About That Night by Beth Andrews

from his pocket. He unlocked the door and stepped inside while Gwen cranked up her crying from sniffles to out-and-out sobs.
    He walked through the foyer, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood, then made his way to his bedroom. Tossed the phone on the bed, set his briefcase down and took off his jacket and tie. Undid the top buttons of his shirt while he toed off his shoes, then removed his Stetson and stabbed his fingers through his hair.
    He picked up the phone. Yep. Still crying. Wrapping both hands around the device, he pretended to choke it then brought it back to his ear as she hit a particularly grating wail. He winced. Tugged at his earlobe as he picked up his briefcase and went out into the kitchen.
    His steps faltered and he froze. The hair on his arms stood on end. The tips of his fingers tingled. He smelled her first, that intoxicating scent that he hadn’t been able to forget. Even as he tried to tell himself he was imagining it, he turned slowly, cautiously.
    And, through the doorway to the study, saw Ivy sitting on his leather sofa. She was like a fantasy come true in a short strapless sundress the color of ripe peaches, her long tanned legs crossed, one strappy high-heeled sandal dangling from her toes. Her hair was back, a few wisps loose at her temples, silver hoops in her ears.
    She’d come to him. Had sought him out.
    He squashed the joy that tried to wiggle its way into his chest. Yeah, he may have thought of her once or twice or a hundred times in the past four months. May have dreamed of her. Relived their night together. May have considered making another trip to Shady Grove, to King’s Crossing, to find her. But in the end, his pride had stopped him from hunting her down like some infatuated fool.
    Thank God.
    “Mother,” he said into the phone, his eyes never leaving Ivy, “I have to go.”
    “But, C.J.—”
    He hung up and, knowing she’d call back—and lecture him on his rudeness—turned the phone off.
    “How is your mama?” Ivy asked while he stood there staring at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. “Still dating the beefcake?”
    C.J. walked toward her as though he was a trout she was reeling in, unable to resist her pull. He stopped in front of her, forcing her to tip her head back. “What are you doing here?”
    Ivy shrugged her golden shoulders. Smiled. “I came to see you. Now, be honest. Did you miss me?”
    The question hit him with equal parts fury and embarrassment because, damn it, while he hadn’t missed her—hard to miss someone he didn’t even know—he had thought of her.
    And the confident gleam in her eye told him she knew it.
    “Don’t tell me,” he managed to drawl in an even tone. “You’re a mild-mannered waitress by day, a cat burglar by night.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Mainly because he’d envisioned her, quite clearly and in great detail, in a snug black outfit. “Breaking and entering is a crime.”
    She laughed. He couldn’t say he didn’t like the sound.
    Damn her.
    When she finally wound down, she leaned forward, still swinging that foot. Winked at him. “I don’t have to break in anywhere.” She slowly uncrossed her legs and stood in one smooth motion. Looked up at him from under her lashes, a trick she’d probably learned in her crib. “Let’s just say I have certain...charms...that open a lot of doors for me.”
    So much for his apartment building’s advanced security system.
    He should be pissed—rip-roaring, teeth-gnashing, hair-pulling pissed—not mildly irritated. Not wondering how, exactly, she’d managed to talk her way into his home. Not wanting to find out more about her.
    Not wanting to reach out and rub one of those loose curls between his fingers. To step closer and breathe her in. Touch her.
    He shoved his hands into his pockets. Stepped back. She’d really screwed him up. Had him retreating. It grated his pride, which had kept him sane and controlled all these months.
    “So, you