Page 11 of The Cruiser
Have I saved myself? I hope so. I feel my face cramping from the endless smile. Morgan appears unruffled, but in the small pause, I swear I see it: a flash of uncertainty materializing as one line on his otherwise smooth forehead. Or maybe I don’t, because I’m tired and tipsy and while a blurred line is a dangerous thing, everything is kind of blurry right now. Before my sensibilities corrupt further, Dakota pops back around, mentioning it’s last call; they’re closing early tonight for a staff event. I’m surprised to notice we’re the only ones left. Morgan asks if I’d like an espresso or aperitif. I’m not keen to lay awake all night replaying what just happened, so I say no and he settles the bill, offering to walk me out.
What a relief to stand. Back on solid ground after such a mortifying wobble on my part. We make our way to the valet area while Morgan chit-chats about LA traffic and weather. If he’s trying to make this less painful for me, it’s not working, but kudos to him for the attempt.
Back outside, the moon is white and clear in a blue-black sky. It’s a few degrees chillier without the heat lamps, and I unpack the pashmina always stored in my bag for nighttime. Morgan offers to drape it around my shoulders and his hands touching my body sends a little charge shooting through me. He makes no move to step back when he finishes the task, and the combination of his body heat and my half-drunk state makes rational thought close to impossible. As I struggle for any conversation starter, a light breeze kicks up.
“Mmm.” Morgan inhales deeply. “Night jasmine. So potent. Sensual, don’t you think?”
I steal a glance at him. With hands in his pockets and an air of panache to his stance, I can see him on a prow of a boat, the wind in his hair, destination unknown. With that image, some vague, distant yearning rumbles in my belly.
“I’ve never heard it described that way.”
The valet pulls up and Morgan shadows me, offering a hand to help me into the car. Surrounded by familiarity and the sad reality of the here and now, my compass resets. I can’t jet off to Europe. I need to run the office and patch my life back together. Yes, Morgan is a great opportunity, but the timing sucks. Maybe one of our junior staff can step in.
“Thanks again for dinner,” I say. “Timing wise—”
Just as I turn my head, Morgan leans in for the double kiss thing. Our mouths collide with one hundred percent contact. In shocked reaction his mouth inflames against mine. I can taste wine on his lips, and underneath that, his sweet, singular flavor of sin. It’s seriously improper to stay glued to him, but tell that to the arrow of thrill rocketing through me.
Much to my embarrassment, it’s him who breaks our kiss.
“I guess that’s what you call perfect timing,” he says, making light of it.
“Um…” My brain reels with all sorts of indecency. I was this close to open mouth territory. “What I meant to say is, I’m sure you’re in discussion with a few firms, and—”
“I’m not talking to other firms,” he interrupts, “and I’m not taking no for an answer, Mademoiselle Hillman.”
He’s practically in the car with me, mere inches all that separates us. Energy crackles like bolts of lightning.
This is where I say no. Don’t call me, I’ll…
“You can call me Vandana.”
Right. So much for that.
“Very well, Vandana.”He smiles and nods gallantly. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. I’ll call you tomorrow to finalize.”
The door closes with a powerful push of his arms. I start the car, beep once and watch the rearview mirror until Morgan disappears into the inky night. Cruising home along Ocean Avenue, I keep licking my lips, his taste still humming on them. My thumping heart refuses to quiet.
Morgan is danger, trouble with a capital T.
I feel it in my very soul.
What the hell am I getting myself into?
