she assured her, starting to stack the plates cluttering the table. “I’m just not interested in another relationship.”
“But what about—?”
The strains of Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” cut in, signaling a call from Maeve’s brother.
Hallelujah.
With Maeve scheduled to leave town for business the next day, Garrett Carter would probably keep her on the line for the next twenty minutes, reassuring himself she wouldn’t leave the coffeepot on, let anyone—anyone—into her hotel room, or accept candy from strangers in general. Only the reprieve proved short-lived when Maeve thumbed the call through to voicemail.
Nichole reached for her wine as an unholy gleam lit her friend’s eyes.
“I should set you up with Garrett.”
The crisp, fruity vintage burned like acid as it hit her sinuses. Napkin to her mouth, lungs wrestling to expel the alcohol in exchange for oxygen, she choked out a strangled, “What?” Then, wheezing, “I thought you were my friend.”
“I was thinking maybe you could learn something from him.”
“Like what? The most effective antibiotics for treating—?”
“Hey.” Maeve cut her off with a stern glance. “Uncalled for. He’s not so bad.”
Nichole cocked a brow at her. “They call him The Panty Whisperer. I’ve seen his name on the ladies’ room wall. And my mother warned me about men like him.”
Maeve chuckled, a sisterly combination of worship and irritation filling her eyes. “You could be dating Attila the Hun and your mother would be delirious with the whole breathless ‘he’s so powerful’ business. Trust me, she’d take Garrett with open arms.”
Nichole shook her head, knowing it was true.
“And, between you and me, Mary Newton wrote that on the wall to get even with him for putting her off when she offered up the goods. I know you’ve never met him, but Garrett’s actually a pretty decent guy.”
“‘Domineering, hypocritical, arrogant, womanizing, workaholic control freak.’ Gee, where did I hear that from, I wonder?”
Maeve shook her head. “Okay, take it easy. I’m not serious about setting you up. And even if I were he wouldn’t go out with you. He’s got a rule about dating his sisters’ friends.”
Handy. Because Nichole had a similar rule. She’d lost enough friends because of broken relationships. People she’d already considered family—
Fingers snapped in front of her face. “Chill! I told you I was kidding.”
The muscles down her back relaxed. “Your point, then?”
“Just this. Maybe it’s time to dip a toe back into the dating pool. Test the waters and see how it goes. I know in the past your relationships have always been … serious. But they don’t have to be. Look, Garrett’s the only guy I know as commitment-phobic as you. But you can bet he isn’t lonely. He’s proof positive a couple of dates for the sake of some non-platonic company can be just that—a couple of dates. Simple. No big deal.”
Yeah, except the last time Nichole had gone on “a couple of dates” she ended up with a white dress she’d never worn, thousands blown on non-refundable deposits, the very fabric of her life torn asunder and an aversion to fantasies and forever powerful enough to keep her out of romance for three years running.
As it turned out, that fateful “it’s not me, it’s you” speech had been the best thing ever to happen to her.
She’d been lucky to escape a marriage that, despite what she’d believed at the time, would have been a train wreck. Lucky to have chosen Chicago as the city to clean slate her life in. And luckiest of all to have picked the open treadmill next to Maeve’s that Friday that had, in essence, been the first day of the rest of Nichole’s new life.
She hadn’t been tempted to even the merest flirtation since. Not once. And she honestly couldn’t imagine that changing anytime soon.
But, seeing Maeve about to come at her from another angle, Nichole held up a staying hand. “How about this. If I happen to meet someone who actually makes it hard to say no, I promise I’ll give Garrett a call to talk me through The Panty Whisperer’s six-step guide to keeping it casual—”
“Ha-ha. Very funny,” Maeve grumbled, flagging the waitress for their check.
“But until then I’m not dipping my toe in anything.”
CHAPTER ONE
GOOD LORD, WAS THAT a tongue?
Nichole Daniels ripped her attention from the kiss deepening at exponential rates less than fifty feet away and dragged it back to where Chicago’s cityscape reflected the molten hues of the western sky.
Having arrived early to help her friend Sam set up for his rooftop bash to welcome his older brother home from Europe, she’d been stocking wash pails with beer, wine and a myriad other pre-packaged cocktails when the lovebirds had pushed out the door, their breathless laughter dying at the sight of her. With the party scheduled to start—well, right then, for the few minutes before the guests migrated up to the terrace she’d figured the roof would be big enough for the three of them. Only now the evening breeze had picked up, carrying with it whispers not meant for her ears. Private words and promises of the kind of forever she’d stopped dreaming about years ago. The intimacy of their exchange had her feeling like some kind of creepy voyeur.
Boxing up the last packaging to recycle, she eyed the door. Anytime now …
People always showed up early for Sam’s parties. The view from his roof was one of the best in the city for watching the sunset.
A muffled groan.
Awkward.
Tipping the longneck that hung from her fingers for a small draw of the lemony draft, she glanced down at her phone for the hundredth time. She saw a text from her mother, who was checking to see if she had any special plans for the night, so she pushed it aside on the picnic tabletop, making a mental note to call her the next day.
Tonight she wasn’t in the mood for a diatribe on beggars versus choosers, ticking clocks and doing the work to make her dreams a reality. No matter how well-intentioned her mother might be, a guilt-flavored pep-talk wasn’t on the evening’s agenda.
Another gasp. This one edged with unmistakable need—and she hazarded a sidelong glance—
Whoa! Mistake!
She hadn’t just seen … and the hands … and the legs …
Jumping clumsily from the picnic table, Nichole stumbled back and made a beeline for the stairway access.
Eyes on the ground. Eyes. On. The. Ground.
She was halfway down the narrow flight, ready to text Maeve her first report from the party, when she stopped, staring blankly at her open, empty palm.
She’d left her phone.
Her stomach turned to lead as she hesitantly looked back up to the roof. The sunset she could live without. But that phone was her lifeline. All her contacts … appointments … shopping lists … music … Maeve.
She had to go back. Only she really didn’t want to.
Maybe if she gave it a minute or two they’d be done and she’d be able to collect her phone without feeling like she needed to boil her eyes in bleach or start therapy seven days a week to scrub the memory from her mind.
How long had it been already? She didn’t even know.
So accustomed to her pretty little pink-rubber-clad smartphone, who needed a watch?
Okay,