Write It Up!: Rapid Transit / The Ex Factor / Brewing Up Trouble

CHAPTER THREE

SOMETHING ICY AND ROCK HARD slammed into Daniel’s midsection at hearing Julia’s admission, and it was all he could do not to choke on his drink. “You’re writing about speed-dating for Tess?” he asked after he finally managed to swallow.

Her laughter was touched by nervousness when she said, “Yeah. Pretty funny, huh?”

He wasn’t sure if it was funny, but it certainly answered one question he’d been asking himself all evening. Namely, why would a gorgeous, funny, interesting woman like Julia need something like speed-dating to meet men? And she was covering the event for a story the same way he was. Interesting. He wondered if the objective of her article was also the same as his.

As if he’d spoken the question aloud, she said, “I’m supposed to be looking for Mr. Right. See if speed-dating is a venue where a woman can find a forever-after kind of Prince Charming.”

Ah. No. Hers wasn’t the same objective at all.

“I and two other writers,” she continued, “have been assigned three different types of alternative dating to cover. They are doing coffeehouse dating—you know, where patrons of a coffeehouse fill out forms about themselves and stick them along with their photos in binders that the baristas manage?—and ex-dating. Which is where a woman sets up her ex-boyfriend with another woman. It’s big on the Web. We’re all supposed to see if we meet any decent guys for a feature story in the February issue. Valentine’s Day.”

“And have you?” Daniel asked experimentally. “Met any decent guys, I mean?”

She smiled, and that cold feeling in his belly suddenly went all warm and gooey. “Well, I can’t speak for the others—not yet, anyway—but speaking for myself, yeah. As a matter of fact, I have. I met one decent guy in particular at tonight’s party.”

Oh, that’s what you think, sweetheart.

Because Daniel wasn’t looking for Ms. Right. No, his editor at Cavalier wanted him to look for Ms. Right Now. A never-again kind of Princess Willing. Edward Cabot, editor in chief, had told Daniel that the object of his story was to see how many women he could pick up and have a one-night stand with over the course of a month of speed-dates. And that was exactly what Daniel intended to do.

Julia was right about Cavalier. The glossy monthly didn’t exactly put women on a pedestal. Unless it was to look up their skirts. The magazine objectified them, poked fun at them and didn’t take them seriously for a minute. Daniel had never been bothered by that, because he didn’t take women seriously, either. At least, he hadn’t before. There was something about Julia, however, that made him want to reconsider.

Bullshit, he told himself. Julia was no different from any other woman he’d met. Hell, she was no different from any other woman period. If he found her sexier or more appealing or sexier or more interesting or sexier or more intelligent or sexier than other women of his acquaintance, it was only because…Because…Because…

Well, just because, that was why. And it was a damned good reason, too.

She was just like every other woman he knew, he told himself more adamantly. And just like every other woman he knew, he was going to do or say whatever he had to in order to have sex with her. Then she’d become just one name among many on the final tally for his article. With any luck at all, by morning, Julia would be nothing more than a footnote in his story and a fond memory in his brain.

“Unfortunately, I have to do three more of these speed-dating things over the next few weeks,” she said when he didn’t reply, sounding a little anxious. Doubtless because of his profound lack of response. “For the story,” she quickly added. “I just want to tell you that now, because…I mean, I don’t want to be presumptuous or anything, but…” She lifted her shoulders and let them drop in a shrug that was…

Well, hell, Daniel thought. There was no way around it. It was adorable. Dammit.

“Look,” she continued, looking and sounding even more nervous now, “I don’t want you to think I’m assuming anything, but it seems like you and I are hitting it off pretty well, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sitting here trying to get up the nerve to ask you out again. But if I do, and if you say yes, I’m still going to have to go to those speed-dating things and even go out with some of the guys I meet, so I can write about it for my story. I just want to be straight with you about that right off the bat. So if that’s going to bother you, or if I’m totally off base about the way things are between us at this point, then be straight with me, too, okay?”

Daniel really wished she hadn’t said that. The last thing he could be with her right now was honest. He appreciated her telling him what was what—he hated when women said one thing while they were thinking another, which was a malady that seemed to be endemic to their gender. But he couldn’t extend the same courtesy to her. Not about the subject matter of his article. Her article, he thought, was really nothing major, and was actually kind of sweet.

And oh, man, had he really just used the word sweet? Right on the heels of adorable? Great. Already she was turning him into a girly-man. He ejected the thought from his brain and got himself back on track. With the speeding locomotive that was his brain, by God.

Her story was a fluff piece, he amended, disregarding, for now, the fact that he had used the word fluff, too. It was an industry term, dammit. If he told Julia the object of his story was to sleep with as many women as he could and then discard them like dirty socks the next day, there was no way he’d get her into the sack. Not tonight, not ever. Which would mean he wasn’t completing his assignment as ordered. Ergo, he wasn’t doing his job.

That was the only reason, Daniel assured himself, why he didn’t want to be straight with Julia. It wasn’t because he was worried she’d think less of him for pursuing such a story. And it wasn’t because he was afraid he’d never see her again once she knew the truth. Hell, that was the whole point. To not see her again after the two of them hooked up. And to hook up with her in the first place.

So donning his most disarming smile—and ignoring the bad taste in his mouth—Daniel told her, “Okay, I’ll be straight with you. I understand completely. It doesn’t bother me at all.”

And he assured himself he was telling the truth when he said it, even if it felt like a half truth instead. He did understand why she needed to keep speed-dating in order to write her story. But damned if it didn’t bother him.

A lot.

BY THE TIME THEIR CAB arrived at the Chelsea brownstone that housed Julia’s third-floor apartment, it was after 3:00 a.m. Even though tomorrow—or rather today—was Saturday, she couldn’t believe how late the two of them had stayed out. She was never out this late. The time had just passed so quickly with Daniel. Even now, she didn’t want the evening to end. Unfortunately, there was a fine line between good night and good morning, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to cross it with him yet.

Strangely, it was because she liked him so much that she didn’t want to invite him up to spend the night. Sex was a wonderful thing, and it had been a while since Julia enjoyed it. Sex with a guy like Daniel would be phenomenal. But even before they’d sat down at the club, she’d begun to realize she wanted to share more with him than just sex. If the two of them slept together now, sex would become the defining characteristic of their relationship. And Julia wanted any relationship they might have to be defined by something else. So the sex, she decided, was going to have to wait.

“Thanks for seeing me home,” she told him. She opened her purse as she glanced over the front seat of the cab to read the meter. “Since you paid for two rounds to my one tonight, I’ll cover the cab.”

He curled his fingers gently around her wrist before she could reach her wallet and slowly drew her hand back out of her purse. “I’ve got it,” he said.

Before she could object, he was thrusting a handful of bills over the front seat and thanking their driver. Then, to her surprise, he climbed out of the cab on his side, circled the back of it to hers and opened her door for her.

Julia couldn’t remember the last time a guy had done something so, well, gallant. Chivalry really wasn’t dead, she thought. Gee, who knew? And it was living in Daniel Taggart now.

They’d shared last names and phone numbers and cell numbers and e-mail addresses before leaving the club—along with middle names, birth dates, political affiliations, childhood injuries and highest spider-solitaire scores. If he wanted to see her again, he knew where to find her. But as the cab pulled away from the curb and he did nothing to stop it, she realized he was thinking he wouldn’t have to look far. In fact, he seemed to be thinking the next time he wanted to exchange hellos with Julia, all he’d have to do was roll over in the morning and nudge her.

“You let the cab drive away,” she said as she watched the red taillights disappear around the corner half a block down.

“You didn’t stop me from letting it go,” he pointed out.

“I wasn’t thinking,” she told him.

He grinned. “Neither was I.”

It would be best, she thought, to lay it all out, right up front. Cards-on-the-table time. “You can’t come upstairs with me, Daniel,” she said as gently as she could. “Not tonight.”

His expression changed not at all, so she had no idea what he was thinking. “Why not? I thought we hit it off pretty well.”

To punctuate the statement, he lifted a hand to her hair and tucked a few strands behind her ear, then turned his fingers backward and lightly brushed his knuckles over her cheek. The sensation that shot through her in response was nothing short of atomic. Her eyes fluttered closed, and unable to help herself, she tilted her head to the side, so that he might touch her again. He evidently didn’t need any more encouragement, because he immediately framed her face in both hands and dipped his head to graze her mouth with his.

It was an extraordinary kiss. He brushed his lips lightly over hers, once, twice, three times…lightly…gingerly…blissfully. Then he took a step closer, bringing his body flush against hers, and covered her mouth more completely. Julia curled her fingers into the lapels of his jacket and tipped her head backward, savoring the sensation of the rough, callused fingers so gentle on her face, the warmth of his body swaying closer to her own, the taste of Scotch that clung to his mouth, the clean masculine scent of him that surrounded her.

As she leaned into him, he dropped one hand from her face to loop it around her waist, pulling her closer still. Julia’s fingers crept up over his shoulders, one cupping his nape as the other threaded into his silky hair. It was so soft falling against the back of her hand, and his skin was so warm where she touched him. He curled his fingers under her chin and tilted his head to the other side, and kissed her more deeply still.

Her legs nearly buckled beneath her when he pushed his tongue into her mouth, but she rallied and met him taste for taste, her breathing growing ragged with every new foray. Daniel, too, seemed to scramble for breath as they each grew more insistent. Finally, Julia made herself pull back, end the kiss just as it was about to drag her completely under. The way she felt at the moment, she’d not only consent to Daniel spending the night tonight, she’d be begging him to move in with her.

When she tried to step away from him, he let her go but caught her hand loosely in his. “Where ya going?” he asked softly, still a little breathless.

She smiled. “I need to go upstairs. Alone,” she added before he could challenge her. She truly didn’t think she had it in her to say no if he pressed.

But he didn’t. And for that, he got a million more gold stars. “Can I see you again?” he asked.

She nodded without hesitation. “Oh, yeah.” Although she wasn’t sure why she made the suggestion, because it wasn’t the sort of thing she did for men, even after knowing them for a while, she said, “Look, why don’t you come over tomorrow night—tonight, I mean. If you’re free,” she hastily added, “and I’ll cook dinner for you.”

“Oh, I’m definitely free for you,” he said. “And I’ll for sure come over tonight. But I’ll be the one who cooks dinner for you.”

She smiled. “How about if we cook together?”

He smiled back. “Cooking together is good.”

Funny, but she got the feeling he was talking about something other than dinner when he said that the way he did. And she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that. Good thing they’d be seeing each other again, so she could decide.

“I’ll do the shopping and get everything we need,” she offered.

He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. With a cryptic smile, he told her, “I might pick up a couple of things myself.”

“What, you don’t trust me?”

“You shouldn’t have to do all the work, that’s all.”

She honestly didn’t know what to say in response to that. So she only asked, “How will you get home? Taxis aren’t exactly plentiful this time of night.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her. “I’m a very lucky guy.”

Before she could say a word in response to that, a bright yellow taxi rounded the corner opposite the one from which the other had disappeared, and it headed right in their direction. Still smiling at Julia, Daniel raised a hand to hail it, and it rolled to a stop at the curb.

“Like I said,” he told her, “I always get lucky.”

And before she could say a word in response to that, he kissed her again, briefly, almost chastely this time, and strode to the waiting car. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said as he opened the door. “Six o’clock okay?”

Dumbly, she nodded.

“I’ll wait till you’re inside,” he added, jutting his chin up toward her front door. “Then I’ll go.”

Still not trusting herself to say anything that didn’t make her sound like an idiot, Julia fumbled for her keys and made her way up the steps to unlock the front door. When she turned to wave goodbye a final time, managing a soft “Good night,” Daniel lifted his fingers to his lips and let them drop again, the masculine version of blowing a kiss. Then he climbed into the cab and closed the door, and the taxi pulled away from the curb. But his face was framed in the back window as the car drove away, watching her.

Leaving Julia to wonder when she would wake up. Because there was no way a man like Daniel Taggart could exist anywhere outside of her dreams.

CHAPTER FOUR

IN SPITE OF JULIA’S HAVING assured Daniel she would shop for everything they’d need to cook dinner, he showed up at her front door with two brown grocery sacks brimming with the makings of a meal that promised to be infinitely more elaborate than the meat loaf and tossed salad she had planned herself.

And he looked even yummier than the food, wearing a pair of snug, lightly faded blue jeans and a lightweight, equally faded forest-green polo that gave the green in his eyes a bit more dominance over the blue. She was glad she’d dressed casually, too, likewise in faded blue jeans, though hers were topped by a colorful, long-sleeved T-shirt decorated with a beaded, spangled art deco French postcard. So accustomed to being in her stocking feet at home was she that she had neglected to put on shoes, which she only now realized as she looked at the heavy hiking boots on Daniel’s feet. However, she didn’t feel any big urge to go put some on. Already she felt that comfortable with him.

She directed him to her kitchen—which wasn’t hard to find since her apartment was roughly the size of an electron—where he deposited the bags on what little counter space was there and began to unpack them. And unpack them. And unpack them. And unpack them.

Whoa. He’d brought more stuff than she would have thought a man could even find in a market, let alone know what to do with. A loaf of French bread, a leafy head of romaine, a bottle of olive oil, free range chiken, she saw with some surprise when she inspected the label—tomatoes, parsley and…a wheel of Brie?

Where were the meat and potatoes? she wondered. Most guys she knew would have brought a half dozen cans of Dinty Moore beef stew and called it dinner.

“And for dessert,” Daniel said, reaching deep into the first sack—Good God, what was in the second? she wondered— “Godiva white chocolate torte ice cream. A pint for each of us.”

All right. That did it. Julia was ready to propose.

“Wow,” she said. “I hope you know what to do with all that. I’m still working on getting the hamburger I’d planned to mix with onion soup mix out of the plastic wrapper. Do you know how that works?”

He grinned smugly. “Not only can I get this chicken out of the plastic,” he said, pointing at the product in question, “but I can infuse it with fresh rosemary, poach it in a dry, kicky chardonnay and garnish it with a radish rose.”

“My God,” Julia whispered reverently. She poked him lightly in the ribs. “Are you sure you’re for real?”

He laughed as he turned his attentions to the second bag. “My parents own a restaurant in Indianapolis,” he said as he withdrew fresh herbs, red, yellow and green peppers, garlic, onions, mushrooms and two bottles of white wine—presumably a dry, kicky chardonnay. “My dad’s the chef, my mom’s the manager. When I was growing up, while my friends’ dads were out in the backyard pitching baseballs to them, my father had me in the kitchen showing me how to broil lamb chops and put the finishing touches on a chocolate soufflé. It goes without saying that I got my ass kicked at school on a regular basis.”

Julia smiled. “Yeah, but I bet the girls were crazy about you.”

He wiggled his eyebrows playfully. “Good point. And using the blow torch on the crème brûlée was always fun.”

“So what can I do to help?” she asked.

“Well, I won’t make you take the plastic off the chicken,” he told her. “So why don’t you open the wine?”

She nodded. “No problem. I’m much better wielding a corkscrew than I am a garlic press. I’m also seriously qualified to choose excellent dinner music.”

“That’s good to know.”

For the hour that followed, and accompanied by the dry, kicky tunes of Michael Bublé, Julia and Daniel worked side by side and shoulder to shoulder—and often hip to hip, so tiny was the kitchen—putting together a meal that was more elaborate, and doubtless more delicious, than anything she’d had since leaving home.

Never before had she realized how intimate—and sensual—creating a meal could be. Along with the sound of jazzy music, the aromas and textures and tastes of the food—to which they frequently helped themselves and then fed to each other—there was the jolt of electricity and the thrill of anticipation that shot through her every time their bodies touched. By the time they sat down to eat, they’d already finished one bottle of wine and opened the second, and they’d sampled enough of the meal to make them leave fully half of their dinners on their plates.

They did, after all, have to save room for ice cream.

But first, Julia wanted to simply bask in the happiness that was dinner with Daniel. He was amazing. Incredible. Too good to be true. Gorgeous, funny, smart, decent. He smelled great—and not just from the garlic, either—was easy to talk to and made her feel as though nothing in the world would ever go wrong again. And he could cook.

There had to be something wrong here, she told herself. No guy could be this perfect and still be available. And she wasn’t the sort of woman who experienced this kind of good luck.

So maybe, she thought, finally, her turn had come. Maybe it was possible to meet Mr. Right through a venue like speed-dating. Maybe, just maybe, her prince had finally come.

“THAT WAS WONDERFUL,” Daniel said at the end of dinner as he twirled his wine idly by the base of the glass.

He hoped Julia would realize he was talking about a lot more than the meal. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself this much on a date. Probably, he thought, because he’d never enjoyed himself this much on a date.

He still wasn’t sure what had come over him to make him offer to cook for Julia. That was a side of himself he normally never showed to anyone, male or female. It wasn’t that he thought cooking wasn’t a masculine pursuit, or that he was ashamed of what his father did for a living. On the contrary, not only was Steven Taggart one of the most celebrated chefs in Indianapolis, whose restaurant commanded four stars from the Michelin Guide, he was also the one who had fostered Daniel’s love of both basketball and hockey.

But as adept at cooking as Daniel was, it was neither a vocation nor a hobby he had wanted to pursue, and he hadn’t done much of it since leaving home. Cooking reminded him too much of home. It was something he did with family, in a family environment, something that roused feelings of comfort and affection and happiness and domestic tranquility. Which, now that he thought about it, might be why he’d never wanted to share it with women.

So why had he been so eager to offer to cook for Julia?

She looked great tonight, he thought, pushing the question away without answering it. He liked her better in the jeans and T-shirt and sock feet than he had in the party-girl outfit of the night before. If she was wearing any makeup tonight, he sure couldn’t see it. And instead of the curly, flyaway do her hair had been arranged in the night before, tonight it fell in soft waves over her shoulders, enough of it clipped back in a barrette to make Daniel’s fingers itch to loosen it.

“It was good, wasn’t it?” she agreed, looking at him in a way that told him she was talking about more than just the meal, too. “But now we have to clean up,” she added, wrinkling her nose.

“It won’t take long with two of us,” he said.

And, with two of them, it didn’t. In no time at all, they had completed the task and were bringing fresh glasses of wine into the living area—the apartment wasn’t large enough for an actual living room. But as comfortably as they’d spoken throughout the preparation and consumption of dinner, once they were sitting beside each other with nothing to do, neither seemed to know what to say.

Julia had dropped into one corner of the sofa while Daniel had folded himself onto the other. It was a small couch, and the gap between them probably wasn’t more than a couple of feet. Just enough to be annoying, he thought, but still enough that if he scooted himself closer to her, it would be an obvious ploy to get closer to her.

But then, why shouldn’t he be obvious about that? he asked himself. He and Julia weren’t in high school, right? Even if, for some reason, he had sort of felt like an adolescent with his first big crush since meeting her. Gee whiz, maybe they could play spin the bottle. Golly willikers, maybe that would give him an excuse for why he had to kiss her and get her girl cooties all over himself.

He blew out an exasperated breath at the thought.