InHap*pily Ever After (Incidental Happenstance) (45 page)

“I
understand completely,” she agreed. “I’ve been working on my MBA, spending my
time in different departments within the company, trying to get a handle on the
whole picture…it doesn’t leave much time for a social life, that’s for sure.”

“So
what is your position in the company, actually?” he asked.

“I’m
kind of a jack-of-all-trades right now,” she laughed. “Daddy believes that when
I take over the company, I need to know the ins and outs of all the different
departments and how they work together—and I agree with him. It’s been a real
eye-opening couple of years, and I’ve really gotten to know how everything
connects. I’ve got a lot of ideas for improvements once I take the helm, and
it’s really exciting, you know? Of course, I’ve got a few more years before I
get handed the reins, but I’m going to be ready to take Truitt Industries into
the next century, that’s for sure. Daddy’s still kind of old school in the ways
he manages some things, so I’m really looking forward it.”

Shit,
Ryan thought, this really could be a good business venture. She was being
prepped to take over the entire company, and he could already see a wide
variety of ways they could help each other.

“I
can imagine,” he agreed, noticing that he’d downed his gin and tonic and was
holding up his glass toward the waitress to indicate a refill. “But the
important thing is; do you like what you do?”

“Oh,
I love it!” she gushed, an excited flush coming up and coloring her cheeks. “I
especially like being a woman in power, and showing the men how it’s done
sometimes.” She smiled coyly. “Although I’m sure you don’t know anything about
that.”

“Don’t
be so sure,” he said. “I was kind of the little guy when I came into the firm,”
he admitted, accepting another drink and taking a sip before continuing. “I
didn’t come from money or family influence, and I worked my way up against more
than a few odds…I think I know what you mean—aside from the ‘being a woman’
part of it, anyway.”

“Ooh,
a self-made man—the intrigue grows,” she said, scooting close enough to him
that their legs were touching. “Where’d you go to school?”

“UCLA,”
he said proudly. “Graduated second in my class.”

“And
yet you’re in Chicago,” she said. “California didn’t agree with you?”

“Oh,
it agreed with me just fine,” he said, noticing that her hand was suddenly
resting on his thigh. “But I was born and raised here, and my family’s all
here, so I decided to come back.”

“Very
noble,” she said, taking a sip of her chardonnay. He took a generous pull of
his own drink, and realized that he had a very pleasant buzz going already.
He’d completely depleted his body during their workout, and realized that he’d
never eaten dinner. The alcohol was going to his head rather quickly, and he found
himself covering her hand with his own, almost unconsciously.

By
the time he finished his third gin and tonic, he was feeling downright sloshed.
Tiffany noticed, and said, “What, I can drink you under the table, too?”

“I
didn’t have any dinner,” he said by way of excuse, “and you did kind of kick my
ass tonight at the gym.”

“I
think you need some coffee before you head home,” she whispered in his ear. “I
know a little place close by. Walking distance, in fact.”

“Lead
the way,” he said, very conscious of the fact that he was in no condition to
get behind the wheel. A little walk might clear his head, and he could
definitely use some coffee. It was only Tuesday night, and he had a pretty full
schedule tomorrow. He looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly ten. It
was going to be a long rest of the week, he figured.

Tiffany
took his hand as they walked, and he wrapped her fingers in his; for support,
he told himself, as he was a bit wobbly on his feet. When she stopped in front
of a large brownstone building and started digging in her purse, his heart
skipped a beat. He’d let her lead the way and hadn’t paid much attention to
where they were walking, but they’d apparently reached their destination, and
there wasn’t a coffee shop in sight.

“Home
sweet home,” she said on a breath as light as air, leading him up the stairs to
the front door. He followed her up, ignoring the warning bells going off in his
very foggy brain. She turned a key in the lock, and led him up another set of
stairs to her top level apartment. “I have some great organic Columbian that
should do the trick,” she said as she swung the door open.

But
the moment they entered the apartment, she stopped, and stared at him with
drooped lids. “I’ll just get the coffee started,” she breathed, but then she
took a step forward, taking the initiative and pinning him back against the
wall, pressing herself against him and stepping up on her tiptoes; rubbing
demandingly over his groin. Her mouth found his, and he kissed her back, all
his anxiety and anger pushing its way through his tongue and into her mouth,
his hands running roughly up her sides, stopping to caress her small but perky
breasts through the thin fabric of her sweater. Goddamn, she wasn’t wearing a
bra, and he felt her nipples tighten immediately under his fingers, and
couldn’t resist giving them a bit of a tweaking and a rough pinch between his
thumb and forefinger. He watched her eyes roll back and her lips purse in the
most alluring of ways, and he couldn’t help but do it again, just to see her
reaction.

“Oh!”
she exclaimed, her hand skimming down to cup him between his legs, squeezing
gently at the raging hard-on that had amassed there. Before his foggy brain
could even assess the situation, she pulled her sweater over her head and granted
him full access to the decadent breasts that lie beneath. He reached around and
cupped one hand around her tight ass, crushing her hips against him, and caught
one swollen breast with the other, tweaking the nipple again with his thumb
before bending down to take it in his mouth, reveling in the breathless gasp he
heard against his ear as he gently nipped with the edges of his teeth.

She
pulled down the zipper of his jeans and shoved her hand into his shorts,
grasping him tightly and tugging him by his member toward the bedroom. 
I
shouldn’t be here
. That one fleeting thought crossed over his brain and
slid away even as he tossed his shirt to the floor in her hallway. It was like
he was watching the whole scene unfold, rather than being part of it, and as
much as his mind tried to make sense of it all, his brain was at least three
steps behind the instinctive reactions of his body.

They
fell onto her bed and his body stretched across hers, her breasts pressed
against him and her breath raged in his ear. The alcohol and the anger coursing
through him drove him on, and he fumbled with the button on her pants, dragging
them down her legs, and then shedding his own. She drove him on with her breath
and her words, urging him to “fuck me now!” and he obliged her, driving deep
and fast, fascinated by the newness of it all, the urgency of it all, and as he
thrust into her over and over he thought,
Fuck Dylan Miller! Fuck the bitch
who doesn’t take my calls! Fuck the partnership! Fuck everything!
And he
pounded on her, frenzied by her gasps of pleasure and the pressure building in
his groin, and he drove harder, driven by a crazed need, until he literally
exploded, crying out with her on their shared climax and then falling onto her,
breathless and utterly drained.

For
a minute he just laid there, his brain recuperating and trying to make sense of
what just happened. Then the guilt hit him like a brick wall and he was
immediately speechless; afraid to move and afraid not to. Tiffany finally
whispered, “You keep up just fine, Ryan—I’ll go and get that coffee started
now,” as if he’d just held a door for her or passed her the salt in a
restaurant. He stumbled into her bathroom and hung his head over the sink,
unable to look at his image in the mirror. He’d seriously screwed up his life
in just a few short drunken minutes, and he knew he could never go back. As he
splashed cold water over his flaming face, one thought echoed over and over in
his mind—oh fuck me,
fuck me
. 

            Tia glanced up
and smiled as Dylan walked into the kitchen and then stopped; her hand
suspended over the platter of cheese and fruit she was artfully arranging.
“That’s not even funny,” she said, stifling a giggle.

            “Didn’t you
say that you’d love me no matter what kind of hair I had?” he teased, rolling
the little tail of the mullet around his index finger and giving her a coy
smile.

            “I may have to
retract that statement,” she smirked, bumping off his pucker-faced advance with
her hip. “You can just go ahead and take it off now—none of us will be able to
focus on the wedding menu if you have that dead possum on your head.” The chef
they’d hired to accompany them to the island was coming over to prepare a
sampling of dishes for them to taste, and Lexi and Jessa were adding their
palates to the decision-making process.

            “You’ll be
able to concentrate just fine,” he said, “because I won’t be here to distract
you.”

            “You’re not
staying?” she pouted, sticking out her lower lip and dropping her eyelids.
“Don’t you want to taste all the gourmet goodies that Neil will be serving up?”

            “I trust you
ladies to make exactly the right choices.  I can assure you that on our wedding
night, the food on my plate is going to be the very last thing on my mind. We
could have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and I wouldn’t even notice. All
I’ll be able to think about will be taking you to bed for the first time as my
lawfully wedded wife.” He sidled over and pulled her to him, placing a soft and
lingering kiss on her lips.

            “Then why are
we bothering with all this?” she said, sliding her tongue along his lips.
“Let’s just go for the PB and J, ditch the mullet, and go practice that
scenario right now. Just give me five minutes to make the phone calls.” She ran
her hands down the soft fabric of his shirt and unzipped his jeans, sliding her
hand inside.

            “Mmm,” Dylan
moaned, cupping a hand behind her neck and deepening the kiss. “Talk about not
playing fair…I’m going to ask you to hold that thought for later on, most
definitely. But even though
I’m
not concerned about we’ll be eating, I
think our guests might be expecting a bit more than a school lunch on our
wedding night, and I intend to give it to them. Besides, I won’t be able to add
much anyway; we both know Jessa’s gonna get her bossy on and take over the
whole thing.”

            Tia snickered.
Jessa was doing an amazing job with all of the details, big and small, and they
were both incredibly grateful for her expertise. “You’re right about that,” she
agreed, “but I’ll still miss you. Where are you running off to?”

            “I,” Dylan
said, plucking a fat grape from one of the platters and popping it into his
mouth, “am going to poker night.” He stuck the grape in his upper lip and made
a face before chewing it enthusiastically and flashing her a crooked smile.

            Tia laughed
out loud. “Poker night—really? You’d rather sit around a musty basement eating
potato chips and jarred salsa and drinking beer than hanging out with us and
enjoying gourmet food and fine wine? I’m starting to wonder about you,
Miller.” 

            “The proper
term is crisps, my love, and they just happen to be one of nature’s perfect
foods. I promise I won’t go hungry, and I’m glad I can still keep you
guessing.” He kissed the top of her head and shrugged into his coat as the
buzzer sounded, announcing the arrival of the girls. “So then, you ladies have
a great time, and pick us a brilliant wedding feast, right?” He spoke to the
doorman through the intercom and hit the button for the elevator. “I’ll
probably be late, but I’m hoping you’ll wait up for me.”

            “Count on it,”
Tia said, blowing him a kiss. “Have fun. Enjoy your
crisps
.”

            “I plan to do
just that.” He grabbed a duffel bag off the sofa table and tucked the mullet
into it, then added a bottle of bourbon. The elevator door opened and Jessa and
Lexi stepped off, both carefully balancing a load of bags and boxes. Dylan
helped them get the packages arranged on the tables and kissed them both on the
cheeks. “Have a lovely time, girls,” he said, heading back to the elevator.

            “Where do you
think you’re going?” Jessa asked, hands on her hips.

            “I’m going to
take some boys to school in the fine game of Texas Hold ‘Em,” he grinned,
waving as the door slid shut.

            “Poker
night—really?” Jessa said, shaking her head.

            “That’s
exactly what I said,” Tia replied. “Guess we’re doing a girls’ night in.”

            “Fine by me,”
Lexi said, tossing her coat over the back of the couch and shaking some blood
back into her arms. “Fewer palates means fewer arguments. What time’s the chef
getting here? I’m starved.”

            “In about an
hour. I’ve got some snacks in the kitchen to hold us over until then.”

            “Then let’s
get this party started, shall we?” Jessa replied.

            The driver
pulled up to the Wrigleyville brownstone and raised his eyebrows as Dylan
reached into the duffel and pulled the mullet over his head. “Inside joke,” he
said, adding a pair of glasses and checking his reflection.

            Trent, one of
his regular Chicago drivers/security guards, just shook his head and smiled.
“Whatever floats your boat, man,” he said. “Want some help with that keg?”

            “If you could
just get it to the front porch for me, that’d be great,” Dylan answered, moving
to the back of the car and pulling a five gallon cylinder of Goose Island from
the boot.
May have gone a bit overboard with the snacks
, he thought, as
he slung a cloth bag over his arm and balanced a party tray the size of a truck
tire on his palms. He hadn’t been able decide what he wanted at the deli, so he
just asked for the works; and judging by the weight of the platter, he got just
what he asked for. The girls could have their canapés and petit fours; he’d be
more than happy with pastrami on rye and some greasy fried potatoes.

            Sean waved
through the window alongside the door, his face splitting in a grin when he saw
Dylan in the fake hair and glasses he’d been wearing the first night they met.
He pressed his lips together in a failed attempt to put on a straight face as
he opened the door a crack and said sarcastically, “Yes? Can I help you?”

            “Uh, I hear
there’s some illegal gambling going on here tonight,” Dylan whispered from the
corner of his mouth with his best Chicago accent. “I’ve got a few bucks in my
pocket…”

            “Bloody hell,”
Sean replied, poorly imitating Dylan’s own British lilt. “Sorry dude, but the
loser party’s across the street. Only cool cats allowed at this shindig. I’m
afraid I can’t let you in.”

            “Oh…well
that’s too bad,” Dylan grinned back. “I guess I’ll just take my five gallons of
Goose Island and my enormous tray of cold cuts and find another party then.”

            “Now hold on;
don’t be hasty…did you say five gallons of Goose? Where are my manners?” Sean
pushed the door open and motioned him in with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.
“Do bring your copious amounts of food and drink into the parlor straight away,
won’t you?”

            “Don’t mind if
I do.”            

            “About
freaking time you showed up for one of these, Miller,” Sean said, taking the
tray and giving Dylan a friendly pat on the back. “Glad you could finally make
it.”

            “Me too, mate.
I’ve been looking forward to taking your money all day.” He pulled off the wig
and tucked it back in his bag, shaking out his hair.

            “Oh thank
God
,”
Sean said with overzealous relief. “I was afraid that the hair was part of your
strategy. No way anyone could keep a poker face with you wearing that dead rat
on your head.”        

            “Ah, feck you,
Sean,” Dylan said smiling, trying to throw a little Irish into his voice. “Tia
said it looked like a dead possum.”

            “Isn’t that
just a giant rat anyway?” Sean rubbed his hands together. “Everyone’s here.
Ready to put your money where your mouth is, my friend?”

            “Lead the
way,” Dylan smiled.

            Dave, Tim,
Scott, and Brian greeted him with a collective, “Heeeeyyyyy!” as soon as they
turned the corner. “So glad you could finally make it. I hope you brought a lot
of cash—I’m looking forward to taking it off your hands,” Brian added with a
smirk.

            “We’ll see
about that,” Dylan said, shaking hands with them and taking a seat at the oval
table that dominated the center of the room. This was a definite man’s space,
he thought, as he took in the battered leather furniture, the neutral walls
devoid of decoration, and the well-worn wood floors.  A long table along the
wall held open bags of chips, grocery store tubs full of dips, a stack of paper
plates, and a roll of paper towels. Beneath the smell of cigar smoke drifting
up from the tip of Brian’s stogie it even smelled like a place inhabited by
men; fried food, musty laundry, and stale smoke layered under the mask of spray
air freshener.  It reminded him of his early days in the States, living with Bo
and hosting their own poker games on an almost weekly basis, and he inhaled
deeply. Ah, how he missed those days sometimes. “Sweet place,” he said with a
smile.

            “Thanks,” Sean
said as he connected the tap and poured a pitcher of Goose and transferred it
into six mismatched mugs and steins that were most likely stolen from a variety
of local establishments. Dylan was handed one from Harry Caray’s; the familiar
face and the words, “Holy Cow!” etched into the glass.

            They spent an hour
just bullshitting, eating, and putting a damn good dent in the Goose before
they even settled down to play. Dylan was having a hell of a time; trading digs
with them all and taking a beating over his recent engagement.

            “Now why in
the hell would you want to go and do that for, Dyl?” Brian teased. “I mean,
Tia’s a great girl, don’t get me wrong, but you know, once you tie the knot, no
more ‘most eligible bachelor lists’ for you!”

            “Married or
not, though,” Scott added, “the girls are never going to stop falling at your
feet, man. Damn, I wish could be you for a day.”

            “Yeah, yeah,”
Dylan smirked. “That’s not all it’s cracked up to be, mate, believe me. I
really miss nights like this. They don’t come around often enough,”

            “Well, we’re
here pretty much every Tuesday,” Sean said. “You know you’re welcome any time.
And for the record? I’m really glad you and Tia are tying the knot.”

            “As am I,”
Dylan smiled. “I can’t wait to get hitched, actually.”

            “Better you
than me,” Dave said, raising his glass for a toast. “Here’s to getting off the
subject of true love, and getting down to some serious poker!”

            “The name of
the game, gentlemen, is Texas Hold ‘Em,” Brian said as he shuffled the cards.
The men pulled out their wallets and tossed bills onto the table, exchanging
them for chips. Sean stuffed the cash into a cigar box and threw it carelessly
onto the couch. “Minimum small blind is a buck, maximum, five.” He dealt the
hole cards, and turned to Dave at his left to lay down the small blind.

            Dylan checked
his cards—an ace of hearts and a jack of clubs. Pretty good start. He pasted on
his poker face and happily doubled Dave’s small blind of two bucks. The first
three community cards came up a two of clubs, a five of diamonds, and a king of
spades, and Dylan raised two dollars. The third community card popped up a ten
of hearts, and Tim raised five bucks, which Dylan raised five more. Scott and
Sean folded.

            “Got a high
card on the table,” Brian said as he dumped a burn card and flipped the river;
a queen of diamonds; giving Dylan a solid straight.

            “Well now,”
Dylan said, fingering his chips and contemplating the table, “this does make
things interesting.” He tossed a small pile of chips onto the pile, raising the
bet five more dollars. Tim studied Dylan, rolling a chip expertly between his
fingers.

            “I don’t
know,” he said, “it seems to me that you are one lucky bastard.” He drummed on
the table for another moment before tossing his cards onto the table.

            Dylan grinned.
“Read ‘em and weep, ladies,” he said as he swept the chips from the table and
began stacking them in front of him.

            “Beginner’s
luck,” Sean said, pouring himself another beer and settling in for the next
game. “No way the rich boy takes the next one.”

            “Oh my God,
this lobster bisque is to die for!” Lexi exclaimed as she spooned the last of
the creamy broth from her bowl. “This has to go on the menu.”

            “Agreed,”
Jessa said, jotting it in her notebook. “But for the wedding soup, or for one
of the other nights? If we have lobster on the menu at the wedding, we don’t
need two dishes with the same ingredient. How about this for Saturday night?
That way, all the guests will be there to enjoy this little taste of heaven…”