins at me and I chuckle.
I get it. I’m a businessman. When an opportunity presents itself, you have to go for it, and that’s exactly what Gage is doing.
Sort of what I did with Ivy.
Sprinting ahead of her, I approach Gage’s Maserati and open the passenger door for her, watching as she slides into the seat. She glances up, her eyes fathomless as she studies me. “Thank you, Archer,” she murmurs. Then adds meaningfully, “For everything.”
“You’re welcome,” I automatically say, though I’m not quite sure what we’re referring to.
Rolling her eyes, she huffs out a breath and yanks the door closed, effectively shutting me off.
Shutting me out.
And as I watch the car speed away, I feel like I’m watching my heart leave with it, forever in Ivy’s possession.
Fucking crazy, but true.
Chapter Eight
Ivy
One week later.
“AND SO YOU had sex with him.”
I nod miserably, trying to ignore the glee in my friend Wendy’s voice. She’s really enjoying my story—a little too much. “I did.”
“And it was awful. Terrible. He was selfish and didn’t bother getting you off.”
“Wendy,” I whisper harshly, glancing about the restaurant, at the people sitting nearby. Nobody’s paying us any mind. “What if someone heard you?”
“No one heard me. And quit trying to change the subject. Give me all the dirty details.” Wendy sips from her water glass, her brows raised expectantly.
I sigh, completely put out and embarrassed that she wants to hear everything, yet also perfectly willing to reveal all. I’ve had no one to talk to about my encounter with Archer and I’ve been holding this inside me for an entire week.
Then I see Wendy waiting for me at our usual restaurant for our Saturday lunch date, and I immediately tear up like a baby when she asked what’s new.
I reached my breaking point.
She took one look at my tear-streaked face, my watery eyes, and demanded I tell her what the heck was wrong with me. After purging the entire story of my encounter with Archer in twenty minutes, she’s contemplating me with a gleam in her eye, as if she sees me in a new light. She’s probably impressed—or in shock. I don’t normally do this sort of thing. Wendy’s the adventurous one with men. I’m the boring one who tends to choose wrong and stay too long.
I definitely don’t do one-night stands with sexy-as-hell men who know just how to touch me to make me go off like a rocket. No man has ever been able to make me go off like a rocket. Ever.
Until now. Until Archer.
“He wasn’t selfish,” I say primly, pressing my lips together to keep from saying what I really want to.
He’s amazing. Hot as hell. The best kisser ever. Oh, and his hand . . .
A slow smile curves Wendy’s mouth. “Meaning he was all right.”
Better than all right. “He knew what he was doing.”
“Quit being so vague.” Wendy sounds irritated. Not that I can blame her. I’m being vague on purpose.
“I’m not about to give you any more detail than that. Sorry,” I say chirpily, sipping from my water glass. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Since when? We’ve dished about plenty of men. Now I want details about the one who was actually decent in bed and you’re not talking.” Wendy’s eyes narrow as she contemplates me. “What gives?”
I squirm in my seat. I don’t want to admit that my night with Archer is . . . special. She’ll probably make fun of me. She should make fun of me. I deserve it. I’m thinking like an idiot. “I really don’t want to relive what happened between Archer and me. It’s too weird. We’ve known each other for too long.”
I’d have hoped he would call but he hasn’t. We agreed it was a mistake, what happened. I walked away from him. The subject was closed, in both my mind and his.
But I lied to myself. Since I came home from Napa, he constantly invades my thoughts. I’m trying my best to focus. I throw myself into my work, which is easy considering how busy we are. Sharon Paxton is one of the most coveted interior designers in the city and her clientele keep her—and me—busy. Learning from her, working with her is a privilege, one I take very seriously.
I’ve lost concentration more than once, though, since the Archer incident. I missed an appointment with a very important client. I brought the wrong fabric samples to another one. I was acting so out of character, Sharon sat me down yesterday afternoon and asked what was wrong. I made up some sort of excuse, promised I would do better and escaped her hawk-like gaze before she asked any more questions.
This is what Archer’s done to me. Turned me into a terrible employee. I can’t sleep. I sit around on the couch at night and watch really bad reality TV. All the while I stare at my cell phone, willing him to call me, text me, something.
Yes. I’ve turned into one of those girls. God help me.
Our waiter magically appears with our lunch, setting our salad orders in front of us before he takes off, leaving me alone once again with my too nosy, too perceptive friend.