Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(5)
Surprised? I get that a lot. Most everyone I meet doesn’t understand why a guy who dresses impeccably to work at home doesn’t overwork himself into an early grave. I have enough. Enough money, enough of a reputation. Enough clients.
Could I have more? Sure. Do I want more? Sometimes. But I refuse to work a minute past four. I’m not going to be making any panicked after-hours phone calls shouting, “Sell! Sell! Sell!”
That shit’s for the movies.
What I like is a solid day of honest labor followed by dinner and an ice-cold beer. Slide in a lunch break and a visit to the gym, and that’s my personal utopia. After my daily obligations, I like to unwind, and typically I choose to unwind with a member of the opposite sex. One who sheds her clothes and her inhibitions with me for a night or two of fun.
I’m rinsing my plate when a female voice croaks behind me, “Morning.”
I’m not going to lie: She startled me a little bit.
Not that I didn’t know she was here. Heather came home with me last night after I took her out of McGreevy’s to hit another bar she invited me to. Her friend is in a band, and she begged me to go while tugging me toward the exit. I paid my tab and went along. I didn’t foresee the pair of buttery nipples that took her down. You know I’m talking about the drink, right? Okay. So, yeah, she’d already had several when we were at the pub, but then at Rhode Haus she had two more, and guess who we couldn’t find an hour later?
Her ride.
She was so sauced she couldn’t remember where she lived, so I brought her back to my place. She sneaked from the couch to my bedroom at three in the morning and tried to go down on me, only to fall asleep next to me. I let her have my bed and I took the aforementioned couch. I slept for shit, but at least I wasn’t getting simultaneously mauled and/or puked on, so that was a win.
Heather, wrapped in my dove gray luxury comforter, drags it with her as she comes down the stairs. My apartment, I have to admit, is the stuff dreams are made of. A staircase from the front door deposits you into the living room and kitchen area, and then another staircase angles to the bedrooms upstairs. I keep my decor simple. White walls to offset the black slatted stairs, and abstract artwork on the walls to add a splash of color to what would otherwise be a monochromatic palette. My office is beyond the kitchen in a dining room I turned into a work space.
“How’d you sleep?” I ask, drying the dish and placing it in the cabinet.
“Fitfully.” She’s a little bit of a thing. Blond, so well within my shagging rights, but I didn’t shag her. Not only because she was drunk, because, come on, we’ve all had that sort of a hookup, but because she didn’t appeal to me.
Even as I look at her, hungover though she is, I can’t figure out the lack of desire. Petite, with long, flaxen hair, she’s pretty in a simple way. Her face is angular and her piercing blue eyes memorable. She’s thin rather than curvy; small breasts press against the cotton of one of my T-shirts.
Then it hits me. Heather isn’t exciting. A certain red-haired bartender must’ve awakened my dormant adrenaline junkie.
Fantastic.
“What are we doing today?” Heather angles her face for a kiss. Rather than give her one, I thrust a glass of OJ into her hand.
“Drink this and get dressed. Your cab will be here in a few minutes.” I turn and grab my espresso and lift it to my lips. “I assume you remember your address?”
She blushes, purses her lips into a pout. “You have to go to work.”
“I do.”
“When?”
I hate when they’re desperate. It’s embarrassing for them and sad for me.
“Five minutes ago,” I lie. I’m not late. I’m never late. I prepare for each unplanned possibility. No, really. If a sinkhole swallowed my apartment right this second, I’d have an escape route.
Once upon a time I was ill prepared for a circumstance that left me with my dick in my hand. (No, not literally.) I vowed that day to be prepared, block my life off in manageable, measurable units.
“Oh.” She chews on the side of her lip. “I don’t have to go, though.” She steps closer and fingers the button on my suit coat.
“You have to go, Heather. I brought you here rather than leave you at Rhode Haus, and that requires no thanks on your part. But I need you to leave so I can get to work.”
Her eyes glitter with what might be tears, but then she smiles tightly and sets the juice glass down. “I guess I’ll get dressed.”
Right then a honk lifts on the air and we hold each other’s eyes for a truncated moment. Her gaze is filled with longing and regret and mine is filled with patience and understanding.
I can tell she’s not used to being treated with respect. The problem is she’s mistaken my hospitality for what could be more, and I can’t allow her to continue with that misconception.
At least I didn’t leave her to the whims of one of the dirtbags in the band.
See?
I’m a nice guy.
Grace
“No one wears red like you, Grace.”
My best friend, Roxanne, puts the final touches on my hair. She’s the beautician responsible for my flame-red tresses. Today we opted for a more natural shade of red, though the color is still bright and bold.
Like me.
She makes house calls, which makes her indispensable. My house isn’t large, but we make do with a kitchen chair, some plastic on the floor, and a stainless-steel kitchen sink.