“That’s crazy. I’ve dealt with that studio many, many times. So have you.”
“I know,” Flynn said, exasperated. “And they were fine with it from the start. But now I think they’re getting nervous. I’m worried they’re going to back out. I have a breakfast meeting with them in thirty minutes on the Upper West Side.”
Clay didn’t stop to consider the sleeping woman in his bed, or whether she’d be annoyed that he had to take off. All he could focus on was making sure this film deal went through. Flynn had busted his ass to land the Pinkertons, and if they needed to have egos smoothed or cold feet made toasty, it was his job to do so. The bottom line rested with him.
“I’ll be there. Text me the location.”
“Thanks man, I need you,” Flynn said, relief loud and clear across the phone line.
He headed inside, walked quietly past a sleeping Julia, curled up on her side with her red, flaming hair spread across the white pillowcase, looking like a goddess. His goddess. And he was going to have to tell her what he’d done before they met Charlie.
He showered and dressed quickly, and she snoozed the entire time, barely moving. He imagined she was in the most peaceful land of dreams, finally sleeping easily now that the price tag was off her head.
At least he’d been able to do that for her.
He bent down to softly kiss her cheek. She sighed lightly, but didn’t wake. Gently, he shook her shoulder. He was greeted with an inhale, and an exhale. “Julia,” he whispered.
Her eyelids fluttered. “Hi,” she said, opening them briefly.
“I need to go. I have to meet Flynn and the Pinktertons,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Should last an hour. Two, tops. I’ll meet you at ten thirty and then we’ll see Charlie together.”
She nodded sleepily. “Call me at ten, so I can shower?”
“Of course. Don’t go without me.”
“Do I look stupid?”
“Sassy from the moment she wakes up,” he said, shaking his head in amusement.
“Back to sleepy time for me,” she said, roping her arms around his neck. “But first. This.”
She pressed a sweet kiss to his lips. “I love you,” she murmured, and his heart thumped painfully against his chest, lurching toward her. He desperately wanted to stay, to sit her down, and to explain. She’d forgive him. Of course she would, right? But he also had made a promise to Flynn and to himself that he’d take care of business. He had time for both. He could manage both. He’d tell her before they met Charlie. “Can we go shopping later for new towels?”
“You don’t like my towels?”
She shook her head. “I like big, fluffy ones.”
“Then let’s get you some big, fluffy towels.”
“And I kind of think you could use a more comfortable bench on your balcony. Those wooden slats are hard.”
“Considering what I will do to you on that, let’s get it today.”
She smiled again. “My flight’s at three.”
“Then we will shop or we won’t shop, but whatever we do I will love every second of it because I’ll be with you, and I love you so much,” he said. “And if I could blow this off and spend the morning inside you, I would. Believe me.”
Believe me. His words echoed. He needed her to believe him.
“It’s okay. Soon, we’ll have plenty of Sunday mornings to be lazy and naughty together.”
“Lazy and naughty. Gorgeous, that is a promise.”
He’d keep that promise. He would absolutely keep that promise.
* * *
Coffee. She needed coffee, stat. Her brain was fuzzy and her muscles were sluggish, and the late-night poker and even later-night sex had worn her out. After a quick shower, she grabbed her clutch purse and her phone, and headed downstairs. She didn’t bother hunting out coffee in the kitchen. She was a coffee-shop kind of woman, and besides, she really should get to know the cafes in this neighborhood. It was going to be her neighborhood soon, and that prospect brought a grin to her face as she pressed the down button in the elevator.
Her elevator.
Her lobby.
She couldn’t believe she’d said yes so quickly, so easily to his question. She should be terrified of packing up and moving across the country. She should hem and haw, and think and consider. But as she pushed open the door of their building, stepping out into the bright morning sun on their block, she knew.
There was no question about it.
She and Clay were more than solid. They had a future, a bright and beautiful, smart and seductive future. He was her match; he was the one she hadn’t been looking for, but who had found his way to her regardless. He was the one she couldn’t imagine being without. To think they’d started as a one-night stand, and now they’d become . . . well, they’d become indispensable to each other.
As she ordered her coffee—black with room for cream—she considered that it might be a risk moving here with him. She could get hurt. She could be left. Worst of all, she could be played like a fool.
And yet, this was Clay, and he wasn’t that kind of a man. He’d be more likely to travel to Pluto than to play her. Maybe love made you take chances, or maybe real love made you take the right chances.
She poured cream in the coffee, knowing he was the right chance.
She left the cafe and ran a finger over her right breast. Not because she had a hankering for self-booby love, but to double-triple check that the money for Charlie was still tucked safely in her bra and ready to turn over. Safe and sound, and nestled against her.
Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it from her purse.
On my way. Be there in ten minutes. Love you.
She couldn’t help but smile because he couldn’t stop saying I love you.
Her stomach rumbled, a reminder she hadn’t had much dinner last night. The restaurant where they were meeting Charlie was one block away, but she wasn’t going to show up early to eat and risk running into Charlie alone just because her tummy was growling. She was a big girl and could withstand hunger. Besides, once they were through with the mobster she was planning on ordering French toast with butter and syrup, and enjoying every single bite. She texted back, letting Clay know she was parked outside the cafe at a tiny little sidewalk table.
She sank down in a metal chair, took a drink of her coffee and scanned the block that would soon become second nature to her. With her sunglasses on, she watched the world of the West Village go by on a Sunday morning, checking out hip families with young children racing ahead of them, surveying couples draped over each other, guys and guys, girls and girls, girls and guys, then an inked young man heading to a tattoo shop across the street called No Regrets. Great name for a tattoo parlor, she thought, as he entered, probably to add to his markings.