Make Me Sin (2 page)

“Just having you do the flowers is enough of a present—”

“Kat, there’s no way I’m making money off you—”

“Why the hell not? If we weren’t using you, we’d have to pay some other florist! I’d rather give you the money.”

“And I’d rather be Beyoncé, but that’s not happening, either.”

“Chloe—”

“Kat—”

“Shut up, girls,” says Nico with affection, effectively ending the argument.

Except it doesn’t, because I’ll never send them a bill. Even if Kat wasn’t my best friend, the kind of publicity she and Nico are giving me is priceless.

A.J. has moved to my right side and is looking down at the portfolios of my work with an expression I interpret as nausea. He glances up and finds me looking at him. His amber eyes—eyes that could actually be beautiful if they weren’t so cold—narrow. He says flatly, “Yeah. Shut up.”

“A.J.,” Nico warns, but I hold up a hand.

Without looking away from A.J., I say to Nico and Kat, “Could you guys excuse us for a second?”

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. I refuse to break eye contact with A.J. From beneath the collar of his black T-shirt, a flush creeps up his neck.

Fine. Be angry. I’ve had enough.

“We’ll be in your office.” Kat takes Nico’s hand, and then A.J. and I are alone.

He pulls himself up to his full height, folds his arms across his chest, and looks down his nose at me. Which means I have to look
up
—at five foot ten, this is an unusual experience for me. And today I’m in low heels, so my height is easily over six feet . . . and I’m still looking up.
Way
up.

I can never wear heels around Eric.
I banish that thought as quickly as it arrives.

I demand, “What’s your problem with me?”

I’ll give him this: the guy has an amazing poker face. There’s not a single telling change in his expression. He doesn’t even blink.

He also doesn’t answer.

I scowl at him. “Fine. I suppose it doesn’t really matter. But Kat and Nico matter. And their wedding matters. And whatever the reason is that you hate me so much—not that I think I’ve done anything to deserve it, but whatever—I won’t let you ruin what’s supposed to be the happiest time in their lives by being so . . . so . . .”

“Mean?” he supplies with a smirk, seeming almost satisfied.

“Selfish,”
I correct with quiet vehemence.

Now he blinks. Then his brows lower. A crackle of something passes between us, bright as danger.

“Selfish,” he repeats. His gaze, electrifying, flicks over me. He takes a step forward, staring into my eyes. This close I can see the flecks of brown and green in his gold irises. His lashes are impossibly long, golden brown and thick. He leans in and softly says, “Princess, you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

My heart pounds wildly. He’s big, and probably dangerous—did I read somewhere he’d spent time in prison for assault?—but I’m not afraid of him. What I’m feeling isn’t as clear-cut as fear. I have to take a slow, steadying breath before I speak. “The wedding is only a few months away. After that, we never have to see each other again. Let’s just try to ignore each other until then. For Kat and Nico’s sake. Okay?”

There’s another long, uncomfortable silence. A.J.’s gaze on me is burning. I catch a whiff of him, a warm, masculine scent of skin and musk and maybe cigarette smoke. I notice details about him I’ve never noticed before, like the way his hair is every shade of blond, from darkest copper to palest wheat. It needs to be cut. Stubble glints gold along his jaw. There’s a small white scar above his left eyebrow. On his neck, there’s a tattoo that disappears into his collar. I can just make out the shape of a cross.

His gaze drops to my mouth. When he looks into my eyes again, his voice is husky. “You were wrong, before.”

Confused, I frown. “About what?”

His jaw works. For the first time, there’s a flash of emotion in his eyes, something other than contempt. “About not doing anything to make me hate you. You’ve done plenty.”

He turns on his heel and stalks away, out of my shop. I stand frozen, watching him go, watching as a white convertible Audi pulls up to the curb and a woman waves from it.

The brunette.

A.J. swings his bulk into the passenger seat, slams shut the door, shoots me a smirk, and they’re gone. I release the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. So much for trying to strike a peace accord with the fire-breathing dragon.

I won’t make the same mistake again.

And Kat owes me ten bucks.

B
y the time I get home from work, it’s dark, there’s no parking available on the street, and the migraine that had been threatening me earlier has descended in full force. My head feels as if it will explode.

I wish it would. Then at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the play-by-play, slow motion reruns my brain is torturing me with of the meeting with the Jerk today. At least Kat and Nico were happy with the way the meeting went. I fibbed and told them A.J. and I made a truce so they wouldn’t worry my feelings had been hurt. They have more important things to think about. Then I told the truth and said he’d left to spend some time with his new special friend he’d met in the candle aisle. Kat snorted. Nico rolled his eyes, trying to hide a smile, and said, “Figures.”

It “figures” that he runs off with a woman he just met to have sex. Probably amazing, animalistic sex. In her convertible.

In my next life, I want to come back as a rock star.

I circle the block four times, crawling through traffic, until finally someone pulls out from the curb just in front of me and I whip into his spot before it’s stolen by all the other apartment dwellers circling behind.

When I moved in last year, the sales girl from the management company that maintains the building failed to tell me that finding a parking spot in this neighborhood after five o’clock is as likely as finding a winning lottery ticket on the sidewalk. She failed to mention several other important things, too, like how when she described the building as “full of character,” she actually meant “decrepit.” The faucets drip, the pipes rattle, the walls are so thin I’ve become uncomfortably familiar with the nighttime intimacies of my neighbors. But since I sank all my money into Fleuret, I can’t afford to move. And there’s no way I’m taking any money from my parents. I’m going to make this work one way or another, without their help.

I drag my sorry self from the car, sigh at the sight of the security gate cocked open because the lock is still broken, climb three flights of stairs—elevator’s on the fritz again—and let myself into my apartment just in time to hear the phone ringing. When I pick up, it’s my mother.

“Thank goodness! I was just about to call the police to report a missing person.”

I lived at home until I was twenty-four. My mother is having a hard time letting go. She’s also convinced that living in this part of town, I’ll be raped and killed in my sleep. I’ve reminded her that if I
were
raped by an intruder in the middle of the night, I’d probably wake up before I was killed in my sleep. She didn’t find my logic amusing.

Wearily, I drop my purse on the floor, sink onto the couch, and close my eyes. “You should try my cell, Mom. I’m hardly ever here.”

“Well. I don’t want to bother you at work.”

There’s a slight emphasis on “work.” This is an old argument. I’m in no mood to rehash it again. “How are you? How’s Dad?”

“I’m fine, dear, thank you. Your father is . . .” A faint, ladylike sigh comes over the line. “Well, he’s taken another pro bono case.”

She says it as if she can hardly bear the shame. To my mother, there’s only one thing worse than working, and that’s working for free. No matter that my father makes eight figures a year in his law practice, a single pro bono case will set her teeth on edge for months. I steer clear of that landmine, and head into safer waters.

“And Gigi?”

Her voice warms. “My baby is so sweet. We went to the groomer’s today for a bath.”

I smile at the thought of my mother and her pampered bichon
frise puppy taking a bath together at the dog groomers. When she talks
about the dog, it’s always “we,” like they’re a single entity. She bought
Gigi as part of her empty nest adjustment, and I swear she loves that
dog more than anything else in her life. Probably because the dog is
as
much of a snob as she is.

“I’m calling because your brother’s coming into town this weekend, dear. Will you and Eric come for dinner Sunday?”

My smile grows wider. “Jamie’s coming out? Awesome! Business trip?”

“I think it’s an immigration reform conference or some dreadful thing like that. You know your brother. Champion of the downtrodden.”

My brother’s an attorney who works for the largest immigration law firm in Manhattan. The way she discounts his job always grates on my nerves. “He’s doing good work, Mom.”

“Of course he is. But there must be plenty of people in this world better suited to help the poor.” She launches into a rant I’ve heard a dozen times before. “James graduated summa cum laude from Princeton. He’s brilliant, handsome, and comes from a good family. His grandmother is a countess, for God’s sake! He should be in politics, or marrying some heiress, but instead he’s earning an associate’s salary and rubbing elbows with the hoi polloi.” She sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know where I went wrong.”

I have to bite my tongue in order to not recite a list. “Seven on Sunday?”

“As always.”

“Okay, Mom. I’m beat, so I’m going to hang up now. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“With Eric,” she reminds me firmly. He’s the one thing in my life she approves of, even if he does have to work for a living. I can’t blame her. Compared to most of my exes, Eric is practically a saint.

We say good-bye and hang up. Immediately there’s a knock on my door. It’s probably another solicitor selling magazine subscriptions. Darn that broken security gate!

Not moving from the couch, I shout, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, babe!” comes the muffled reply. “Surprise!”

Eric. I’m not surprised. He enjoys showing up unannounced. I sometimes wonder if he’s trying to catch me with another guy. That would never happen because I’m not that kind of girl, but his tendency to drop by without calling is a little irritating. I rub my temples, drag a deep breath into my lungs, and then haul myself from the sofa.

When I open the door, I’m immediately engulfed in an enthusiastic bear hug. The kiss Eric gives me is wet, and a little sloppy. He’s still in his police uniform. He smells like beer.

“Hey. Did you just get off work?”

He nods, grinning. I still haven’t taken off my heels, so I’m looking slightly down at him. This depresses me beyond reason. It must be the headache.

“I thought we could have dinner together. You up for it?”

I momentarily brighten at the thought of being treated to a dinner out, but Eric dispels that idea by saying, “I’ve been dreaming about your lasagna all day.”

He gives me another sloppy kiss, and moves past me into the apartment, not noticing that I’ve closed my eyes and am counting to ten.

This is one thing my mother got right. She never cooked or cleaned, so no one ever expected it of her. And if ever she got a wild hair up her butt and cooked something for us—even something as simple as toast—the entire family acted as if it were a Christmas miracle.

She might be a pampered snob, but she’s no dummy. If you don’t spoil other people, they can never take you for granted.

I close the door and join Eric in the kitchen, where he’s rummaging through my fridge. He emerges with a beer, pops the top, guzzles from the bottle, and shucks off his shoes, all without closing the refrigerator door. “How was your day, babe?”

I sigh. “Long.”

He doesn’t ask for details. “Mine, too. I’m beat. And starving,” he adds with emphasis, finally closing the door. Unbuckling the black utility belt around his waist, he deposits his gun, baton, radio, and all the other various accessories attached to it directly onto my kitchen counter. It makes a strangely ominous-looking mess. He drops his hat and badge beside the mess, strips off his navy short-sleeved shirt and regulation trousers, throws them over the whole pile, and turns to me, wearing only a pair of black socks, his white undershirt and briefs, and a huge grin.

He spreads his legs, props his hands on his hips, and declares, “Officer Eric Cox reporting for duty, ma’am! What’s this rookie’s lesson for today?”

I stifle another sigh.

Once upon a time, Eric’s talent for kissing was as bad as my Grandpa Walt’s practical jokes. It shocked me when we first started dating, because he’s a great-looking guy with loads of self-confidence, and, I assumed, plenty of experience with women. Apparently that experience did not include learning how to control a violently enthusiastic tongue while kissing. I swear the man would stick his tongue so far down my throat he could taste my lungs. When I complained about the problem to Kat, she suggested I take matters into my own hands and show him what I liked.

So I made up a game called “The Rookie Gets Shown the Ropes.” Far from being insulted, Eric took to our little game like a duck to water.

And now I have a monster on my hands.

I calmly fold my arms across my chest and lean against the fridge. “Well, Officer Cox, today’s lesson is a very important one. It’s called ‘How to Order Takeout When Your Girlfriend Has Worked a Twelve-Hour Day and Has a Migraine That Might Compel Her to Rearrange Certain Parts of Your Face with Her Fists.
’
”

He laughs uproariously. He thinks I’m joking.

“Babe, you’re so cute when you try to act like Grace! I love it! Do more!”

Grace is my other best friend. She’s a marriage and family counselor, whip smart, older than me and Kat by five years, and a bona fide badass. If Eric was her boyfriend and he’d demanded homemade lasagna within the first five seconds of walking in her door at the end of the day, he’d be missing a few important body parts right now.

“Sure. Our second lesson today will be, ‘How to Survive a Spanking with a Spatula with Your Dignity Intact.
’
” Without taking my gaze from his smiling face, I remove a wooden spatula from the jar on the counter next to the stove. I slap it against my thigh. “And our final lesson is simply called ‘Paying Attention to the Warning Signs of a Psychotic Break in the Tired, Irritated Female.
’
”

I smile sweetly at him, tapping the spatula against my leg. His own smile fades.

“Oh. Oops. Sorry, babe.”

He might be a little oblivious, but I’ll give him points for the apology, which I can tell he means.

Relenting, I toss the spatula to the counter. I give him a hug. “It’s not your fault. I just had a terrible day, and I’ve got a splitting headache. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

He hugs me back, chuckling. “You didn’t even raise your voice, silly. And I meant it when I said you were cute. If that’s you snapping, then I’ll take it anytime. My last girlfriend used to break stuff when she was angry. She’s Italian,” he adds, as if her nationality explained her urge to destroy things.

I rest my head on his shoulder, which strains my neck. Without his work shoes, he’s lost another inch. “Do you mind if we just order a pizza tonight? I really don’t feel up to cooking.”

His voice registers concern. “Sure. Why don’t you go take some Advil and put something more comfortable on, and I’ll take care of it. And after dinner I’ll give you a massage. How’s that?”

I groan in anticipation. “That sounds amazing. Thank you.”

He nuzzles my neck. His voice drops. “After your massage, you’ll get something that will relax you even more.”

I know he’s trying to be sexy, but the odd and unwelcome image of him slipping a roofie in my drink has me wondering what’s wrong with me. Eric would never do something like that. He’d never
have
to; in spite of what A.J. Edwards might think, I have a healthy appetite for sex, thank you very much.

A.J. Why does he look at me the way he does? Why does he treat me like I’m a leper? What’s that scar above his eyebrow? And those tattoos on his neck and the backs of his fingers, what are those all about? Does he have more tattoos? Where?

Why am I thinking about A.J. when my boyfriend is kissing my neck?

I pull away from Eric so abruptly he looks at me oddly. “You okay?” He touches my cheek. “Your face is all red.”

I can feel he’s right. My cheeks are suddenly so hot they burn. “I just need those Advil, that’s all. And some food.”

“Say no more. I’m on it.” He turns to the drawer where I keep the takeout menus and rifles through them. I turn and head for the bedroom.

“Lenzini’s?” he shouts from the kitchen. I strip off my shirt and toss it to the bed.

“Sounds good,” I shout back. I remove the rest of my work clothes, change into a pair of black yoga pants and a sweatshirt, and get the Advil from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Washing two gel caps down with a gulp of water from the sink, I catch sight of my face in the mirror.

I look like hell.

My makeup wore off hours ago. My complexion is blotchy, and there are black smudges beneath my eyes where mascara has strayed from my lashes. My hair looks as if a family of rodents has built a nest in it. My eyes are red and glassy, and there’s a look in them I rarely see:

Fury.

Anger boils my blood, making my hands shake, my heart throb as if I’ve sprinted up a flight of stairs. I know the cause of this rage, and I’m disappointed with myself for letting him, once again, get under my skin.