Learning to Fall (11 page)

“Yes, a little fox.” Daniel’s hand began to travel slowly back up my bare arm, the pressure of his fingers so soft as to nearly be nonexistent which of course only made me a hundred times more aware of his touch. “Shy and sensitive. Easily spooked.”

My brow furrowed. That certainly didn’t
sound
very complimentary.

“Elegant,” he continued in a voice gone dark and deep. All around us sound and time seemed to fade away. He stared deeply into my eyes, once more looking for secrets I wasn’t ready to reveal. “Perceptive. Lovely.”

“You… you think I’m lovely?” It was such an old-fashioned term. One that would have undoubtedly sounded contrived were it any other man saying it, but Daniel spoke with such quiet sincerity I knew he meant it.  

His gaze softened. “I think you’re the loveliest woman I’ve ever met. And the loneliest.”

Was it so obvious? Yes, I was lonely.

I’d been lonely my entire life.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” My question, so crudely blurted, brought a fiery blush to my face and a comical look of surprise to Daniel’s. At least it
would
have been comical if I wasn’t so busy wishing I could disappear into a hole. Why?
Why
did my brain insist on saying all the wrong things at all the right moments? Was it trying to sabotage me? Did it
want
me to fail?  

Arms stiffening, Daniel pulled back. “Imogen…”

“I’m sorry,” I said miserably, unable to look at him. I stared at the bar instead, studying the tiny nicks and grooves in the stainless steel as I struggled to put my fears and doubts into words. “It’s just… I’m not
good
at this.”

“You’re not good at what?”

“This!” With a quick flick of my wrist I motioned back and forth between us. “It always looks so easy in the movies. Whitney can do it. She does it all the time! And I want to. I really do. But… but I don’t know how to get there from here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or do. I don’t… I don’t
know
.” 

“Imogen, look at me.
Look
at me,” Daniel insisted when I kept my gaze pinned to the bar. Slowly, reluctantly, I lifted my chin, peering up at him from beneath a fringe of dark lashes. “There you are,” he said, the hint of a smile toying with the corners of his mouth. “Now please take a deep breath because the last thing I want is for you to go running away again.”

Tears born of frustration and embarrassment pricked my eyes. “About that-”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. Reaching across the bar, he picked my hands up out of my lap and squeezed my fingers. “Forget about that. I pushed you, and I shouldn’t have.”

“You didn’t push me,” I protested. “You asked me to go for a walk and I had an anxiety attack. What kind of woman has an anxiety attack with a man asks her to go for a walk? It’s ridiculous.
I’m
ridiculous.”

“You’re not ridiculous. A bit eccentric, maybe, but that’s what I like about you.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re not like other women, Imogen. I knew that from the first moment we met. You’re different.”

“You can say that again,” I muttered.

Daniel’s fingers tightened, interlocking our palms. “Silly like fox,” he said affectionately. “Don’t you know that’s why I like you?”

“You
like
me?” It was one thing to suspect it; another thing entirely to hear Daniel say it.

“Well your thumb game could use some work but yeah, I like you.” Eyes never leaving mine, he brought my hands to his lips and kissed my knuckles. “I like you a lot, Imogen Finley.”

I wanted to say the same back to him, but my fear and doubts prevented my mouth from forming the words. Fear that I might come to like Daniel more than ‘a lot’. Doubt that I would be able to find the right balance between my professional life and my personal one.

Studying the myriad of emotions flickering across my face, Daniel gently lowered my hands. “I should get back to work. I’m on until one.” He hesitated. “Let me buy you a drink. Anything you want.”

The last time he’d offered to buy me a drink, I had refused him. This time I didn’t. “Surprise me,” I said, surprising myself.
Baby steps
, I thought.
Baby steps are better than no steps at all.

“I can do that. Oh, and one more thing.” Laying his hands flat on the bar, he leaned in close, close enough I could feel his warm breath on my neck as he whispered, “When we sleep together, it won’t be because you think it’s what you’re supposed to do.” 

If Daniel had been hoping to stun me into speechlessness while simultaneously sending a spark of sheer lust shooting straight down into my loins, he’d succeeded. Completely. “It…it won’t?”

“No.” He closed his teeth around my earlobe. Took a tiny, teasing nibble. “When we sleep together it will be because you can’t live another moment without feeling me inside of you.”

“
Oh
.” Eyes wide with shock and dark with arousal, I stared silently at Daniel as he straightened.

“Just something to think about,” he said with a wolfish grin before he walked away, leaving me gawking after him like some sort of lovestruck teenager.

Hissing out a breath, I flopped back in my chair and ran a flustered hand through my hair, mindlessly disheveling the sleek topknot Whitney had spent an hour creating.

Good Lord
.

Hot as Hades? The man was hot as hell.

And, heaven help me, I was looking forward to getting burned.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Irish

By the time Whitney returned from outside - smelling vaguely of cologne and sporting a reddish bruise on her neck that looked suspiciously like a hickey - I had been to the bathroom twice and was toying with the idea of going a third time. Not because I had to pee, but because sitting in one place with nothing to do except watch Daniel as he served drinks to beautiful looking women wasn’t exactly bolstering my self-confidence.

I wasn’t jealous. That would be absurd. I was simply…aware.
Yes
, I consoled myself as I took a sip of the white wine Daniel had picked out for me.
Aware is a good word. It doesn’t even rhyme with jealous.

“Well?” Returning as abruptly as she’d left, Whitney dropped into the empty stool next to mine. “What happened? Oh my God. Your
hair
. What the hell happened to your hair?” She smiled mischievously. “You did it, didn’t you? In the back storage closet. You dirty, dirty minx.”

I squinted at her. “Is that a
hickey
on your neck?”

She brushed off my question with a wave of her hand. “I never pegged him for a hair-puller, but I have to say I think those are the best kind. Gentleman on the street, freak in the sheets. Am I right?” Her eyebrows wiggled up and down. “Is it weird that I’m a little jealous? It’s weird,” she decided. “Really weird.”

“We did not have
sex
in a
storage closet
!”

“Geez, Mo.” Her gaze darted behind me. “Keep it down, will you? Obviously you didn’t have sex. You’re strung up tighter than a kite. This is going to be good for you, I think. Take the edge off.”

“I don’t need an edge taken off,” I said defensively. I was here, wasn’t I? I’d allowed Whitney to do my makeup and dress me up as though I were a doll. I’d come out to the bar. I was doing my best.  

“Mo.” Whitney’s stare was long and suffering. “You have edges on top of edges. Which isn’t a bad thing. Especially if you have something to show for it, which you do. I mean, hello.” She pointed between us. “College professor and soccer coach. Ask anyone in this bar who they think has gotten the most ass over the past four years, and the answer is not going to be you. Which is why it’s time for you to have a little fun. Especially if that fun includes a six-foot-three hunk with grey eyes and a dimple.”

Because I had more or less reached the same conclusion myself, I couldn’t exactly argue with her. “Okay fine,” I allowed. “I realize that I can, on occasion, get a little tense-”

“A little?” Whitney snorted. “Do we need to talk about the pancake incident again, or can we agree to move past that?”

“Ha ha,” I grumbled, giving her a dirty look before I tipped my wine glass up.

“It’s okay.
I
know that
you
know I’m right. You don’t have to say anything.” Flagging down a bartender with an expert flick of her wrist, Whitney proceeded to bat her eyelashes into a free martini.

“How do you
do
that?” I wondered out loud.

Crossing her legs, she propped an elbow on the bar and fussed with her hair. “How do I do what?”

“That,” I said, gesturing to the napkin the bartender had put down in front of her.

“What, get a free drink?” Her mouth twisted into a knowing smirk. “It’s not that hard. The trick is to look like you’re having a good time and you want to have an even
better
time. Who got you the wine?” she asked, pointing a bold red fingertip at my glass.

“Well, Daniel did, but-”

“See?” She tossed her head back and her curls, freshly fluffed, fell perfectly around her shoulders. “You’re loosening up already.”

I really hoped so. I certainly
felt
more relaxed, although I had a sneaking suspicion the wine I’d consumed had more than a little something to do with it. Toying with the stem of my wineglass I took another sip. At this point I would have usually stopped drinking and called it a night, but what was the harm in staying out late? It was a Saturday. I had nothing to do tomorrow. No obligations to meet. No one I had to answer to except for myself. I was an adult. An adult who had just received her first free drink courtesy of the hottest guy in the whole bar. Without giving myself time to think, I tipped the wineglass back and drained the rest of the contents in two quick swallows.

“That a girl!” Whitney said approvingly. “Just maybe not so quick next time,” she added as I sputtered and made a face. “Chugging beer, yes. Chugging wine, no. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.”

With a shudder of regret, I set the wineglass back down on the bar and pushed it away from me. Before I had time to blink, my empty drink was replaced with a new one. I looked quickly around for Daniel, but he must have stepped out back because he was nowhere in sight.  

“Oh he’s good,” Whitney said, following my gaze.

“What do you mean?”

“He asked one of the other bartenders to take care of you in case he wasn’t around when you finished your wine. That’s, like, the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

It
was
sweet. And kind. And thoughtful. And I was fairly certain if I finished the glass of wine I’d just been given I would find myself sprawled facedown on the floor in a matter of minutes. “Do you want some?” I asked, holding the glass out to Whitney. “I already feel a little lightheaded. I really don’t think I should have another.”

“Are you kidding me?” Looking at me though I’d just committed a deadly sin, Whitney pushed my hand away. “I have a martini on the way. Now shut up and drink your wine.”

The corners of my mouth tightened into a frown, but I was feeling just enough of a buzz to do exactly what she said. After all, four glasses of wine wasn’t
that
much. And didn’t I have cause for a little celebration? Daniel had said he liked me. Out loud. To my face. If that wasn’t a reason to drink a little wine, I didn’t know what was. Besides, it wasn’t as if I was drinking them quickly.
Well
, I corrected myself silently,
except for the one you chugged
.

When Whitney received her martini - a frothy pink confection with two cherries stuck to a green plastic toothpick - she popped up off her barstool and nudged me with her hip. “Come on, only losers sit down when music is playing. Let’s mingle.”

“Mingle?” I said with an apprehensive glance around the crowded bar. There had to be close to a hundred people. Some were dancing, but most had separated off into tiny groups and were screaming at each other over the music still blaring out of the speakers. 

“It’s not a dirty word, Mo.” Whitney rolled her eyes. “Mingle. Dance. Chat. Socialize. You know, do what we came here to do.”

“I know what mingle means. And I think I would like to stay at the bar, thank you.”

“Get up.” Taking my arm, she gave it a firm tug that pulled me off balance and nearly caused me to tip over my new glass of wine.

“Hey!” I cried, clutching the wineglass protectively against my chest. “Be careful.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” With a cluck of her tongue Whitney yanked my drink right out of my hand. “I’ll hold it for you. Now get up, smile, and pretend you wanted your hair to look like that.”

* * * * *

We mingled. Or rather, Whitney mingled and dragged me behind her like I was an oversized purse. I stayed in the background, speaking only when spoken to, and then only in short, clipped, awkward sentences. It was hard to have a conversation in such a loud, crowded place. The music was so deafening I had to shout to be heard, and then shout louder when the person I was trying to talk to inevitably tilted their head, squinted their eyes in confusion, and yelled, “
What did you say
?”

Somehow we managed to work our way in a full circle and when we found ourselves back at the bar it was in the company of two men, one of whom had his arm draped loosely around Whitney’s shoulders. She leaned into him, acting, I thought, far drunker than she actually was. The man - Greg? George? Something with a G - whispered in her ear and she giggled, then shook her head.

“No,” she said, flattening a hand against his chest. “We’re not those type of girls. You have to at least…”

I drifted out of the conversation, absently sipping my wine as I glanced down the bar. Daniel was at the opposite end, talking to a trio of blondes. Courtesy of the alcohol I’d imbibed, senseless jealousy pounced swiftly and sank its sharp claws into my skin.

So Daniel had time to talk to other girls, but not to me? What happened to getting back to work? Unless work involved flirting, in which case he was pulling a double shift. Was he buying them drinks too? My eyes narrowed. If his grin was any indication, he definitely looked like he was enjoying himself.  

“Hey, you want another drink?”

I blinked, tearing my gaze away from Daniel to focus on the guy standing beside me. He was my height, with auburn hair and green eyes that hinted at an Irish ancestor. He was a friend of Whitney’s new friend and had introduced himself to us before we walked back to the bar, but I couldn’t recall his name which was odd because I never forgot names.
It must be the wine
, I decided as I glanced down at my empty glass. Except what type of wine came with a bright green toothpick?

“This isn’t mine,” I said, thrusting my drink at Irish.

“Sure it is.” Taking the glass, he set it down behind him before taking a step closer to me, crowding me up against one of the steel stools. Wobbling a bit on my heels, I sat automatically, which apparently was code in drunk world for
come even closer
, which Irish did. Resting one hand on the bar and the other on the back of my stool, he pushed my knees apart as he pressed between my thighs. “I got it for you, remember? Cherry martini. Just like your friend.”

No I certainly did
not
remember, although given the fact that I’d apparently downed an entire martini without noticing it wasn’t wine I couldn’t say I was all that surprised.

I was drunk. Unfortunately, I was too drunk to care how drunk I actually was.

“Wine,” I said with a decisive nod of my head. “I’ll have another glass of wine. Please.”

“Not a martini?” Irish asked.

“No.” My nose wrinkled. “I don’t like martinis.”

He laughed as the hand he’d had resting on the bar moved to my shoulder. “Could have fooled me. Do you always drink things you don’t like to drink?”

Heavy
, I thought dimly as I frowned down at his hand. His touch was too heavy. Too intrusive. I jerked my shoulder, trying to brush him off, but like a fly who had just discovered a particularly juicy piece of food he clung to me, refusing to let go. I glanced past him, seeking out Whitney for help, but my best friend was facing the opposite direction and, unlike me, didn’t seem to be minding the attention of her male suitor. I looked back at Irish. “No, I don’t…” My brow furrowed. “What was the question?”

The hand on my shoulder squeezed before it began to creep slowly up my neck. “You’re funny. I like funny girls. I think you want another martini.”

“No.” Was it just me, or had I said ‘no’ approximately twenty-seven times since I sat down? “I don’t want a martini.” Since Irish wasn’t getting my subtle hint to stop touching, I tried a more obvious one and slapped his hand away. For a split second he looked taken aback before his green eyes lit up.

“So you like it a little rough, huh?” He leaned towards me and I caught an unpleasant whiff of his breath. It reeked of whiskey and cigarette smoke. “I thought so. The quiet ones usually do.” His hands went to my thighs, fingers pushing almost painfully into my flesh. “My place or yours?”

“Whitney.” I grabbed his wrists, grappling to keep his hands from moving any further up my legs while I desperately tried to get my best friend’s attention. “
Whitney
! I think we need to go.”

By some small miracle, she managed to hear me over the din. I caught a glimpse of her face, lips slightly puffy, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, as she broke apart from her boy-toy long enough to glance in my direction.

“In a sec, Mo, can’t you see I’m a little - hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Get off her!” Like a mama bear defending her cub, Whitney shoved Irish’s friend out of the way and charged towards me. She elbowed Irish hard in the ribs, then followed up her assault with a cuff to the head when he turned clumsily around to see who had attacked him.

“What the hell?” he slurred, looking confused.

Whitney jammed a finger into his face. “You don’t touch her, you hear me?”

I tried to jump to my feet, but my heels, coupled with the alcohol swirling around in my system, promptly sat me back down on the stool. As the room spun, I gripped the edge of the bar to anchor myself.
Never again
, I vowed silently as I watched Whitney and Irish square off toe to toe.
I am never, ever drinking again.