Blow Read online

  Practically mesmerized, I watched her carefree style. She wasn’t like most women. Or most of the women I came in contract with—the ones from the New York City upper echelon who prided themselves on packed social calendars and their looks. She seemed tough. Able to take care of herself. She seemed to be a fighter, like me. “First of all, I only thought you were married. You’re the one putting the word old with married,” I playfully countered.

  She pulled her lip between her teeth in contemplation. “You might be right,” she conceded.

  Our eyes locked and I had to lick my lips as she chewed on hers again.

  “What did you say?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  My grin couldn’t be erased even if I tried.

  “I turned thirty last December,” she blurted out.

  “An older woman.” I winked.

  She started walking.

  When I took my place beside her, she glanced over at me and nonchalantly joked, “Just call me Mrs. Robinson.”

  My cock twitched at the thought of her seducing me—the game of a young college boy and an older experienced woman definitely had my attention. And although I’d already let my intentions for the evening be known, hers weren’t clear and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make sure she was on board with the fact that we were going to fuck. So I raised a brow and told her, “I’d love to.”

  Headlights lit up the alleyway and a car started to slow. My guard instantly went back up. My body tensed and my stance changed. The car passed and someone got out. My eyes focused, my hands ready for action, I watched as an older Chinese woman pounded on the back door of a nail salon. False alarm. Still, the moment between us was broken. Awareness took over where I had allowed playfulness to wrongly occupy my mind.

  With my hands shoved in my pockets, I put my head down.

  What was I doing?

  Once the car passed, I looked at her. She hadn’t noticed the car or my reaction. She was still lost in our Mrs. Robinson conversation and her response caught me off guard.

  She was blushing.

  I hadn’t been expecting that.

  And right then, I knew I was in trouble.

  ELLE

  I glanced up at the sign above the restaurant—The Hornet’s Nest.

  How appropriate. I shouldn’t have agreed to have dinner with Logan. After all, he was the son of the man Michael had just told me to stay away from.

  Yet I couldn’t fight the sexual tension between Logan and me. I’d never felt anything like it. And I wanted to give in.

  But I knew better. Life had taught me that lesson long ago.

  Don’t get too close or you will get burned.

  The restaurant was tucked away down an alley just around the corner from Molly’s. It was out of the way and off the beaten path. I was thankful. There would be little chance of running into anyone who knew Michael. I hadn’t decided what I’d tell him, if anything.

  Logan pulled open the door and as I walked past him, I could feel my cheeks still blazing. I had no idea what my schoolgirl reaction was all about, but it had to come to an immediate end. I intended to put my mind to it. But that wasn’t what happened. Instead, I stumbled to a stop when his hand grazed my back.

  Thank God he was reading a list of tonight’s specials and hadn’t noticed. With nonchalance, he stood beside me. Luckily, I quickly regained my composure as I observed the restaurant. Polished wood paneling and brass fixtures made the place appear slightly less bar-like. Whereas Molly’s pub side looked like a hole-in-the-wall brewery, this place looked like an authentic American-style Irish pub.

  “Shall we?” Logan motioned toward a booth in the back corner. He stripped off his jacket as I slipped out of my raincoat, and he tossed them both on the red leather bench. My gaze lingered over him and my pulse raced as we sat across from each other. The leather seat might have been worn, but I melted into it without a problem.

  My nerves had my palms seeking the cool, smooth surface of the table separating us. My focus flicked away from Logan and landed on the menus that sat against the wall. Logan’s gaze followed mine and he handed me one before I could reach for it. “It’s nothing fancy but they have the best burgers around, if you like burgers.”

  I opened my menu. “Cheeseburgers happen to be one of my favorite foods.”

  He looked pleased.

  Just as I started perusing the menu, the waitress approached. “What can I get you to drink?”

  Still feeling the effects of the shot, I decided against alcohol. “A Coke, please.”

  “The same,” Logan said. “And I think we’ll both have the special cheeseburger and fry basket.”

  The waitress looked at me. “How’d you like your meat cooked?”

  “Medium.”

  She looked at Logan. “The same,” he answered.

  She walked away and I glanced at him. “You’re at an Irish pub and you don’t order beer with your burger?”

  Amused, his chin was down but his eyes lifted to mine. “No.”

  “Isn’t that part of the whole Irish experience?”

  “You know, I never thought of it that way, but I guess a Guinness does typically accompany a burger in a joint like this.”

  I dropped the subject. He didn’t drink. It was obvious—he hadn’t touched that second shot of Jameson’s at Molly’s. And I had a feeling there was more to it than he wanted to let on.

  My thoughts started to wander.

  He was a lot like Charlie.

  Practical in his thinking.

  Short and to the point.

  Serious but also funny.

  Charming.

  However, there was that one difference: looking at him made me breathless. This strange sexual chemistry that existed between us hadn’t been there with Charlie and me.

  Aside from Michael’s warning, Logan was just what I needed to help cure the restlessness I had been feeling lately.

  Yes, I was in trouble.

  “Here you go.” The waitress delivered our Cokes and I picked up my straw to help disguise the yearning I thought must be obvious.

  “So tell me about yourself, Mrs. Robinson,” he asked. Logan knew what he was doing. How to set the tone and make the moment intimate.

  I opened my straw and playfully blew my wrapper at him. “That’s enough of the Mrs. Robinson business.”

  The comfort level between us was as high as the sexual tension. I’d never sat like this with a man I was attracted to and felt so at ease. Not even with Charlie. I almost felt like I was sixteen and out on my first date. Nervous in a way, but excited.

  Growing up, I hadn’t been allowed to date, not that I ever would have wanted to anyway. No, my childhood memories wiped any dreams of knights in shining armor and Prince Charmings right off the table. I always looked at it like this—you either became someone like your parents or stayed as far away from being anything like them as you could. My sister became the former. I became the latter.

  Logan’s fingers crunched the wrapper and he flashed me a flirty grin. “Let me try that again. Okay, Elle, how about you tell me about yourself?”

  I fought past my emotional reaction to the question and turned the question around. “How about you tell me about yourself first, Logan.”

  He reached his arms out. “I’m an open book.”

  With my mouth barely around my straw, I mumbled, “For some reason, I doubt that.”

  Just like me, he was able to compose himself in a moment’s notice. It was obvious; we were both good at hiding things. Which was exactly what he did.

  Smirking, he said, “Fine, don’t believe me. Ask me anything.”

  First-date questions should be easy. Like, what’s your favorite color? What do you like to read? But I wasn’t one for pretense. Small talk wasn’t my thing. I had questions I wanted to know the answers to. And besides, we both knew this was no first date. I put my elbows on the table and tucked my hands under my chin. “Okay. Why are you driving your father around?”


  Quite abruptly, he turned his head toward the door before turning back to meet my gaze and whispered, “His driver’s license was revoked. One too many DUIs.”

  Plausible. Still, I contemplated his answer. “Then why didn’t you drive him home after you left Michael’s?”

  Elbows on the table, he leaned forward. “Because he’s a fucking hothead and he pissed me off, so I left his ass.”

  I tried not to laugh. I was certain the situation wasn’t funny. Instead, I moved my head closer to him. “Sounds like you are too.”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes I am, but I try not to be.”

  I liked that he didn’t have a filter—it made him seem more honest.

  On to question two of I didn’t know how many. I had way too many questions for the man who was somehow connected to my sister and Michael. “Why are you staying at the Four Seasons if you live in Boston?”

  Logan picked up his glass and sipped from it. “I don’t live in Boston. I live in New York City. I’ve been coming here to help my father out with his practice for the last six months, but his house in Dorchester Heights is a shit hole.” When he finished speaking, any amusement he once had in his hazel eyes was gone. Seriousness had replaced it all. “Anything else?”

  Yes, I had a million other questions. I wanted to know who he was and what he did. What he knew about Michael’s situation. Deep down, I really hoped Logan wasn’t involved in what my sister had gotten herself into, but it seemed after what happened earlier, he had to be. My laundry list of questions would have to wait. I could see in his eyes that my time was running out. I leaned back in the booth. “I do have one more question.”

  Eyeing me wearily, he heaved a sigh. “Go ahead.” But then he threw me a smile to let me know he wasn’t completely annoyed—yet.

  My stomach did a flip and I think he knew it. I knew I should watch my body language. I might be giving off a vibe I could never live up to. Sucking in a breath, I asked my final question. “What is it you do to help your dad out?”

  My mind was coming up with all kinds of things that should have worried me.

  A hit man.

  A drug runner.

  A bookie.

  “I’m a lawyer,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Okay, I so wasn’t expecting that. I eyed him skeptically. He wasn’t dressed like Michael or even his father. Sure he had the white shirt, but that was where the similarity stopped. His white shirt molded to his toned chest like perfection, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, top two buttons undone. He wore distressed jeans that looked almost lethal on him. Add black suede sneakers and a casual black coat. Hot. Casual. Mouthwatering. Yep, other than the white shirt, he was not dressed like an attorney at all, or at least any attorney I knew.

  He chuckled, and then as if reading my mind, he reassured me. “I am. I wasn’t seeing clients today. But trust me, I graduated from law school two years ago and currently work for the Ryan Corporation in New York City.”

  Shocked, it took me a moment for his words to sink in. “The Ryan Corporation? Like in the largest international hedge fund management company in the country?”

  He smiled. “That’s the one.”

  So did I. “I’m impressed.”

  Nonchalantly, he lifted his gaze to mine. “Don’t be. My grandfather owns the company and my position in the legal department was created solely for me. Associate counsel, Litigation and Employment. It’s a bullshit job.”

  I was sipping my soda and almost spit it out of my mouth. “Your grandfather is . . .” I paused as it clicked.

  “Logan Ryan,” we said in unison.

  Logan. I got it.

  “You know him?” he asked, seemingly surprised.

  Wrenching my eyes from his, I said, “Well, not personally, but when I worked for the International Trade Center, he was our biggest client.”

  Logan nodded in recognition. “Ah yes, he has a penchant for collecting exotic things.”

  “So what are you doing in Boston helping your dad if you have a job in New York?”

  Logan’s body stiffened, but he answered anyway. “When my father was arrested, I told him if he got back on the wagon, I’d come up here every Thursday and Friday and help salvage what was left of his practice. Like I said, my job at the Ryan Corporation is a joke, and to be honest, I much prefer working with my father’s clients. They’re people who need help.”

  Surprised by his candor, I asked, “Then why don’t you work in Boston full-time?”

  He shrugged. “That is a long story.”

  Well, either way, it sounded like he made an honest living. Yet something in the back of my mind still nagged me. I wondered what part of the mess my sister had created his father was a part of and, in turn, what involvement, if any, Logan had. But I wasn’t about to just ask. The situation was way too delicate. And I was smarter than that. As I sat across from him, though, I had to question—was I? I wouldn’t be here if I were.

  “I don’t understand. Why not just—” I started to ask, but he cut me off.

  His expression hardened. “I think that’s enough about me.”

  I felt myself flushing. I may have gotten a little carried away.

  Expectedly, and within moments of shutting me down, he said, “Your turn.”

  Mentally switching gears, I tried to think about what I could tell him. I never talked about myself. I hated it, so instead I lied. “Honestly, there’s not much to tell. What you see is what you get.”

  He eyed me dubiously. My lie was just that—a lie.

  I wasn’t surprised that he doubted what I’d said. I would have too.

  The truth was, I often wondered if the word damaged wasn’t inked across my forehead for any man who might be even mildly interested in me to see, because they always seemed to know something was off.

  Could Logan tell I wasn’t whole?

  Much to my relief, he smirked and then nudged me under the table. “You’re not playing fair. I just spilled my life story and you’re giving me one of the oldest lines in the book? Come on.”

  He hadn’t spilled his life story, but he did tell me more than he had to. I’d give him that.

  “Here you go.” The waitress set two red plastic baskets down, each containing a huge burger and way too many fries. “Anything else?” she asked.

  Logan glanced over at me just as my gaze darted to the ketchup. “I’m good.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  “Enjoy. If you need anything else, let me know.” She slipped the check on the table and left us to our meal.

  Logan was handing me the ketchup before I had a chance to reach for it.

  I raised a curious brow.

  Was he reading my mind?

  He shrugged. “I saw you eyeing it.”

  With a quick twist, I removed the sticky white lid. “Can’t have fries without it.”

  Logan seemed amused as I pounded the bottom of the ketchup bottle, failing miserably to make a pile in the middle of my fries. Nothing was coming out.

  “Here, let me show you.” Instantly, his hand was across the table and I willingly relinquished the bottle to him. When he took it, he held the glass at the neck and tipped it in such a way that the thick red liquid poured out easily.

  “How?” I harrumphed.

  His hazel eyes lifted seductively. “The secret is knowing where the sweet spot is.”

  My stomach did a full belly flop.

  Oh. My. God.

  Feeling heated, I knew a slight blush was coloring my cheeks. I sucked in a breath and willed all these strange feelings to go away. When I felt at ease again, I finally met his eyes. “Good to know.” I tried to act as if I was unaffected by his sexual innuendoes, but I knew I was failing miserably.

  “More?”

  My eyes widened.

  “Ketchup.” He grinned.

  Yeah, he knew what he did to me. I lifted the bun on my burger. “Of course,” I said as cavalierly as I could.

  With that insanely hot smirk on his face, he pour
ed some on top of the cheese before he pulled back.

  I busied myself by cutting my burger in half and settling my napkin on my lap, but I couldn’t escape my turn for long. I was certain of that. With each passing moment, I could feel his focus on me. I took my first bite. “Mmmm,” I moaned out loud, unintentionally.

  Logan sucked in a breath.

  I couldn’t look at him.

  “You like it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered once I’d swallowed.

  Nervous flutters, more like tremors, had taken up permanent residence in my belly. And when he reached across the table and dragged his finger slowly up my chin to my lips, I nearly jumped. My entire body felt alive and I swear I could feel my skin sear at his touch. He pulled his finger away, and I saw it had ketchup on it. I’d never even felt it dripping from my mouth. I licked my lips where his finger had just been. Again, he gave me a knowing smile, and then when he knew I was watching, he inserted his finger in his mouth and sucked it clean.

  My pulse raced at the sight.

  I felt like a horny teenager, and I’d never been a horny teenager.

  My heart pounded in my chest and I decided talking was going to be way easier than whatever this was. “I grew up in the military. My father was a brigadier general.”

  I must have surprised him, because he paused mid-bite. “You’re a military brat?”

  My huff of laughter was dry. “Anything but.”

  That familiar smirk was back and I was beginning to think he only used it when he didn’t believe me. But he didn’t ask me anything else about that. Instead he asked, “Where was your father stationed?”

  I dipped a fry in my ketchup. “Everywhere. My sister and I were born in California. That was my father’s home base, but he preferred international posts, and always volunteered to step in when a temporary base commander was needed. I grew up a little bit everywhere—in Germany, France, England, Italy, and Singapore. There were a few other countries, but we weren’t there long enough to say we lived there.”

  Compassion filled his eyes. “Fuck. You moved around a lot. It must have been hard for you with the constant changing of schools and always having to make new friends. I know I used to hate just being shuffled back and forth between New York and Boston.”