Chance (The One More Night Series) (2 page)

Where is the group that wanted the martinis?

I stopped for a moment, looked around the space, felt someone connect with my shoulder, and heard a wholly insincere “So sorry” breathed into my ear.  Finally, I saw my martini peeps off to my left. 

They were only twenty feet away. 

With a sense of relief, I moved toward them as their heads lifted toward me and smiles flashed beneath their masks.  I heard one of the women say, “Oh, look—here she comes now.  Thank God!” 

Apparently they were thirsty.

And who can blame them?  After tonight, I plan on having a martini myself.

What happened next should have surprised me, but given the crowd’s unhinged, undulating rhythm, and especially since not nearly enough people were paying attention to their personal space, it didn’t. 

When the older, lavishly dressed blonde woman at my right fanned out the material of her billowing red gown straight into my path, I tripped into the fabric and felt it catch on one of my heels.  I heard a gasp, followed by the sound of something tearing, and then someone saying, “Not the Dior!”  And then, there was an awful moment when I realized that I was about to do a full face plant in the middle of a gorgeous ballroom filled with hundreds of people who practically ran the city. 

As I began to stumble, I saw how it was all going to go down.  My drinks would take flight.  Glasses would smash onto the floor.  Women would shriek. 

I’d be looking for another job.

But then, out of nowhere, with a rush of air, a faint scent of woodsy cologne enveloped me and a firm hand pressed hard against my stomach, instantly righting me while another hand reached out to steady the tray before the drinks toppled over.

Very close to my ear—so close that I actually felt someone’s lips brush against it—a man’s deep voice said, “Hold on to the tray.  I’m going to let go of it, so don’t drop it.  Before she pulls her dress out from under you, I’m going to lift you off of it.  Are you with me?”

Am I with who?
 
I can’t even see you.
  “Yes,” I said, grateful for the help.

The man moved behind me, and I felt two large hands grip my waist and lift me off the floor.  A moment later, he put me down with ease in a crowd that was only interested in watching, not assisting. 

I saw people gaping at me and felt a rush of shame and embarrassment because I took pride in my work.  Then, I heard that same deep voice again:  “Marie, it’s just a small tear at the back.  Unless you look directly down at the hem, you can’t see it.  Send the bill to me and I’ll cover what it costs to fix it.”

“You can’t repair vintage Dior.”

“Then I’ll pay for the dress.”

He’ll pay for a vintage Dior dress?  Why?

“It’s on loan to me.  I don’t own it.”

“Then I’ll pay the person who loaned it to you.”

“It wasn’t a
person
who loaned it to me.  It was Dior itself that loaned it to me.”

“Perfect.  I have contacts at Dior.  I’ll speak with them in the morning.  We’ll settle everything then, and I’ll call you.  Fair enough?”

I was about to turn to see who this man was—and also get a look at the woman who refused to take responsibility for tripping me up—when the group that had been waiting for their martinis came over and took their cocktails without saying a word to me.  Because of the sudden redistribution of weight, the tray started to tip, and I had to quickly readjust the other drinks before another potential disaster occurred. 

Meanwhile, I listened to what was being said behind me.

“There’s hardly any reason for you to get involved,” the woman said.  “It was
her
fault, after all.”

“I’m not sure that it was, but that’s neither here nor there.  What’s done is done, Marie.  Don’t you agree?  How about if we have a dance later?”

“I’m hardly about to stay here with a tear in my dress.  And besides, this event is practically over, anyway.  Good night.”

Before she left, I turned to apologize to her, but she already was moving into the crowd with a group of other people, so I instead faced him. 

And when I did, everything that had just happened faded away. 

Only once before in my life had I come even remotely close to the sort of physical attraction I felt.  It had been with my former boyfriend, Brian.  But as good looking as Brian was, he had nothing on this man.  Or his presence.  Though his face was partly concealed by a simple black mask that framed his light blue eyes, I couldn’t deny the heat that corded through my body when his gaze met mine.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I looked up at him and moved to speak, but could only nod.  For some reason, words failed me.  His dark hair was parted on the side and it gleamed in the light.  He was wearing a tux that had been so snuggly fitted to him, that I knew that beneath it was a body built for lust.  There was a day’s worth of stubble on his face, his jawline was strong and square, and his lips were full.  Though I couldn’t see all of his face, he looked to be somewhere around thirty—which was just five years older than I was.  He was so tall, he towered over me.

“Well, you’re talkative,” he said.

I looked up at him.  “I’m sorry,” I said.  “Everything happened so fast.  I think I’m still catching my breath.”

“You do seem to be breathing hard.”

Was I?
  “When you lifted me, I think I had the wind knocked out of me.”

“Is that what it is?”

“You’re strong,” I said.  “And you surprised me.  You lifted me straight up and over her dress as if I weighed nothing.”

“You
are
light,” he said.

I was so flustered by my attraction to him that I had to glance away.  He was seeing more of me than I wanted him to.  “Thank you for what you did,” I said after a moment.  “You didn’t have to do that.  I’m grateful.”

“I actually saw it go down,” he said.  “For whatever reason, she fluffed out her dress, and you steamrolled into it.  I’m just happy that I was there to catch you before you fell.”  He held out his hand to me, and the sex he exuded was so complete, it felt as if my hormones—which had caught a bus out of town for the past year—had just turned with horns blaring and lights flashing.  “I’m Chance,” he said.

As I shook his hand, I felt a jolt. 

His hand was warm and strong, but not smooth—there was a roughness to it that surprised me.  It wasn’t a hand I’d expect to find in this crowd.  It didn’t belong to someone who spent his days sitting behind a desk while thumbing through reports or talking on the phone.  It also didn’t belong to someone who had received a trust fund in childhood, and then, in adulthood, decided that he’d live off the interest rather than work.  Instead, it was a hand that knew physical labor, and for an instant, I imagined what that hand would feel like on my body.  Or inside of it….

What’s wrong with me?  

I never behaved like this.  Among my girlfriends, who bemoaned my strict Catholic upbringing, I was considered the most conservative of the group.  But I was second-guessing all of that now.  Why was I so drawn to this man?  What was it about him?  

I need to get out of here.  I need to walk away. 

Still, for reasons that I couldn’t understand, I told him my name.  “I’m Abby,” I said. 

“Abby—the conflicted young woman who has no idea how beautiful she is.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been watching you tonight.  I hope you don’t mind, but I kind of couldn’t help myself.  You have no idea the affect you have on the men in this room, do you?  And, frankly, on some of the women as well.  It’s been refreshing to watch you.  Most women know if they’re beautiful.  You don’t.  I wonder why that is.”

What was I to say to that?

“I’m just here to work.”

“It’s been a tough crowd.  You’ve been working hard.”

“I’m just trying to get through school.”

“School?”

“Grad school.  I’m working toward my MA.  That kind of thing.”
 
I paused.  “What did you mean by conflicted?”

“Your eyes gave you away,” he said.  “You can feel it, can’t you?  It’s probably as confusing to you as it is to me.  And as surprising.  But it’s there, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?”

My heart started to quicken.  Was my attraction to him that obvious?  Clearly, it was.  He was seducing me, but with the graceful hand of subtlety.   There was mischief in his eyes, but also layers of sincerity and interest.  The curl at the corner of his lips wasn’t just the hint of a smile—there was something deeper there that I couldn’t define.  He was being at once serious and playful.  I didn’t know what to make of him or of this situation.  But I knew one thing—he was disarming.  He was breaking down my barriers.  A part of me wanted to run away from him—just as I had run from every man since Brian had cheated on me.  But there was another part of me that Brian hadn’t destroyed that wanted to experience the intensity of this moment.  To feel that burn again.  To let someone in just far enough to know that the fire—nearly snuffed a year ago—was still alive and could grow again.

“You’re different,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re unusual.”

“And you’re being vague.”

“You’re unaffected.  I don’t find that often in Manhattan.”  He shrugged.  “For that matter, I don’t find it in most cities I land in.”

“You don’t live here?” I asked.

“I don’t.”

“How long are you here for?”

“Unfortunately, just for two more days.”

I felt my heart fall. 
And that’s that.
  This man was charming, kind, and handsome, but if he didn’t live here, why waste my time losing myself in those eyes of his?  He not only lived somewhere else, but also was part of a gilded world to which I didn’t belong.

“I should go,” I said.  “I still have to deliver these drinks, especially the champagne before it goes flat.  People are probably furious with me right now.”

“Then I should let you work,” he said.  “So, we’ll talk later?”

I furrowed my brow at him.  “Later?”

“Yes.  Later,” he said.  “When your shift is over and you can join me for a drink.”

“But the bar will be closed by then.”

“I was thinking that we could have a drink in my suite.  There’s a full bar there.  And beautiful views of the city.”

“Your suite?”

“I keep one of the penthouse suites here.”

“I’m afraid—”

“There’s no reason for you to be afraid,” he said as he turned away.  “I don’t bite.  And it’s just a drink.  Just for one night.  Unless, of course, you decide that you want more.  And if you do, then we’ll also drink to that.”

CHAPTER TWO

For the next hour, I was a hot mess of stripped nerves and raw emotions that would have gotten the best of me if I hadn’t needed to step it up, focus on my work, and make sure that the increasingly thinning crowd got their drinks.

Everywhere around me, I was aware of his presence, even during those moments when I couldn’t physically see him.  But I could feel him—oh man, could I feel him.  As I moved about the room, either bringing people their drinks or taking new orders for fresh cocktails, I could feel him as if he were standing right next to me.  He was waiting until the last person left the party, and at that point, he’d likely approach me to pick up where we’d left off.

I saw him three times during the party’s final hour, once talking with a group of men and women, and twice leaning alone against one of the Grand Ballroom’s towering columns. 

It was during those singular moments that I felt him the most because, each time, he’d been staring at me.

He wanted me—that was clear.  At least part of him sensed that I was considering my options.  But that didn’t mean that anything was going to happen.  

He likely sensed that, too.

I hadn’t committed to a drink with him in his suite, or whatever else might follow.  He knew that, and so he watched me.  And while he watched me, I continued to face my own dilemma, which would have shook my mother to her religious core if she knew that it was a dilemma for me.  I could go to his suite, have a drink, and decide at that point if I wanted more.  Or I could just call it a day and go home alone, which is what I always did because, frankly, it was easier.

Since leaving Brian a year ago, I’d repeatedly said no to the prospect of getting romantically involved with someone—let alone having sex with someone—until I was emotionally ready to take that step.  That’s just who I was.  I wasn’t about to bang a few random men in an effort to get over Brian like my girlfriends wanted me to do.  Instead, I’d chosen the more logical route—taking time to sort through my emotions and deal with the end of my relationship so I didn’t make the same mistakes twice.

But now that those emotions had been dealt with and I was in a better space, how much longer could I hold out?  How much longer
should
I hold out?  I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t missed having sex with someone I loved.  But what I didn’t know anything about was having sex with a stranger—I’d always been a relationship kind of girl.  I’d never had a one-night stand.  It wasn’t that I wouldn’t consider one—it was just that I hadn’t had one yet.  If I had sex with this guy, would knowing nothing about him lessen the impact of the act?  Or would it heighten it?

Given my attraction to him, I didn’t know.

I looked around the room again.  It was a moment before I found him near the end of the bar, not far from where I picked up my drinks.  He was talking to a middle-aged couple as they prepared to leave the ballroom, but I knew why he was there.  It was the end of the night.  The party was over.  He’d placed himself there so he wouldn’t miss me on my way out.  He was determined to make this happen.  I had to wonder how often he did this.  Was this something he sought out in each city he visited?  As Brooke would put it, was he some kind of chronic manwhore?

What was the line he’d used on me?  
You can feel it, can’t you?  It’s probably as confusing to you as it is to me.  And as surprising.  But it’s there, isn’t it?