Twelve
Jack Knox’s birthday dinner was held at the Hourglass, a posh fourteen-room hotel in San Francisco that was formerly, of all things, a marble factory. Recently overhauled and designed by Mercury Hill, an acclaimed architecture firm, the building echoed elegance from a hundred years ago while still maintaining a bohemian feel.
The backdrop of the bar was chalkboard-black wood, the floors were a herringbone pattern, and the columns black with contrasting white wood grain. Curved, stuffed chairs in tones of brick red, olive green and deep gray surrounded brass-edged tables dotted with cocktail napkins, on which sat a variety of glasses. Lowball, highball, flutes and the occasional beer glass.
Royce arrived by car, Gia in tow. It occurred to him to invite Taylor to join them, but since he wouldn’t have normally asked her to join him, he didn’t. The way they’d parted last night left him confused, but then he wasn’t great at reading women—this woman in particular.
He preferred his situations black-and-white, like a spreadsheet. Each bit of information in a clearly marked box. Outlined. Precise. Relationships, and women in general, were not so easily contained.
Taylor was about as navigable as a ship in a storm.
They’d had sex—exquisite sex. Did that mean he should call her? Were they dating? The more he thought about it, the more aggravated he became. He’d decided before he arrived to compartmentalize that bit of info. Tonight was about his father’s birthday. That was it.
“The man of the hour is on his way!” Bran announced to the crowd, loud enough to be heard by those who had wandered out to the rooftop seating area. He pocketed his cell phone, his smile bright and his shoulders back. It was good to see him not pissed off. Royce guessed their parents hadn’t broken the CEO news to him, or else his brother would be a lot less happy. He’d also noticed, during the hour-long drive with his sister, that Gia wasn’t in the know, either. She undoubtedly would have brought it up.
“Scotch for you, sir.” The bartender served Royce his drink.
“Thank you.” Royce had been here for less than five minutes so he hadn’t taken inventory of the room. He guesstimated sixty-plus people in attendance for the party that was scheduled to start at eight o’clock, the man of the hour to arrive not fashionably late, but Jack late. Jack was on time when he needed to be—he never missed a meeting. But for casual functions like this one he kept his arrival to a fifteen-to-twenty-minute window after the party was scheduled to start. Royce would venture that everyone knew tonight had a twofold purpose for his father: a birthday celebration and a retirement announcement.
Taylor approached him wearing a basic black dress and a smile. Though modest, the frock sent his mind to the gutter. The skirt was knee length and hugged curves he now knew a lot about, and the neckline reminded him of her lingerie—her in it and out of it. Of her undulating beneath him, her mouth open to sigh his name. Of the thong he’d peeled off her long legs. He wondered if she wore a similar undergarment tonight. Judging by the soft outline of her breasts and shy press of her nipples against the fabric, she hadn’t worn much beneath the dress.
“Hi,” he said. Because Are you wearing underwear? wasn’t polite.
“You made it.” She carried an empty wineglass, apparently catching him on her return to the bar.
“White or red?” He took her glass.
“Rosé.”
Leave it to Taylor to choose the undefinable in-between. He found himself smiling as he placed her order.
“Fitting,” he said, handing her a full glass of pink wine. But he meant more than her being in the middle of two certainties. “Nearly the color of your cheeks when you came to visit me last night.”
Those murmured words took him by surprise—flirting wasn’t exactly his MO—but Taylor always drew the unexpected from him.
She lifted her glass to her lips and the heavy gem-studded bangle on her wrist caught the overhead light.
“I’ve never been here before.” She glanced around the room, the brass light fixtures bent to highlight the paintings on the wall, some of them fox-and-hound hunting paintings, others splashy abstracts that complemented the furniture.
“The bar is one of my favorites, and not only because they carry 1926 Macallan.” He raised his own glass. “I like the chairs. They look like they belong in a seedy bar, but they’re the finest leather, and damn comfortable.”
“They snub pretension here.”
“There’s a painting of dogs playing poker in the men’s lavatory.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“No.” He grinned, enjoying teasing her.
She laughed, demurely tilting her head to the side. The move sent her hair over her shoulder, the blond and brown strands sliding into a unique pattern.
“You changed your hair.”
“I had it done today.” She sifted a hand through the silken locks and again he was drawn in by the way the various colors fell. “How observant of you.”
He opened his mouth to tell her what he’d noticed last night. The pink in her cheeks, the citrusy scent that clung to his skin after she left. The way her hair had tickled his arms whenever he drove into her. The way he woke up this morning with a hard-on, the echoes of her hoarse cries of completion ringing in his ears...
“Hello, good people.” Bran swaggered over, beer in hand.