“Call in sick,” she said, sex in her eyes.
It was tempting, but Ryan had a firm no ditching responsibilities policy. Drink hard, play hard, work hard. The playing had been fun last night—really fun as he was beginning to recall—but today it was time for work. He threw back the covers and got out of bed to remove any further temptation. The hardwood floor was cool beneath his bare feet, the morning air chilly on his naked skin. He took a deep breath to quell some of the heat sizzling in his blood and bring his body temperature back down to normal.
His nameless lover sat up and the sheet pooled around her waist, offering him a view a man would rightly die for. She was rumpled and tousled and sexy, and the sight of her made him want to seriously reconsider his decision.
She rubbed her eyes with her fisted hands, a gesture both innocent and seductive. “When will I see you again?”
“Two weeks.” He needed to get her motivated. He grabbed her top off his dresser, her shorts off the floor, and her panties from the edge of the bed as he circled around toward her. He offered her his hand to help her to her feet. “We’ll see each other at the finals.” She climbed out of bed, and he handed her the clothing. “I’m going to win it all for you.”
She chuckled and Ryan smiled back. He’d had fun last night. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again. If there was a next time, he’d be sure to learn her name.
She got dressed and he grimaced. Even in the harsh light, she was hot as hell in that tiny string bikini top, little black short-shorts, and high heels, but there was no way he was going to let her walk to the subway in that outfit in the middle of the morning commute. “Here,” he said, reaching into his dresser. He pulled out a dark T-shirt. “Put this on.”
She pulled his shirt on over her head and it came down to around her knees. Good. She slipped her arm through his, and he escorted her to the front door. He had a lot of work waiting for him at the office. His first order of business was to finish the coding on The Candy Connoisseur’s website. Then he was sitting in on a meeting about a new client, a swanky new cosmetics company specializing in high-pigment eye shadows. He needed to get himself on that project. If he could sweet-talk the team leader—or even bribe, he wasn’t above bribery—maybe…
“Okay, see you then,” his companion said, pausing on the threshold. She looked up at him and giggled.
He nodded absently and held the door open for her. He also really needed to update that art gallery’s website for one of the other senior programmers like he promised. He couldn’t believe he’d almost forgotten about that. Damn. It was going to be a long day.
The Card-Girl lingered in the doorway, and Ryan became slowly aware that she was not moving. He met her gaze and the look in her eye said all that needed saying. She wanted a kiss goodbye. He didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. He wasn’t a monster after all—just a man who had to get to work. He gave her a nice, long, slow one before sending her on her way.
He shut the door behind her, the memory of her fading right along with the scent of her perfume. A part of him wanted to spin out fantasies of seeing her again, of maybe spending some real time with her, talking and laughing, getting to know one another. Every once in a while, the simple desire to have someone constant in his life made him acutely aware of just how lonely he was. But those thoughts were easily pushed aside. He’d witnessed the reality behind that particular fantasy far too many times to want any part of it. The way he lived now was good. Easy. And that was exactly the way he wanted to keep it.
He turned from the door and headed for the bathroom with a smile on his face. Sure, he hurt everywhere, and the hangover was really beginning to settle in now, but life was good. Really, really good. He indulged in a scorching shower, the hot water loosening his sore muscles. The mirror over the bathroom sink reflected his massive black eye in vivid detail, and he gave himself a jaunty wink while he brushed his teeth. God, he looked terrible.
His face hurt way too much to shave, so he let it go without a second thought. He went back to his bedroom and peered into the closet. He wasn’t seeing clients yet, so it didn’t really matter what he wore. Today he chose old, comfortable clothes—faded jeans and a navy cotton T-shirt. Thankfully he didn’t work in a suit and tie kind of office—unless you wanted to wear a suit and tie of course. Some people did. Ryan was not one of them.
He dressed, reassessing his priories for the day. He couldn’t wait for his new-employee probation to be over so he could do some real work, actually build and maintain a website for one of the eclectic and often flamboyant clients Sharpe Designs seemed to attract. That was still a while away unfortunately. When he was hired, he’d been told it would take a minimum of eight months, but probably more, before he got his own solo accounts. As of three days ago, he’d only been there six.
Seagulls were screaming over the Coney Island boardwalk, fighting over the spoils from last night when he exited his building. He said a cheerful good morning to the line of elderly ladies sitting outside the senior center next door, all ready to take in some sun in their plastic lawn chairs with their umbrellas and fans and packs of long, thin cigarettes close at hand. They giggled and waved, just as they did every morning he walked by.
The breeze off the Atlantic Ocean was crisp and invigorating, and he breathed deeply as he headed up the avenue toward the subway. People were already dotting the beach, surfers on the low waves. He passed Nathan’s, closed at this early hour, but the scent of the hotdogs ever present in the air. Underneath the aches and pains, his body wanted to move, to stretch, his muscles longing for the daily run along the beach he usually treated himself to. He was a little too late for that today though. He’d run later, when he got home from work. It was just as well. It would be cooler in the evening, and it would give his hangover a chance to subside a bit.
He descended into the darkness of the station and when the subway arrived, he got onboard, squeezing his way into the car with the other commuters. He allowed himself a small grin as he caught another glimpse of his black eye in the reflection of the doors. He’d made it into the finals. He never thought he’d make it that far. He was good, but some of the people he’d gone up against had been on the circuit for years. He was relatively new to the sport and exceptionally new to New York. He didn’t know his opponents, had never sparred with any of them, had no concept of their strengths or weaknesses. When he’d signed up for the tournament, he figured he wouldn’t make it past the second round, but at least he’d gain a working knowledge to take it all next year. But here he was, getting ready for the finals. It was out of control. He was going to have to call his mom when he got back home. He couldn’t wait to tell her.
The train burst out of the tunnel into a blast of sunlight, rumbling over the Manhattan Bridge. The Brooklyn Bridge stood in the distance, lower Manhattan spread out before him. That view always got him revved him up, got his blood pumping. Philly was his home, where he was from, but New York was a pretty spectacular place.
His stop arrived, and he jumped off the train. He exited the station, turned off Broadway, and onto Spring Street. Commuters in suits and jeans, hipster gear and hippy skirts stood on lines for the corner coffee carts, fueling up for the day. He wasn’t all that late when he arrived at the converted brownstone that held the Sharpe Design offices, and he congratulated himself on a job well done.
He entered the daily bustle, waving to a few people as he made his way back toward his corner cubicle. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee hung in the air, and despite his queasy stomach, the lure was too powerful to resist. He needed to check his messages first, then he was going upstairs to the lounge and grab a cup. When he arrived at his desk, he frowned, plucking a Post-It note off the monitor. Please come see me when you arrive – Ron, it read, the request written in elegant, flowing script.
Butterflies invaded Ryan’s belly. He didn’t think he was in