Midnight Resolutions. Kathleen O'Reilly

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СКАЧАТЬ and then frowned in Ian’s direction. “Why are you so happy? It sounded like last night was a bust.”

      For a second he considered keeping his secret, but too few charmed things had happened to him. Right now, he needed to share the miraculousness of the kiss, cement it in his head and probably ride it out for the rest of the year.

      “I kissed this woman. In Times Square. It was absolute magic, the best time of my life, topping graduation, my first bonus check, the day I bought my first place.”

      Phoebe looked worried. “You kissed a stranger?” she asked. “Really?”

      “Like you’ve never done it,” Beckett argued, both of them completely missing the profound significance of the moment.

      “Not in Times Square. I think that’s creepy.”

      Ian laughed, because he didn’t expect the rest of the world to understand. “It wasn’t creepy. It was like an old movie. She was there and then poof, she was gone. It’s a sign. A bubbling glass of Dom Pérignon, a rainbow after the storm, a golden unicorn.”

      “I’m concerned about you, Ian. You shouldn’t be talking about unicorns with a serious face.”

      “It’s only an expression, Beckett. You know, when you feel as if all around you the world is full and bursting, and you need to soak it in.”

      Okay, that was laying it on too thick, but if a man couldn’t have big dreams on January 1, then there was no hope for him at all.

      “Missing the firm, aren’t you?” Beckett asked, not fooled by Ian’s never-say-die smile.

      Ian met his eyes, man to man. “Hell, yeah.”

      Phoebe looked at them, confused. Honest to God, females had no idea the pressure that society put on men. It wasn’t smart, and eventually, some poor sap could break under the strain.

      Right then, a roar went up as the Scarlet Knights took the ball on a streaking run, layup, net, followed almost immediately by a steal and a three-pointer. Phoebe shot up from her seat, fist-bumped Beckett, and then sat down, adjusting her glasses. “What was her name?”

      Details, details. Ian coughed. “I don’t know her name. We didn’t have a lot of time, and then she had to go find her date.” Even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

      “She kissed you, and she had a date? Ballsy,” murmured Phoebe.

      “She didn’t like the guy,” explained Ian, because he knew it wasn’t ballsiness on her part, more the inescapable truth that for one perfect night, two souls were brought together, merging into one incandescent flame that was bigger than either of them…He sighed. Maybe she’d been drinking too much. No. He wasn’t going to be put off. If the Scarlet Knights could win—

      The visiting team got a steal, three-points, followed by a foul.

      Ian buried his head in his hands.

      “Why don’t you try and find her?” asked Beckett. “Put an ad on missed connections. What if she’s The One? You can’t miss out on that.”

      Ian glanced over at Phoebe, noticed the way her face softened.

      “You should,” she told him. “Women would eat it up. Trust me, as a woman, I’m almost seduced.”

      “It doesn’t take much, does it?” drawled Beckett, who usually didn’t take this many shots at Phoebe.

      “Don’t be an ass,” Phoebe fired back.

      “I’m not. You’re the one who’s talking about the destruction of the entire male species.”

      “It was a joke, Beckett.”

      “I’m sorry, when it comes to you and men, sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

      “What does that mean?”

      Beckett swore and fixed his eyes on the court, and the three of them watched the game, or at least Ian pretended to watch the game. He was still dwelling on the mystery woman of last night, trying to figure out if the ideal of a dream was better than charging in, throwing the dice, only to watch the Big Bad Wolf blow down the house he’d made out of happy straw.

      The doubt, the insecurity, the mixed metaphors, they were all postlayoff, because prelayoff, he would have gambled all night and not panicked about losing his house at all.

      At the half, when the Scarlet Knights were down by twenty-six and all hope had left the building, Phoebe turned to him, scarfing his last nacho. “Seriously. We’ll help you write the ad. Maybe she’s searching for you, too.”

      Ian looked at the scoreboard, saw his future and worried. “So she meets me and she asks what I do for a living, then what am I supposed to say?”

      In his mind, there were certain advantages to staying virtual strangers. Okay, there would be no sex, but on the bright side, he wouldn’t have to explain the prelayoff, postlayoff stages of his life. In the battle between his libido and his pride, pride trumped all. Although after a few days, that might be subject to change.

      “All you have to tell her is that you help people find employment. Ian, it’s very noble. You should be proud of it.”

      Phoebe talked in that faux-sincere voice, as if being an employment counselor was on par with working with millions of dollars at an investment bank. Not even in Phoebe’s noncompetitive universe were the two on the same scale. Pointedly, Ian stared at the emptying stands.

      This wasn’t a conversation Ian wanted to have, not now, not ever. Instead, he wanted to dwell on the happy memory of last night. On her honeysuckle lips and the burst of electricity that was still humming inside him. To have her, splayed out below him, above him, truly he wasn’t picky. Just to see the warm invitation in her eyes, that ripe mouth parted and plump breasts rising, falling, tips begging to be teased…

      “You should find her. Place the ad.” Beckett’s voice cut through his fantasies. Thanks, dude.

      Ian weighed the options, the thought of her underneath him, surrounding him, damp thighs glistening, waiting…For him.

      In the end, libido ruled. “I’ll do it.”

      Chapter Four

      ROSE’S APARTMENT WAS a far cry from the Simonov decadence, but it was neat, tidy and for now it was home. Her frown was automatic when she walked in the door, her eyes critical.

      It never felt right. It didn’t matter if the slipcover for the sofa was hand-sewn, or that the coffee table was a steamer trunk covered in a designer print. She could hear that growling voice in her head telling her that it wasn’t straight, or that it looked cheap. Automatically she pulled at the fabric until the pleats hung at a precise ninety degrees. When she noticed the stain on the sofa, she attacked it with spot remover until the light beige fabric was restored to perfection. Yes, there was a certain cathartic satisfaction in having a clean home, but she hated that it was that voice that was responsible. Frustrated, she threw the rag in the trash and decided to concentrate on the things that made her happy.

      Her СКАЧАТЬ