Breathless Page 3

  I tip the bottle back to my mouth again. The one beer will be all I allow myself for the night, so I plan to savor it. Once upon a time, I would have been more inclined to pound back one after another. At thirty-four, I generally prefer to not wake up hungover.

  “So, what’s the problem?” I ask. “Please tell me that Carl didn’t call again after I left today.”

  Carl Lipton’s wife divorced him after thirty years of marriage. No big deal, if Carl wasn’t the former General Manager for the Kings, the NHL hockey team based out of Brooklyn. But since he is the former GM, well, shit hit the fan.

  At Matthews, Waltham, and Avin Law, we primarily handle high-profile entertainment cases. Carl, already a client of ours, demanded that we represent him for his divorce. Usually, the answer would be “hell no.” But, as they say, money talks, and so Max took on the case. What ensued were slanderous spreads all over Page Six, TMZ, Cosmopolitan, and every other magazine across the country.

  After all, Carl’s wife had caught him making love to a blow-up doll. While his (human) lover recorded the whole thing. Cocaine was found on the bedside table, along with two butt plugs.

  Like I said, it was a total shit show.

  Suffice as it is to say, Carl is no longer the GM for the Kings, but he’s still got way too much money to turn down.

  Max orders another beer, runs a hand over his cropped military-style buzz cut, and says, “It’s Carl.”

  So much for enjoying my beer; I drain the rest in one swallow. “What now?”

  It’s Devin who speaks up this time. “Remember that whole gala thing going down next week? The one at the Met?”

  “No.” Call me anti-social, but I generally prefer to let Max and Devin handle our public engagements. Not necessarily because I dislike people or loud crowds, but if we’re being honest here . . . it’s the booze.

  Sometimes, after a long night, it’s tough cutting myself off at one. But at a gala or any big-time social event—which we’re always invited to, considering we represent most of the heavy-hitter entertainment companies in the city—the alcohol is flowing, the crowd is wasted, and I’m not particularly fond of being the only sober fellow.

  For one, drunk people are obnoxious.

  Second, drunk people are obnoxious especially when you’re stone-cold sober.

  I eye my beer, and then drop it in the black trash can to my right.

  Devin lets out a sigh of despair, like a grandmother irritated with her child’s offspring. “Whatever, doesn’t matter,” he says, “point is, Carl is going and he’s freaking out because Sarah will be there, too. The last time he saw her outside of court, he had his cock three inches inside a latex vagina.”

  Max snorts into his beer.

  I lift a finger in the air. “I think we’re missing the two biggest issues with this. First, why the hell do you know that Carl Lipton has a three-inch penis? Second … you watched the video, didn’t you.”

  Devin’s face blooms a vibrant red. “Call it curiosity, dude.”

  “Hide your mothers, hide your blow-up dolls,” Max quips. He turns to give me a high five, and I meet the cause. “But, seriously, back to business, fellas. Carl is going. Sarah is going. Jake, Carl is demanding that we find him a date.”

  Frowning, I slip a hand through my hair. “Why is it our problem that he needs a date?”

  “Because once his case is settled, we’re due to gain over a million dollars.”

  Although I see his point, I still don’t like the idea of doing the man’s dirty work. That’s not the sort of law firm we represent. Quite frankly, he should pull on his big boy panties and man up for the night.

  Go on Tinder.

  Swipe right, like the rest of mankind in the twenty-first century.

  It’s not that hard.

  I’m itching to order another beer, so I clamp my hands down on my knees. “Why do I feel like I’m not going to like where this is going?”

  Max glances over at Devin, and they do one of those eyebrow-quirking things. They’ve been talking. Without me. Shit.

  Max props his beer on the table, and shifts forward. “So, we were thinking—”

  “A dangerous thing,” I mutter.

  “—and we couldn’t help but remember that girl who helps out at your parent’s restaurant. The chicken suit girl. You said she was a starving actress.” Max grins, like his plan is perfection. “You think she’d be down to date Carl for the night? We could pay her way better than your dad pays her.”

  My mouth unceremoniously drops open. “You want Claire?” I echo. “You want Claire Holloway to go out with Carl?”

  Devin shrugs. “Yeah. Is that her name? We’ve just been calling her the Chicken Suit Girl.” He nudges me with his elbow. “What do you say? Want to pull that Matthews charm out of the closet and convince her that two-thousand dollars is worth her time for a three-hour gig?”

  Jesus Christ.

  I think I’m going to need another beer.

  4

  Jake

  It takes a hell of a lot to admit this but . . . I’ve been captured against my will.

  Yeah, I never thought I’d utter those words either, but, lo and behold, shit’s about to get real.

  “I’ve broken every ethical code in the rule book for this,” I mutter to the two assholes in the Mustang. “I’m serious. We should not be doing this.”

  Max chortles and reaches out to clap me on the shoulder. “Untwist those lacy panties of yours, Jake. You’re helping mankind right now.”

  “I’m helping your wallet right now.”

  “Correction,” he says with a finger in the air, “you’re helping all of our pockets. And, so long as Miss Holloway decides to join in on the fun, you’ll be doing her a solid as well.”

  This is a new low.

  Through the front windshield, I stare at Claire’s brownstone in Astoria, Queens. I don’t doubt that she’s bunking down with a few roommates, considering the price tag these places go for nowadays. There’s a few potted plants on her front stoop. Christmas lights twine through the porch’s iron railing, even though it’s April. The curtains are drawn on the first floor bay window.

  Despite the fact that I’ve had access to her paperwork for six weeks now, I’ve never breached protocol. Unless I’m reaching out on behalf of my dad, I don’t call or text her. And I especially don’t show up at her house unannounced.

  I crave her, and, now that I’ve had one taste, I’m desperate for another. But I still don’t feel like this is a good idea.

  Devin cranks open his door, Max following him out. I pinch the bridge of my nose, inhale sharply, and climb out of the Mustang.

  “Let me do the talking,” I say, quickening my strides so I can bypass the two knuckleheads I call friends. “She doesn’t know either of you.”

  Devin laughs. “Considering that she doesn’t even like you, I imagine we’ll have better luck at this.”

  I doubt it. Claire’s no simpering miss. She’s confident and snarky and more likely to turn into a Praying Mantis and chomp off their heads than listen to what they have to say.

  I ring the doorbell and step back. This is a stupid, ridiculous idea. Sure, one million dollars isn’t something to discard easily. Sure, Claire can probably use the two grand. But is it all worth spending the night with Carl-fucking-Lipton? To have her name be potentially dragged through the mud along with his? I don’t think so.

  “Is she home?” Max asks when no one answers the door.

  “I have no idea.” I press the doorbell again.

  Devin leans against the iron railing. “Just give her a call.”

  He says it like it’s no big deal. Just give her a call. Jesus. He doesn’t get it—Claire and I have an unspoken understanding. Unless it deals with my parent’s restaurant, I don’t call her. She doesn’t call me.

  To be fair, you are standing outside of her house right now . . .

  Okay, good point. Unspoken understandings out of the way, giving her a quick call isn’t that
big of a deal.

  I’m reaching for my phone in my pocket when the door swings open.

  My jaw drops.

  My cock hardens.

  Jesus Christ. She’s wearing close to nothing. Gym shorts, a teeny-tiny sports bra. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail, and her face is . . . beautiful. It’s the word that slips out unwanted. I saw her face yesterday, saw her dark eyes flashing murder up at me. Saw her cheeks flushed from wearing that damn chicken suit.

  This is different.

  She’s flushed from activity. Running, if I had to guess, based on her hot pink sneakers.

  I feel like I’ve just swallowed a lit match. I’m burning inside. Burning at the sight of so much skin, especially when I’ve hardly had the chance to see her in just plain clothes. Burning at the thought that I’m not the only one enjoying the view.

  My teeth grind together, and I catch myself adjusting my stance so she’s somewhat hidden by my body.

  “Jake?” she says, her tone curious. “What are you doing here?” She stands on her tiptoes to try and get a look at Max and Devin behind me.

  I swallow, hard. “Sorry for popping up unexpected.” My cock twitches when she drops back onto her heels and her breasts bounce with the movement. “I should have called.”

  “Glad to see he finally realized it,” Max mutters, and I have the most insane urge to lift my heel and mule-kick the bastard.

  Instead I ignore him.

  Claire folds her arms over her chest, and I immediately feel a sense of loss. Fuck me. Seriously. Her lips purse. “Is this a prank?”

  “What?” I shake my head. “No, it’s not.”

  Devin sighs loudly beside me, then elbows me out of the way until he’s standing directly in front of her. “Claire, right?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Yes?”

  “You’ll have to forgive our buddy Jake here. Apparently, the sight of you has stolen his tongue.” Devin dances out of the way when my fingers try to snag his T-shirt to pull him back, and he adds, “Now, I completely understand why. You’re gorgeous. He’s been hiding you in a chicken suit, and that’s just a damn shame.”

  “Shut up,” I bite out. “Claire—”

  Her eyes, however, are not on me. They’re centered on Devin. Does she . . . like what he looks like? Something sours in my stomach, even though jealousy isn’t my thing. It’s never been my thing. I live my life a certain way, one that doesn’t include getting worked up over a woman. The fact that I feel differently about Claire doesn’t sit well with me.

  As if Devin’s handsome face isn’t enough, Max steps forward and I’m edged farther back. “Like Devin said, great to meet you, Claire. Can we come in?”

  He flashes her the disarming smile that I’ve often seen him use on women at bars. Claire reacts appropriately—she blinks, fingers curling around the edge of her doorframe, and says, “I need a shirt.”

  Yes, yes you do.

  I bite my tongue to keep the words on lockdown as she steps aside to let us in. Max shoves through first, and I pull up the rear. Mainly so I can have a moment to admire Claire in everything that she isn’t wearing.

  God, she’s beautiful. Lithe, smooth skin. She’s not as thin as many women are nowadays. Her shorts cut into the flesh at her hips. Flesh meant for gripping as I slide her down onto my cock. I like her air of confidence, that she doesn’t feel insecure about her body and society’s stupid standards.

  I want nothing more than to strip off her workout gear and kiss every inch of her.

  The sound of the front door slamming jars me into action. “Have a nice run?” I ask, stepping up next to her as she leads us down a short hallway.

  Her ponytail sways sharply as she shoots me a quick glance. “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

  “Max and Devin—”

  “Are those their names? Somehow I find myself reliving Dumb and Dumber.”

  My buddies overhear and break into laughter. “She’s a sharp one, Jake,” Max says, “no wonder you like her.”

  Claire meets my gaze. “Is that true? Do you like me, Jake?”

  In any other tone, I would think that maybe she’s nervous or pushing for more information. But in Classic Claire fashion, there’s an underlying edge of sass to her words. I can’t help myself. I touch my fingers to the naked flesh of her lower back, my fingers brushing the waistband of her shorts. She stills, just as I knew she would, and I use the moment to react as if I didn’t expect her to stop.

  My hand curves around her waist, palm coming to rest flat against her stomach. I drop my mouth to her ear to murmur, “Don’t sound so excited about the prospect.”

  “I-I’m not excited,” she replies unevenly.

  “No?” I caress her hip, thumb dipping beneath the elastic of her shorts. “Then why are you out of breath?”

  As if to prove my point, her breath catches. “I just went running.”

  “Try again,” I say.

  She doesn’t try. Instead, she practically leaps from my touch. The crests of her cheeks are a fiery red, and her throat and chest are a mismatched puzzle of blotchy pink skin. A husky chuckle escapes me. Oh, yeah. Claire can try all she wants, but this chemistry between us? It’s not one-sided.

  Which makes it all the more difficult to even propose this stupid gala shit to her.

  Without another glance in my direction, she leads us into a small living room. There’s not much furniture. Two loveseats, a squat coffee table. A TV sits in the corner of the room, its volume muted though the channel is broadcasting the daily news. The room’s walls are a bubblegum pink. Probably haven’t been painted since the late ’90s when it was still acceptable to paint your house the color of Pepto-Bismol.

  Max takes one loveseat. Devin takes the other.

  As much as I want to tell them to shack up together, I’m not interested in making a scene. I hold back and wait for Claire to make her move first. I can practically see the thoughts whirring in her head as her gaze volleys between them. She grabs a sweater off the back of Max’s sofa, pulls it down over her head, and then quickly takes the seat next to him.

  Is it wrong that I almost wished she’d sit next to Devin? He’s hopeless when it comes to the female sex. Case in point: our receptionist(s).

  “So, what can I do for you three?” she asks when I finally lower myself down next to Devin. The couch is small and, point blank, both Devin and I are big guys. His elbow cuts into my waist and I shift to the side, so that I can spread my legs comfortably. I catch Claire’s lingering glance on my crotch before she looks away.

  “Jake’s told us a little bit about what you do,” Devin starts off. He eases his ankle against his opposite knee, fingers coming to lace together over his shin. “You’re an actress, right?”

  Claire’s brows come together. “I don’t even know you who are.”

  Max mock gasps. “For shame, Jake, for shame.” He turns to Claire. “We’re Jake’s partners at the firm. I’m Max and that ugly guy across the way is Devin. We figured since we hear so much about you all the time, that our Jake would do the same for us.”

  “Max,” I grunt, hating the way he’s pinning me to look like some kid with a crush. “Do us both a favor and shut up.”

  He grins wickedly. “Sorry, sorry. You’re right.”

  I balance my arm along the back of the sofa. “What he’s trying to say is that since you work for my parents, you often come up in conversation.”

  Our gazes meet, lock, hold. I wonder if she knows that I’ve been angling to get into her bed from the very first day I met her, chicken suit and all.

  She looks away first. “So, you came over to just . . . chat?” Her hands lace together in her lap. “No offense, but I have a gig in two hours. It’s not really a good time.”

  My ears perk up at that. “What’s on the agenda for today?” I ask, trying not to appear too interested.

  Her knuckles turn white. “I have a date.”

  The sour note in my stomach spreads. “Yeah?” I ask, vo
ice low. “Someone special?”

  Devin elbows me. “Man, if it’s an acting gig than it’s obviously not a real date. No one special.”

  He’s right. I don’t know why the thought of her going on fake dates bothers me so much. If anything, it’s better than if she were going on a real date. The skin on the back of my neck tightens, and I rub it. Does she date? Claire doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to cheat. She wouldn’t have kissed me if she had something steady going with someone else. It’s not her style.

  “It’s actually, uh . . . ” Claire tugs on her earlobe. “It’s actually a little more than a regular gig. A friend just joined the Actor’s Guild, and he’s got a casting call later this week. We’re going to run over some lines, that sort of thing.”

  Doesn’t sound like much of a gig, after all. My hand balls into a fist on the sofa. “What time’s that at?”

  Her gaze darts to my clenched hand, then retreats to the coffee table. “Seven.”

  The prime hour for a date. Fuck, I should not let this bother me as much as it does.

  “This is great, actually,” Devin says. “You running lines, I mean.” His excitement cloaks him like second skin as he sits forward, elbows dropping to his knees. “I have to ask you, Claire. Are you open to new gigs? Paid gigs?”

  “I don’t take unpaid gigs, so yes.”

  Max and Devin laugh at that, but I don’t. I itch to shove Max off his seat and claim it for myself. Her rumpled sweatshirt covers the hem of her shorts, leaving her legs exposed. She looks disheveled and I crave nothing more than to press my hands to her thighs and spread them apart to make room for my body.

  As if she senses my stare, she tugs at her sweatshirt, pulling it as far over her legs as the material allows.

  Max, ever the charming one, drapes his arm behind her on the couch. “I can tell you’re a non-bullshitter, Claire.”