purposes. Saying he was sorry yesterday was the barest beginning of trying to win her heart, and now he had to move past apologies and show her why she should want him.
After Clay and Julia went home, Brent made his way to the bar to catch up with Bob, who was pouring from the tap for another customer. “What does it take to get a beer around here?”
The man looked up and said dryly, “Evidently, it takes a chain restaurant.”
“No shit. But hey, you’ll be handling cosmos and top-shelf liquor in no time.”
Bob gave him a quick salute, then handed out the drink. When he returned, he poured him a beer, then clinked an imaginary glass to Brent’s. “Here’s to the next phase—cosmos and fancy-ass drinks at your new club.”
“And to landlords who aren’t assholes,” Brent said, raising his glass.
“Amen.” Bob rapped his knuckles on the counter. “I’ll miss this place.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Later, Brent hailed a cab and headed to his midtown hotel. As the cab ambled through traffic, he unlocked the screen on his phone, and opened up a new text message to Shannon. Keep it simple—keep it direct. That was what he’d do.
I’m in New York... thinking of you... can I see you when I return this weekend?
In seconds she replied.
I don’t know. Can you?
Oh, she was feisty tonight, toying with word choice. He responded with a:
May I?
As the cab rolled past the Port Authority and the neon lights and tourist traps on 42nd Street, her reply arrived.
What will you be wearing?
Okay, he was getting somewhere, if they were talking about clothes. Brent grinned to himself as the cab lurched to a stop at a red light. Maybe he wasn’t entirely at square one. Because he knew this woman. Knew how she liked to flirt. How she liked to play. How she liked to keep him on his toes.
What do you want me to wear?
As the cab started up again, he clutched the phone and peered out the window, forcing himself not to simply stare at the screen and wait for a reply. As he scanned the billboards and neon signs, he spotted one up ahead with a body in motion. A dancer leaping through the air. He read the details on the sign, and something clicked. “Yes,” he said triumphantly out loud, and he had the answer to the question Julia had posed to him—what matters most to Shannon. He was about to begin a quick Google search when she replied.
Honestly, you’re pretty hot in nothing. But I don’t think you should parade around naked at dinner, and I keep hearing the new restaurant in the Cromwell is fantastic. There’s a four-month wait, though. And I know you hate waiting. But maybe you can get us in...
Like there was a chance in hell he wouldn’t.
Consider it done.
The cab arrived at his hotel, and several phone calls later, he’d pulled it off. He knew enough people in Vegas, so he’d called in some favors and secured the reservation for the woman he wanted most in the world. He also had something else for her, thanks to a couple of extra minutes spent Googling and ordering, but he’d wait until dinner to give her that gift. As he got into bed, he wrote to her, letting her know he’d pick her up at seven-thirty on Saturday. Her response was swift.
Impressed. Also, no need to pick me up. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.
Damn. She hadn’t given up her address yet. But that was okay. He had a way to earn it when he saw her that weekend. He laughed to himself at the realization that he was thirty-one years old and excited as hell about a dinner date.
But then, the dinner date was with her.
* * *
Tanner Davies snapped his fingers to get the waitress’s attention. The woman with the bouncy ponytail doubled back to their table. “Yes?”
“I said I wanted sweetened iced tea. Take it back,” he barked, making a get this out of my face gesture with his fingers. “This is unsweetened.”
“Right away, sir,” she said, with a deferential nod.
Tanner, the landlord, turned to Brent, and shook his head. “Fucking waiters. Anyway. Like I was saying, the neighbors are worried about you, man. They think you won’t address their concerns properly.”
Brent nodded at the owner of the building he’d already leased space from in Tribeca. They were at McCoy’s in midtown, rolling up their sleeves to discuss the latest two-steps-forward-three-steps-back routine that New York was pulling.