Inside the Lines: Without a Trace series, a contemporary erotic romance novel (6 page)

Uncomfortable silence yawns between us.

“Maybe you just need to try again,” he says quietly before leaving my room. “You and Ella tease me about being a love-’em-and-leave-’em, and let’s face it, I can be. But I haven’t given up hope. Neither should you.”

Damn Noah for being a nice guy. Determined not to let tonight get to me, as it’s likely one more date that will end poorly, I look for my usual wear. If any guy wants to be with me, he’s going to know what he’s getting.

Chapter 8

Fumbled Plans

I’m feeling slightly less confident as I approach Radio Blue in midtown. It’s a novelty restaurant, which would explain why it hasn’t been on my radar. Given that a horde of children just filed in, I’m not thinking this will be a romantic setting. Which is fine. It’s not like I want tonight to be all hot and heavy. But I hadn’t thought I’d be playing Skeeball, either.

Besides, I’d be lying if I said I
hadn’t
been reviewing the night with Ari over and over in my head. Or using Fin as a stand-in for some pretty hot daydreams. So the bright blue neon tubing and cartoon characters on the restaurant’s sign are proving a bit off-putting.

Not to mention, I wore standard Lux-wear: gun-metal patent leather pants with a cobalt blue silk shell and a close-fitting, black motorcycle jacket, finished off with high-heeled ankle boots and a few silver pieces of jewelry. I went with my hair long and loose, and I toned back my makeup to a subtle eye and peachy pink lips. Tasteful? Practically virginal compared to my usual getups. For Radio Blue—which I suspect has a children’s arcade in the basement—perhaps not.

He’s waiting for me at the door. When he sees me, his gaze focuses on my face, for which he gets major bonus points, but his awe is evident. “Ye’re stunning,” he says softly, then he leans down and busses my cheek.

“You’re not too bad yourself.” In truth, he’s stunning as well. He wears a pair of black pants that are probably part of a well-tailored suit, with a deep plum sweater that sets off the green-blue of his eyes. Given that he’d look delicious in a paper bag, I’m challenged to keep my own eyes above his shoulders.

The noise of the restaurant invades the moment as the doors open to emit a cacophony of children screaming and laughing.

“This might have been a poor choice,” he comments as we walk towards the door.

“No, it’s fine.” I shake my head, as I don’t want to make him feel bad. When we step inside, however, a “poor choice” doesn’t even begin to describe it. Synthetic bleeps and loud canned music assault our ears as the bright, primary colored lights of the restaurant flicker in an array of patterns. There’s a huge “exploratorium” to our left, outfitted with countless video game machines, and a restaurant with a bar upstairs. Directly behind us is a ball pit, with small children leaping through a sea of colorful plastic orbs, shrieking with delight and dismay.

The hostess wears blue furry ears and has whiskers painted on her face. “How many in your party?”

I glance at Fin, who looks supremely embarrassed.

“Should we go somewhere else?” When I say nothing, he nods. “We should. Thanks,” he nods to the hostess, and then lets me lead the way out of the restaurant.

“I’m sorry,” he says as we’re walking out. “I feel like an ass.”

I chuckle. “This doesn’t bode well for the rest of the evening.”

At that, he sobers. “I apologize — I dinna know—”

“No, I’m sorry. That was harsh, and I meant…it doesn’t matter. I apologize.” I pull together a smile. “Let’s start over, shall we?”

His handsome face shows relief. “Unfortunately, I dinna know where to suggest next, not being from around here.”

“I think I can come up with something. This way.”

One of the benefits of living close to the city all of my life—I was born in New Jersey—is that I know a lot of people, and I’m familiar with most of the neighborhoods. I send a couple of texts while we walk to the subway stop.

Two stops later, we’re above ground and stepping inside Le Chateau Lauxmont. A privately owned, chic bed and breakfast, it also houses one of the best kept secrets in the city. Once inside, you feel as though you’ve entered a quaint, French farmhouse, resplendent with tarnished antiques and local art. The steaks are certified Kobe, and the chef is known internationally for his skill. There’s also a waiting list for Friday nights several months out, so that we are able to slip inside and get a table…let’s just say, it pays to have connections.

“Shall we?” I glance at Fin, who looks appropriately impressed.

“Indeed.” Fin offers me his arm, and I take it, feeling my stomach jump a little at the contact. His forearm feels like solid steel beneath my fingers. I secretly wish he would have worn short sleeves, though the cool October evening prevents that.

Once we’re seated, Fin winks at me. “From now on, ye’ll always choose the restaurant.”

I laugh and twirl a strand of hair around my fingers. “You say that like you already know there’ll be a second date.”

He leans forward. “Since ye’re still sitting with me after all my fuck ups so far, I’m hoping I can talk ye into it.” His dimples show as he grins.

“We’ll see, Fin…what is your last name?”

“MacKenzie.”

“Wow. You are Scottish through and through.”

“Aye. Weel, would ye expect less?”

“So, then, Mr. MacKenzie, tell me your tale.” I peel off my jacket, and I notice his eyes tracing the outline of my shoulder ink.

“That’s a fair piece there, and a beauty. I thought so when I first saw it, though I couldn’t see it clearly. What is it, if ye don’t mind me asking?”

I turn sideways so he can see the full image. “It’s a peacock.” The body of the bird is on my shoulder blade, and his feathers curl around my shoulder in a blaze of color.

He reaches out, his fingers trailing over the image. The touch surprises me, but he doesn’t seem to have the same reticence that most people do about touch…or perhaps because I’ve seen him naked, the typical rules don’t apply. Either way, the heat of him sends a thrill down my spine.

“That’s fine work. Does it signify something for ye?”

I sit back, toying with the edge of the menu as I choose my words. “The peacock loses his feathers every year after mating season. Then, when it comes time to rustle up some female attention, he regrows them. So they’ve been seen as a symbol of renewal in some cultures.”

His full lips quirk up at the corners. “So that’s what it means to ye, then? Renewal?”

“It’s like a rebirth, or being given a second chance to get it right, if you will.” I narrow my eyes. “And I recognize a stall tactic when I hear one. Out with it — what’s your story?”

He chuckles. “Aye, well, there’s not much to tell. I’m from just outside of Edinburgh, a wee town called Kirkliston. Verra small. So when I went to university, I got see a bit of the world—at least, outside of my hometown. My da owns a small cleaners, and Mum’s been working with him since they opened it. Never was much money for travel and the like, so I stayed close.”

The waiter takes our drink order, and Fin waits politely until the small man leaves. “So the only real travel I ever did was playing football—well, ye call it ‘soccer’ here in America. I played quite a bit, and that’s what I did for some time in school. Still do.”

“So you’re a soccer player? Er, football player, I mean?”

His cheeks pinken. “Not exactly, no. Well, I mean, aye, I do play soccer—for a local team, mind ye, not anything extravagant. I’m actually a horse trainer. Or at least, I fancy myself as such.”

“Wow.” I look at Fin in a new light. “That’s not what I expected. I thought you were an underwear model,” I tease, enjoying the flush that covers his cheeks.

“Aye, well,
that…
ye know, Stephen gets me into these things, ye understand? He told me I’d get some nice clothes out of the deal. He never mentioned I’d be photoed in my knickers.”

I laugh, admittedly enjoying his discomfiture. “Stephen can definitely get you into trouble.” The waiter returns with our drinks, and I take a sip of my pinot grigio. I’m anything but a wine snob, and this pinot is dry and crisp, with hints of apple. After a moment, I raise a brow and ask, “So, what did you think you were getting into last weekend?”

If he was red before, he’s turned into a beet now. He covers his face with his hands, groaning comically. “Oh, God, ye had to ask. I hoped ye’d not, as I don’t even have a good answer.”

“Oh, come on, at least tell me what Stephen said to get you to say yes.”

He digs in his pocket, coming up with his phone. “It isna what he said that sold me.” He swipes over the screen, looking for something, and then hands the phone to me.

He’d pulled up his texting app.

Dude, need a favor.

I don’t think u will mind helping me out.

U know the shit we talked about? I need u 2 be me. Trust me—u won’t be sry.

The next text is a picture of me, though it isn’t one I’ve seen before. I must have been at a party, and from the little bit I can tell from the background, it might be from Stephen’s birthday party last year. I’m laughing, looking at the camera, and I’m wearing almost no makeup. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve seen myself look…well, perhaps more
me
, and less Mistress Hathaway. My gray eyes
are
mesmerizing in the photo, and though I’ve never seen myself as any great beauty, this photo…well, I must say, it’s flattering.

Now whose cheeks are pink? I hand him the phone and finger my bread plate. “So you thought you were going to have sex with me?” I try to keep the accusatory tone out of my voice, but even so, the tension between us heightens.

“Not exactly.” His burr intensifies with his chagrin. “Look, Lux, I dinna know ye, and when a friend sends me a photo of a beautiful girl and suggests I might get to see her up close…well, I dinna ask questions.”

I nod, biting back a grin. “Fair enough. You do know what Stephen does, though, right?”

“Erm, I have a general idea, aye.”

My estimation of him goes up. “Well, then, I’m impressed. Not every guy would jump into those shoes.”

“I wasna ‘jumping into his shoes.’” Fin’s voice goes up a decibel. “Christ, the man will sleep with anyone for a bit of coin.”

Which is true. Stephen is—technically was—an escort. He still plays that card on occasion, though most recently, he’s turned his “coin” into an investment portfolio. He’s part-owner of Monsieur and designs some of the fashions.

“It wasna the first time I’d seen ya, ye ken. He’d mentioned ye before. A bit of a crush he has on ye, I think.” He tucks the phone away, then chances another glance at me. “So I’ve seen quite a few photos.”

“Seriously? Like he’s a total creeper?” I act more surprised than I really am. Stephen’s had a thing for me for some time, and I like him. But not like that.

“I wouldna call him a ‘creeper,’ no, but he likes ye verra well. Listen, he sent me yer photo, and I thought if the worst thing to happen to me in New York City was that I got to bed a bonny lass, I’d be a lucky man.”

I giggle, as he purposely thickens his accent, and any tension evaporates. We order dinner and chat about general things, like what brought him to the States.

“My mentor, John Littes, offered me an apprenticeship,” he says between bites of steak. “Since I haven’t been able to figure out what I want to do after uni, I figured I’d take him up on it.”

“Are you glad you did?” I’ve never been close to a horse outside of stroking their satiny noses at petting zoos, so the fascination with them is curious to me.

“Och, aye. The man is a damn whisperer. He gets in the ring with them, and they immediately connect. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Sounds amazing.” And I mean it. While I’ve never been much of an animal person, his love for them is obvious. “How long are you here—in the States—for?”

“That’s a good question.” He pauses to chew. “I’m here on a visiting visa, but I’ve applied to Cornell’s veterinary program so I could get a student visa. The more time I can spend learning from John, the better, and let’s be honest: Cornell would be amazing.” His face lights up as he talks. “I’m not sure if I’ll get in, of course. It’s a verra competitive field.”

I am ridiculously envious of how passionate he is about his career. Didn’t I used to be that way? When did I start feeling so old and afraid? When did I start coloring inside the lines so much? But then…it’s been a long time since college. “Can I ask you a really personal question?”

He grins. “Ye’ve seen all of me there is to see. I dinna think ye can get more personal than that.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” I say with a chuckle. “How old are you?”

He finished chewing a bite of steak. “Does it matter?”

“Well, I’m really hoping you’re old enough for that glass of wine,” I say dryly.

His dimple deepens as his grin widens. “Twenty-three, if it pleases ye, Mistress.”

I knew he was younger than me, but I hadn’t thought he was five years younger. “Wow. Okay.”

“Is it a problem for ye?”