The One I'm With (A Sweet Somethings Novel Book 3) Read online

  So what if I have certain rules about dating? If it looks like a guy might land a first date, I’m upfront about what he should expect from me. I never objectify or string anyone along.

  It’s been done to me. I refuse to do it to someone else.

  “Okay, dance floor,” Mel says suddenly, grabbing my arm.

  I let her pull me off my stool, hanging back only long enough to drain the last couple swigs from my bottle. “Tonight was drinks, not dancing.”

  “And the dance floor here sucks,” Caitlin adds.

  Mel responds by taking Caitlin by the arm as well. “Marissa called dibs. Gotta see if the guy’s interested before she takes the plunge.”

  “Hey!” I wriggle my arm free, though I continue toward the dance floor. “Who says I’m even going to plunge?”

  “Oh, please,” Ava says, following along. “If any more heat passes between you two, Boomer’ll be scorched in the crossfire.”

  The dance floor, as we regulars call the cramped eight-by-eight area at the back of the bar, provides a poor view of Mr. Tall, Bronze, and Handsome, which also means he can’t exactly follow my movements. For just a moment after Caitlin loads up the jukebox with a series of fast-paced tunes guaranteed to get anyone’s body moving, a wash of conflicted panic sweeps over me.

  I didn’t come out tonight intending to hit on anyone, or be hit on myself. I never do. But if it happens, I just go with the flow. Sometimes I get a couple dinner-and-a-movie dates out of it. Other times, things don’t progress farther than the front door of the bar or nightclub.

  But Mr. Tall, Bronze, and Handsome doesn’t strike me as the sort of guy who spends his Saturday nights trolling bars to pick up women. I wish I’d met him during the afternoon, just as I was leaving a lunch appointment with a client. A businesswoman on top of her game? Maybe that would pique his interest.

  We shift places on the dance floor over the course of three or four songs. I loosen up, forgetting the possibility of being observed, and enjoy the fun with my friends.

  That ends when Mel catches me by the hand and spins me. “It looks like your friend might be thinking of joining us.”

  “What are you talking about?” Involuntarily, I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of Mr. Tall, Bronze, and Handsome working his way toward the corner of the bar we’ve lately vacated. My heart does a weird flutter and skip, and I stumble a little as Mel releases me.

  Ava gives me a push toward the bar. “Order us some drinks, girl!” Her voice carries over the music.

  Somehow I manage to navigate the distance back to the bar without looking over my shoulder or locking eyes with anybody other than Boomer. “Another round,” I call to him as I draw close enough to be heard.

  “You carrying them back, or do you want the waitress to bring them over?” he asks, casting a not-so-subtle glance at Mr. Tall, Bronze, and Handsome.

  Who answers for me, his voice deep and touched with an unplaceable accent. “Send theirs. Serve hers here.”

  Irritation skitters up my spine as Boomer moves away. I face the object of my interest, further annoyed by the audacious and smug grin playing on his nearly perfect face.

  Oh, no. Marissa O’Brien doesn’t play that game. Propping my hands on my hips, I attempt a withering glare. “And who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Josh Mattingly,” he replies, smoothly extending one hand.

  I stare at his palm for a few seconds, then lift my gaze back to his. “Am I supposed to recognize you by name?”

  He blinks, surprise etching itself in his features. An awkward moment passes before he pulls his hand back and rests his elbow on the edge of the bar. “It’s not an obscure name. But I guess it depends on the circles you travel in.”

  “Given that statement, I doubt you and I travel in the same circles.” I glance at Boomer, willing him to get his ass back over here with my beer.

  “Our circles seem to be overlapping tonight.”

  I turn to him again, offering a coy smile. “I think you’re way outside your circle.”

  At that, Josh straightens and folds his arms across his chest. “What makes you think that?”

  “Three things.” I hold up my index finger. “First, you’re not from around here. You’ve got an accent I can’t place, but it’s definitely not local.”

  “Neither is yours,” he counters.

  “But I’ve lived here for four years. Even if you aren’t born and bred in Asheville, you pick up the cadence of local speech after a while, and learn to recognize it in others.” I raise two fingers now. “Second, the fact that you expected me to recognize your name tells me you’re used to people recognizing it. Which means you tend to hang out around people who operate within your circle of influence.”

  He doesn’t have a comeback for that. Instead, his eyebrows lower in a curious frown as he waits for me to illuminate him on my third point.

  My ring finger joins the other two already lifted in illustration. “Third and final thing. It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday night. You’re in a bar, one of the smaller establishments dominated by locals, wearing what I assume is the remnants of a business casual outfit put together for a crappy day spent all alone at your office. And I can tell you from experience and observation that nobody who travels anywhere close to my circle—” Here I pause to sweep my three lifted fingers in a couple loops between us. “—works so late on a Saturday that he has no time to stop home and change before hitting the bar.”

  “Well, Red.” His lips twist in amusement. “I suppose you’ve drawn a conclusion about me, based on your three points.”

  Red? I don’t know if that’s a reference to my dress or my hair. “White collar consultant with no personal life would fit the bill. Except that doesn’t take into account your assumption that everybody should know who you are.” I tap one finger against my chin and shoot him an assessing glance. “The consultant angle could still work, since you were obviously stuck in the office all day. But the rest? You’ve got some money behind you. Yours, your family’s. Whatever. Workaholic, maybe. I have my doubts about the well-roundedness of your personal life.”

  “You’re not that far off.” Josh’s expression shifts into something far too serious, too intense, for my comfort. “Mind if I give you a go?”

  Heat prickles along my skin. “Beg your pardon?”

  “My impression of you.” He steps closer and dives in without waiting for my answer. “Mid-twenties, reasonably successful at your job. No family close by. No significant other, either, which is why you and your pack of lady-friends are free to spend your Saturday nights scoping out men at your favorite watering hole. Which happens to be this particular establishment, because you’re just on the other side of being able to tolerate the college crowd.”

  His assessment is eerily spot on. The prickles cool to a shiver as the blood drains from my head, leaving me momentarily dizzy.

  But Josh isn’t done. Now he leans down, his voice an intimate murmur in my ear. “You’re a woman at odds with yourself, Red. You’d like everyone to notice your confident, flippant, flirtatious exterior, to think you don’t need anyone to complete you.” Despite the dim light, his eyes show a dark, even blue that pierces to my very core. “But deep down, you’d like nothing more than a warm hug on a cold night, from somebody who knows you inside and out.”

  A fresh wave of heat gushes up from my toes, forcing me to take a step back. “I guess you think you’ll get to be that somebody. At least for tonight.”

  My voice is low, almost hollow in my attempt to keep a steady tone. But something else plays on my face. I can feel it, the battle between attraction and control over the situation.

  I decide.

  I always decide.

  And my decision has never been and will never be one that allows a man to know me inside and out eve
r again.

  Josh moves away, studying me. Then he reaches over to the bar and picks up the beer Boomer left there at some point in the last five minutes. He takes one sip before handing the bottle to me.

  The absurd adolescent concept of kiss transfers through drink sharing passes through my mind. My mouth goes dry.

  “You’re mostly right about me,” he says. “My family name does hold a lot of weight in certain circles, particularly corporate ones. You can infer what you’d like about my financial status from that. But I work upward of ninety hours a week. I am in Asheville on business, and I did put in a long-ass day at an office that’s only been mine for about a week. I stopped here because it’s on the way back to my hotel. I seriously just wanted a drink.”

  I blink, trying to follow. This is not typically how these conversations pan out. “And . . . what about scoping me out across the bar?”

  “Credit where it’s due, Red.” His smile returns. “You and your friends scoped me out first.”

  My jaw drops, but words of denial don’t come. Neither does the insistence that our gazes just happened to pan the room at the same time and slammed into each other. Maybe I was the only one affected by that sudden, unexpected eye contact.

  Either that or he’s better at this game than me.

  Time to get back in control. Otherwise I’ll have to scurry back to the dance floor with my tail between my legs to tell Ava it’s her turn.

  “There’s no crime in a girl looking.” Affecting a nonchalant shrug, I lift my bottle, take a long drink, and try to convince myself Josh isn’t staring at my lips.

  “No,” Josh replies, something shifting in his eyes. “No, there’s definitely no crime in looking.”

  I turn, my free hand raised in a pretty wave that’s meant to dismiss him. I’m not sure whether or not I want him to follow, but I know I can’t stand this close to him anymore. Escape. Back to the safety net of my friends before I get singed.

  He catches my arm between elbow and wrist, his grip sliding down until his long fingers lace with mine. Every atom in my hand, arm, body explodes with the force of nuclear fusion, forcing me to stop before I fall down.

  Forget about breathing.

  Sense of sight?

  Rendered temporarily absent, though I can still hear him say, “Can I at least find out your name before you go report back to your pack of lady-friends?”

  Slowly my vision returns, honing in on a face that looks to have been carved from bronze. “Marissa O’Brien.”

  I never—and I mean never!—give my last name if a guy hasn’t made it past the chat-me-up stage. I leave him whipped into a frenzy and wondering where he went wrong, while I saunter back to my own content corner of the world.

  But not Josh. He brings my hand to his lips in a crazy, Old World gesture of romantic chivalry that practically knocks me out of my boots. Then he says, in his out-of-place, richly accented baritone, “Maybe I’ll run into you again, Red. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

  Finally, he releases me, both in terms of my fingers as well as my gaze. I can’t tell if my face is flushed or pale when I make it back to the dance floor. But all three of my friends stare at me as if they’ve just seen a squad of aliens walk into the bar and order a round of martinis.

  “No go, ladies,” I say, trying to act nonplussed.

  Ava starts to speak, but then snaps her mouth shut. Mel hides a smile behind her hand.

  But Caitlin has no qualms. “Doubtful, Marissa. He’s had his eyes glued on you from the second you started back over here.”

  “Get off it.” I will not peek over my shoulder to check.

  “He’s totally still staring,” she continues.

  I hand my half-empty bottle to a waitress as she passes, then grab Ava and Caitlin’s arms. “Dance, girls. We came here to have fun. I’m not going to see him again.”

  “Yeah, right,” Mel mutters with a giggle. “Ten bucks has you two moving furniture by June first.”

  I shoot her a glare. But as I spin to pull Caitlin into motion, I notice Josh’s tall form, silhouetted before the lights of the bar.

  He’s definitely still watching me.

  And damn it if I can’t make out his grin.

  Chapter 3

  Sisterly Advice

  When I wake up the next morning, the first thing that comes to mind is the glint of mischief in Josh Mattingly’s blue eyes. The memory of it brings such a rush of heat over me, I have to fling off my blankets in order to cool down.

  A freezing shower would probably do the trick. But then I remember my sister’s voicemail from last night still awaits. That’s enough reality to dash cold water on whatever lingering attraction has me all hot and bothered before ten o’clock. Rolling out of bed, I grab my phone off the nightstand and dial my voicemail as I wander into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Beth’s message is short and sweet, just her usual check-in on how life’s treating me lately.

  I decide to wait until I’ve had coffee before calling her back.

  Once I’ve settled at the kitchen table with my second cup and a slice of toast smeared with peanut butter, I return her call.

  She answers on the third ring. “Hey, stranger.”

  “Hey, yourself. Sorry I didn’t catch you last night.” I munch my toast, hoping to mask any telltale signs that I didn’t catch her on purpose. “I was out with the girls.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “Really?” I can picture that judgy look of hers. Pursed lips, eyes narrowed, the slight shake of her head.

  I frown. Beth’s not really judgy so much as . . . too settled to empathize with her twenty-six-year-old sister’s antics. “Sunday is the only day I don’t work, and I bust my ass the other six days of the week. If I want to hang out with my friends for drinks and dancing on Saturday night, so what?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Beth replies.

  “You were thinking it, though.”

  She sighs. “You didn’t drive, did you?”

  I lean back in my chair. “We rotate D.D. Last week was my turn.”

  Beth mumbles something, conceding the point, I guess. I picture her fidgeting with her hair. Both of us have the habit of playing with our hair when we’re mulling something over, or if something’s bothering us. With a start, I remember that I was doing it last night, when I should have been totally chill on my way into town.

  “So why’d you call?” I ask, forcing cheer into the question.

  “No reason. We hadn’t talked in a couple weeks. I just . . .” She trails off, then sighs. “I’m worried about you, Marissa. You’ve been kind of incommunicado lately.”

  Taking in Beth’s quiet words, I echo her sigh. “I’m okay. Honest. I’ve got my friends. And it’s been busy, that’s all.”

  “Friends are great, sure. And I know your business has taken off this spring. But that’s not the end all and be all of life. What about—”

  “Don’t start.” I cut her off. “That door slammed shut a long time ago. I’m not eager to reopen it.”

  “It’s been three years. You’re telling me that none of the guys you’ve dated have made you feel that . . . that flutter?”

  How can I explain to her that I haven’t let anybody get close enough to make my heart flutter? Beth O’Brien-Wright’s perception of the world is one vast gradation of truth. There’s always the possibility that taking a chance—in your career, your love life, whatever—could result in fantastic things.

  But Marissa O’Brien? No. To me, life is cut and dry.

  Either you succeed or you fail.

  You love or you don’t.

  Someone keeps your heart safe . . . Or someone breaks your heart.

  “I’m focusing on my career right now,” I
finally say.

  “That is such a cliché answer.”

  “But it’s true.” I stand and cross the kitchen to the coffee pot, refilling my cup. “Spring means houses go up for sale in droves. More and more sellers are looking for interior designers to stage their homes these days. After my living room and kitchen were featured in those home and garden magazines back in March, my phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

  “I know but—”

  “I’m getting calls from clients as far away as Charlotte,” I continue, stirring sugar into my coffee. “And that’s not just people selling their houses. That’s people up and down Lake Norman, as well as throughout the mountains, who have a lot of money to burn and not much interest in decorating their luxury homes on their own. And don’t forget I landed the Biltmore’s drawing room at Christmastime.”

  “Fine. I concede your point. But there’s more to life than work, Marissa. A lot more.”

  A heavy silence falls over the line. I set my cup on the kitchen island. “I know that.”

  “You ended up in Asheville completely by chance,” Beth says.

  “I went to Appalachian State, then settled a little to the south.”

  “You made that choice on a whim, too.”

  My lips curve at the memory. “Yeah. Fun stuff.”

  Beth sighs. “Look, I get it. Jared handed you a raw deal. He ripped out your heart, stomped on it, then tied it to the back of his convertible and let it bounce along behind him as he sped away.”

  “Gee, thanks for the reminder.”

  She makes a sound of frustration. “Maybe that door slammed shut. But you’re the one who locked it and threw away the key.”

  Irritation rumbles to the surface. “I’ve dated, Beth. Plenty of guys.”