Under His Touch. Cathryn Fox
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Amanda picks up her mug and half-eaten jelly doughnut. “Then I’m gone. Text me later,” she says. “I can’t wait to hear all about this.”
I stand with her, and run my damp hands over my skirt. No need to greet him with a wet palm and let him know what the sight of him is doing to me—even after all this time. It’s best I give a professional vibe, and the appearance that I’m completely unaffected by him.
If only that were true.
He nods to Amanda as she walks past him to put her mug in the tray, and his overwhelming presence weakens my traitorous knees as he crosses the room to stand over me. All six feet of pure power and testosterone takes my mind back to the night we made love. Scratch that. To the night we had sex. Yeah, lovemaking involves emotions. If there were emotions involved, he wouldn’t have walked away the next day, letting me know in no uncertain terms that there was nothing more between us. If only I’d gotten the memo back then, before I went to his hotel room and seduced him.
I lift my gaze to meet his, and even though he’s offering me a smile, I catch a hint of uncertainty in his gorgeous blue eyes as they roam my face. Obviously, this is as awkward for him as it is for me. His arms lift, like he’s about to embrace me, but professional event planner that I am, I keep it together and hold my hand out.
He stares at it for a moment, his smile dissolving, morphing into confusion, and then he gives me a tight, fast nod as he closes his big hand over mine.
Yeah, that’s right. That’s the way it’s going to be. I’m in charge here.
“Megan,” he says, his voice deeper than I remember it. “Nice to see you.”
“Alec,” I say. “Nice to see you, too. It’s been a long time. You’re well?” I say, always the master at small talk. A wedding planner has to be a good communicator, and I thank the Lord for my training.
Another tight nod. “Yes, you?”
“Never better,” I say and give him my best smile despite the storm raging inside me.
He gestures with a nod to Amanda as she disappears out the door. “Am I interrupting? Granddad told me to be here for two.”
“Two is correct and you’re not interrupting at all. I was just meeting with Amanda to go over some details for the upcoming Bar Mitzvah I’m planning. She’s a caterer. Perhaps you’ve heard of her business. Kitchen Door Catering, in Hell’s Kitchen. I actually rent office space from her.”
He gives a slow shake of his head. “Sorry, never heard of it.”
I’m not surprised, really; making a name in Manhattan and competing with already established businesses that own the core market share is hard. I can throw money at the marketing budget all day, but the rich and famous prefer the status quo, and rarely give newbies like Amanda and me a chance. Any company used by James Carson, however, will become a household name and that’s what I’m banking on.
Alec’s gaze moves from my face to my near-empty coffee mug with pink lipstick staining the rim. “I’m going to grab a coffee. Can I get you anything?”
“That’s my second cup. I’m already jittery,” I say, a little breathless as he gazes at me with those mesmerizing blue eyes.
One brow raises. “Lemon-filled doughnut?”
Okay, now I really can’t breathe. Why would he ask that, or even remember that? I open my mouth, but my damn voice is stuck in my tight throat, so I just shake my head no. He hesitates for a moment, and I take that opportunity to lower myself into my seat and dig my planner out from my bag. He smooths his hand over his tie again and turns, giving me a reprieve from his hot stare, and even hotter body. I take a fast breath and fuel my lungs. Honest to God, a man who had sex with me, and then walked away, shouldn’t remember my favorite kind of doughnut, or my favorite kind of anything. Damn him for giving me a moment of hesitation, a seed of hope that he might have actually cared about me the night I gave myself to him.
I open my planner with a little too much force, grab my pen and scribble “Alec Carson” on the first blank page. I don’t need to look up to know he’s back at the table with his coffee. His presence, and the warm enticing scent of fresh soap and something uniquely Alec—a crisp new day after a hard summer rain—reaches my nostrils. My stomach squeezes slightly. I pinch my eyes shut for a second, to darken all the images that are clamoring to resurface. Alec is a world-class jerk, and I’m not going to waste a second remembering the way he touched me that night, with such deft, gentle hands. Or the way he talked to me, using sweet soothing words, as he fucked me. Over.
He sits, and my gaze goes to his big hands as he drinks his coffee. Still black, no sugar. Some things never change. Then again, some things do, and maybe that’s for the best. I’m not sure I could work with him if I was still harboring a stupid schoolgirl crush.
Oh, but it was so much more than that, Megan.
“Okay,” I say, shutting down that inner voice and working not to sound as breathless as I feel. “I want to be honest with you. I’m an event planner, not a matchmaker, but I’ll do my very best to set up an appealing online profile for you and help find your soul mate.” He goes perfectly still for a moment, and then he laughs, and the dark, jaded sound raises the hair on my neck. “What?” I ask.
“I’m not looking for a soul mate, Megan.” He leans toward me. “I don’t even believe in marriage.”
I sit up a little straighter, and let my gaze roam his handsome face. Every visible muscle is strained, like an overtightened wire about to snap. “If you don’t believe in marriage, what are we doing here?”
He goes quiet, thoughtful for a moment and takes a drink from his mug. He sets it on the table, leans back and folds thick arms over his chest.
“I’m here today because my aging grandfather won’t stop breathing down my neck. He doesn’t like my lifestyle, or my business practices. He says it’s bringing a bad name to the Carson family. He wants me to clean up my act and marry a nice girl.”
Appreciating his honesty, I tap my pen on my notepad and nod in understanding. The tabloids have been having a field day with Manhattan’s most eligible bachelor. He’s been photographed with different affluent women—far outside my social circle—on his arm every week. It can’t be easy having no privacy.
Don’t feel bad for him, Megan.
“I can understand that,” I say.
He angles his head, a thick lock of hair falling forward, and I note that he’s wearing it longer than usual. He rakes it back and asks, “Can you?”
“Sure,” I say and glance at my planner. “But what I don’t understand—”
His big warm hand closes over mine. The weight is heavy, and it takes my mind back to the way he once caressed me. Unnerved and aroused by his touch, my gaze flies to his. “It’s like this, Megan. I’ll get married, but it will be in name only. I’m not interested in anything more. A nice girl will get my granddad off my back, and the stability of marriage will look good to the board of directors who are handpicking Blackstone’s next chief financial officer.” My jaw drops open as he lays the cold, ugly truth out for me. So, this is what’s in it for him? He would actually marry to better his position in the company. What kind of a man would do that? Perhaps the better question is, how did I not see this side of him all those years ago? I pull my hand back fast and wipe my palm on my skirt.
His eyes darken, the black bleeding into the blue as he zeros in on me. “If you have a problem with that…”
Alec
KEEP YOUR SHIT TOGETHER. Play it cool. You’ve got this, Carson.