right thing by walking away. Best to make a clean break, even if the leaving pained him.
He caught the tail end of an idea and stood a little straighter, his hand heading for the Stop button. Maybe he should tell her the truth. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to lay it all on the line and invite her out for a proper date. After all, when he started this scheme he'd had no idea how he would end up feeling about her.
"You're pathetic, Dev," he whispered, dropping his hand. He was trying to justify a reason to stay based on the strength of his own feelings. But what about Paris ?
She was an up-and-coming author with a carved-in-stone image of the man she wanted. She didn't have any room in her life for a pub owner mortgaged to his eyeballs and scurrying to satisfy a debt he couldn't pay.
Devin couldn't be Montgomery Alexander forever. Sooner or later, he'd have to be just Devin. And as much as he wished it weren't true, just Devin wasn't the man Paris wanted.
Their short-lived affair was over before it even had a chance to start.
Except.
The elevator thudded to a halt in the lobby and Devin pushed the thought away. Even his dad would know better than to bet on Paris sauntering into Devin's bar of her own free will, hoping to continue where they'd left off. Stuff like that only happened in fiction, an area Devin no longer had anything to do with.
* * *
"He's a creep."
" Paris ," Rachel chided, rolling down her window to let some fresh air into the stale taxi.
"No, it's true. He's a creep and I'm an idiot." Paris kept her voice at a monotone, using no more emotion than a store special announcer at the local mega-mart. "I should have known from the first moment. It's his eyes. They're shifty."
"His eyes are not shifty."
No, his eyes are gorgeous. Deep and inviting.
"Maybe they shift just a little," Paris insisted, gunning for a squabble, but Rachel wasn't going to be baited. The problem, of course, was that Paris didn't want him to be a creep, and didn't believe that he was one, not really, even though he'd engaged in some very creep-like behavior. But ranting felt good, and Paris intended to wallow in it.
Rachel flopped against the soiled upholstery, then crossed her legs in an I'm-in-control sort of way. Paris knew better. Rachel usually made balancing on the edge of taxicab seats an art, careful not to let her typically chic outfits get more mussed up than absolutely necessary. Today, however, Rachel was practically hugging the tattered back seat.
"What are you so upset about?" Paris demanded. "I'm the one who almost boffed some lunatic with a slick come-on line."
Rachel grimaced and looked out the window. Paris gave up. Rachel wasn't going to say a word until she calmed down.
Fat chance that would happen anytime soon. Paris had been indulging in a grab bag of emotions since about three-thirty in the morning. It was now one in the afternoon. Except for a four-hour nap between five and nine, Paris had been bingeing nonstop on self-pity and anger, with a high emphasis on embarrassment. For a woman who usually kept her cool, Paris thought she was doing a heck of a job in the ranting and raving department.
She had to admit, though, it was getting a little old. And all the pouting in the world wouldn't get her the information she really wanted—why? Why had he walked away?
Out her window, the Manhattan streets groaned under the weight of taxis, buses and cars, each moving at a snail's pace, with drivers gesturing wildly to each other in a futile effort to make the traffic move more quickly. Paris didn't mind the delay. The longer it took to get where they were going, the more time she had to prepare to meet him.
What did annoy Paris was that some secret, almost-buried, traitorous part of her wanted to see him again, to touch him and feel his arms around her. To feel her breath catch and her blood boil the way it had last night.
She leaned her head back against the seat and stared at the roof of the taxi.
He caught the tail end of an idea and stood a little straighter, his hand heading for the Stop button. Maybe he should tell her the truth. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to lay it all on the line and invite her out for a proper date. After all, when he started this scheme he'd had no idea how he would end up feeling about her.
"You're pathetic, Dev," he whispered, dropping his hand. He was trying to justify a reason to stay based on the strength of his own feelings. But what about Paris ?
She was an up-and-coming author with a carved-in-stone image of the man she wanted. She didn't have any room in her life for a pub owner mortgaged to his eyeballs and scurrying to satisfy a debt he couldn't pay.
Devin couldn't be Montgomery Alexander forever. Sooner or later, he'd have to be just Devin. And as much as he wished it weren't true, just Devin wasn't the man Paris wanted.
Their short-lived affair was over before it even had a chance to start.
Except.
The elevator thudded to a halt in the lobby and Devin pushed the thought away. Even his dad would know better than to bet on Paris sauntering into Devin's bar of her own free will, hoping to continue where they'd left off. Stuff like that only happened in fiction, an area Devin no longer had anything to do with.
* * *
"He's a creep."
" Paris ," Rachel chided, rolling down her window to let some fresh air into the stale taxi.
"No, it's true. He's a creep and I'm an idiot." Paris kept her voice at a monotone, using no more emotion than a store special announcer at the local mega-mart. "I should have known from the first moment. It's his eyes. They're shifty."
"His eyes are not shifty."
No, his eyes are gorgeous. Deep and inviting.
"Maybe they shift just a little," Paris insisted, gunning for a squabble, but Rachel wasn't going to be baited. The problem, of course, was that Paris didn't want him to be a creep, and didn't believe that he was one, not really, even though he'd engaged in some very creep-like behavior. But ranting felt good, and Paris intended to wallow in it.
Rachel flopped against the soiled upholstery, then crossed her legs in an I'm-in-control sort of way. Paris knew better. Rachel usually made balancing on the edge of taxicab seats an art, careful not to let her typically chic outfits get more mussed up than absolutely necessary. Today, however, Rachel was practically hugging the tattered back seat.
"What are you so upset about?" Paris demanded. "I'm the one who almost boffed some lunatic with a slick come-on line."
Rachel grimaced and looked out the window. Paris gave up. Rachel wasn't going to say a word until she calmed down.
Fat chance that would happen anytime soon. Paris had been indulging in a grab bag of emotions since about three-thirty in the morning. It was now one in the afternoon. Except for a four-hour nap between five and nine, Paris had been bingeing nonstop on self-pity and anger, with a high emphasis on embarrassment. For a woman who usually kept her cool, Paris thought she was doing a heck of a job in the ranting and raving department.
She had to admit, though, it was getting a little old. And all the pouting in the world wouldn't get her the information she really wanted—why? Why had he walked away?
Out her window, the Manhattan streets groaned under the weight of taxis, buses and cars, each moving at a snail's pace, with drivers gesturing wildly to each other in a futile effort to make the traffic move more quickly. Paris didn't mind the delay. The longer it took to get where they were going, the more time she had to prepare to meet him.
What did annoy Paris was that some secret, almost-buried, traitorous part of her wanted to see him again, to touch him and feel his arms around her. To feel her breath catch and her blood boil the way it had last night.
She leaned her head back against the seat and stared at the roof of the taxi.
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