I hurry back to the elevator and press the down arrow repeatedly until it tings.
Too bad the elevator tings just when the Kwabs song ends and the room falls silent. Which means that, very likely, he heard.
I board quickly and hit the lobby button, riding with another elevator man. Richard.
I stare anxiously at the numbers as we descend, step briskly out into the massive lobby and am heading straight for the revolving doors when I hear another elevator ting—
Then, in a familiar light Texan drawl, “Regina.”
I stop in my tracks, knot my sash tighter.
“Thanks, Ernest,” I hear Tahoe say, his drawl still a little noticeable.
I turn to face him and nearly buckle when my eyes meet his puzzled blue ones.
“Hey,” I say.
His brows rise questioningly.
“I came to visit my client and totally messed up my floors,” I hastily explain as he walks over in an open white shirt, his lips raw, his eyes raw, his hair mussed, so beautiful. It hurts that he’s so out of my reach.
I turn to leave but he takes a step. “Why are you leaving then?”
“Oh, because I realized I have a message. A message she’s canceling, and I didn’t know. So.”
Realizing I’m madly waving my phone in the air like a nitwit, I tuck it into my pocket and turn away quickly.
Then he reaches out and puts his hand on the back of my trench coat, turning me a little toward him. I’m careening on my axis, my senses out of control at the unexpected touch. I don’t understand it.
He runs the back of one finger down my cheek, and the touch sparks fire.
“Did you hear me?” he asks.
His eyes glimmer dangerously with something.
“No. What did you say?”
Once again, I’m starstruck by those eyes, deep as oceans. “I asked if you want me to take you home.”
As he speaks, the words ripple through my body in delicious little waves.
His gaze lifts all of a sudden and stares intently past my forehead. “What’s with the hair?”
“I combed it.”
Two blunt fingers take my chin, hiking it up an inch as he studies me with an interested expression. “So you did. You look very nice. You should comb it more often.”
I feel that familiar stomach pain I felt when we talked at my place and he was in my bed. When he looks down at me again, I feel like he’s peeling me open. Like he’s seeing what I came here for, what I want, something I’m afraid for him to see. “I’m fine taking a cab,” I say, suddenly too eager to be in that cab right now. “I have somewhere I need to go.”
I’m desperate to leave so why am I still standing here, facing him?
I like spending time with him more than I’ve enjoyed spending time with any other guy. I wake up and crave his company.
“Thank you for offering, by the way,” I add. “You’re a great friend. Loyal.”
“So are you.”
“So why can’t you be loyal in relationships?”
I don’t know why I ask this now, but for some reason I just can’t hold it back. He’s been a great friend to me; he’s equally loyal to Saint and Callan. I don’t understand how someone can be so loyal to his friends and so bad at relationships.
“You can’t have such poor control over your anatomy.”
“I can handle my anatomy just fine, Gina.” He laughs in amused disbelief and then smirks. “I was loyal once.” His voice sounds dark and somber.
“What happened?”
The look in his eyes turns cynical and cold. He sounds part angry and part resigned. “What else, Regina? Life.”
Was he betrayed?
Why would a girl betray him, the epitome of beastly manhood?
We stand there, looking at each other. The doormen pretending not to look at us. I realize I have to leave, but he isn’t leaving either.
He hikes his thumb and points upward, in the direction of the floors above. “Sorry you had to see that.”
I wave dismissively, determined for him never to know how much it hurts that he’s good enough for others and not for me. “Oh, not at all, just the thing to get a girl in the mood.”
He frowns at that.
I smile and say, “Well, bye.” I lean up and kiss his jaw, close my eyes and inhale his scent, then wave as I step outside.
His eyes are tender as he crosses his arms and watches me with great interest, as if he knows I was lying through my teeth.
I sit in the back of the cab, wanting him. Wanting to be the girl beneath him. I don’t remember wanting anything this much except once, when I desperately wanted Paul to take back the words I don’t love you.
I call Rachel.
Get voicemail.
She’s traveling to Timbuktu or I don’t know where, and she’s sent me a few emails and texts. She probably steals a moment, connects with all of us, and goes back to being Mrs. Saint on her honeymoon.
I stand, in my panties and my trench coat, on the sidewalk just in front of my building. I call Trent.
“Hey, is there somewhere we can meet so we can properly finish what we started?”
* * *
We meet the next day at a club that Rachel has mentioned is the new “it” spot.
“I was glad you called. I’m sorry I freaked out,” he says sheepishly, rubbing his freckles.
“At least I learned one new thing about you. Never to trust you putting on the condom.”
He laughs. “Try me once more,” he begs.
And I take his sweet face and kiss his lips and whisper, “Maybe tonight.” I bite my lip at the look of excitement in his eyes, laughing softly.