Only You Read online

  Nate always smelled good, even when he’d just come from the gym. It was totally unfair—if the universe was going to give a man the kind of good looks it had bestowed upon Nate Pearson, the chiseled jaw, blue-eyed movie star kind that melted hearts, willpower, and panties with a single glance, then it could have at least given him overactive sweat glands or something. But no. As far as the male species went, he was about as perfect a specimen as you could imagine, at least physically. Yet another example of how the universe favors some people more than others.

  Not that I had anything against Nate, other than the fact that he was a divorce attorney and thought it was insane that people spent a fortune on their weddings—including my fee—when half of those marriages were going to fail. Needless to say, we disagreed on things like marriage, love, soul mates, and wishing on stars. Actually, we disagreed on almost everything. But I’d never been one to shy away from conflict, and both of us liked a good argument.

  That said, I didn’t particularly feel like arguing about this. Nate was not going to understand my feelings.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “Let’s just say I had a bad day,” I told him as I poured us some wine.

  “Don’t tell me—the mother of the groom refuses to wear beige.”

  “Very funny.” I handed him his glass. “Are we ever going to have a conversation where you don’t make fun of what I do?”

  “I doubt it.” He took a sip. “Thanks. Now what were you trying to burn? And don’t bother lying because you’re horrible at it, and you know I’ll get the truth out of you anyway.”

  It was true. I swear, the man could talk the bark off a tree. I steeled myself and gave in. “A wedding invitation.”

  A grin tugged at his mouth. “Only you.” This is his favorite thing to say when I get myself into troublesome situations.

  “It wasn’t just any wedding invitation,” I said defensively.

  “Do go on.”

  “It was for Lucy and Richard’s wedding.”

  He gasped dramatically. “Lucy the Traitor and Richard the Turd are getting married?”

  “Yes! And they had the audacity to invite me!” Thinking about it made me angry all over again. “Talk about rude. They don’t really want me there. They did it to spite me. To shove it in my face.”

  “I see. And burning their wedding invitation was going to make you feel better?”

  “I don’t know. I just got so mad, I needed to express it somehow. Don’t you ever get that mad?” I asked him, although I knew the answer. Nate could always keep his cool. He probably didn’t even sweat in the sauna.

  “Nope. I don’t give anyone that sort of power over me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know, I know. Feelings are bad.”

  “I never said feelings are bad.”

  “You just don’t have them,” I prodded.

  “I have them. But I’m careful with them—not like some people I know who hand them over at every opportunity.” He gave me a pointed look over the rim of his wine glass.

  “I don’t hand them over,” I said in a huff.

  “You’re at least buy one, get one free.” He took a drink, enjoying this a little too much.

  “Well, how am I supposed to turn it off? When I feel something, I feel it deeply.” I paused and took another drink, then studied the toes of my shoes. “My sister says I’m not balanced, that I lack inner peace.” I peeked up at him. “Do you think that?”

  “Normally, I think all that stuff is a bunch of BS.” A smile tugged at his lips as he glanced behind him at the charred rabbit. “But in your case, I think it might be true.”

  I bristled. “Sorry I’m not as perfect as you.”

  “No one is.” He countered my dirty look with a wink. “Look. Did it ever occur to you that maybe the invitation was sincere? Maybe they thought you’d want to come.”

  “Are you being serious right now?”

  He shrugged. “You told them you didn’t care about their relationship. You told them you were happy for them.”

  “I was lying, Nate! I didn’t want them to see how hurt I felt. How stupid I was.”

  “You weren’t stupid, Emme.” Nate shook his head. “You trusted people you shouldn’t have. It happens all the time. Have you seen my car? My flat screen? My wristwatch collection? All paid for with disappointment and broken trust.”

  I frowned. “That doesn’t help. I feel like a fool.”

  “So you’ve learned a lesson. Don’t be so trusting next time. Don’t get so carried away.”

  “I guess.” But somehow his advice didn’t make me feel any better. Why wouldn’t I trust someone who claimed to care about me? Who said he loved me? Who gave me every indication, at least outwardly, that he was happy? How was I supposed to know who to trust and who would disappoint me? My eyes filled with tears. Embarrassed, I tried to blink them away.

  Nate tapped me on the nose. “Hey. Cheer up, Calamity. It’s Friday night. Let’s do something fun.” He finished the wine in his glass and set it on the counter.

  “No date tonight?” I asked, surprised. Rare was the weekend night Nate wasn’t out on the town with a beautiful woman—or several—on his arm. I’d seen them leaving his apartment the next morning on multiple occasions. He definitely had a type: tall, bombshell brunettes with long legs and big chests. Needless to say, I did not fit the bill, which was just as well. I didn’t want a man who was “careful” with his feelings. I wanted a man who was generous with them. And I liked being different from all those one-nighters. Our friendship felt special.

  He shook his head. “Originally, I was going to have dinner with my mother, but she wasn’t feeling well enough to make the drive down.”

  “Oh. Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Nothing serious. Anyway, lucky for you, that means my evening is free. Do you want to go out? Or come over and watch a movie? I’ll even watch Skyfall.”

  We both loved Bond flicks, but Nate considered every Bond actor other than Sean Connery a personal affront. I happened to prefer Daniel Craig. “That’s big of you.”

  “What can I say? I’m that kind of guy. And I don’t like to see you so upset.” He grabbed my head and wobbled it side to side. “So let’s do something to put a smile on that face. Preferably something that does not involve fire.”

  I tried to push his hands away, but I was laughing. “That could have happened to anybody.”

  “Nope. Only you.” He started for the door, and I trailed at his heels. “Come over whenever.”

  “You’re telling me you’ve never started a fire in the kitchen by mistake? Not even a small one?”

  Reaching the door, he pulled it open and tossed a rakish grin over his shoulder. “I set my fires in the bedroom, Calamity. And they’re never small.”

  My stomach flipped as the door shut behind him, his words setting off a stirring deep inside me. Relax, you silly fool. He’s not flirting with you—he’s bragging.

  Back in the kitchen, I got some paper towels and started to clean up the mess on the counter, shoving the thought of Nate in his bedroom from my mind.

  But the fluttery feeling in my belly lingered.

  Two

  Nate

  I made sure the door to Emme’s apartment locked behind me. As of yet she had not called me to save her from a masked intruder, but no sense inviting disaster. Emme did that well enough on her own.

  Still smiling at the thought of her crawling frantically toward the door to “save” me, I let myself into my apartment across the hall. Like Emme’s, it was open and spacious, lots of dark wood and exposed brick, and nearly an entire wall of old-fashioned, multi-paned windows, arched at the top. Her apartment and mine were actually mirror images of each other, with the kitchen at one end, above which was a loft bedroom, and the rest of the living space open all the way up to the exposed ducts and pipes and beams reminiscent of the building’s industrial history. But other than the bones and layout, our lofts were completely different.

&
nbsp; Mine was masculine but sophisticated—leather upholstery, chrome finishes, sturdy-legged tables and chairs with hard edges and straight lines. This was not a frat-boy man cave with fucking futons and bean bags and plastic cup rings on the coffee table. At thirty-five, I was over that shit. This was a classy-as-fuck bachelor pad. I had framed art on the walls, expensive rugs on the floor, and guests drank good booze out of real fucking glasses they could set on stone coasters while they relaxed on deep, comfortable couches.

  Emme’s apartment was nice, too, but her style was much more girly and dramatic. A pink velvet sofa. Curvy tables and chairs. Fluffy cream-colored blankets and pillows and rugs. Gold accents. A crystal chandelier over her table. I’d never seen her bedroom, but I imagined it was much the same—a big bed covered by a puffy, ruffled down comforter and heaped with pink and ivory pillows she had to tunnel through to get in. She probably had a crystal chandelier up there, too. I once teased her that her apartment looked like it had been decorated by Marie Antoinette. She punched my shoulder, but secretly I think she took it as a compliment.

  Inside my loft, I saw the leather bag containing my laptop and a few files sitting right where I’d dropped it on the floor. I’d just gotten in the door from work when I’d heard Emme’s screams and took off running. Given the girl’s propensity to overreact, I thought maybe she’d found a gray hair or broken a nail. One time I heard her shrieking and shouting obscenities at the top of her lungs, and went over there only to find her rolling around on the living room rug in agony trying to zip up her skinny jeans.

  But I’ll admit to a fearful adrenaline rush tonight as I’d fumbled for my key to her apartment and raced across the hall. Those screams had sounded real, and I’d had this anxious feeling all day I hadn’t been able to shake, like something was going to go wrong. I’m not a superstitious person by any means, but I don’t believe in ignoring gut instincts. I might not talk about them, but I have them, and they’re usually spot on.

  Emme had given me a key to her place because she locked herself out so frequently. She had one to mine as well, but the only time she’d used it was to water my plants when I traveled. I’d never locked myself out. How hard was it to check that you had your keys before you shut the door?

  Loosening my tie with one hand, I headed up the stairs to my bedroom. While I changed out of my suit and into jeans and a light gray sweater, I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t come home when I did. Would she really have pulled the fire alarm?

  Probably.

  I shook my head, laughing a little as I hung up my suit pants and jacket—trousers from the hem on a felt clamp hanger so the wrinkles would fall out (I fucking hate wrinkles).

  After sniffing the white shirt I’d worn to work, I decided it could use a cleaning, so I tucked it into the bag destined for the dry cleaners. In the bathroom on the other side of my closet, I checked to see that my neatly-tended scruff wasn’t veering too close to mangy hipster territory and ran a hand through my dark hair, pleased to see I hadn’t grown any additional grays since this morning. Lately, it felt like they’d been cropping up overnight. Going gray didn’t worry me because I was getting older—I had no problem with aging. I had the job, the apartment, the car, the social life, the bank account. But I was vain as fuck and liked to look good. The minute I thought the gray was cramping my style, it’d be gone.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, I filled a martini glass with crushed ice for Emme and let it chill on the counter, then poured myself a few fingers of bourbon. I was about to text Emme to ask what kind of takeout she felt like having when she messaged me.

  Emme: Do you have enough vodka?

  Me: Enough for what?

  Emme: For my bitterness, my jealousy, my fat ass, my broken heart, and my vengeful soul.

  Me: Maybe not for your vengeful soul. But for all the rest, yes.

  Emme: Good. There in 20.

  A minute later I got on Grubhub and decided to order Chinese from The Peterboro without asking her. She loved the crab rangoon at one of our favorite local places, but if I asked her, she’d probably squawk about having to watch her weight, which was ridiculous. I thought she looked better with a few more curves on her, anyway, but I couldn’t tell her that.

  Occasionally I wondered what the fuck the guys she dated were saying or not saying to her to make her anything less than one hundred percent confident in her skin when she was so confident about other parts of her life—her job, style, her family relationships, her opinions. But then I’d remember the kinds of guys she chose—nothing but douchebags and assholes, none of whom were worse than fucking Richard the Turd, and that’s saying a lot. The entire time she was with him, I wanted to tell her what a weasel he would turn out to be.

  I’ve known a million guys like him, guys who lie and cheat and don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. (I swear to God, half of them are lawyers in this city. And their pants are always wrinkled.) But I never said a word because it wasn’t my place, and she wouldn’t have believed me, anyway. The last time I tried to give her dating advice, our conversation went something like this:

  Me: What do you see in that guy?

  Her: Potential.

  Me: Potential is not sexy.

  Her: Relationships take time and effort. It’s not only about sex. You wouldn’t understand because you are not a relationship person; therefore, you are not qualified to give advice on them—not that I asked for it.

  But I didn’t need to be a relationship person to smell Richard’s bullshit. It stunk to high heaven. It was amazing to me that someone as smart and sexy as Emme would fall for a guy like that.

  But what could you expect from a woman who thought Daniel Craig made a good James Bond?

  After ordering the food, I wandered over to the windows with my drink and looked out at the city while I waited for her knock. It was kind of surprising to me how much I liked spending an evening with her, given that our relationship was not now and had never been sexual, and sex was usually the way I preferred to connect with women. Our friendship was pretty unlikely on all levels, really. I didn’t generally gravitate toward needy women, preferring those who were independent, maybe even a little aloof or reserved, those looking for short-term pleasure rather than long-term connection—the total opposite of Emme. That woman was a no-holding-back, no-poker-face-whatsoever, here-have-some-feelings Seeker of The One. I always teased her that she wore her heart on her sleeve and a sign on her heart that said HOMELESS—PLEASE HELP.

  Not that she was needy in a clingy sort of way, because she wasn’t. There was something kind of nice about the way she needed me, actually—I think it was that she didn’t want to need me, and she would have argued until her dying breath that she didn’t need me, not really. It made it kind of fun in an antagonistic way to be the one she turned to all the time. Mostly I liked to make fun of her for it, sort of like the way you’d poke at your best friend’s younger sister.

  But no matter how cute that sister was in her own hot-tempered-girl-next-door way (and probably a firecracker in bed), you couldn’t sleep with her.

  Even if you sometimes thought about it.

  Even if you sometimes sneaked a peek at her legs in that short black skirt. Or her ass in her tight jeans. Or that little, accidental glimpse of a bra strap when a sleeve slipped from her shoulder.

  Even if you sometimes had to work really, really hard not to fantasize about her while you were in the shower. Or alone in bed on a Saturday morning. Or not alone in bed on a Saturday night with a woman who turned out to be a little too reserved and aloof and you needed a little fiery inspiration to get the job done.

  Fiery inspiration. Fuck, that was funny.

  And hot.

  Grimacing, I adjusted the crotch of my pants as they threatened to grow too tight for comfort. I didn’t want to have to hide an erection from Emme when she arrived. I’d never live it down.

  I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else, something not sexy. This morning’s cont
entious arbitration. This afternoon’s tense phone call with my mother. That ridiculous blackened rabbit. Those things distracted me for maybe five seconds, but then my mind took an unauthorized detour to Emme crawling toward me on her hands and knees, slowly this time, her eyes hooded and hungry instead of wide and panicked.

  Oh, fuck.

  Heat rushed my chest, making my sweater feel tight and itchy. I couldn’t breathe for a second. My stomach muscles were clenched tight as blood rushed between my legs. I imagined her looking up at me. Her hands sliding up my thighs. Her fingers unbuckling my belt. Her tongue wetting her lips. The sound of a zipper being lowered.

  My cock jumped.

  “Not gonna happen, pal,” I muttered to my dick, focusing on a church spire in the big arched window. “Not in a million years. That girl is off limits. She falls in love way too easily. And it’s not like you don’t get enough attention.” Although lately, all the attention had been from me. I was in one of my rare dry spells. Maybe that was my problem. Tomorrow night, I’d do something about that.

  Tonight, it was out of the question.

  Because Emme was one of those girls who could not separate love from sex—I saw that the first night we hung out together (she was locked out of her apartment, and I’d invited her to hang out in mine until the building manager could bring her another key). For her, the emotional and the physical were inextricably linked. For me, that was like a neon sign screaming “RUN! RUN AWAY!” I’d made the mistake of sleeping with one or two of those girls in college…never again. Sex was a great way to feel good and make someone else feel good. But it wasn’t emotional. Not for me. I made sure of it.

  I went into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and stuck my head in as far as it would go. A couple minutes later, I pulled out the bottle of vodka I kept in there and began to make Emme’s martini—three olives, extra dry, and extra dirty. I concentrated on mixing the cocktail exactly right, and by the time she knocked, her drink was ready, my breathing had slowed, my body temperature had returned to normal, and my pants fit just fine.