Another One Page 6

  “We can up the ante,” Max says with a grin.

  “Forget the model. Anyone gets laid tonight and his expenses for the weekend are zero. Eric, you’re exempt.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t care if we have separate hotel rooms. We’re not in college.”

  Eric takes a long draw on his beer. “You’re right, Trevor. This weekend isn’t about your dicks. It’s about my wedding. I’m happy to keep drinking and know that tomorrow I’m going home to Cynthia and that none of you have a new number in your phone.”

  “Awfully concerned about the little woman, aren’t we?” Max asks. “I believe there’s a name for that.”

  “It’s a phrase,” Matt says with a chuckle, “and it begins with P.”

  “Second word begins with W,” Max volunteers.

  “Yeah,” Eric responds to Max. “Just because you don’t like pussy doesn’t mean I don’t.” He turns to Matt. “And as far as the second word in that phrase, I remember a story about a college student who went to this BDSM club.”

  “Whoa!” Matt says, lifting his hand. “What happens in college stays in college.”

  “Good thing this isn’t college!” We all laugh as more and more people make their way into the bar.

  When our table finally quiets, Matt says, “I know I may be hallucinating, but when I went to sign us up for a pool table, I think I saw one of the models sitting at the bar. I know we talked about going to some other places, but who knows, maybe even Saks Fifth Avenue models know about our treasure here. There could be more on their way.” He waggles his brow. “Maybe we don’t have to give up on the models.”

  Eric looks at Matt’s empty bottle. “We’re in trouble. He’s seeing models everywhere. Operation stop Matt from sleeping with the first woman who talks to him.”

  “That’s the exact opposite of my idea,” Max says.

  Matt shakes his head before tilting it toward the bar. “No, I did. The blonde who was only in the finale, remember her? I swear that’s who I saw near the end of the bar.”

  I immediately remember her—everything about her.

  “You blokes keep imagining your models,” Max says with a grin. “I’m stepping outside for a smoke.”

  While I listen to the conversation that ensues, I try to inconspicuously look down the bar. I haven’t told anyone that I thought I recognized the blonde from the finale or that I was confident I’d awakened beside her at one time. These guys know me too well to believe my story. Yet with the bartenders and busy bar, my view is blocked. The stools are all filled, and there are people standing near the stools—blondes, brunettes, redheads, and even a few people with purple and green hair. I’m having trouble making anyone out until I zero in on a blonde near the end. She appears to be with a man. They’re talking with their heads together. From this view all I can see is her hair.

  Could it be her?

  I tell myself that it’s not. I don’t want my imaginary Shana to be with someone else.

  Shana

  “I never expected the club to be so packed,” Stephen says. Looking around, he adds, “Everywhere is packed. Even this place is filling fast.”

  He’s right. There are wall-to-wall people and the buzz of the crowd is exactly what I need to get my mind off the show and on tonight. While the idea of room service and a bottle of wine had its appeal, this new and exciting chaos is just what the doctor ordered.

  With all the work around the fashion show, we didn’t think about calling the Martini Club for reservations. Thankfully, this hole-in-the-wall just down the street is a hidden treasure. Like a step back in time, there are no neon lights or exposed beams. Stately, dark mahogany paneling covers the lower half of the walls, likely having been in place since before the turn of the twentieth century. The top half is covered in photographs of famous patrons through the years. Most are black and white and many have large garish signatures obstructing a portion of the face. The wood floor is so worn. The illusion of a shiny finish was given up so long ago that in areas it actually bows. Tables and chairs have a slight lean, almost imperceptible were it not for the lines in the paneling. The uneven surface from years of traffic adds to the appeal. What the floor lacks in luster is compensated by the long, glistening bar. Going nearly the length of the building, the surface reflects the lights from the ceiling, with a leather edge that shows its years of use and care. The wooden stools known more for their functionality than comfort could easily be older than me. All in all, there’s something about the establishment that feels comfortable and fun. It’s like a forgotten island hidden within the upscale area.

  “I love it,” I say, taking in the positive vibes surrounding us.

  Stephen touches my knee as he leans closer. “I do too. There’s something about New York: the energy is everywhere.”

  Before I can respond, one of the bartenders, a handsome man with a deep voice, begins to sing along with the song coming from the speakers. All the patrons stop their conversations as the bartender’s hands go into the air and his voice grows louder. I recognize the song as a tune from a recent Broadway hit show.

  I smile and shake my head at Stephen who is suddenly enthralled with the man behind the bar. It doesn’t take long before most of the customers begin joining in. The impromptu sing-along makes me realize how much I miss the arts of Manhattan. It isn’t that there aren’t amazing opportunities in London for culture: there are. I think it’s the familiarity of New York that I miss.

  When the song ends, the entire clientele breaks out in roaring applause.

  “We need to go see a show,” Stephen says, leaning close.

  “Does that make us like tourists?”

  “No. New Yorkers go to shows.”

  “We have two weeks. How many do you think we can see?”

  “That makes you sound like a tourist.”

  “I’m not—” My rebuttal is stopped as my phone buzzes.

  * * *

  Kimbra: I’M FINALLY HERE. SORRY. TRAFFIC.

  * * *

  Me: WE’RE AT THE BAR.

  * * *

  I turn toward the door, peering over the heads of others as I wait for Kimbra. “She’s here,” I say excitedly.

  Before Stephen can turn in the direction I’m looking, my smile widens as I see my other best friend’s red hair. My mind fills with so many memories. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed her. It isn’t until she’s within reach that I really allow myself to think about it. We lived together for years and since then, I feel like I’ve been separated from my sister from another mister—well, and another missus.

  I know we’ve talked regularly—often on video-chat—but seeing her fills my heart with warmth.

  And then the world freezes.

  Stepping through the door behind her is Max: Maximilian Cantel.

  It can’t be.

  How and why would Stephen’s ex be in the same restaurant in New York City?

  As Stephen starts to turn toward the door, I stop him. “Oh, can you get us all drinks while I go find her?”

  His head turns from side to side. “Find her? Didn’t you say she’s here?”

  I did. “Her text said she is here. This place is a madhouse. We don’t want to lose our stools. How about you order us all another round? Kimbra will have the same as me: a lemon drop martini.”

  Before he can argue, I push my way through the crowd until I come face-to-face with Kimbra. Without a care for anyone else, we scream and hug, blocking traffic from moving all directions around us.

  “I’ve missed you!” we say together.

  I take a peek around her shoulders, wondering what happened to Max and if I imagined him. If that’s the case, my imagination has been working overtime today. The bar is so full; I can’t find the person I thought was him.

  Surely, it wasn’t.

  Why would he be here?

  I reach for Kimbra’s hand and pull her toward Stephen. When he sees us, he leaps from the barstool and comes forward. Standing only a few feet back he
shakes his head while smiling from ear-to-ear. “I can’t believe I finally get to meet you.”

  “You must be Stephen,” Kimbra says as she closes the gap and surrounds him in a hug. There’s no handshaking for my best friend. She’s one of the friendliest people I’ve ever known. Now that doesn’t mean she can’t tell you her mind. She can. But once she’s done, you’ll forget she was upset and be laughing about something again.

  I look around once more, wondering why I’d imagine seeing Max.

  “Who are you looking for?” Stephen asks.

  “U-um,” I stutter. “Duncan. Kimbra did you bring that man of yours?”

  “No way! He’d be in the way. I miss girl talk.”

  Stephen grabs her hand and tugs her toward the bar. “That sounds right up my alley.”

  Within a few minutes, Kimbra and I are seated at the bar with Stephen standing between us as we all laugh like old friends. It’s everything I hoped it would be. The two of them are telling their most embarrassing stories involving me, and I love every word.

  “You should have seen her,” Kimbra says. “We’d only lived here a few weeks, and we decided that the subway was the best way to get home. The problem was that neither of us knew the lines or stations. It’s a miracle we made it back to our apartment.”

  “It was the homeless man who saved us.”

  “Now that’s not a phrase you hear every day,” Stephen says, listening to the story.

  “No,” I say. “He did. He asked us where we were going. He told us which line to take. He even rode part of the way with us to be sure we’d transfer correctly.”

  Stephen shakes his head. “And you weren’t a little worried?”

  “Why?” Kimbra asks.

  “Is she always this trusting?” he asks.

  “You could say we were both a little naïve,” I admit. Looking over the rim of my glass, I go on, “I guess with your new hubby, you aren’t riding the subway much.”

  “That’s not true,” she replies. “I’m proud I learned my way around the subway. And it’s much quicker than the streets most of the time. If I’d have ridden it tonight, I’d have been here earlier.”

  “No shit! Have you gotten Duncan to try?” Her husband is kind of rich. I don’t see him riding the subway or navigating transfers. Don’t get me wrong. He’s friendly and down to earth. It’s just that he’s more of a driver kind of man. It’s true that he and his brother are about as opposite as oil and water. The only thing they have in common is good looks, and if my memory and imagination serve me well, Trevor exceeds in that category.

  Kimbra grins. “I’ve gotten Duncan to try a lot of things.”

  Our heads fly back in laughter. This was just what the doctor ordered: a stress-free night laughing, cutting up, and reminiscing.

  “Oh my goodness,” Kimbra squeals after her second glass is nearly empty. “I can’t believe it.”

  “What?” we ask together.

  “I think I see my brother-in-law over there.” She points toward the front of the restaurant where a group of men seem to be standing, giving up their prized table.

  All at once, the air from my lungs evaporates as I choke on my last sip—or was it a gulp—of martini. No, these aren’t as good as the ones down the street at the club, but after a few, they have become the best in the city.

  As she pushes through the crowd, Stephen turns to me. “Does she have more than one brother-in-law?”

  My eyes grow wide as she and Trevor embrace. I’m suddenly experiencing every emotion at once.

  Excitement.

  Nerves.

  Tingles.

  Queasiness.

  Fear.

  How do I respond?

  I haven’t spoken to him in months. Kimbra doesn’t know anything about the weekend of her wedding. It’s then I realize that I’m trembling. My hands are clammy, and my forehead is probably glistening with nervous perspiration.

  “Damn, girl,” Stephen whispers as Kimbra turns and points our way. “You have a great imagination!”

  On Trevor’s face—his handsome, sexy face—I read all the same thoughts flying through my mind. The top and most important is how much we will act like we know one another.

  “He’s better looking than the pictures you showed me when you were stalking him on social media,” Stephen whispers.

  “I wasn’t stalking,” I say, still unable to look away as Kimbra and Trevor begin to push their way through the crowd, coming our direction.

  “You were so stalking,” Stephen whispers, “but, honey, seeing him in person, I don’t blame you.”

  My pulse kicks up to a dangerous speed as they come closer. I’m on a precipice.

  What do I do?

  For only a split second, I consider my options. Running to the ladies’ room would still allow me to be seen. Fainting sounds like a reasonable alternative, but then it’s too late.

  They’re both standing in front of Stephen and me.

  Trying to drown out the volume of the crowd, Kimbra leans in so we can hear. “Stephen and Shana, this is my brother-in-law, Trevor Willis.” She turns to Trevor. “Stephen and Shana.”

  Despite my friend’s excitement about bringing us all together, my attention is solely on the man at her side. It’s his green eyes that draw me in, just as they did a long time ago. It’s their intensity that won’t let me go. I’m a candle under the fire of his gaze and if I don’t look away, I may melt.

  I’ll blame my reaction on the martini, but as we stare at one another, I am filled with hope. Not only is he real, but perhaps, there’s hope for more. His hand comes out...then all at once his gaze is gone, focused now on Stephen.

  “Hello.” It’s his first word since joining us and it’s not directed to me.

  “Trevor,” Kimbra says, “do you remember Shana from my wedding? She was my maid of honor.”

  His lips quirk, but it takes a prolonged second before he turns to me. “Yes, Shana. Nice to see you again.”

  I can’t tell what it is, but something in the way he’s speaking is wrong. It’s too formal or forced.

  “Yes, Trevor,” I manage to say. “Nice to see you, too.”

  I don’t know if Stephen heard it—the tone in Trevor’s voice—but, protectively, my friend moves his arm around my shoulder, drawing me closer to him.

  Kimbra keeps talking. “Trevor recently moved back to New York. You’d think he’d come see his brother and sister-in-law more often, but no, I have to run into him in a crowded bar...”

  Though she continues, I’m not hearing her. I’m not listening. My mind is screaming at me to take one of the options I didn’t before. Fainting seems unnecessary, but running is still an option.

  “If you’ll excuse me a minute.” I don’t even mention where I’m going. I know it’s the bathroom, but the closer I get, I find myself scanning the back of the bar for an escape. That hot bath, king-sized bed, and bottle of wine is suddenly very appealing.

  I work out the details: a text to Kimbra, saying I was ill, and one to Stephen, telling him to pick up pizza on the way to my room.

  I’m almost to the ladies’ room when I gasp as a strong hand grabs mine, pulling me until my back is flush against the wall. In the dimly lit hallway, Trevor Willis is all I can see. He dominates my vision as his presence surrounds my body.

  He leans close, his words strained. “Are you dating him?”

  The green eyes staring at me are the ones I’ve dreamt about, the ones I imagined to help me walk onto a runway, and the ones I’ve missed. Yet there’s something different, something new, a fever burning within them, like golden fireworks exploding within the green sea, flashing and smoldering in the depths.

  Despite the way his concentration takes my breath, I push back against his chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He doesn’t budge. “I’m asking if you’re seeing Stephen.”

  Anger mixes with my martini. A second ago, Trevor barely looked at me and now he’s demanding answe
rs. “Trevor, I don’t know what to say. You quit calling. Obviously, you don’t want to talk to me.”

  His voice grows deeper, more assertive and demanding than I’ve ever heard. “Just answer. Are you?”

  The connections within my brain aren’t firing. It’s been too long of a day. Even though part of me wants to tell him to back the fuck up, another part of me—the part that’s thumping in my chest and twisting my insides—can’t believe that after all this time it’s really him.

  That he’s here.

  With me.

  Surrounding me.

  Pinning me against the wall.

  The aroma of woodsy cologne fills my senses as multiple lemon drop martinis course through my bloodstream. Without reason I begin to giggle.

  As my face falls in laughter, Trevor reaches for my chin, “Shana?”

  I can’t look away. I don’t want to. “Dating? Stephen?”

  “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “Well, you haven’t called in months. I figured you met someone new. Besides, there’s no us, so why do you care whom I’m dating?” I’m not sure why I’m baiting him. Maybe it’s the intensity of his stare or the way his body is pushed against mine. I couldn’t deny how much it turns me on even if I wanted to. There’s no doubt that as my breasts heave against his chest, my lady parts are waking from their long winter’s hibernation.

  Letting go of my chin, his tone softens. “You are supposed to be in London.” It’s as if he too is making sure it’s truly me.

  “And you in Washington.”

  He takes a small step backward.

  “You’ll think this is crazy,” I begin, “but earlier today, I thought I imagined you.” My gaze is no longer on his eyes, but his lips—his strong, full lips.

  The ends quirk upward. “Then maybe we’re both crazy because I imagined you, too. It was at a fashion show. You wouldn’t have happened to have been at the Saks Fifth Avenue fashion show, onstage in a long white negligee, would you?”

  Instead of answering that question, I go for the one he first asked. “Stephen is my friend. We work together.”