Man of the world, p.1
Man of the World, page 1
Man of the World
Thea Dawson
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Contents
Prologue
1. Carina
2. Drew
3. Carina
4. Drew
5. Carina
6. Drew
7. Carina
8. Drew
9. Carina
10. Drew
11. Carina
12. Drew
13. Carina
14. Drew
15. Carina
16. Drew
17. Carina
18. Drew
19. Drew
20. Carina
21. Drew
22. Carina
23. Drew
24. Drew
25. Carina
26. Drew
27. Carina
28. Drew
29. Carina
30. Carina
31. Drew
Epilogue
Excerpt from Man of Matrimony
Author’s Notes
Books by Thea Dawson
About the Author
For Al, best beta reader, best friend, and best husband.
Prologue
Ten years earlier
The sun was just starting to rise over Lake Michigan as Carina and Westley walked home from the party.
Every few steps, Carina glanced at Westley out of the corner of her eye. At five foot eight, she was tall, but he was taller still by five or six inches. He had the lean, lanky build of a runner and a shock of dark hair that tended to fall over his deep brown eyes.
She’d been fascinated with him ever since she’d moved to Evanston at the beginning of the summer and started waiting tables at the restaurant where he tended bar. Despite their differences—or maybe because of them—she found him intriguing. She’d even entertained hopes of a summer fling, an actual romance to go along with the romance of her first summer away from home. But he’d treated her like a little sister, nicknamed her “Flirt,” and refused to take her seriously. He showed up to parties occasionally with different girls, all closer to his age, and never the same one twice.
Carina had accepted that whatever Westley was looking for in a girl it wasn’t her. She’d be starting college at Northwestern in a few days; he’d graduated three months earlier and would be moving to Fargo, North Dakota, where he’d gotten a job as a writer for a newspaper. He was leaving town later that very day. It wasn’t like there was a future for them, but that would have been okay. She was too young to be interested in a future, too entranced with the present.
But the student apartment she’d sublet for the summer was coming closer with every step, and she didn’t want their walk to be over just yet.
“You want to walk by the beach for a few minutes?” she suggested as casually as she could. She braced herself for a polite refusal. Lake Michigan was in the opposite direction of Westley’s apartment, and he’d probably want to get back to his place as quickly as possible. He’d been up all night, after all, and probably still had packing to do—
“Sure,” he said agreeably. Her face brightened and they made the next right toward Clark Street Beach.
They walked in companionable silence for another ten minutes. Normally, Carina loved to talk, to ask questions, to draw people out, but this morning, she was content to say nothing. She was slightly buzzed, not from alcohol—she’d had only one beer, which she’d sipped slowly because she didn’t really like it—but from the lack of sleep. The adrenaline from the party was still rushing through her veins; soon, she knew, it would fade, and she’d be grateful that she didn’t have to do anything until five when her next shift at the restaurant started. For now, though, she was awake and alert and just a little lightheaded.
“Beautiful day,” she remarked as they stepped onto the concrete path that led from Clark Street to the water. It was shaping up to be a typical late summer day in the northern suburbs of Chicago, hot and sunny. Even at this hour, the air was heavy with humidity, but though warm, it wasn’t yet stifling the way it would be later. Back in Los Angeles, it was her sisters who were the early risers; they teased her for being the night owl who would sleep until lunchtime if she was allowed to, but as she and Westley walked beneath the trees that had taken root in the sandy ground, she was able to appreciate the silence and the warm, glowing light of the early day.
Maybe she would start getting up earlier.
Beside her, Westley nodded. For a moment, she thought he was about to say something, but he didn’t. As they drew closer to the beach, she stopped just long enough to slide out of her sandals. After the restaurant closed, she’d run home just long enough to wash off the smell of burgers and beer and change into a filmy turquoise sundress before going to Adrianne’s house for Westley’s goodbye party. The sandals had been chosen to complement the dress; she hadn’t planned on doing any serious walking in them.
Hooking her fingers into the sandal straps, she straightened up, took a step, and promptly stumbled as she stepped off the concrete path and onto the sand.
Immediately, she felt his large hand, smooth and warm, wrap around hers, sending a thrill of excitement through her chest. “Easy there,” he murmured.
“Thanks,” she said, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment … and something else.
As they continued to walk toward the cool blue water of the lake, he did not let go of her hand.
* * *
Would he be doing this if he weren’t leaving Evanston for good in just a few hours?
Probably not; all summer Westley had resisted Carina’s charms, the combination of beauty, charm, and sweetness that had virtually everyone at the restaurant eating out of her hand, from Fred, the embittered manager, to the Mexican dishwashers, with whom she spoke a schoolgirl’s Spanish.
Plus he admired her grit; she’d left home three months before she’d be starting university at Northwestern, determined to get a taste of independence as soon as she could. Early on in the summer, he’d considered asking her out but had decided against it. She was too young; she hadn’t even started college yet, whereas he’d graduated and was ready for the next stage, and he didn’t want to be responsible for hurting her feelings when he left at the end of the summer. This was his last summer of freedom, after all, and he wanted to enjoy it with no commitments and no drama.
So, they’d settled into a casual kind of friendship that existed only when their shifts overlapped and at the occasional after-hours party with the other waitstaff.
But now, with just hours to go before he’d probably never see her again, he found himself walking hand in hand with her on the beach, at sunrise, trying not to say anything unbearably stupid like, The day isn’t as beautiful as you are—even if that’s what he was thinking.
“How does this compare to California?” he asked, nodding at the vast stretch of blue water ahead of them.
She cocked her head, considering the view. “We have better waves,” she finally said, a little apologetically.
He nodded in solemn agreement. “Well, we have to work with what we have here in the Midwest.”
She smiled at him. “You should come out to California sometime. I bet you’d love it.”
“I bet I would too.” If that’s where girls like you come from.
Hand in hand, they stood on the shore as the fiery sun began to climb into the sky. Already it was several degrees warmer than it had been when they’d left Adrianne’s. He was conscious of the feeling of Carina’s slender hand in his, and his heart rate picked up.
Then he became aware that Carina wasn’t looking at the sunrise; she was looking at him, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips.
“What is it, Flirt?” he asked. “I can tell you’re up to no good.”
“No good at all.” Her eyes were dancing. “I was just thinking I should kiss you.”
It shouldn’t have surprised him that she’d be that forward, flirt that she was, but it did. He chuckled, hoping he didn’t look as bashful as he felt. “Why would you want to do a thing like that?”
“Because this is a perfect moment, and it would be a shame to waste it.”
She stepped closer to him and tilted her head up toward him. He wrapped his arms around her slender shoulders and gazed for just a moment into those laughing green eyes before he closed his own and bent his lips to hers.
There was no future and no past in the kiss, just a perfect present. Her lips were as soft and sweet as the rest of her. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach him, and he was achingly aware of the way her slim body stretched and pressed against his. A lazy breeze picked up off the lake, and a tendril of her curly brown hair tickled his cheek.
Maybe he should have asked her out in early June when she’d first walked into the restaurant. Maybe he should have just enjoyed being with her for the summer, even if they had no future beyond that.
Maybe …
But it didn’t matter. The kiss they shared now was a tiny slice of perfection, and it would have been greedy to wish for anything more.
The sun was higher over the horizon when he finally finished walking her home. He dropped her at the door of her apartment, making sure she was able to open the security door.
Propping the door open behind her with one foot, she turned to look at him. For a moment, he thought maybe she was going to ask him in, and he decided that if she did, he wouldn’t sa y no. But then she gave him that familiar, cheeky grin, and the spell was broken.
“Thank you for walking me home. I had a good time.”
He smiled back at her, both sorry and not sorry that this was goodbye. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Thank you for … a wonderful memory for my last day here.”
He leaned in once more to press his lips against hers, savoring the feeling, promising himself he’d remember. Then, with a squeeze of her hand, and one last smile, he turned and walked away toward his future.
1
Carina
“Carina, are you even listening?” Brianna’s voice is amused.
I tear my eyes away from the handsome man on the far side of the garden who’s serving drinks to the wedding shower guests.
“Oh. Yes?”
My sister gives the man with the drinks a pointed look then rolls her eyes toward the clear blue California sky. “I was just saying that cake is beautiful. I can’t believe how talented you are.”
My face flushes, both with embarrassment at being caught staring and with pleasure. Bree isn’t the type to say anything she doesn’t mean, so when she gives you a compliment, you know it’s sincere.
“Thanks, Bree. I am rather proud of it.”
The cake is the centerpiece of a table laid with finger foods, delicate little plates, cloth napkins, and exquisite floral arrangements. I would actually have preferred to put my cooking time into the savory little hors-d’oeuvres, which would have been more of a challenge, but my mother insisted that I handle the cake.
“It’s more eye-catching, more fun,” she’d said.
It’s chocolate pound cake, which Lindsay loves, and I’ve decorated it in the pale green and violet that she’s chosen for her wedding colors. It looks like two gift boxes stacked on one another, elaborate fondant ribbons and all. I am proud of it, truly.
But having tried one of the miniature quiches and a couple of vol au vents that were picked up from a bakery this morning, my mind has been wandering to ways that they could be improved. The quiche could have used a sharper cheese, for instance, and the vol au vents were uninspired. I recently came across a recipe for braised fennel with orange peel that I think could translate beautifully to puff pastry …
But my role here is to be eye-catching and fun, not experimental, creative, or gastronomically daring.
Beside me, Bree bites into a tiny quiche Lorraine barely bigger than a quarter and frowns studiously. “These are okay, but I bet you could do better.”
I open my mouth to tell her about the braised fennel, but just then a man in a black suit with a black bowtie walks up to us with a tray laden with mimosas, which he offers us with a slight bow and a cheeky grin. He has red hair and a beard and a nose that looks like it might have been broken once. He’s not as conventionally handsome as the other servers, but he makes up for it with an excess of charm and a beguiling Irish accent.
“Would you lovely ladies care for a drink?”
Bree and I each take a glass, murmuring our thanks. He gives us a wink and turns away toward another group of women.
“Hubba hubba.” Bree directs an appreciative look at his retreating back then flicks a glance in the direction of the man I was looking at a moment ago. “Your Gentlemen seem to be working out,” she observes with a subtle smile.
My cheeks, which had started to cool down, heat up again. I have been staring, it’s true, but it’s not for the reason Bree thinks.
Well, mostly not for the reason she thinks.
The five Gentlemen Mom and I hired for the shower are making the rounds with their trays of mimosas and hors-d’oeuvres and bottles of champagne, treating each guest with a kind of smoldering deference that has them all, from Lindsay’s fourteen-year-old junior bridesmaid to her ninety-year-old grandmother, blushing and smiling.
In addition to Liam, the Irish redhead, there’s Marcus, who has a polished, preppy persona; Sanjit, who looks like he’s just walked out of a Bollywood movie; and Aaron, who reminds me of a young Denzel Washington.
And Drew …
Half-consciously, I search the garden and my gaze lands on Drew again.
I’m no stranger to good-looking men. Los Angeles is full of them, and I’ve dated more than my share. Still, there’s something about Drew that keeps drawing my gaze back to him like a magnet. He’s polite and deferential, but he doesn’t flirt the way Liam does or crack jokes like Aaron. He has an intensity, a seriousness to him, that sets him apart from the other four Gentlemen.
He’s tall, probably around six two or six three, and has wavy dark brown hair and deep, melty brown eyes. He’s clean shaven, showing off a healthy tan, a cleft chin, and a pleasant smile. All the Gentlemen wear black suits with white shirts and bowties; Drew’s broad shoulders fill out his jacket nicely, and his easy movements suggest someone who is used to physical activity.
But it’s his eyes that make me think I know him … And it’s driving me crazy because I can’t think how.
I force my thoughts back to Bree. “Mom and I thought it would be fun. Sex appeal without sleaze.”
“I’m surprised Mom went along with it,” Bree continues, interrupting my thoughts, “after the whole thing with Annabelle.”
Our youngest sister is how we found out about Gentlemen, Inc., a company that hires out attractive men for everything from public relations stunts to private parties. Annabelle’s boyfriend is an ex-Gentlemen, someone she’d hired to pose as her date for a different party. There was some drama, but now they’re happy as clams.
Clams in love.
“Oh, she’ll get over it,” I murmur. My parents still aren’t convinced Archer’s a good match for Annabelle. I wasn’t either, but the more I see how well he treats Annabelle, the more I like him.
I look at Annabelle, who is deep in conversation with Lindsay’s mother, no doubt talking earnestly about her research into sound waves, and I feel a rare twist of envy. It’s not because I’m jealous of Annabelle; I want her to be happy, and if Archer’s the one, they’ll have my support, 100%.
It’s more because Annabelle has found something real in her life. She loves the research she’s doing as a Ph.D. student at UCLA, and now she has Archer as well.
Even Bree, who has no use for men at all as far as I can tell, has found meaning in her job. She’s the chief operating officer for a start-up that’s fighting climate change with new technologies, something that could make a real difference in people’s lives.
And what am I contributing to the world?
I give the cake a hard stare.
Bree, on the other hand, looks at her watch. “I should go catch up with Marnie Jamison. She just got a new job with the company that handles BelleWeather’s payroll, and I want to see how it’s going.”
Classic Bree: finding a way to network at a wedding shower.
“I should mingle more, too. I’ll catch up with you later,” I reply.
Bree dusts some invisible quiche crumbs off her fingers and strides off.
I abandon my barely sipped mimosa on a nearby table and cast my gaze around my mother’s garden, in which the roses, gardenias and other early summer blossoms vie for attention with women in expensive pastel dresses who’ve come for the shower. Lindsay, the guest of honor, is soaking up the attention of friends and relatives, showing off her ring and happily answering questions about the wedding and about Martin, her fiancé.
It takes me a moment before I spot Drew again. He’s put his tray down on a small table so he can help Lindsay’s grandmother into a lawn chair. Nana pats Drew on the cheek and says something to him as he hovers solicitously over her. Whatever he says back makes her laugh.
