Rhett
I don’t have time for a damn wife, despite the fact that my mother keeps pressuring me to find the perfect bride. Montgomery Inc., the company my father started five decades ago and that I now run, keeps me so busy I barely remember what my condo looks like. I can’t remember the last meal I’ve eaten that wasn’t from a commercial kitchen. So, no, I don’t have time for a wife. I don’t have time to date. Most days, I feels like I barely have time to breathe.
It’s the first night I’ve left the office before ten all month and I just want to get home and sit on my couch. Maybe I’ll read a book. Maybe I’ll just stare at the wall. Instead I’m sitting in a fucking traffic jam. Bright red brake lights backed up for miles. I so don’t need this. My condo is less than two miles from the hotel. How the hell did I get stuck in traffic in less than two miles?
What I need is a hard drink and a night with a soft woman. But I don’t have time for that either. Right now, I’m stuck in the far right lane, in traffic so bad, I’m practically parked by the curb.
I’m searching for a way out of this lane when the back passenger door opens and a woman slides in. She leans forward, handing me a scrap of paper.
I turn around and look at her. Because what the fuck is she doing climbing into my car?
She’s neither tall nor short, but compact in the best way with curves in all the right places. Her hair is a mass of golden curls and her eyes are a mossy green. She smiles widely, and then raises her eyebrows as if wondering why I am just staring at her.
“Do you speak English?” she asks.
Her voice is simultaneously melodious and husky which I don’t understand. But my body reacts immediately, my cock twitching against my thigh.
“Can you take me to that address?”
I glance down at the paper in my hand. It’s for an address across town. What in the actual hell?
“English?” she repeats.
I chuckle because this woman is nuts. “Yes, I speak English.”
She exhales and falls back against the seat. “Thank God.”
I glance down at the address again.
“Do you not know where that is?”
“I know. I’m just wondering why—”
A little line appears on her forehead. “This is a town car, right?”
I laugh, turning around to put my hands back on the steering wheel. “It is that.”
Before I can order her out of my car, a sliver of space opens up in the lane next to me, so I take it, edging in front an SUV before the driver can fill the gap. There’s a long honk of irritation, which I ignore, because at least my car is finally moving. For only about twenty feet, but I’ll take it.
She leans forward, her arms braced on the back of the seat. “Traffic is terrible today.”
“Holiday weekend.”
“Oh, that’s right. I always forget that. When you work from home it’s hard to remember those pesky banking holidays.” She leans forward, then she practically crawls into my lap as she slides into the front. “Mind if I sit up here? Seems weird to sit back there while we’re just stuck.”
I’m tempted to tell her to make herself at home, but it seems she doesn’t need my permission to do that. Now that I’m in the middle lane, it’s not like I can tell her to get out of the car. Since it looks like I’m stuck with a passenger for a while, I just say, “Help yourself. So what’s at this address?”
She rolls those pale green eyes.
Damn, she’s pretty. Like just an effortless pretty that’s natural, despite the fact that she’s obviously captain of the hot mess squad. She’s so not my type, yet I cannot deny the distinct tightening of things below my belt. Especially when I glance over and see a swath of pale creamy skin where her oversized sweater has fallen off her shoulder. I don’t see a bra strap which makes me ponder whether the strap has fallen too or she’s just not wearing one.
My brain seems to flatline at the thought that she’s bare-breasted under that sweater. I mentally roll my eyes at myself because get a fucking grip. I’ve seen hundreds of tits. Hers can’t possibly be that magical.
“I agreed to go to this speed dating thing with a friend of mine,” she says reminding me that I asked her a question. And one that didn’t involve whether or not she’s wearing a bra. “She’s the one who hired your car service. Because apparently, ‘I can’t be trusted to show up.’”
She says this last bit while make air quotes and using a fake grumpy voice. Fuck, she’s cute.
“Speed dating? What the hell is that?” I jump right over the bit about someone hiring me as a car service. At least now I know why she got in my car.
“Well, you sit in a room at a bunch of tables and the women stay put in their spots and every eight minutes or so, a new guy comes over and you have a little mini date.”
“A date? For eight minutes?”
She nods. “At the end of the night everyone fills out a score card and if you have a match, then you can set up a real date.”
Traffic moves another fifteen feet or so. “Dating has become ridiculously complicated.”
“Yes, it really has. But this beats scrolling through a bunch of dick pics.”
I bark out a laugh. “I suppose it does. Though I can’t say I’ve ever received one.”
“Ever sent one?”
“No. I don’t really date.”
“So are you married? Is that why you’re out of the dating game?”
“Uh, no. I’m just busy with work and don’t get out much. I travel a lot.”
She frowns. Her phone rings, playing some loud hip-hop song. She answers.
“Why didn’t you take the car I sent for you?”
The person on the other end is one of those super loud talkers and I’m able to hear the entire conversation.
“I did.” My passenger glances over at me.
“Calliope, the driver just called me and said he waited for half an hour and you never showed.”
Her blond head turns and glances at me, eyes wide. “Oh my hell. I’ve gotta call you back.” She hangs up, then angles her entire body in my direction. “You’re not a town car driver, are you? I just got into your car like a crazy lady.”
I grin at her. “Pretty much.”
“Fuck my life.” She puts her head in her hands. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“It’s fine. Much more entertaining than how I’d planned to spend the evening. I'm Rhett, by the way.”
“Calliope.”
She smiles and I swear I feel my chest heat. You know how that weird alien from that one movie’s heart would glow red? Yep, that’s what this feels like.
Maybe I’m having a heart attack.
I’m probably not, because Mark, the VP of our marketing depart and my best friend since college, rides my ass all the time about getting to the gym. And I had a physical just last month as part of the company wellness initiative my sister just implemented.
Still, an actual heart attack might be more convenient than actually feeling something for this woman I just met.
“Thank you for not being a serial killer.”
“Uh, my pleasure.”
“Wait, you’re not a serial killer, right?”
“Not yet.”
She chuckles, clearly not worried. She sits quietly for a moment at which point the traffic in front of us crawls a quarter of a mile. “If this were a RomCom, this would be our meet cute.”
I glance over at her and she’s still angled towards me, one leg bent and on the seat between us. She’s wearing one of those flowy skirts that’s clearly made with way too much fabric. She’s literally swimming in her clothes. Then her words register and my brow furrows. “Our meet what?”
“You know. The funny or awkward situation where the hero and heroine first meet.”
That hair. I really want to touch it. Finger one of those pale gold ringlets and see if it's as silky soft as it looks. I give her a sheepish grin. “I don't watch a lot of movies.”
Her mouth opens silently and I realize her lips are perfectly proportioned. They form a plump bow. Her pink tongue slips out to moisten her mouth. “I don't even know what to say about that. ‘Don't watch a lot of movies.’” She shakes her head sending those curls in every direction. “When Harry Met Sally?”
I frown. “Who?”
Her green eyes widen. “You've Got Mail?”
I shake my head. The traffic has managed to move another quarter mile.
“27 Dresses? The Proposal? Crazy, Stupid Love?”
“Nope, nope and nope”
“Wow,” the word comes out in a breath. “So what was the last movie you saw?”
Despite me noting how far we’re moving in traffic, I find I’m no longer frustrated or annoyed that I’m stuck here in this car. Any other day of my life, my blood pressure would be climbing and I’d be ready to crawl out of my damn skin stuck in traffic like this.
But not today, because this woman is the most entertaining person I’ve encountered in a long time. “I don't know. I think there was something playing on my last flight back from London. It was a war movie.”
“A war movie? And I’m guessing it wasn’t one of those uplifting war movies where a three-legged dog saves a platoon of soldiers with the help of deaf carrier pigeons.”
“I don’t think there are any war movies like that.”
“Well, there should be, because real war movies are so depressing.” She gives a fake exaggerated shudder. “And if you only watch war movies, that probably explains why you don’t watch more movies. Though, I guess there are just some people who don’t love movies. I mean I get it. I've just always really loved stories. I'm a big reader too and originally I thought I'd become a writer, but it turns out I'm better at visualizing other people’s stories. So I'm a children's book illustrator.”
She says all of this in a rush that would be hard to follow if it wasn’t so much fun listening to her.
“I've never met a children's book illustrator,” I admit. “Never even really thought about that being a thing. Have you illustrated anything I would have heard of?”
She slants me a look. “Why? Do you read a lot of children’s books?”
I laugh, because, no. I don’t even remember reading children’s books when I was a child. “No. But seemed worth asking.”
“I illustrate the Rosie Willoughby Jones books.”
“Who?”
“She’s a bunny.”
“She’s someone’s pet rabbit?”
She gives an offended gasp that I suspect is only a little part faked. “Rosie Willoughby Jones is not a pet! She is an independent modern woman. I mean, bunny.”
I don’t say anything. Partly because I have no idea how to respond to the notion of a book about an independent modern bunny. Mostly because I’d rather just watch Calliope.
“She lives in a cottage in an enchanted forest where she goes on adventures with all her friends.”
The businessman in me wants to ask how this bunny and her friends are able to afford their cottages in the forest and what kind of work they do to fund all these adventures they go on. But it occurs to me that, possibly, that’s not the point.
“What do you do?”
“My family is in the travel industry.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“It’s not. At least it's not very exciting.”
Running the Montgomery hotel empire isn’t fun. It’s an honor to hold the position. I work hard, not just because I have to, not just because it’s what I was raised to do, but because Montgomery Inc. has tens of thousands of employees around the world. People whose lives and livelihoods depend on my hard work and smart decisions. It’s never once occurred to me that my job should be fun.
“I love to travel! But it’s been a while since I’ve been anywhere. Except the Montgomery. I’ve never stayed there, but my girlfriends and I meet there every weekend for brunch. They have the best brunch. Have you been?”
At the mention of my hotel, I go still. I don’t want to talk about business. I don’t want to even think about business.
And, yeah, my hotel, my job, it’s my whole life. Not just because of family obligation, either. I’m genuinely proud of the company and the many people we employ.
But right now, I don’t want to be that guy. I want to be here. In this moment, with Calliope, in this weird oasis of this car, caught in barely moving traffic.
“I can’t say that I have.” Which isn’t a lie. I’ve never had the brunch, though I specifically brought Chef Henri in to create that. I shift the conversation away from the hotel. “Tell me more about this thing you were going to do tonight.”
“Speed dating?” she says.
“Yes, that.”
“An exercise in modern torture.”
I chuckle. “Have you done it before?”
“Once. It was entertaining, I suppose, but I obviously didn’t make a love match.”
“Is that what you’re after? The elusive happy ending?”
She lifts a delicate shoulder. She’s not my type. I tend to gravitate to taller women since I’m six foot three. Calliope is rather petite. But she’s beautiful and I’m certain that she’s hiding some banging curves under her enormous clothes.
“Isn’t that what everyone is looking for?” she asks. She tips her head to the side and her voice takes on a wistful note. “A little house in the burbs, white picket fence, rockers on the front porch.”
A sour knot takes root in my stomach. “Let me guess, lazy Saturday afternoons with the kids playing in the yard and your husband grilling burgers on the barbeque pit?”
This knot in my belly feels suspiciously like jealousy for this fictional future husband I imagine for her.
She laughs and it’s a low, sexy rumble that seems to grab me by the balls. “Well, are the burgers vegan?”
“God, I hope not,” I grumble. Though whoever that lucky bastard ends up being, he’d probably happily give up beef to make her happy.
She laughs again, slanting me a look. “Yeah, you definitely seem like a steak kind of guy.”
Mostly, I’m a whatever my assistant puts in front of me between meetings kind of guy. But again that’s work, and I don’t want to try to calculate the last time I ate a meal that picked out myself, let alone cooked on a grill myself. Fuck, have I ever done that?
I feel her gaze moving over me and I can tell she’s taking in my suit, the Rolex on my wrist, the custom upgrades in my car.
“Yeah,” she says slowly, a teasing note in her voice. “You are definitely a steak at a five-star restaurant kind of guy. I bet you’ve never once sipped a beer while grilling a vegan burger.”
“Not everyone has the luxury.”
“Says that man wearing a thousand-dollar watch.”
I don’t correct her. This one cost nearly fifteen grand and it’s my “cheap” Rolex. The one my mother bought me because I refused to wear the ostentatious one my father gave me when he retired and I took over the company. I wore that one while he was still alive, because that kind of shit mattered to him, but then switched to an Apple watch after he died. I wear this one though when I know I’m going to see her.
Instead of telling Calliope any of this, because I don’t want to seem like a douchebag, I say, “What I meant is, not everyone has the luxury of having that kind of time off.”
“You don’t get weekends off?” she asks, with an arch of an eyebrow.
“The travel industry is a twenty-hour-a-day job.”
She makes a humming noise in her throat. “Well, maybe someday you’ll get a promotion, be the boss, and then you won’t have to work so many hours.”
I snort. “You think the boss works fewer hours?”
“What’s the point of being the boss otherwise?”
This one I answer easily. “Having enough control over things to keep other people from making costly mistakes.”
She snorts. “Are you always such a pessimist?”
“I prefer to think of myself as a realist.”
“Call it what you like.” The look she gives me makes me feel like she can see all the way to my soul. It’s an alarming sensation, but I can’t say that its completely unwanted. I’ve never consciously desired someone to know me on a bone-deep level, but here, in this car with her, it’s an appealing thought. “But it doesn’t sound to me like you enjoy your job very much.”
The conversation has gotten unexpectedly intense, and I’m a little afraid I’ve annoyed her. But then, she glances down at her phone and sighs. “Alas, if my true love is waiting at tonight’s speed dating, I may never meet him, because I don’t think I’m going to make it on time.”
I check the clock on the dash. “Unlikely.” That knot in my stomach loosens a little at the idea that whoever her perfect guy is, she’s not meeting him tonight. “Is it really all that important?”
“Only because of a promise I made to a friend. I told her I’d be open to at least five dates. I’m supposed to report back on these guys. Missing tonight means I’m going to have to do it again.”
“It doesn’t sound as if you’re all that interested. Tell your friend to back off.”
She picks up her phone and starts typing, then glances at me. “Well, at the very least I have to tell her why I’m not going to make it tonight.”
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