After the Kiss (6 page)

But he didn’t touch her. Didn’t even look at her as he stepped closer to the curb and hailed a cab. Julie stared in stunned surprise as he pulled open the cab door and raised an expectant eyebrow.

Wait, not yet! We haven’t done the next-date dance yet!

“We could share a cab,” she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

The expression on his face said it all:
No, thanks
. But manners prompted him to ask, “Where do you live?”

“West Village. You?”

“Upper East. Opposite directions, unfortunately.”

It was true. Their respective neighborhoods were completely inconvenient for cab sharing, but he didn’t have to look so damn pleased about it.

Outmaneuvered, she stomped toward the waiting taxi. “So. This was fun.”
Sort of
.

He wrinkled his nose ever so slightly, as though reading her thoughts.
Was it?

“Lady, you comin’ or what?” the cabbie whined.

Julie shot him an annoyed look and looked expectantly at Mitchell. She let her lips curl up in her most appealing smile. The man might be rusty at dating, but it didn’t take a genius to see that the next move was his.

But he didn’t make it. He just cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced at the vacant backseat of the cab.

Oh, my God
, Julie thought as realization sank in.
This is not happening
.

Too befuddled to do anything else, she let Mitchell take her arm and ease her into the back of the cab.

It
was
happening.

After six years with a flawless record, the queen of dating had just done the unthinkable.

She’d failed to land the second date.

The next evening, Mitchell tipped the cabbie and stepped onto the sidewalk at the address Julie had given him.

He couldn’t resist the smile of satisfaction. There was no better feeling than having a risky gamble play out the way you wanted. And this one had played out perfectly. Julie Greene had done exactly as he’d hoped. Exactly as he’d expected.

It was particularly satisfying, because as good as Mitchell was at reading people in the workplace, he’d never been particularly adept at understanding the workings of the female mind. But last night he’d somehow known
exactly
how to play Julie Greene.

Putting her in that cab without so much as asking for her number had been a stroke of brilliance. It had surprised her, caught her off guard, and probably pissed her off. And, most important, it had ensured that she would seek
him
out.

Mitchell wasn’t even entirely sure what had made him do it. The object of this little game with Colin was simply to have a little fun with a girl who wasn’t the commitment kind. To that end, simply asking her on a second date would have been more efficient.

But that was exactly what Julie had expected him to do. If it had been up to her, the entire evening would have been manufactured, from the tilt of her head to her too-high laugh when he’d made a dud joke.
That
Julie hadn’t interested him.

But the Julie he’d seen when he’d ripped away her safety net and called her on her bullshit? That Julie he kind of liked.

Okay,
really
liked. Not in the way he’d liked Evelyn or Sarah, or even Christina back in college. Julie was the opposite of every woman he’d ever dated. She was too bright, too intense. She was the last person he’d seek out for long-term companionship—she was far too disruptive for that.

But disruptive could be rather refreshing.

At least for the short term.

Mitchell hadn’t been able to withhold a little fist pump when she’d called him at his office that afternoon, her voice all soft and husky and fake. She made some cooing noises about
it being her turn to treat him to dinner, but he knew what it was really about. A woman who knew how to wrap men around her finger was bound to see last night’s abrupt ending as a failure. She simply wanted to repair her flawless record.

The nature of the invitation, however, had surprised him. He’d thought for sure she’d suggest drinks at a trendy hotel bar or dinner at some place with tiny portions and pretentious service. But a home-cooked meal? That didn’t seem like her. At least not what he knew of her.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had a sudden desire to be unpredictable.

Mitchell wasn’t embarrassed to admit that he’d Googled her. She’d come up nearly a dozen times in various articles on the New York social scene. Colin had been right: Julie Greene was no small-time journalist.
Stiletto
was more empire than magazine, and as far as he could tell, Julie, Grace, and their friend Riley were the princesses.

Neither had Colin exaggerated her dating record. There’d been a male-model look-alike by Julie’s side in almost every picture. Always a different guy, always the same flashy good looks and toothpaste-commercial smile.

Which raised a question: what the hell did she want with
him
?

Julie was all dazzle and fun, and he was, well … Wall Street.

But Mitchell wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever the hell that phrase was. The woman was his ticket into Yankee Stadium. That’s all he needed to know.

Standing on the doorstep of her brownstone, Mitchell found the call button marked “Greene.”

“Hey, Mitchell! Come on in—up the stairs, first door on the right.”

He tentatively pushed the door open, looking around curiously. Call him a snob, but a Manhattan home without a doorman was new to him. He’d only ever lived in swanky high-rises, as had his previous girlfriends.

Still, this was no run-down hovel. The building, while old, had obviously been renovated and kept in good condition.
Stiletto
must pay their princesses good money.

Mitchell started to knock on her door when he heard a loud clatter of pots and pans followed by some very unladylike cursing. Raising an eyebrow, he tried the knob and pushed it open when he found it unlocked.

“Julie?”

“In the kitchen,” she called.

Considering the fact that her apartment was less than six hundred square feet, there really wasn’t a kitchen so much as a corner dedicated to cooking.

It looked like a war zone.

Julie popped up from whatever she’d been doing in the oven, and Mitchell didn’t know whether to laugh or politely avert his eyes. He’d been expecting some sort of Martha Stewart–style domestic scene, perhaps Julie in a fetching little apron and retro red lipstick.

He’d been wrong. Mitchell had seen homeless waifs who looked more put together. She was wearing what appeared to be threadbare boxers that were one wash away from being a pile of string. And her USC shirt probably hadn’t even been new when she’d been in college. Definitely no bra under that sucker, either.

“Mitchell,” she said with a too-wide smile. “You must be early.”

“I’m late, actually,” he said, forcing his eyes up from her chest.

“Ah, right. Well, I’m just putting the last touches on dinner, and then I’ll go freshen up. Dinner should be ready in just a few minutes.”

He hoped by “freshen up” she meant “completely make herself over.” Although, truthfully, this rumpled version of Julie wasn’t without appeal. He’d never seen a woman in such complete disarray, and damned if he didn’t kind of like the unpretentiousness of it. Past girlfriends had never been caught dead without lipstick, much less looking like Little Orphan Annie.

He approached the mess carefully. If “dinner” would be ready anytime before the next Ice Age, he’d sell his right testicle.

“What, uh … what are you making?”

Mitchell wasn’t exactly a kitchen whiz, but he was pretty sure those tiny flecks of metal sticking out of some sort of mutilated meat weren’t edible.

She followed his gaze and slumped slightly. “Chicken Marsala. I was supposed to pound the chicken, but I didn’t have plastic wrap, so I used foil instead. It, um … it kind of broke apart.”

“I can see that.” It looked like a UFO had collided with road kill. “And that?” he asked, gesturing toward a mountain of something green and stringy.

“Leeks!” she said proudly. “Just finished slicing them.”

Mitchell’s eyes fell on the nearby knife and saw that the tip was crooked.
Stabbing
might
have been a more appropriate word choice.

“Julie,” he said softly. “You don’t know how to cook, do you?”

She huffed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and he realized for the first time that her hair was a mess of soft, fuzzy curls instead of the shiny, straight version he’d seen last night.

“What makes you say that?” she asked as she wrestled a cork out of a bottle of Pinot grigio.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, trying not to stare at the way her breasts swayed beneath her T-shirt as she tugged at the cork. “Maybe the box of ‘beginner’s set’ cookware in the corner.”

She followed his gaze to where a recently opened box of pots and pans had been shoved next to the fridge.

“Well, yeah … it’s been a little while since I’ve dabbled in the kitchen.”

More like a lifetime
, he thought.

“Need help?” he asked as he accepted the glass of wine.

She brightened slightly. “You cook?”

“Not a bit. I’d have done the same thing as you when pounding the chicken, except I wouldn’t even have had foil on hand to improvise. But I do have this.” He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and wiggled it enticingly in front of her.

She rubbed at her nose and scowled. “What are we going to do with that, use it to cook the chicken?”

God help them, she actually sounded serious.

“Uh, no. But I can dial it. Maybe call … takeout?”

Julie’s eyebrows snapped into a scowl, and she chewed her bottom lip moodily. “I wanted to make you dinner.”

Yes, but why?
It obviously wasn’t part of her usual dating routine. Probably another one of her carefully plotted ploys that he’d need to watch out for.

He smiled disarmingly. “Come on now, honey. Show Mitchell your collection of takeout menus.”

She hesitated for only about two seconds before scampering to a corner drawer and pulling out a rainbow stack of papers. Mitchell selected one that looked well used.

“Tasty Thai?”

Ten minutes later, their food was on the way and he was holding a garbage bag open as
she scooped her disastrous cooking attempt into it. “What is this?” he asked, poking at a soggy log.

“Garlic bread,” she said in a forlorn voice. “I think I did it wrong.”

Her face was just inches from his, and he got a good look at her skin. He doubted she’d had a chance to apply a speck of makeup, but her skin looked smooth and golden.

California girl
. Odd that the thought didn’t produce the same disdain it had before. His fingers tightened on the garbage bag so he wouldn’t reach out and stroke one silky cheek.

Not yet, Forbes
. Instinct told him that touching Julie if she didn’t have her usual defenses in place would mean a lot of trouble for both of them.

By the time they got everything cleaned up and the stickers removed from her brand spanking new pans, the food had arrived. Mitchell ignored her insistence that they eat at her tiny kitchen table, and instead claimed a spot on the corner of her couch.

“This is a little better than my chicken,” she said, mouth full.

“So who taught you those killer cooking skills?” he asked. “Your mom?”

Julie’s face clouded over. “I wish. My parents died when I was eight.”

The pad thai turned to dust in Mitchell’s mouth. “God, Julie, I’m sorry. Both of them?”

She stared down at her noodles. “There was a car accident. They were on their way to my ballet recital. My sister was in the car too—”

Her voice broke off, and he started to reach toward her, but thought better of it. He barely knew her, after all.

“Everyone told me they died instantly,” she said softly. “As though that somehow made it better to an eight-year-old. They were still gone.”

His heart twisted at the thought of a tiny, sparkling Julie in a tutu waiting for her parents to show up and watch her much-practiced dance. He saw a sheen of tears in her eyes that she was blinking rapidly to keep at bay. He wanted to tell her that it was okay to cry, but to her it probably wasn’t.

“It wasn’t so bad,” she said finally. “My aunt and uncle raised me like one of their own, and my cousins were practically like brothers.”

Practically. But not quite. He wanted to know more. To know her.

Don’t even think about it, Forbes
. This was supposed to be a fling, not a budding relationship. Emotional entanglement was one major step in the wrong direction.

Feeling like a jerk, he remained silent.

Mitchell waited until she’d pulled herself together and then changed the subject to safer territory. “So I’ve been wondering something since last night.”

Julie reached for a spring roll and looked at him curiously. “Yeah?”

“Does it get old? Being pigeonholed as a serial dater?”

She let out a choked laugh. “Ouch. But actually, no, not really. The society papers pretty much get it right.
Stiletto
’s my life. I’ve been there since I was twenty-two, and I know it’s a cliché, but I really can’t imagine working anywhere else.”

“You’re okay being defined by what you write?”

For some reason it bothered him that she was so quick to accept the label Manhattan had slapped on her as the dating guru. Dating was supposed to be a means to an end, not the end itself, and yet most of the women in the city seemed content to ride on her coattails as she tested the waters for them.

Hell, even
he
was using her career as a way to Yankee tickets. Mitchell felt a stab of guilt that hadn’t been there last night, but he promptly stifled it. Julie’s reputation was why he and Colin had picked her for their little bet—her very nature wouldn’t let her get her heart involved.

Then what’s with the attempt at domesticity tonight? Why didn’t she drag you to some trendy hotspot?

He pushed the thought away.

“I wouldn’t say I’m defined by it,” she said with a touch of annoyance. “But it’s a part of me. I love men. And I love sex,” she said with a saucy wink.