Hot and Bothered

Jimmy gestured loosely toward Pete. “So, um—”

Mark’s mouth refused to open. It was wrong, just dead wrong, that he should be the one apologizing.

Pete Sovereign boosted himself off the bar, giving Mark the full force of his superior grin and thrusting his hand out. “Nice of you to come all this way to beg.”

For a moment, Mark could feel the world stretch and shift—déjà vu. He could feel the moments that had just passed and the moments that were creeping up on them. He remembered how Pete’s nose had given way to his knuckles ten years ago, and he imagined—no lived—with unapologetic clarity, the way Pete’s cheekbone would crack under the force of the even more heartfelt blow Mark was about to deliver.

What stopped him from throwing the punch, oddly enough, was not thinking of his father. It was thinking of Haven Hoyt and the way she’d looked at him in Charme, her eyebrows slightly drawn together as if she were trying to figure him out. As if he were worth figuring out. And even when he’d called her about this meeting, Haven had not said anything about watching his temper or not getting in a fight. She had, in fact, told him he would be capable of handling it maturely.

He heard himself sigh, and he saw Pete’s eyes widen. He leaned as close to Pete Sovereign as he could bear to, steeling himself against the guy’s cologne, and said, “It will be a long, cold wait in hell for you if you think that’s going to happen, douche bag.”

Then he turned and walked out of Mad Mo’s, the din fading behind him as the door swung shut and the cacophony of Manhattan’s streets filled his ears.

3 (#uead9df67-9e20-5c82-b160-fc184bf89a8d)

“WHAT THE HELL were you thinking?”

There was something so incongruous about seeing Haven Hoyt in Queens, standing in the foyer of his apartment building, that it took him a moment to realize she was yelling at him. The hangover wasn’t helping.

“Are you the most self-destructive human being on Earth?”

He almost answered her before he registered that her questions were rhetorical. “Did you come all the way out here to ask me that? Couldn’t you have called?”

It was Saturday morning. Last night, Mark had walked as fast as his legs could carry him away from Mad Mo’s and drowned his sorrows in shots of tequila at Over the Border. Countless shots of tequila. He’d gotten kicked out for harassing the bartender when she refused to serve him one more.

Haven crossed her arms. “I thought this bore discussing in person. Plus, I was so irritated with you that I needed to haul myself out here to burn off steam. Why do you live in Queens?”

“Because there’s not enough room on the island of Manhattan for me and all my self-destructiveness.”

A smile flirted with Haven’s impeccably made-up face and vanished just as quickly. “Seriously, Mark, are you off your rocker?”

“Nope. I am totally sane. Pete Sovereign is, in fact, the biggest douche bag on Earth.”

“Douchier than you? Because you’re looking pretty douchey right about now. Throwing away a reunion tour and hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, of dollars. Screwing yourself and me out of a job.”

Righteous fury made her even more beautiful. She kept tossing that glossy black hair, which she was wearing down today. It was perfectly straight and it looked like satin. Haven Hoyt was possibly made of satin from head to toe. Right now, he wanted to rub his entire greedy self all over her.

He caught himself mindlessly staring and attempted to corral some brain cells. “I take it you heard from Jimmy.” Of course. Jimmy would have been on the phone to dismiss Haven almost before Mark’s back had disappeared through the door. They’d have been glad to wash their hands of him, glad to have their low opinion of him confirmed.

“Jimmy called me this morning to, effectively, fire me,” she said.

He hadn’t wanted Haven to share the low opinion of him, though. That brought a mild sense of regret into his pounding head and foggy brain.

She teetered in strappy shoes with impossibly high, skinny heels. Not the right shoes for storming out to Queens in a temper. It was a good trek to his Sunnyside studio from the 7 line. This woman had impressive ankle strength and toe endurance.

Jesus, there was nothing sexy about either of those things. This was the twenty-first century, and naked feet were no longer the frontier. And yet, weirdly, he was turned on. Probably he would find her elbow sexy, or her toenail clippings, or—

He cast the closest thing he had to prayer skyward. If there were a remote possibility that he’d ever get to sleep with her, he wanted her to wear those shoes in bed.

“Haven, honestly? You should be glad to wash your hands of me.”

She glared at him. “Can you let me be the judge of what I should be glad about? I wanted this job. I’ve been trying to show Jimmy what I can do for years. I need referrals from him.”

“Well, then, I’m sorry. But I can’t work with Pete Sovereign.”

Even before the words were all the way out of his mouth, in the sober, hungover, head-splittingly bright light of day, he remembered that he had very few choices. And he didn’t like the pitying way Haven was looking at him, head tilted to one side. As if he was too pathetic to be believed.

“What happened between you and that guy?”

There was no way he was going to tell her. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

She sighed. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll just take your word that it was a big enough deal that you can let your dad rot because you’re too proud to issue some meaningless apology.”

He closed his eyes.

He could hear her breathing. Fast. Maybe the walk from the 40th Street station, maybe anger. With his eyes closed, he could imagine that was what her breathing would sound like if he got her worked up. If he licked around the rim of her ear, along the line of her neck, and down the curve of a breast.

Now he was breathing fast.

“You’re going to have to find a way to work with Pete Sovereign.”

His eyes flew open. Apparently, she was steel under all that satin. He could see it in her shoulders, in the hardness of her eyes. “It’s none of your business.”

“Too bad. I want this gig, and you’re the gig. I begged Jimmy to give you one more chance. I begged on your behalf. You owe me this.” Her eyes were challenging, her hands on her hips now.

“No. No way. I didn’t ask you for anything and I don’t owe you anything. I don’t even know you.” Even if I have undressed you in my mind several times since the first time I laid eyes on you.

“This isn’t negotiable.”

“There’s no negotiation, Haven.”

“There’s me, standing here and telling you, you have to do this. Also, there’s your dad. You said he needs a lot of physical therapy.”

“Tons,” Mark admitted. “Every day.”

“And the nurse.” She said it matter-of-factly, with the same sympathy that always undid him.

He couldn’t speak. He just nodded.

“Mark. It doesn’t have to be the world’s most heartfelt apology. It just has to be an apology. This time I’ll be there when you deliver it.”

She’d moved from steel to supplication, and he could already tell it would destroy his resolve—that, and the implacable reality of his father’s debt. Mark was crumbling inside, and there were no inner reserves with which to shore himself up. Haven’s compassion had started his undoing, somehow, on Thursday. It was always the urge to let down your guard that killed you in the end.

“I don’t want you there when I deliver it.” As good as surrender.

“Well, tough luck,” she said. “After last night’s fiasco, I promised Jimmy I’d stick close to you for anything that might attract public attention until the tour.”

Stick. Close. To. You. His pulse kicked up. “You agreed to follow me around for six months?”