Chandler Read online

  She hesitates, suspicion vibrating from her body. Which is crazy—I’m a puppy.

  Except I’m not a puppy. Not right now, not around her, and her distrust increases my interest in her tenfold.

  “How about you drink from both of them? And then I’ll choose one.”

  Whichever she chooses, she’ll have her lips on the glass after mine. That’s so hot.

  Maybe I am only twelve.

  With her eyes still caught in mine, I take a swallow from one flute and then from the other. “Now choose.”

  “I’ll have this one,” she says, claiming the glass I drank more from. “Thank you.” Her skepticism relaxes slightly, but she’s still wary. As she should be.

  I’m surprised how much it arouses me.

  Tipping it forward, I clink my flute to hers. “You’ve been surrounded all night.”

  “And?” She’s polite enough not to sigh, but I can hear the weariness behind the single word.

  I should leave her alone.

  I can’t. “I didn’t like it.”

  She tilts her head, her expression both appalled and intrigued. “I don’t really think it matters what you like.”

  “True, true.” I give her the Chandler grin, the one that drops panties at the speed of light. “Thing is, I don’t think you liked it either.”

  She crosses her arms over herself and leans her weight on one gorgeous hip. “So, since I didn’t like a bunch of men trying to pick me up, you thought you’d come over and pick me up instead?”

  “When you put it that way, I sound like an asshole.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  She seems truly put off, and I’m momentarily thrown off my game. Mostly because this isn’t at all the game I usually play. Usually, I’m the target. There are too many already willing women to waste time working for one.

  Smile and say goodnight, Chandler.

  I take a swallow from my drink. The sweetness is so much more tolerable as I imagine licking it off her lips, and now that I’ve imagined it, there’s no going back.

  “How about I make it up to you?” I say, totally improvising. “When you’re ready to go, I’ll escort you out so no one bothers you. Once outside, you can totally tell me to take a hike.”

  She gives me the same expression she did before—the shocked and fascinated one—and this time I catch a hint of amusement as well. “You’re really full of yourself, thinking I need you to help me get out of here.”

  An unexpected filthy, crass comment about filling her instead flutters on the tip of my tongue, but I push it away. Play nice. “I wasn’t implying that at all. I’m just offering a service that could be mutually beneficial.”

  “How would that benefit you?”

  “I’d get to be the guy seen walking out with the most beautiful woman in the room.” Yes! Now my brain’s on the right track.

  She gives me an incredulous glare, but her icy demeanor has melted. “You American men are such charmers.” She takes a sip from her drink, and when she licks her tongue over her bottom lip? Talk about melting. I’m so hot I’m a puddle of molten lava over this girl.

  Somehow I manage to remain charming. “Oh,” I mock groan, clutching my chest as though she’s wounded my heart. “You’ve lumped me with the all the other ‘American men.’ That’s a real low blow.”

  She laughs, and it’s so adorable that I want to sink my teeth into the sound and bite, want to mark it and claim it as mine.

  “Perhaps it was a little crueler than necessary,” she says, then sobers quickly. “Let me ask you this—is being seen with me the only thing you’re interested in?”

  No, it’s most definitely not at all. I’m also interested in fucking her. I’m interested in dragging her into a dark corner so I can feed her my cock. I’m interested in watching her ride me, her petite tits bouncing as she drives up and down the length of my shaft.

  And now I am hard. So hard it hurts.

  I don’t answer. Which is an answer in itself.

  Damn, I need to get out of here.

  I catch sight of the crowd that had earlier surrounded her and use it as my excuse. “Your entourage seems to be returning. I’ll let you attend to them.” I will myself to turn and walk away, but my feet don’t move, and before I know it, I’m leaning into her, so close I can smell her natural scent underneath her floral perfume.

  “My offer stands if you want it,” I say quietly. “Come and find me. I’ll be here.”

  Shit. Now I’ve done it. If she has any sense, she’ll tell me not to bother waiting around. It’s my only hope.

  But when I straighten, her eyes lock on mine, and I can’t help but think she might be as twisted up over me as I am about her.

  “Genevieve,” she says, holding her hand out to me.

  I barely manage to mask the shock that runs through me when my hand clasps around hers. “Chandler. Chandler Pierce.”

  Her brow rises in recognition, and for the first time in my life, I’m worried about my reputation. Usually, I wear my name like it’s a designer brand. My name gets me things I like. Gets me out of speeding tickets and into the arms of pretty women.

  But I’ve never cared who the pretty woman was—this time I do. This time, I want the pretty woman to be this one. I want Genevieve.

  Her expression is unreadable, and I can’t tell if I’ve just sealed the deal or if I’ve blown any chance I might have had.

  Then she says, “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Pierce,” and turns to greet the gentleman who has just arrived at her side, also carrying two flutes of champagne.

  Though she clings to the one I gave her, her dismissal is clear. Mr. Pierce, she said. So cold and detached. So utterly unimpressed.

  I take the cue and slip away. I should leave the event entirely, but I can’t force myself to go. I told her I’d be here, and maybe it’s because I really am a nice guy that I can’t seem to bring myself to break my word.

  Or maybe I just can’t bear to let her go yet.

  I mingle. Some woman I’ve fucked in the past drapes herself over my shoulder and introduces her friend who drapes herself over my other arm. This is my audience. I could take either of them home right now. Both of them.

  But as they fawn, my focus is on Genevieve. I watch as she excuses herself from her admirers. My gaze follows her as she approaches a group of men. She taps one on the shoulder, one old enough to be her father. He puts a finger up, telling her to wait, and I bristle at the gesture because it’s rude but also because it’s familiar. Just like I didn’t like the crowd that had surrounded her, I don’t like what this man might be to her. I have no right to care. I’ve only just met her, and every interest I have in her is carnal. Yet I do care. Very much.

  Which is why, when I see her heading toward me a few minutes later, I already know I’m about to say or do something I shouldn’t.

  Ignoring the women clinging to me, Genevieve looks me straight in the eye. “Does your offer still stand, Chandler? Because I’m ready to go now.”

  I don’t hesitate even a beat. “Definitely,” I say, shucking off the women as though they were a well-worn jacket. I slip my hand in Genevieve’s. “Let’s go, shall we?”

  Told you I’d do something I shouldn’t. Sorry, Hudson.

  2

  Another thing about me—I’m not immune to falling in love.

  The first time was that woman from five years ago, the one that felt like cheating. Gwen was her name. I was nineteen. She was ten years older. It was hot as fuck being with an older woman like that, and perhaps that was confusing. I was just a “kid” and all.

  I shouldn’t be bitter about it. And I’m not. Not anymore, anyway. She was honest from the beginning. I chased her, and when she relented, she made sure I understood that we were just banging. I got it—I really did.

  Until I didn’t.

  Looking back, I can see the mistakes I made. I let her occupy too many of my thoughts. Saw her too much, too often. The real error was letting myself care, and wh
en she sobbed to me about the man she really loved, a man who’d left her and broken her, I had the white knight kind of noble thought that I would have been better. Been a better man to her. Been better at loving her.

  She ended up with the other guy, and okay, maybe they’re perfect together. And okay, maybe she shouldn’t have been expected to tell me her heart belonged to someone else. It was probably immature to feel like she’d been cheating on him while she loved him and fucked me. Cheating on me while she fucked me and loved him. Who can say? What I do know is that when she chose him? It fucking hurt.

  I told myself I was done.

  I fell in love again six months later.

  She was a girl in my business ethics class. Tessa. Three dates in, and I was a goner. Her response when I told her? “I’m gay.”

  The only bright side was when she told me, “The sex was so good, I got confused.” Best compliment ever.

  Anyway, two times burned, you’d think I’d learned my lesson.

  Nope.

  Four months later, I was in love with Bethany. She seemed to be crazy about me as well. I was only twenty, but I pictured us going all the way—two point five kids, a house in the Hamptons, and sex two times a night, even ten years later.

  Then she “borrowed” my American Express and racked up fifty-seven thousand dollars before I discovered it. She volunteered to go into therapy in lieu of me pressing charges. I was so crazy into her, I agreed. Which is how she ended up driving off with a handful of my cash in my F12 Berlinetta Ferrari. She ended up crashing it beyond repair. I still miss that car.

  I missed her too for a while. Stupidly.

  But once my wounds healed, I pulled my head out of my ass and made myself a new plan, a new mission statement: Do not fall in love.

  As most anyone who’s had any experience running a business will proclaim—having a mission statement makes decisions one thousand percent easier to make. When a new idea or opportunity arrives, all I have to do is match it against my objective, and then I know whether or not to follow up on it.

  Let me demonstrate with a few examples.

  Situation: I’m going to Cabo for a week—should I bring someone to spend the nights with or hook up once there?

  Response after measuring against objective: Obviously the first option better guarantees I won’t be sleeping alone. But romantic beaches? Sunset walks? Sounds like there could be an awful good chance of falling in love. Better choose the latter.

  Situation: A woman offers to exchange phone numbers.

  Response: What, so I can fall head over heels for her adorable texts and sexy selfies? Kindly decline.

  Situation: The redhead with the cute mole wants me to meet her parents.

  Response: If I’ve memorized any of her unique features, I’m already in too deep. Meeting her parents would surely seal my affection. Withdraw immediately.

  Situation: There’s a girl at the bar that I slept with a month ago—do I say hello?

  Response: Hell no. Repeats are a surefire way to trigger an emotional attachment.

  Situation: She suggests I go bareback inside her.

  Response: Isn’t that the definition of falling in love?

  See? It works. Using this method, I’ve established rules for myself, rules that have protected my heart these past few years, as well as my bank account.

  Tonight, with Genevieve, I can’t seem to focus on my objective at all, and I have a feeling if I examined my behavior I’d discover much of it has contradicted my don’t-fall-in-love goal. I’ve pursued her. I’ve let her become too interesting within the space of less than an hour. I’ve given her too much of my attention, noticing each time she smiles or speaks to another guy, my gut clenching with envy. Any risk management assessment report would mark all of those factors in the hazardous column.

  But just because there’s a risk doesn’t mean the opportunity should necessarily be avoided all together. Right? The best businessmen are willing to venture. That’s where the most satisfying rewards are found. And because I’m aware of the danger, I’m more likely to avoid it.

  Even I recognize it as bullshit.

  It doesn’t stop me from escorting Genevieve through the crowd. My skin is on fire through my jacket from the touch of her hand on my arm, and let’s not even talk about how badly I need to adjust myself. When I catch her glancing toward the man she’d spoken to just before finding me, I’m already piqued to react poorly.

  “Your father?” I ask, feeling nearly insane from the possibility that he isn’t.

  She sighs. “I look just like him, don’t I?”

  So he is her father. Thank fucking Christ.

  I use her question as an excuse to study her. “No, you don’t. Maybe a bit around the cheekbones. I only asked because the two of you acted so familiar. I worried I’d been flirting with someone who was already taken.”

  She rolls her eyes, but the spark in them tells me she’s not entirely annoyed. “Just because he’s my father doesn’t mean I’m not taken by someone else.”

  “Are you?” I challenge.

  “No. I’m not.”

  My instant grin tells her how I feel about this bit of news.

  Looking away, she mumbles, “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m being so honest.”

  “You definitely should have lied. What a missed opportunity.” I stretch my arm out to hold the door open for her.

  “Perhaps.”

  She brushes past me. The physical contact is intoxicating. Every nerve in my body sits up in attention. Don’t even ask what my dick is doing.

  “There you are perhaps-ing me again. You have no idea what that does to me.”

  We take a few more steps before she stops and gives me her full attention, her grey eyes searing into my skin. “All right. I’ll bite. What does it do to you?”

  “Well. It’s a ‘maybe’. It’s a ‘possibly’.” I move so I’m facing her. “I’m a pretty optimistic guy, Genevieve. You leave the door open even a crack with possibilities, I’m going to slide on inside.”

  There’s no mistaking my deeper meaning. It’s forward and a bit crass, but we’re outside the museum now, and soon I’ll either put her in a cab or in my car. I so want it to be my car that I’m willing to make the bold move.

  Luckily, she doesn’t slap me.

  She might even like what I’m suggesting, based on the pink blush at her collarbone. As she considers, her tongue swipes across her bottom lip, sending a jolt to the already stiff bulge in my pants, and I’m struck with the sudden strange desire to punish her for it. Spank her pretty ass for making such a sexy gesture. Turn all of her backside red for the ache she’s caused my balls.

  Holy hell, where did that fantasy come from?

  I inhale slowly, trying to release the images from my mind. I’ve never had such wicked thoughts about a stranger. Part of me is afraid I’ll lose all control if I take her home. A bigger part of me is afraid I don’t actually care.

  Seconds pass, seconds so fraught with tension they feel like an eternity. “Do you have a car parked with the valet?” I ask, eager in her silence.

  She shakes her head. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  This time she doesn’t hesitate, glancing in the direction of the parking attendant. “Give the man your claim ticket then. You can drive me to my hotel.”

  Relief rains through me. She’s only asked for a ride, but ah, the possibilities.

  Five minutes later, the valet pulls up with my car. Genevieve raises an eyebrow. “A Bugatti?”

  I’m so impressed she can name the model that I practically jizz in my pants. “It’s the best.”

  She shakes her head, and I swear I hear her mutter something about rich men and their toys, but I don’t respond, too occupied with inspecting my car and then passing the attendant the cash I promised him earlier for returning my vehicle in perfect condition.

  I slide into the driver’s seat, and when I look over at Genevieve as she buckles her seatbelt, a wave of pure, unad
ulterated lust rolls through me. I’m very aware that I’ve trapped her, that she’s now defenseless to my whims. Not that I’d take advantage, but goddamn, to think that I could…

  I nearly shiver at my own vile thoughts.

  Glad she can’t know what I’m thinking, I flash her a smile. “So. Where am I taking you?”

  “I’m staying at the Park Hyatt on 57th Street.”

  “Fancy.” The Park Hyatt is one of the nicest luxury hotels in New York. That means this girl has money, which isn’t a bad thing. Just, the swell of my wallet in my back pocket is usually one of my better attributes. If wealth doesn’t attract her, I hope I’m not shit out of luck when it comes to getting an invitation up to her room.

  Apparently, I’m transparent because she asks, “Not impressed?”

  “Quite the opposite. I’m worried you won’t have a reason to be impressed with me.” Now I’m the one who can’t believe how honest I’m being.

  “It’s a valid worry,” she says after a beat, and I can’t tell if she’s teasing or being blunt. Can’t tell if I should prepare for gut-wrenching disappointment or dive into another round of sexy banter.

  I concentrate on my driving instead, speeding up before slipping expertly into a tight opening in the adjacent lane.

  I’ll admit I’m showing off.

  “Smashing,” she says with a tone that vibrates through my body like I’m a tuning fork.

  Then, abruptly, she laughs, and I turn my head toward her, alarmed at the source of her amusement.

  “I still can’t believe you drive a Bugatti in the city. I can’t decide if that makes you brilliant or as mad as a bag of ferrets.”

  “Brilliant, of course.” Though, with her so close, I feel more like I’m going crazy. “What can I say? I like things that are fast.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “You don’t?” I raise a questioning brow. “Maybe you don’t understand how awesome fast can be.” I put my foot on the gas and race down the next block to prove my point.

  The traffic light turns red as I approach the intersection, and I ease the brakes. “See? Fast is fun.”

  “The problem with fast is it’s over too quickly.”