The Manhattan and the three glasses of wine that followed are enough for Juliet.
I hold up a hand. “We’re fine, Nara.”
“Yes. We. Are. Fine,” Juliet says with a flare of her eyes as she stares across the table at me.
Scrubbing the article and taking her to my bed is tempting, but that would complicate my life in a way I don’t need right now.
I grip the edge of the table with both hands. “Tell Alcott to arrange for Drew to take Juliet home.”
Nara mutters something in agreement before she walks away.
Juliet sighs. “The night has come to an end.”
“It has.” I push to stand before I round the table and place a hand on the back of her chair.
She looks up at me.
I stare into her eyes before my gaze drops. From this angle, the soft swell of the top of her breasts is visible.
“Dinner was nice,” she whispers. “I’ll see you on Monday, Mr. Bane.”
I step back to give her room to stand. She does just that, finding her balance quickly before shifting to the right in her heels.
“Thank you again for this opportunity.” Her eyes find mine. “I think it’s going to change my life in a very big way.”
It will. I have to wonder how much it’s going to change mine.
Chapter Twenty
Juliet
“Did you go on a bender last night?” My friend, Sinclair Morgan, asks as she slices a strawberry. “You could have skipped brunch for bed, Juliet.”
Sinclair lives in the same building as I do.
When Margot and I moved in, Sinclair stopped by with a big basket of chocolate chip muffins. It didn’t take us more than five minutes to realize that we both make our living as writers.
Sinclair does contract work as a ghostwriter. Her brother, Berk, owns a publishing company and has hired her to work on a few projects. Naturally, she hasn’t been able to tell me what memoirs she’s written, but it’s made for a lot of fun every time I try and guess.
I tug on the waistband of the blue sweatpants I’m wearing. “I had a Manhattan and three glasses of wine.”
Sinclair’s head turns so abruptly that it sends her brown hair whipping over her shoulder. “Way to pound them back.”
I rest a hand against my forehead. “I have such a bad headache.”
“You have a killer hangover,” she says as she breaks eggs into a glass bowl. “I knew it. I put a little something in your coffee that’ll help.”
I reach forward to scoop the ceramic mug from the coffee table. I give the contents a sniff, but all that greets me is the soothing scent of dark roasted beans. “It’s not a shot of something, is it? The last thing I need is more alcohol.”
“It’s a teaspoon of brown sugar,” she confesses. “My grandpa used to tell my brothers to drink that when they had too much beer.”
I take a small sip. I never put sugar in my coffee, but I may need to start. The sugar adds just the right note of sweetness.
Sinclair busies herself scrambling the eggs in a pan. “Were you on a date last night?”
One of the things we can talk about is the men in our lives. Currently, it’s the lack of men in our lives. We’re both casually dating and made a pact to never set each other up with anyone.
Bad set-ups can ruin friendships, and although I wouldn’t consider our friendship close, it’s fun, and having someone my age to hang out with has been a plus.
Shaking my head, I take another sip of the coffee. “It was work.”
“Who were you trying to get a scoop on?” She chuckles. “The owner of a bar?”
Despite my best effort to avoid moving too much, my head falls back in laughter. “No.”
“I know you can’t tell me, but nod if you got drunk with a man.”
I nod.
“A good-looking, single man?”
I nod twice.
She glances down at the pan in front of her. “Was flirting involved?”
I wince. “I think I called him hot. It slipped out.”
She points at me with a spatula in her hand. “What did he say when you called him hot?”
I look into the coffee cup. “Nothing. He skipped right on by that.”
“Arrogant asshole,” she spits out.
I laugh. “You have no idea, Sin.”
She puts the eggs on two plates next to the strawberries and whole grain toast. “I will once the article pops up on RumorMel. I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
I wish I could tell her everything. I wanted to tell Margot too, but I can’t. I’m legally bound to keep my mouth shut.
When the article is published in New York Viewpoint, I’ll finally be able to bask in the glory of securing an interview with one of the most notorious men in the country.
“Let’s eat,” she approaches me with a plate in each hand. “Do you want to watch our favorite Duke?”