After the Kiss
Page 9

Julie froze. Surely he didn’t mean . . . he couldn’t know . . . But he was continuing to peck at his produce, looking completely unperturbed.
“I assure you, my plans won’t hurt,” she said, letting her voice go husky as she eyed him over the rim of her cheap wineglass.
“See, there you go again. Playing me like a fiddle.”
“Is it working?”
Mitchell gave her a hot look that she felt right down to her inner thighs. Now that’s what I’m talking about, Wall Street.
Maybe this relationship gig wouldn’t be so bad after all. There was something to be said about a guy who picked up on your drink preferences without asking, didn’t try to steal your fries, and could make your ni**les tighten with a single glance.
“You done?” Mitchell asked, nodding toward her mostly empty plate.
Only with the food. “Yeah, I’m finished. I should probably call it quits.”
“Great.” He pulled out his wallet, and Julie tried not to gape in surprise.
“When I said call it quits, I meant that I shouldn’t finish my fries, not that we had to leave.” Dear God, am I begging?
He barely glanced at her. “I know this is rude, but I have an early meeting tomorrow and a couple of reports I need to finish before then.”
Julie refused to let herself frown. Okay, so this was inconvenient, but not disastrous. His quick dismissal was a tiny sting to her ego, but good girlfriend material would be supportive of her man’s work obligations. At least that’s what she’d read in one of Grace’s columns.
“Sure, no problem,” she cooed.
They were quiet as he ushered her out the door with a quick wave at the bartender. Julie felt rather than saw him move his arm, and she took a half step closer, figuring he was going to put a hand on her back, maybe even pull her closer.
But he didn’t touch her. Didn’t even look at her as he stepped closer to the curb and hailed a cab. Julie stared in stunned surprise as he pulled open the cab door and raised an expectant eyebrow.
Wait, not yet! We haven’t done the next-date dance yet!
“We could share a cab,” she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.
The expression on his face said it all: No, thanks. But manners prompted him to ask, “Where do you live?”
“West Village. You?”
“Upper East. Opposite directions, unfortunately.”
It was true. Their respective neighborhoods were completely inconvenient for cab sharing, but he didn’t have to look so damn pleased about it.
Outmaneuvered, she stomped toward the waiting taxi. “So. This was fun.” Sort of.
He wrinkled his nose ever so slightly, as though reading her thoughts. Was it?
“Lady, you comin’ or what?” the cabbie whined.
Julie shot him an annoyed look and looked expectantly at Mitchell. She let her lips curl up in her most appealing smile. The man might be rusty at dating, but it didn’t take a genius to see that the next move was his.
But he didn’t make it. He just cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced at the vacant backseat of the cab.
Oh, my God, Julie thought as realization sank in. This is not happening.
Too befuddled to do anything else, she let Mitchell take her arm and ease her into the back of the cab.
It was happening.
After six years with a flawless record, the queen of dating had just done the unthinkable.
She’d failed to land the second date.
Chapter Five
The next evening, Mitchell tipped the cabbie and stepped onto the sidewalk at the address Julie had given him.
He couldn’t resist the smile of satisfaction. There was no better feeling than having a risky gamble play out the way you wanted. And this one had played out perfectly. Julie Greene had done exactly as he’d hoped. Exactly as he’d expected.
It was particularly satisfying, because as good as Mitchell was at reading people in the workplace, he’d never been particularly adept at understanding the workings of the female mind. But last night he’d somehow known exactly how to play Julie Greene.
Putting her in that cab without so much as asking for her number had been a stroke of brilliance. It had surprised her, caught her off guard, and probably pissed her off. And, most important, it had ensured that she would seek him out.
Mitchell wasn’t even entirely sure what had made him do it. The object of this little game with Colin was simply to have a little fun with a girl who wasn’t the commitment kind. To that end, simply asking her on a second date would have been more efficient.
But that was exactly what Julie had expected him to do. If it had been up to her, the entire evening would have been manufactured, from the tilt of her head to her too-high laugh when he’d made a dud joke. That Julie hadn’t interested him.
But the Julie he’d seen when he’d ripped away her safety net and called her on her bullshit? That Julie he kind of liked.
Okay, really liked. Not in the way he’d liked Evelyn or Sarah, or even Christina back in college. Julie was the opposite of every woman he’d ever dated. She was too bright, too intense. She was the last person he’d seek out for long-term companionship—she was far too disruptive for that.
But disruptive could be rather refreshing.
At least for the short term.
Mitchell hadn’t been able to withhold a little fist pump when she’d called him at his office that afternoon, her voice all soft and husky and fake. She made some cooing noises about it being her turn to treat him to dinner, but he knew what it was really about. A woman who knew how to wrap men around her finger was bound to see last night’s abrupt ending as a failure. She simply wanted to repair her flawless record.
The nature of the invitation, however, had surprised him. He’d thought for sure she’d suggest drinks at a trendy hotel bar or dinner at some place with tiny portions and pretentious service. But a home-cooked meal? That didn’t seem like her. At least not what he knew of her.
Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had a sudden desire to be unpredictable.
Mitchell wasn’t embarrassed to admit that he’d Googled her. She’d come up nearly a dozen times in various articles on the New York social scene. Colin had been right: Julie Greene was no small-time journalist. Stiletto was more empire than magazine, and as far as he could tell, Julie, Grace, and their friend Riley were the princesses.
Neither had Colin exaggerated her dating record. There’d been a male-model look-alike by Julie’s side in almost every picture. Always a different guy, always the same flashy good looks and toothpaste-commercial smile.
Which raised a question: what the hell did she want with him?
Julie was all dazzle and fun, and he was, well . . . Wall Street.
But Mitchell wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever the hell that phrase was. The woman was his ticket into Yankee Stadium. That’s all he needed to know.
Standing on the doorstep of her brownstone, Mitchell found the call button marked “Greene.”
“Hey, Mitchell! Come on in—up the stairs, first door on the right.”
He tentatively pushed the door open, looking around curiously. Call him a snob, but a Manhattan home without a doorman was new to him. He’d only ever lived in swanky high-rises, as had his previous girlfriends.
Still, this was no run-down hovel. The building, while old, had obviously been renovated and kept in good condition. Stiletto must pay their princesses good money.
Mitchell started to knock on her door when he heard a loud clatter of pots and pans followed by some very unladylike cursing. Raising an eyebrow, he tried the knob and pushed it open when he found it unlocked.
“Julie?”
“In the kitchen,” she called.
Considering the fact that her apartment was less than six hundred square feet, there really wasn’t a kitchen so much as a corner dedicated to cooking.
It looked like a war zone.
Julie popped up from whatever she’d been doing in the oven, and Mitchell didn’t know whether to laugh or politely avert his eyes. He’d been expecting some sort of Martha Stewart–style domestic scene, perhaps Julie in a fetching little apron and retro red lipstick.
He’d been wrong. Mitchell had seen homeless waifs who looked more put together. She was wearing what appeared to be threadbare boxers that were one wash away from being a pile of string. And her USC shirt probably hadn’t even been new when she’d been in college. Definitely no bra under that sucker, either.