Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: Ashton
Chapter 2: Terra
Chapter 3: Ashton
Chapter 4: Terra
Chapter 5: Ashton
Chapter 6: Terra
Chapter 7: Ashton
Chapter 8: Terra
Chapter 9: Ashton
Chapter 10: Terra
Chapter 11: Ashton
Chapter 12: Terra
Chapter 13: Ashton
Chapter 14: Terra
Chapter 15: Ashton
Chapter 16: Terra
Chapter 17: Ashton
Chapter 18: Terra
Chapter 19: Ashton
Chapter 20: Terra
Chapter 21: Ashton
Chapter 22: Terra
Chapter 23: Ashton
Chapter 24: Terra
Epilogue: Ashton
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Aliza Mann
About the Author
Excerpt from Illegally Yours
Chapter 1
Ashton
Amateurs rarely follow the rules. It’s the
number-one reason they always get stuck. Call
it a playbook, if you will—the very necessary
guidelines to finding women who normally
wouldn’t give you the time of day, yet discover
themselves inexplicably drawn to you.
I keep mine fairly simple, and never, ever
deviate. There are traps and pitfalls in
diverting from the rules. I’m not some Yoda.
Just extremely dedicated to maintaining a
respectable bachelor status.
1. Never pick the prettiest women. They’re
usually merely a pretty face, have no real
power, and are high-maintenance or looking
for more than what one has to give. No, the
pretty girls will ruin your chances at playing
the field. The less attractive friends always
want attention and will be far more
appreciative in the long run.
2. Don’t think of her as a one-night stand.
Think of her as a new friend you can call at 3
A.M. asking to come round her place.
3. No discussing family history.
4. No deep conversations that linger into the
wee hours. Keep things light. Airy. Like fresh
laundry on a clothesline in the spring.
5. Never treat women poorly. Be distant
instead. Not too distant, though. It’s a fine line
after all.
6. Whatever you do, don’t hang out until the
next morning. It gives the wrong impression.
No need to contradict the aloof vibe you’ve
perfected.
7. No actual dates on Friday or Saturday, as
these are universally known as couples’ nights.
8. No consecutive days of seeing each other,
either.
9. No sharing of clothing items.
10. No taking personal items to each other’s
homes.
Those are the rules for the modern-day
playboy. There are probably more than that,
but these are enough to get you started. Being
a player is a highly unpopular position to be
in, by the way. What with all the tossers in the
world acting aggressively toward women and
Glide-ing until their fingers won’t swipe
anymore. None of that was my game.
My rules were in place to protect them as
much as they were for my own protection. No
one needed to get hurt, and being honest was
by far the safer way to go. They’d probably be
better off without someone like me anyway. I
wasn’t the marrying type, and women deserve
more than that. Most do, anyway.
I never picked up women in a club. I’d
usually troll upscale dinner spots. I also
avoided younger women. I like them at least
five years my senior, thirty-eight being the
sweet spot. Since I’m thirty-three, they don’t
feel too weird about the age difference.
They’re usually tired and ready to settle down.
Since I’m a semi-nice, marginally attractive,
financially stable bloke, I can slip in on the
unsuspecting singletons—that’s what they call
themselves nowadays according to my limited
chick flick experience—and find some
mutually enjoyable, no-strings-attached fun.
And my Brit accent doesn’t hurt, either.
Never mind that I haven’t been back to
London in twenty-five years and have no
legitimate ties to the country, since I’m an
American citizen, although women rarely ask
me that. I wouldn’t out-and-out lie about it. I
just throw in a few highly inaccurate
references, most likely, and no one is the
wiser. A teatime here and an arse there will do
the trick.
So there I was. Soar Brasserie fit the bill as
much as any other restaurant in downtown
Detroit. The French décor, impeccable food,
and inflated costs brought out women in
droves. Contrary to popular belief, there are
many individuals in the city with old money
and high profiles, and there’s a
disproportionate divorce rate.
The interior was awash with peaches, pinks,
and purples, and perfectly blended with slate-
gray wooden flooring. Quite proper, really. It
was a white-tablecloth type of place where
wearing your fine clothes wasn’t frowned
upon. The sunlight came in through floor-to-
ceiling windows, and over the bar was a
television set into the wall that showed news
programs. Every week two businessmen sat at
the opposite end of the bar from where I sat
and amicably argued over current news
events. No matter how long I sat each week,
they always seemed to still be there when I
was leaving. Then there were the women. It
was like my own personal playground.
Fortunately, I never ran into the same women
in the four times I’d been there. Lucky boy.
I’d been there only about twenty minutes on
a fine Sunday afternoon before I identified a
tableful of prospects, their Chanel and Dolce &
Gabbana scents perfuming the air, acting as a
beacon. All sported faded wedding-band lines,
face lines that told of some sadness and
laughter, and purses that could fund a month’s
pay for the average American household. Just
my type.
“What can I get you today?” I’d been
standing at the bar for a while waiting to be
served. No biggie, since it wasn’t entirely
drink-thirty yet. I could have sat at a table, but
the unmanned bar was perfect for me since
the proximity to the tastefully done dining
area was optimal. I turned to face the poor
overweight sloth of a bartender, who hadn’t
quite figured out that he was on a fast track to
a heart attack. He had the face of a bulldog,
which probably translated to someone who
could beat my ass. Best not tempt him, for
while he was clearly on his best work behavior,
he may have been hanging on to his temper by
a very thin thread.
“I’ll take a bourbon, neat.”
“Coming up,” he said with a knowing smirk I
didn’t like.
Most men regarded me in that way. I could
see how they would have a touch of disdain,
since I resembled what was commonly called
metrosexual. It’s better than what my father
called me, more along the lines of a softy,
anytime he sobered up enough to realize I was
in the room with him. Appearance-wise, I took
my looks after my British mum after all, and
she was a fair blond lady with a model-like
appearance and soulful blue eyes. She’d
thought the world of my father before she
passed. Cancer took her when I was ten. Our
move to the US when I was eight was
supposed to save her. For a while, it did. She
had surgery that was radical for the time, I
remembered them saying. There were times
when it almost seemed easy for her to take
care of us.
Those days were better than most. We’d take
walks in Central Park after riding on the
subway all the way from Brooklyn. My mother
would window-shop and I’d people watch.
There were so many people to see. Meanwhile,
my father worked at factory jobs and driving
cabs to pay for all the medical bills. It wasn’t
nearly enough. He was out working more than
he was home. But the treatments were
working.
Until they weren’t. Mum took a turn for the
worse. The treatments lost their effectiveness.
In the end, we lost her. She left me there to
take care of my father through no fault of her
own, bless her. Yeah, I know that should have
been the other way around, but it nearly killed
him, and what was left of him after her death
wasn’t fit to see after a dog, let alone an
impressionable young lad. I don’t think he
ever forgave himself for not being able to
afford more—more treatments, more
medicine, an in-home nurse. As an adult, I can
see how that goal was nearly impossible to
achieve. Probably why I work in
pharmaceutical sales. Not exactly the most
noble profession these days, but it did provide
insight into the monster that is healthcare.
She was only thirty-five. An absolutely
beautiful and kind woman who left the world
poorer for her passing. We moved to Detroit
before my eleventh birthday. New York, a city
my mother loved, proved too cruel a place for
dear old withering Dad.
Instead of watching the portly bartender, I
returned my attention to the ladies in the
center of the room, in all their Dior splendor.
Light laughter and low murmurs carried over
from their table across the room. It was the
type of conversation that wealthy but sad
people had—tight mouths and smiles that
never made it to their eyes. Even as the
restaurant filled with brunchgoers, I didn’t
take my eyes off their table for longer than it
took to take a sip of my drink. Every
movement, every action was a part of the
allure. I tried anyway. Being an international
man of mystery and intrigue was the furthest
thing from my reality—I mean, finding socks
that matched from the dryer was an amazing
feat, but as long as you had confidence, you
could pull it off. Most men didn’t truly believe
their bullshit. I had a lot of them beat because
I was able to talk myself into almost anything.
The other missing element for most amateurs
was their lack of basic human understanding.
It’s not enough to show attention. A man’s
body should be completely in tune with
someone he’s attracted to. It’s not that I
thought myself insanely attractive. I was just
someone who paid attention. If the rest of the
men in the world learned to do just that, I’d
have had plenty of competition. Especially in
Soar. Either the guys there paid no attention,
or they were such arse-hats I won out easily.
So all I had to do was focus and I’d achieve my
objective.
Yet I wasn’t focused. Just off to the left I
noticed a pair of furious whisperers at the first
table near the bar. Easy enough to figure out.
The girl, rather pretty—not my type, though,
since she was too gorgeous to be on the same
planet with mere earthlings—was pushing the
hands of a hobbit impersonating a human
away from her.
Right. I needed to ignore that. Besides, I had
something else to do. Someone else to do. We
would have a long night of our own fun ahead
of us. Best not ruin it.
I returned to the table of ladies. Including a
lady who could use a bit of fun and games with
a chap like me.
Now, where was I? I shifted in my seat and
glanced around the room. There were just a
few other tables in the place given it was still
relatively early. The two elderly gentlemen
along with another table of four young
professional women who were probably
plotting world domination, or their next
motivational book to read in their book club.
There were no other women who met my
criteria. Just as well.
Back to the initial ladies I’d spotted—again. I
needed to stay out of the business of others. I
resumed my staring at the lovely middle-aged
specimen who would do. The target should
feel as though the guy’s hands are running all
over her body before he even gets close to her.
That’s the game.
The clear beta of the group, with gray eyes,
perfectly coiffed hair, and a touch too much
makeup to compensate for her lack of
confidence, glanced up in time to catch my
eyes. An absolute blush colored her cheeks,
sending her grabbing for her water. As she
drank, she held our visual connection, as if I
were the very water that filled her glass.
Aaaannnnnnd bingo bango, we have ourselves
a winner, ladies and gents.
She would probably get up and excuse
herself to go to the restroom, where I would
most likely advance, pressing her to the wall
too close and speaking too quickly for her
mimosa-filled brain to keep up. I’d call her
beautiful and tell her she was so remarkable I
couldn’t bear to leave her alone, all the while
offering a historic apology. And she’d bite.
Shit, she’d bitten already, the hunger in her
radiating from her seat across the room. I had
to admit, there was a certain mastery in my—
I was almost there. Truly I was, until I heard
the woman off to my left—again. Her whisper
turned into something more excitable. The
pair stole my attention away like thieves. I
shifted my body on the barstool. The seat was
designed to react to the slightest movement of
the body. A good thing, too, because it wasn’t
as obvious.
The basset hound/man was staring at her as
if she’d spit in his face, and she looked as if she
would rather be anywhere than there. I was
pretty sure he’d only said something that
annoyed her and wasn’t being physical with
her, but you could never be too sure. Men
could be bastards, so I was told.
I considered returning my attention to my
earlier conquest, but the blasted good guy in
me was nagging at my conscience. I observed a
bit longer, her body language clear. Legs
shifted away from him, her eyes searching the
room as if she was looking for something to
bludgeon him with, combined with pursed lips
all said things—whatever they were—were
going downhill considerably quickly.
He was no better. He was leaning forward,
resting on his elbows, bunching the clean
white tablecloth and talking fast. I suspected
this was a first date gone bad. He, the bastard
he appeared to be, was probably upset that she
was turning down whatever horrible
proposition that would get her on her back the
fastest, and she was thinking of ways to
delicately escape without having to fight him.
He was a pasty artifact of a man who was
probably wealthy. The Rolex and expensive,
albeit crumpled, suit were dead giveaways.
To insert myself or not to insert myself. That
was the question. And I wasn’t talking about in
the good way, either. The thing was, I’d made
up my mind that this beautiful woman could
easily have been with her husband or
boyfriend and they were having a lovers’
quarrel. I should ignore it. Walking over there
and saying something that would get my ass
handed to me was not the way to spend a
Sunday afternoon. My plan was to be in
someone else’s bed for a few hours after an
afternoon of flirting and frolicking—heavy on
the licking.
But as I continued to watch over the rim of
my glass and from beneath partly lowered lids,
I noticed something that I couldn’t ignore.
Whether he was husband, boyfriend, or a
swipe left on a dating app that was a bad idea,
grabbing a woman’s wrist to hold her in place
in a way that was obviously against her will
was enough to set me into motion.
But what should I do? Walk over and punch
the guy in the grill? No. Bad idea. I’d never
been a fighter. I was more of a lover for sure.
C’mon, Ashton, think, mate…What would
James Bond do? As I mulled over that little
nugget, I realized it didn’t matter what I did. It
just had to be something. Besides, the old
Bond I loved was no longer in style.
I stood up, glanced over at the bartender,
who seemed to be glaring at me as if to say he
had everything under control. I nodded at him
and tossed a wink. One that I hope said I’ll
take it from here and not be sure to pick me up
off the floor in the event I get myself
pummeled.
I walked over to the pair, neither of them
noticing me at first. I was across the floor and
over to their table in a matter of seconds, way
too fast, since I still hadn’t a clue what to say.
“Pardon me, miss,” I started. They both
looked up at me—her with relief, him with
agitation. “I was just wondering if you went to
West Moreland High School? You bear a
striking resemblance to my ex-girlfriend.” It
was a total stretch, but sometimes you just
needed an in. If she wanted help getting rid of
the bastard, even if she thought I was crazy,
she’d take the assist. If not, well…she’d tell me
no and I’d be on my way. Either way, doing
nothing was not an option.
“Hey,” the pasty man with dark purple lips
started. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a
conversation?” He was nearly yelling in what
was an obvious attempt at intimidation. His
pale gray suit looked out of place in the
somewhat serene setting. Soar was practically
an oasis of soft, inviting colors smack dab in
the middle of gritty Detroit. He was an ogre
sitting amid a garden of roses. Anything but
inviting.
“Yeah…I remember you,” the woman
interjected. “Oh my goodness, it’s so good to
see you, Bret.”
My brow quirked. Did I honestly look like a
Bret? Maybe an Ethan, or perhaps a Bronson…
not Bret. “Er…yeah. That’s me. How’ve you
been? It’s so good to see you.”
She stood and stole my breath away. If she
was a vision sitting down with all that
beautiful, dark brown hair with honey-colored
streaks and smooth, warm brown skin,
standing, she was, simply put, breathtaking.
Her curves were dangerous, supple and
inviting. I had to draw my eyes away from
them to give her an unexpected hug. “I’m
great. It’s so good to see you. How long are you
in town?”
It took a second to track. Oh, she was good.
She’d picked up on my attempted save and ran
with it. Quite convincingly, at that. “Just a
couple of days,” I said, seizing the opportunity
to inhale her lovely floral scent blended with
vanilla notes in her hair. I had to fight a nearly
losing battle to keep my hands at the center of
my back and not run them the length of her
body.
“Oh my gosh,” she said, pulling away with a
look of concern in her eyes. “I wish I’d known.
I’m not free for the rest of the week. You know
what…” she said, turning slightly but leaving
one of her arms entangled in mine. “Daniel, do
you mind if I take a rain check on brunch
today? I can give you a call to reschedule. You
understand, don’t you? I haven’t seen Brian
here in years.”
“Bret,” I whispered, followed by a cough.
“Bret,” she said, her voice going up an
octave, “and I are very old friends and I
haven’t seen him since college.”
Christ, she was still holding on to me. My
pulse was racing, and not from the possibility
of getting into a fistfight, which was not at all
what I’d had in mind when I came to my
weekly haunt. It was her. It was as if my entire
body revved up from her touch—everything
everywhere was tensed and ready.
“So you’re just gonna end our date just like
that? I had a whole day planned for us.” The
guy, Daniel or whatever, looked genuinely
hurt by the abruptness of the episode. If I
hadn’t seen him in his true persona, I would
have thought him the victim in the whole
thing.
“No hard feelings, mate. Honestly, if I
weren’t leaving soon, I’d say we could do this
another time.” I gave him the wide-eyed
innocent stare I saved for secretaries when I
barged into offices without an appointment. At
least in their case, I gave them flowers and
lunch. This bloke got nothing, except his date
swooped up right from his clutches. I make
him sound rather evil, but I had my suspicions
he wasn’t far from my portrayal.
“Yeah, all right, Terra. I guess I understand.
Give me a call, why don’t ya? We’ll try for next
weekend.” He was practically growling the
words.
“Sure, I’ll do that. Thanks for
understanding.” She blinked at him, long
lashes fanning in a look that was both
apologetic and sexy as hell. Okay, maybe that
wasn’t what she was going for, but it was
surely what I took from it.
“Thanks, Daniel. I really appreciate your
understanding,” I added to emphasize how
sorry we both were—truly.
And I was. Because this was the type of
woman I’d been warned of before. My father
used to tell me anyone who can make you
change the way you behave was the one.
Presumably, the one was something to avoid.
Someone who could leave you in an alcoholic
stupor for years after her death. I shrugged the
whole thing off as Mr. Winkled Suit made his
exit. He loitered for a bit near the bar, I
guessed to settle up on the drinks that were on
the table.
“So, I’m guessing I should take a seat here to
continue our ruse?” I asked, holding my hand
out in the direction of the recently vacated
chair opposite her.
“Yes…and thank you,” she said. She looked
up at me with hazel eyes that flashed with
intellect and cunning. Something else lingered
beneath the surface, but one look at her and I
knew I should run in the opposite direction.
It was time to release her; otherwise, it
would have gotten awkward. I slipped my arm
from her and cupped her hand in both of mine
for a moment, if only to touch her once more.
After our encounter, I’d never touch her again.
For some reason, that made me sad.
I held her chair out for her and watched as
she slid into the seat, then took myself, along
with my inner conflict over whether to pursue
her, to the other side of the table. It was set
with pink peonies, one of my mother’s favorite
flowers oddly enough, and white tablecloths
and napkins with gold napkin rings. They were
the same as the larger tables, but more
intimate. In all the times I’d been to Soar, I’d
never once sat at a table. I glanced back up to
my bartender friend and waved him over,
hoping he’d bring my drink. He merely gave a
nod acknowledging he’d seen me. It was more
than I expected, but maybe something I’d done
made him a touch more sympathetic to my
cause.
Returning my attention to the woman who
so brilliantly threw me off guard every time I
looked at her, I smiled. “Now that we no
longer have an audience, I hope that wasn’t
too forward of me. It looked as if you could
use some assistance.”
“Too right. He was getting a touch too
handsy. It was like lunch with an octopus. Last
blind date for me.”
“Oh, I was afraid you’d been catphished.”
She’d been taking a sip of what looked like
sparkling water when I said it and nearly spit
it out. She took a deep swallow and let out the
cutest laugh on the planet. “Oh my god, no.
Just to be clear,” she said, taking a break to
laugh again, “I don’t date men for how they
look. I was set up by an old friend who is best
friends with the man. If you could imagine. He
was so sweet on the phone. In person, he was a
complete narcissist. And insisted tonight end
with a…happy ending, for lack of a better
term.”
“Well, I was about to apologize for barging
in, but now that I know he’s a complete jerk,
I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry at all.” I said.
She laughed in a light and airy tone that was
surprising. “Yeah, I’m not sorry, either. I do
feel bad, though. Weren’t you checking out
that group of ladies on the other side of the
room?” She waved her hand in my direction
and a pleasant floral scent filled me. I was
already on the verge of becoming enchanted
by her. I didn’t need her to add any more
enticement. She was enough on her own.
A brilliant smile tugged at her lips. I had a
feeling she noticed my eyes lingering over her
lips and that I’d been quiet entirely too long.
“What?”
“Nothing. You just…you just look like
someone I once knew,” I said. It wasn’t
actually a lie. There was an actress in an old
Eddie Murphy movie my friends and I used to
watch who looked just like her. Except…except
this woman before me was more beautiful
than…than perhaps anyone I’d ever met. Or
seen alive. Ever.
I took a moment to look at her fully again.
cycek77
Arkusze
E-book english 
Breaking His Rules is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. A Loveswept Ebook Original Copyright © 2019 by Aliza Mann Excerpt from Illegally Yours by Kate Meader copyright © 2019 by Kate Meader All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC. Ebook ISBN 9781984800152 Cover design: Diane Luger Cover photograph: GrandPix/iStock randomhousebooks.com
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Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Chapter 1: Ashton Chapter 2: Terra Chapter 3: Ashton Chapter 4: Terra Chapter 5: Ashton Chapter 6: Terra Chapter 7: Ashton Chapter 8: Terra Chapter 9: Ashton Chapter 10: Terra Chapter 11: Ashton Chapter 12: Terra Chapter 13: Ashton Chapter 14: Terra Chapter 15: Ashton Chapter 16: Terra
Chapter 17: Ashton Chapter 18: Terra Chapter 19: Ashton Chapter 20: Terra Chapter 21: Ashton Chapter 22: Terra Chapter 23: Ashton Chapter 24: Terra Epilogue: Ashton Dedication Acknowledgments By Aliza Mann About the Author Excerpt from Illegally Yours
Chapter 1 Ashton Amateurs rarely follow the rules. It’s the number-one reason they always get stuck. Call it a playbook, if you will—the very necessary guidelines to finding women who normally wouldn’t give you the time of day, yet discover themselves inexplicably drawn to you. I keep mine fairly simple, and never, ever deviate. There are traps and pitfalls in diverting from the rules. I’m not some Yoda. Just extremely dedicated to maintaining a respectable bachelor status. 1. Never pick the prettiest women. They’re usually merely a pretty face, have no real power, and are high-maintenance or looking for more than what one has to give. No, the pretty girls will ruin your chances at playing the field. The less attractive friends always want attention and will be far more appreciative in the long run.
2. Don’t think of her as a one-night stand. Think of her as a new friend you can call at 3 A.M. asking to come round her place. 3. No discussing family history. 4. No deep conversations that linger into the wee hours. Keep things light. Airy. Like fresh laundry on a clothesline in the spring. 5. Never treat women poorly. Be distant instead. Not too distant, though. It’s a fine line after all. 6. Whatever you do, don’t hang out until the next morning. It gives the wrong impression. No need to contradict the aloof vibe you’ve perfected. 7. No actual dates on Friday or Saturday, as these are universally known as couples’ nights. 8. No consecutive days of seeing each other, either. 9. No sharing of clothing items. 10. No taking personal items to each other’s homes. Those are the rules for the modern-day playboy. There are probably more than that, but these are enough to get you started. Being a player is a highly unpopular position to be
in, by the way. What with all the tossers in the world acting aggressively toward women and Glide-ing until their fingers won’t swipe anymore. None of that was my game. My rules were in place to protect them as much as they were for my own protection. No one needed to get hurt, and being honest was by far the safer way to go. They’d probably be better off without someone like me anyway. I wasn’t the marrying type, and women deserve more than that. Most do, anyway. I never picked up women in a club. I’d usually troll upscale dinner spots. I also avoided younger women. I like them at least five years my senior, thirty-eight being the sweet spot. Since I’m thirty-three, they don’t feel too weird about the age difference. They’re usually tired and ready to settle down. Since I’m a semi-nice, marginally attractive, financially stable bloke, I can slip in on the unsuspecting singletons—that’s what they call themselves nowadays according to my limited chick flick experience—and find some mutually enjoyable, no-strings-attached fun. And my Brit accent doesn’t hurt, either. Never mind that I haven’t been back to London in twenty-five years and have no legitimate ties to the country, since I’m an American citizen, although women rarely ask
me that. I wouldn’t out-and-out lie about it. I just throw in a few highly inaccurate references, most likely, and no one is the wiser. A teatime here and an arse there will do the trick. So there I was. Soar Brasserie fit the bill as much as any other restaurant in downtown Detroit. The French décor, impeccable food, and inflated costs brought out women in droves. Contrary to popular belief, there are many individuals in the city with old money and high profiles, and there’s a disproportionate divorce rate. The interior was awash with peaches, pinks, and purples, and perfectly blended with slate- gray wooden flooring. Quite proper, really. It was a white-tablecloth type of place where wearing your fine clothes wasn’t frowned upon. The sunlight came in through floor-to- ceiling windows, and over the bar was a television set into the wall that showed news programs. Every week two businessmen sat at the opposite end of the bar from where I sat and amicably argued over current news events. No matter how long I sat each week, they always seemed to still be there when I was leaving. Then there were the women. It was like my own personal playground. Fortunately, I never ran into the same women
in the four times I’d been there. Lucky boy. I’d been there only about twenty minutes on a fine Sunday afternoon before I identified a tableful of prospects, their Chanel and Dolce & Gabbana scents perfuming the air, acting as a beacon. All sported faded wedding-band lines, face lines that told of some sadness and laughter, and purses that could fund a month’s pay for the average American household. Just my type. “What can I get you today?” I’d been standing at the bar for a while waiting to be served. No biggie, since it wasn’t entirely drink-thirty yet. I could have sat at a table, but the unmanned bar was perfect for me since the proximity to the tastefully done dining area was optimal. I turned to face the poor overweight sloth of a bartender, who hadn’t quite figured out that he was on a fast track to a heart attack. He had the face of a bulldog, which probably translated to someone who could beat my ass. Best not tempt him, for while he was clearly on his best work behavior, he may have been hanging on to his temper by a very thin thread. “I’ll take a bourbon, neat.” “Coming up,” he said with a knowing smirk I didn’t like.
Most men regarded me in that way. I could see how they would have a touch of disdain, since I resembled what was commonly called metrosexual. It’s better than what my father called me, more along the lines of a softy, anytime he sobered up enough to realize I was in the room with him. Appearance-wise, I took my looks after my British mum after all, and she was a fair blond lady with a model-like appearance and soulful blue eyes. She’d thought the world of my father before she passed. Cancer took her when I was ten. Our move to the US when I was eight was supposed to save her. For a while, it did. She had surgery that was radical for the time, I remembered them saying. There were times when it almost seemed easy for her to take care of us. Those days were better than most. We’d take walks in Central Park after riding on the subway all the way from Brooklyn. My mother would window-shop and I’d people watch. There were so many people to see. Meanwhile, my father worked at factory jobs and driving cabs to pay for all the medical bills. It wasn’t nearly enough. He was out working more than he was home. But the treatments were working. Until they weren’t. Mum took a turn for the
worse. The treatments lost their effectiveness. In the end, we lost her. She left me there to take care of my father through no fault of her own, bless her. Yeah, I know that should have been the other way around, but it nearly killed him, and what was left of him after her death wasn’t fit to see after a dog, let alone an impressionable young lad. I don’t think he ever forgave himself for not being able to afford more—more treatments, more medicine, an in-home nurse. As an adult, I can see how that goal was nearly impossible to achieve. Probably why I work in pharmaceutical sales. Not exactly the most noble profession these days, but it did provide insight into the monster that is healthcare. She was only thirty-five. An absolutely beautiful and kind woman who left the world poorer for her passing. We moved to Detroit before my eleventh birthday. New York, a city my mother loved, proved too cruel a place for dear old withering Dad. Instead of watching the portly bartender, I returned my attention to the ladies in the center of the room, in all their Dior splendor. Light laughter and low murmurs carried over from their table across the room. It was the type of conversation that wealthy but sad people had—tight mouths and smiles that
never made it to their eyes. Even as the restaurant filled with brunchgoers, I didn’t take my eyes off their table for longer than it took to take a sip of my drink. Every movement, every action was a part of the allure. I tried anyway. Being an international man of mystery and intrigue was the furthest thing from my reality—I mean, finding socks that matched from the dryer was an amazing feat, but as long as you had confidence, you could pull it off. Most men didn’t truly believe their bullshit. I had a lot of them beat because I was able to talk myself into almost anything. The other missing element for most amateurs was their lack of basic human understanding. It’s not enough to show attention. A man’s body should be completely in tune with someone he’s attracted to. It’s not that I thought myself insanely attractive. I was just someone who paid attention. If the rest of the men in the world learned to do just that, I’d have had plenty of competition. Especially in Soar. Either the guys there paid no attention, or they were such arse-hats I won out easily. So all I had to do was focus and I’d achieve my objective. Yet I wasn’t focused. Just off to the left I noticed a pair of furious whisperers at the first table near the bar. Easy enough to figure out.
The girl, rather pretty—not my type, though, since she was too gorgeous to be on the same planet with mere earthlings—was pushing the hands of a hobbit impersonating a human away from her. Right. I needed to ignore that. Besides, I had something else to do. Someone else to do. We would have a long night of our own fun ahead of us. Best not ruin it. I returned to the table of ladies. Including a lady who could use a bit of fun and games with a chap like me. Now, where was I? I shifted in my seat and glanced around the room. There were just a few other tables in the place given it was still relatively early. The two elderly gentlemen along with another table of four young professional women who were probably plotting world domination, or their next motivational book to read in their book club. There were no other women who met my criteria. Just as well. Back to the initial ladies I’d spotted—again. I needed to stay out of the business of others. I resumed my staring at the lovely middle-aged specimen who would do. The target should feel as though the guy’s hands are running all over her body before he even gets close to her.
That’s the game. The clear beta of the group, with gray eyes, perfectly coiffed hair, and a touch too much makeup to compensate for her lack of confidence, glanced up in time to catch my eyes. An absolute blush colored her cheeks, sending her grabbing for her water. As she drank, she held our visual connection, as if I were the very water that filled her glass. Aaaannnnnnd bingo bango, we have ourselves a winner, ladies and gents. She would probably get up and excuse herself to go to the restroom, where I would most likely advance, pressing her to the wall too close and speaking too quickly for her mimosa-filled brain to keep up. I’d call her beautiful and tell her she was so remarkable I couldn’t bear to leave her alone, all the while offering a historic apology. And she’d bite. Shit, she’d bitten already, the hunger in her radiating from her seat across the room. I had to admit, there was a certain mastery in my— I was almost there. Truly I was, until I heard the woman off to my left—again. Her whisper turned into something more excitable. The pair stole my attention away like thieves. I shifted my body on the barstool. The seat was designed to react to the slightest movement of the body. A good thing, too, because it wasn’t
as obvious. The basset hound/man was staring at her as if she’d spit in his face, and she looked as if she would rather be anywhere than there. I was pretty sure he’d only said something that annoyed her and wasn’t being physical with her, but you could never be too sure. Men could be bastards, so I was told. I considered returning my attention to my earlier conquest, but the blasted good guy in me was nagging at my conscience. I observed a bit longer, her body language clear. Legs shifted away from him, her eyes searching the room as if she was looking for something to bludgeon him with, combined with pursed lips all said things—whatever they were—were going downhill considerably quickly. He was no better. He was leaning forward, resting on his elbows, bunching the clean white tablecloth and talking fast. I suspected this was a first date gone bad. He, the bastard he appeared to be, was probably upset that she was turning down whatever horrible proposition that would get her on her back the fastest, and she was thinking of ways to delicately escape without having to fight him. He was a pasty artifact of a man who was probably wealthy. The Rolex and expensive, albeit crumpled, suit were dead giveaways.
To insert myself or not to insert myself. That was the question. And I wasn’t talking about in the good way, either. The thing was, I’d made up my mind that this beautiful woman could easily have been with her husband or boyfriend and they were having a lovers’ quarrel. I should ignore it. Walking over there and saying something that would get my ass handed to me was not the way to spend a Sunday afternoon. My plan was to be in someone else’s bed for a few hours after an afternoon of flirting and frolicking—heavy on the licking. But as I continued to watch over the rim of my glass and from beneath partly lowered lids, I noticed something that I couldn’t ignore. Whether he was husband, boyfriend, or a swipe left on a dating app that was a bad idea, grabbing a woman’s wrist to hold her in place in a way that was obviously against her will was enough to set me into motion. But what should I do? Walk over and punch the guy in the grill? No. Bad idea. I’d never been a fighter. I was more of a lover for sure. C’mon, Ashton, think, mate…What would James Bond do? As I mulled over that little nugget, I realized it didn’t matter what I did. It just had to be something. Besides, the old Bond I loved was no longer in style.
I stood up, glanced over at the bartender, who seemed to be glaring at me as if to say he had everything under control. I nodded at him and tossed a wink. One that I hope said I’ll take it from here and not be sure to pick me up off the floor in the event I get myself pummeled. I walked over to the pair, neither of them noticing me at first. I was across the floor and over to their table in a matter of seconds, way too fast, since I still hadn’t a clue what to say. “Pardon me, miss,” I started. They both looked up at me—her with relief, him with agitation. “I was just wondering if you went to West Moreland High School? You bear a striking resemblance to my ex-girlfriend.” It was a total stretch, but sometimes you just needed an in. If she wanted help getting rid of the bastard, even if she thought I was crazy, she’d take the assist. If not, well…she’d tell me no and I’d be on my way. Either way, doing nothing was not an option. “Hey,” the pasty man with dark purple lips started. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a conversation?” He was nearly yelling in what was an obvious attempt at intimidation. His pale gray suit looked out of place in the somewhat serene setting. Soar was practically an oasis of soft, inviting colors smack dab in
the middle of gritty Detroit. He was an ogre sitting amid a garden of roses. Anything but inviting. “Yeah…I remember you,” the woman interjected. “Oh my goodness, it’s so good to see you, Bret.” My brow quirked. Did I honestly look like a Bret? Maybe an Ethan, or perhaps a Bronson… not Bret. “Er…yeah. That’s me. How’ve you been? It’s so good to see you.” She stood and stole my breath away. If she was a vision sitting down with all that beautiful, dark brown hair with honey-colored streaks and smooth, warm brown skin, standing, she was, simply put, breathtaking. Her curves were dangerous, supple and inviting. I had to draw my eyes away from them to give her an unexpected hug. “I’m great. It’s so good to see you. How long are you in town?” It took a second to track. Oh, she was good. She’d picked up on my attempted save and ran with it. Quite convincingly, at that. “Just a couple of days,” I said, seizing the opportunity to inhale her lovely floral scent blended with vanilla notes in her hair. I had to fight a nearly losing battle to keep my hands at the center of my back and not run them the length of her
body. “Oh my gosh,” she said, pulling away with a look of concern in her eyes. “I wish I’d known. I’m not free for the rest of the week. You know what…” she said, turning slightly but leaving one of her arms entangled in mine. “Daniel, do you mind if I take a rain check on brunch today? I can give you a call to reschedule. You understand, don’t you? I haven’t seen Brian here in years.” “Bret,” I whispered, followed by a cough. “Bret,” she said, her voice going up an octave, “and I are very old friends and I haven’t seen him since college.” Christ, she was still holding on to me. My pulse was racing, and not from the possibility of getting into a fistfight, which was not at all what I’d had in mind when I came to my weekly haunt. It was her. It was as if my entire body revved up from her touch—everything everywhere was tensed and ready. “So you’re just gonna end our date just like that? I had a whole day planned for us.” The guy, Daniel or whatever, looked genuinely hurt by the abruptness of the episode. If I hadn’t seen him in his true persona, I would have thought him the victim in the whole thing.
“No hard feelings, mate. Honestly, if I weren’t leaving soon, I’d say we could do this another time.” I gave him the wide-eyed innocent stare I saved for secretaries when I barged into offices without an appointment. At least in their case, I gave them flowers and lunch. This bloke got nothing, except his date swooped up right from his clutches. I make him sound rather evil, but I had my suspicions he wasn’t far from my portrayal. “Yeah, all right, Terra. I guess I understand. Give me a call, why don’t ya? We’ll try for next weekend.” He was practically growling the words. “Sure, I’ll do that. Thanks for understanding.” She blinked at him, long lashes fanning in a look that was both apologetic and sexy as hell. Okay, maybe that wasn’t what she was going for, but it was surely what I took from it. “Thanks, Daniel. I really appreciate your understanding,” I added to emphasize how sorry we both were—truly. And I was. Because this was the type of woman I’d been warned of before. My father used to tell me anyone who can make you change the way you behave was the one. Presumably, the one was something to avoid.
Someone who could leave you in an alcoholic stupor for years after her death. I shrugged the whole thing off as Mr. Winkled Suit made his exit. He loitered for a bit near the bar, I guessed to settle up on the drinks that were on the table. “So, I’m guessing I should take a seat here to continue our ruse?” I asked, holding my hand out in the direction of the recently vacated chair opposite her. “Yes…and thank you,” she said. She looked up at me with hazel eyes that flashed with intellect and cunning. Something else lingered beneath the surface, but one look at her and I knew I should run in the opposite direction. It was time to release her; otherwise, it would have gotten awkward. I slipped my arm from her and cupped her hand in both of mine for a moment, if only to touch her once more. After our encounter, I’d never touch her again. For some reason, that made me sad. I held her chair out for her and watched as she slid into the seat, then took myself, along with my inner conflict over whether to pursue her, to the other side of the table. It was set with pink peonies, one of my mother’s favorite flowers oddly enough, and white tablecloths and napkins with gold napkin rings. They were
the same as the larger tables, but more intimate. In all the times I’d been to Soar, I’d never once sat at a table. I glanced back up to my bartender friend and waved him over, hoping he’d bring my drink. He merely gave a nod acknowledging he’d seen me. It was more than I expected, but maybe something I’d done made him a touch more sympathetic to my cause. Returning my attention to the woman who so brilliantly threw me off guard every time I looked at her, I smiled. “Now that we no longer have an audience, I hope that wasn’t too forward of me. It looked as if you could use some assistance.” “Too right. He was getting a touch too handsy. It was like lunch with an octopus. Last blind date for me.” “Oh, I was afraid you’d been catphished.” She’d been taking a sip of what looked like sparkling water when I said it and nearly spit it out. She took a deep swallow and let out the cutest laugh on the planet. “Oh my god, no. Just to be clear,” she said, taking a break to laugh again, “I don’t date men for how they look. I was set up by an old friend who is best friends with the man. If you could imagine. He was so sweet on the phone. In person, he was a
complete narcissist. And insisted tonight end with a…happy ending, for lack of a better term.” “Well, I was about to apologize for barging in, but now that I know he’s a complete jerk, I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry at all.” I said. She laughed in a light and airy tone that was surprising. “Yeah, I’m not sorry, either. I do feel bad, though. Weren’t you checking out that group of ladies on the other side of the room?” She waved her hand in my direction and a pleasant floral scent filled me. I was already on the verge of becoming enchanted by her. I didn’t need her to add any more enticement. She was enough on her own. A brilliant smile tugged at her lips. I had a feeling she noticed my eyes lingering over her lips and that I’d been quiet entirely too long. “What?” “Nothing. You just…you just look like someone I once knew,” I said. It wasn’t actually a lie. There was an actress in an old Eddie Murphy movie my friends and I used to watch who looked just like her. Except…except this woman before me was more beautiful than…than perhaps anyone I’d ever met. Or seen alive. Ever. I took a moment to look at her fully again.