What If I Never (Necklace Trilogy 1)

He studies me for several long beats and then asks, “And what, Allison, is your impression of me?”

That charge is in the air between us again and my mouth goes dry. I could say so many things, but I don’t. I say, “You smell good, and I feel that’s a trick question, so that’s all I’m saying.”

“I smell good,” he says, his eyes lighting with a boyish mischief I find quite charming.

“Yes.” I dare to admit. “You do.”

“So do you, Allison,” he replies, and I swear my name comes out a raspy suggestion. “Do you want to know my first impression of you?” he asks.

That question jolts me, and I hold up my hands. “Please, no.” I turn and start walking.

He laughs and falls into step with me again. “Chicken.”

“Oh yes,” I agree as we reach the front doors of the building.

He laughs, this low, sexy laugh that I feel in my sex, as silly as that probably sounds. That’s how affected I am by this man, which is crazy. I’ve been around powerful, rich, sexy men often. They don’t affect me like this one. He’s different. I’m different around him. We reach the automatic door and I go in first with him following, aware of him behind me—nervous about our goodbye which is about to follow.

Once we’re outside, the cold washes over me, the reminder that I left my coat in the car oh so clear. I shiver and hug myself. Dash is right there almost immediately, handing off his ticket to the bellman. “Do you have a coat?” he asks. “We can give them our tickets and go back inside to wait.”

“No ticket,” I say. “I parked down the road and stupidly left my coat in the car to avoid struggling with it.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he offers.

“Not necessary,” I say quickly. “Thank you, though. I’ll be fine. I made sure I was under a streetlight, and this area is highly populated.”

“I’m walking you,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket. “I’m wearing long sleeves. You can wear this.”

Before I can object, he’s in front of me, sliding his jacket around me and pulling it closed, his wickedly wonderful scent all around me now. “Thank you,” I say, softly.

“No thanks needed,” he assures me. “Let’s walk.”

“What about your car?” I worry.

“I tipped well enough when I arrived that they won’t mind waiting on me. Which way?”

I motion to the left and then hold onto the jacket, and there’s no question now. Dash Black is walking me to my car and I’m wearing his jacket. I can’t help but feel a little thrill in the moment.

CHAPTER NINE

My car is parked on the east side of the museum where I’ve been working, and not far from the craziness of the strip of bars and restaurants off Broadway. As Dash and I begin the walk, we pass a bus playing loud country music and filled with drunk people dancing and acting stupid.

“Ever been on one of those?” he asks.

“Oh gosh yes,” I admit. “I grew up here. I was happily stupid, drunk, and dancing many a time.”

He laughs. “Would you do it now?”

“You’d have to get me drunk first,” I promise him. “What about you?”

“I’ve never been on one, nor do I want to be on one.”

“Well, at least they’re not drinking and driving,” I say. “There’s always that.”

“Yes,” he says, sobering on the reply, his gaze shifting forward, and there’s a distinctly sharper quality to his mood.

We stop at the intersection and I turn to him. “Did I just say something wrong?”

“Not at all,” he says, but the light changes, and he motions me forward, offering nothing more.

I’m suddenly awkward with him for the first time ever, but fortunately, I don’t have to wallow in the weirdness. As soon as we cross the walkway, he seems to soften again in a palpable way before he asks, “Are you still in publishing?”

“No. I left a little over a year ago.” A thought hits me and it’s not a good one. I stop dead in my track and rotate to face him. We’re in front of the museum now, a bench right beside us. Another party bus goes by, but I tune it out. “I’m not here for your publisher or any publisher. I work for Riptide Auction House now. I hope you don’t think I have an agenda. I didn’t know who you were. I wasn’t here for you.”

“I didn’t think that, Allison,” he assures me and steps closer, towering over me, the stretch of his sweater over his chest fairly magnificent. “Why’d you leave publishing?” he asks. “You seem to love books. An auction house doesn’t exactly resemble publishing.”

“Books and treasures, one and the same.”

“Are they?”

“More than you might think. And as for how it happened, I was in a weird place when I walked into a coffee shop at the same time as the founder of Riptide. We hit it off, and she offered me a job. I took it rather spontaneously, which really isn’t me. I’m not spontaneous.”