Chapter Three
Brandon had two daughters.
That was unexpected. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe because I’d never given any thought to it.
I let him pull me out of the bar, mulling this new reality over. He had full custody of them, too, so those two facts put together instantly made him about five hundred degrees hotter than the average thirty-something man. It made sense now. He was naturally protective, considerate. I could see him as a father.
My thoughts had already been running into dirty territory before I had known about the single dad status, but now? I wanted to both drop an egg and do sexy, naughty things to him to show my appreciation for the total package of a man he clearly was.
I was about to speak, give him a warning about the state of my apartment, which was micro in size and macro in untidiness. Lately, I’d been too unmotivated to clean.
But before I could make apologies, he kissed me on the sidewalk.
The first time we had kissed, it had been slow, easy, delicious. A goodbye, maybe, or more like in appreciation for a pleasant evening hanging out together. But nothing… invasive. Not raw or urgent or questing.
This kiss was the latter and holy shit, did it feel amazing.
His hand was in my hair, holding me firmly against him, and his mouth took mine with zero hesitation. I gasped, gripping on to his shirt for balance, and parted my lips for him. He was a big man, broad, muscular, and I liked having to tilt my head upwards to meet his touch. The wind whipped around us, a sharp February bite of cold, but I barely noticed as his tongue teased over mine. Desire rose inside me instantly, a hot demanding need.
I shifted closer to him.
He gripped me tighter.
Our kiss became deeper, a precursor to where the rest of the night was going. There was no mistaking that kind of chemistry. I broke away, breathing elevated. “It’s freezing out here,” I said, rubbing my arms, and not wanting to let him know exactly how much that kiss had just turned me on.
“You’re not wearing a coat again,” he said. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you you’ll catch your death of cold?” He turned and raised his hand for a taxi again, more purposefully this time.
“I don’t listen to my mother, remember?” But then I remembered I actually had worn a coat. I was so eager to leave with Brandon, I’d completely forgotten about it. “In this case though, I just forgot it inside at the coat check.”
Brandon smiled. “Here, get in the warm cab and I’ll get it.”
A cab was pulling up and Brandon opened the door for me. I slid in, grateful for the blasting heat, while Brandon opened the front passenger door and had a word with the driver. Digging the ticket out of my purse, I handed it to him and watched him retreat into the bar. I wasn’t used to having men do things for me and it wasn’t a bad feeling. Lately, life had kicked the stuffing out of me, and I was tired. A little help and consideration didn’t go unnoticed and was really appreciated.
“How’s your Valentine’s Day going?” the driver asked, making eye contact in the mirror. He had a thick Russian accent and didn’t sound even remotely friendly, despite the conversational question.
“Better than expected,” I said. “How about you?”
“Bah. Relationships are for idiots.”
That was charming. “They’re not for everyone.” Clearly not this dude.
“You guys married?” he asked.
Did we look married? I didn’t think so. Brandon was at least ten years older than me, and I was overdressed compared to him. But who knew what the cynical cabbie saw when he looked at us. “No. I barely know him.”
His sour expression brightened up. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Sex. Just sex, sex, sex. That’s all that matters.”
I was pretty sure that wasn’t all that mattered in life, but I wasn’t going to argue. For the night, sex was what mattered. In the overall grand scheme of life though, I was pretty sure love outranked sex.
“Hmm,” I said, noncommittally, debating getting out of the cab. I didn’t want this guy killing my vibe. I didn’t want to think about the future, I didn’t want to have expectations, I just wanted to enjoy the night with a very sexy man.
I decided to do just that. I pulled out my debit card, swiped it in the meter and said, “I’m going back in to find him, he's taking too long. Thanks, have a good night!”
He may or may not have called me something rude in Russian as I exited the cab, I wasn’t sure, but I was approaching the door to the bar when Brandon came out, my coat in his hand.
“Hey,” he said. “Got your coat.” He held it out for me to slip my arms in.
I shrugged into it and said, “The cab driver was telling me relationships are stupid and how sex is all that matters and you know, I’d rather not discuss any of that with him.” I laughed. “Valentine’s Day makes people get philosophical in the worst way.”
“Before I moved here, everyone assured me New Yorkers don’t like to chat in cabs or car services, and it’s a lie. Straight up, a lie. I’ve pretended to talk on the phone in the back seat and drivers still try to have a conversation with me.”
“Right? Okay, next cab, we pretend like we’re in a fight so the driver doesn’t talk to us.”
Brandon raised his hand and then eyed me. “What are we supposed to be fighting about?”
“You drank too much and I’m worried you have whiskey dick.” I tried not to grin, knowing full well what his reaction—any man’s reaction—to that would be.
“What? No way. Fuck that. Try again.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re trying to get a rise out of me.”
I glanced at his jeans. “Maybe.”
His eyes darkened. “You’ve been getting a rise out of me since the first second you shoved me on that elevator. But I’m not pretending I can’t get it up, sorry. No. Not happening.”
“There’s the grumpy guy I first met. It’s just for effect, it’s nothing personal. I’m not actually worried at all, despite the fact that you chugged a martini.”
“No. That implies I have a history of whiskey dick, if you’re worried I might have whiskey dick.”
That amused me. “You’re overthinking this. Okay, so how about we’re fighting because I’m a horrible tramp and I was flirting with every guy in the place?”
He gave me a hilarious expression of horror. “No. Try again.”
“Because I spilled your drink?”
“What kind of asshole does that make me if we’re fighting over a spilled drink?”
He seemed to be missing the point. “It’s not real,” I said. “Be spontaneous and roll with it. Maybe I’m mad at you because I expected jewelry today and you gave me a blender.”
“I don’t like any of these,” Brandon said as a cab pulled over to the curb. “I’m not fake fighting with you. Follow my lead.”
This should be interesting.
It was.
Brandon’s plan to prevent the driver from talking to us was the exact opposite of fake fighting. It was way worse. It was fake loving.
The very second after I gave my address to the driver, he turned to me and brushed his hand through my hair. “You’re so beautiful, babe,” he murmured. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”