It's fucked up, but in spite of the thorns pricking my heart, I don't want this to end. I've enjoyed the physical contact far too much. So when Stockton crowds against me in the car, I don't protest. When he tucks me into his embrace and threads his fingers through mine, I let myself believe for six foolish seconds that this is how it could be.
"I'm not ready to go home," he says. "How about we hit the Green Lady Lounge and strategize? I'll tell you everything you need to know. Everything my mother could possibly ask to quiz you."
My fantasy balloon pops. "Sure. That's a great idea." At least the night's not over yet.
"Have you ever been there?"
"To the Green Lady?" I shake my head, and give him a healthy dose of side-eye. "My boss is a taskmaster."
He's classy enough to wince. "Yeah, about that. Maybe we should take this weekend off."
I pull back enough that I can stare at him and raise a hand to his forehead. "Are you feeling okay?"
He grabs it and kisses the backs of my fingers. A thrill ripples through me. "The squad has done a great job when we've had to be out of town for baseball recruitment, or when I've been out for regattas. There's no reason why I can't turn some more over to them."
I blink. "Did you find out you have cancer this afternoon? Seriously. You're not well."
His chest rumbles and he squeezes my hand. "Maybe I've been giving some deeper thought to your proposal. Harrison and the guys and I have built an amazing company, but we're all workaholics, and maybe it's time we loosen the reins a bit."
"I think you should take me home. You have a fever and you need to get to bed." I have mixed feelings about hearing this. On the one hand, I think it's about damned time. On the other, what in the heck am I going to do with myself? And worse, what will happen to my constantly whirring brain?
Stockton just laughs again, and when the car stops in front of the Green Lady Lounge, he hops out and pulls me with him. He pushes through the door and my breath catches. It's like stepping back in time. Dark leather booths run along each deeply painted red wall. Dim yellow light pours from the side sconces and a chandelier glitters over the center. At the far end a jazz quartet is playing. The bar, likely original to the space, is so dark it's almost black, and an old mirror is centered on the bar back filled with spirits. The walls have an eclectic collection of artwork - everything from lithographs to faux Renaissance paintings in heavy gilded frames. He's right. I love it.
He ushers me into a booth and scoots in next to me, draping an arm over my shoulder. "Well? What do you think?"
I make a point of looking around. "I feel like we could run into the Rat Pack."
"Right? They're open until three a.m., just so you know."
"Is that how you know it? You bring all your lady friends here to warm them up when you leave the office after midnight?" It's dark enough I can't see the color hit his face, but from the angle of his head, I'm willing to bet it's there.
"Only occasionally," he admits. "It's become the de-facto hangout for me, Harrison, Owen, and Mac now that Danny's speakeasy is no longer."
"So work over drinks."
"Yeah, sure." He nods. "Are you hungry? Do you need something more to eat?"
"Because the strategy sesh is going to take it out of me?" I tease, shaking my head. "I'm fine."
"Cocktail?"
"Sure. What are you having?"
"Danny's whiskey, neat."
I make a face. "Eww, no thanks." I shudder. Whiskey is so not my thing.
"Martini?" he suggests. "G&T?"
"Sure, that." I don't mind gin so much.
Stockton signals the server and places our order, then he turns to me, threading his fingers through mine.
I look at our hands and my heart pounds a little harder. "You're awfully touchy."
A corner of his mouth pulls up. "We're still in public. I guarantee you, there are pictures of us circulating on social already. Best thing we can do is keep up the act whenever we're in public."
"Right, sure. That makes sense." I swallow down my disappointment. But he's absolutely right. Honore is sharp as a tack, and I wouldn't put it past her to do everything she can to punch holes in our act. I can wallow in my disappointment when I'm home alone in my condo. For now, I'm determined to relish the full force of Stockton's affection. "So tell me, boxers or briefs?"
His grin lights his face and turns my insides to liquid. "Boxer-briefs all the way. Black."
My throat goes dry as I imagine him clad in nothing but that, package on full display. I swear I have a hot flash thinking about it. I lick my lips. "Good to know. What type of energy drink do you have?"
"No idea. I get it at Sparky's gym."
Of course he doesn't know. Stockton's the kind of guy who only hangs onto the super important details - like how to cloak an ISP or build in a honeypot for the security systems we deploy. I make a mental note to call the gym where the rowing team works out and get the name. The server returns with our drinks.
Stockton holds his up. "To... finally getting to know each other."
My heart trips, stopping up my throat. I want to say something. So many things. I settle for a smile and raise my glass to his. The drink is nice and strong, and I get a hit of the botanicals in the gin as it slides down my throat.
"So what about you? Boxers or briefs?" he asks with a wink that has me choking on my drink.
"Maybe I don't wear panties." It's a flat out lie, of course, but the look on his face is priceless and the heat that turns his eyes molten warms me to my toes. "Your mother is too proper to ask me that. Let's stick to the facts, Forde."
He shoots me a sheepish grin. "Fair enough. So you need to know I had my appendix out in the fourth grade and that Tommy Church chipped my front tooth in little league in the second grade. My mother was so relieved it wasn't a permanent tooth."
"First kiss?"
"Seventh-grade cotillion dance, Margie Wilson, by the drinking fountain."
I hold up a hand. "Wait. Stop right there. Cotillion?"
"I'm a Forde. I had no choice," he protests, lifting a hand. But only one, because he doesn't seem interested in releasing mine.
"No wonder you're such a good dancer."
"Be sure to tell my mother that when you have lunch with her."
"Noted. Where'd you go to High School?"
"Rockhurst. My mother thought it would help keep me from being distracted by girls."
"Let me guess, it didn't."
His answering smile confirms it.
"College?"
"Stanford. Computer Science and Math. Sigma Chi fraternity. Vice-President my senior year. Harrison was president."
"Of course he was. So let me guess, Steele Conglomerate was born out of late-night beers your junior year?"
"You're not far off, only it was Danny's whiskey."
I huff out an amused laugh. "Girlfriends?"
He shrugs. "I think you know the answer to that."
It's cute, his playing coy. "Too many to count?"