Tonight You’re Mine Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  THAT NIGHT

  1. Chase

  TONIGHT

  2. Aimee

  3. Chase

  4. Aimee

  5. Chase

  6. Aimee

  7. Chase

  8. Aimee

  9. Chase

  AFTER TONIGHT

  10. Chase

  11. Aimee

  12. Chase

  13. Aimee

  14. Aimee

  15. Chase

  16. Chase

  17. Aimee

  18. Chase

  19. Aimee

  20. Chase

  AFTER TODAY

  21. Chase

  22. Aimee

  23. Aimee

  24. Chase

  25. Aimee

  26. Chase

  27. Aimee

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Spotify Playlist

  Connect With Kayley

  Other Books by Kayley Loring

  Come Back To Bed

  Hello Darling

  Rebound With Me

  Sexy Nerd

  Every Inch Of You

  GREEN: A friends-to-lovers romantic comedy

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kayley Loring

  All rights reserved.

  COVER DESIGN: Alyssa Garcia, Uplifting Designs

  COVER PHOTO: ©MaeIDesign and Photography

  www.reginawamba.com

  COPY EDITOR: Expressive Editing

  To those eyes and those lips and that hair and those hands…

  “Love is an angel disguised as lust

  Here in our bed until the morning comes”

  ~ Patti Smith & Bruce Springsteen, “Because the Night”

  THAT NIGHT

  1

  Chase

  There’s something inherently optimistic about walking into a bar on a Friday night. It could be the beginning of a bad joke or the beginning of the rest of your life, but it’s always the start of something. No matter how many bad choices you’ve made in a bar in the past, the future always holds the possibility of better music, just the right number of drinks, and finding the one person who just might matter more to you than anyone else.

  It’s the middle of spring and Brooklyn looks so fucking beautiful but I’ve been declining every invitation so I can stay late at the office to work. I’ve had zero fun and given zero fucks about anything other than keeping our startup in the black. Keaton practically begged me to meet him for a drink. He had dinner with his parents tonight and he always needs a drink after seeing his parents. He’s late for meeting me, as always, but I’m glad I’m here. It’s been a while.

  Bitters is my favorite bar, mainly because they stock my favorite Irish whiskey. It’s pretty busy, even for nine on a Friday night. They’ve got strings of warm white lights hanging from the ceiling, and I don’t know what it is about them that makes me want to be in love, but I’ve suddenly got that yearning. A quick scan of the crowd presents a few promising options, but no one who grabs my attention.

  “McKay! Where ya been, man?” Denny the bartender holds his hands up in the air and greets me like a long-lost friend. We are old friends, actually, I’ve known him since we were kids.

  “The office, mostly.” We half-ass a bro-hug over the counter.

  “Mr. Bigshot CEO over here.”

  “Not as glamorous as it sounds, believe me. How’s your dad doin’?”

  “He’s all better. It was just the flu, he got over it. The usual?”

  “Give it to me.”

  I take a seat at the bar. I had spent so many hours at this counter, dreaming up my business. With my whiskey, my notebook, and sometimes Keaton. Now that the company’s a reality, and the owner of this bar is a client, all I can think about when I sit here is that I should be back at the office. As soon as Denny slides that tumbler of Redbreast in front of me, though, I’m game. I reach for my wallet, but he insists it’s on the house. One of the perks of providing a service for local businesses—everything’s free.

  That first sip is always the best, and I revel in it, eyes closed, before turning to face the door.

  I’m still feeling the glorious burn down my throat and into my chest when that door opens, and the warmth in my chest spreads everywhere. Warmth and satisfaction and a gentle ache for more. But it’s not the whiskey that’s making me feel this way, it’s a face. It’s the face that I can’t look away from. Open and friendly and inquisitive and surrounded by the most luxurious dark hair that makes me want to reach all the way across the room to run my fingers through it. We’re both tall enough that I can see her over the shoulders of the people standing in between us. Her eyes stay locked on mine as soon as she sees me too. She isn’t smiling and she isn’t frowning, but she’s really looking at me.

  She’s nothing like the women I usually go for, and everything like the woman I could see myself coming home to every night.

  She starts walking right towards me, determined but a little hesitant, like she’s heading for a train that she needs to catch but she isn’t quite sure if it’s the right one. She’s no ingénue, but there’s something so pure and graceful about her expression and the way she moves. It’s captivating.

  It isn’t until she stops in front of me that I realize the full extent of her … everything.

  The pencil skirt, the knee-high boots, the tight sweater under the trench coat that doesn’t hide her curves. The subtle swirl of fragrance—like walking past a florist shop where someone’s burning incense and drinking a Hot Toddy.

  Who is this woman?

  I want her.

  I want everything with this woman.

  Her eyes are hypnotic. With the same combination of white and the warmest shade of blue, they remind me of my mom’s collection of Italian pottery. Like those ceramics that I grew up with, she is beautiful in the way that everyday things are beautiful. While she doesn’t look at all dainty or fragile, I find myself wanting to be extra careful with her. This is special. Somehow, already, this says “home” to me.

  All she says is: “Hi there.” It’s the voice and directness of a woman who’s been to business school. I recognize it instantly.

  “Hi.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Chase McKay.” I hold out my hand to her. “Who are you?”

  “Aimee Gilpin. Nice to meet you.” I can hear her crystal clear over the Beastie Boys, which is impressive in a noisy bar. She’s just as smooth and soft and warm as she looks, and I don’t want to let go of her. We just stare at each other like we’re trying to figure out if we’ve seen each other before. I know I haven’t, because I would have remembered. “Hi,” she says again. She giggles as she pats my hand, releasing herself from my grasp.

  “Can I buy you a drink, Aimee Gilpin?”

  “Oh, sure! Thanks. I’ll have whatever you’re having.” So friendly. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s either from Canada or the Midwest.

  “You like Irish whiskey?”

  “I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.”

  I laugh. “I like your attitude.” I signal to Denny that I want another glass of what I’m having. He nods, but he’s busy chatting up some hipster chick.

  “Is Irish whiskey your favorite drink?” She manages to ask it without sounding like she’s grilling me in the way that some women do on first dates.

  “I drink Scotch at home and Irish when I’m out.”

  “Interesting. Why is that?” br />
  “You’ll see. Irish is friendlier.”

  “And are you Irish or Scotch, Chase McKay?”

  Oh Christ. She’s got a dimple. I’m dead.

  “Half Irish, half Italian.”

  “All trouble?” She cocks an eyebrow and smirks.

  I get that a lot. I’ve got the shoulder-length hair, the tattoos and the beat-up old leather biker jacket, but that’s just the way I look. It’s not who I am. “Looks can be deceiving, Aimee.”

  She studies my face and says earnestly: “I believe that.” She finally looks away from me to scan the room. “I like this place. I’ve never been here before.”

  “Meeting someone?”

  “Yeah, my roommate. She’s coming from a restaurant in the East Village. You come here often?” She asks that like she really wants to know, like she has no idea it’s a line people have used forever.

  “I used to. Been working a little too hard lately.”

  “Me too. That’s why my friend basically blackmailed me into coming out tonight.” She studies my face again, takes a breath, and suddenly this avalanche of words tumbles out. “I just moved out here from Michigan a few months ago,” she says. “For a job. Roxy’s been my best friend since college, in Ann Arbor. She moved out here right after she graduated, but I decided to build up my resume before coming to New York. I’m glad I did. Moving here is risky, you know, but it’s something I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid, so I needed to know that I wouldn’t blow it. The last thing I wanted to do was show up in the Big Apple and get the crap kicked out of me and then have to go back home, all bitter and depressed for the rest of my life. I think it’s more important to be shrewd than ballsy. Although, the ballsy people have all the fun. Are you from around here?”

  I finally take a breath, even though she’s the one who really needs to. “Born and raised in Brooklyn. But I know exactly what you mean. And I think you did the right thing.”

  Denny finally shows up to pour two fingers of whiskey in each of our tumblers, then disappears.

  “Here’s hoping,” Aimee Gilpin says, as she raises her glass to me.

  “Welcome to New York,” I say, and we clink glasses. I notice her hand is trembling and it’s clear to me that she’s more nervous than she’s letting on. Before I can tell her what to expect, she takes a big gulp.

  One second after swallowing, she sticks her tongue all the way out and makes an adorable, hilarious face while stretching the fingers of her free hand out wide. Then she slams the glass down on the counter and covers her mouth.

  “Guess you don’t like Irish whiskey,” I say.

  “I am so horrified!” she says, her voice muffled.

  “That bad?”

  “No—well, I didn’t expect it to be so sweet. But I just …” She shakes her head and waves her hand in front of her face, like she’s trying to erase what just happened. “Last week I was watching this YouTube video about face yoga exercises. This woman was making all these crazy facial expressions that supposedly relax your face and get rid of wrinkles and release tension—but I was like—I would never in a million years do those exercises because if anyone ever saw me doing them, I would die of embarrassment. And I just made one of those faces. In a bar. In front of you. So that’s awesome.”

  I lean in towards her and say: “Guess we’ll have to find another way for you to release tension.”

  She laughs, nervously, and then stops to look at me. “You know what? It has a really nice aftertaste.” And then she realizes the subtext of my comment about releasing tension, and her cheeks turn the most amazing shade of deep pink. “Oh my,” she exhales.

  ‘Oh my.’ Who says that?

  The song changes to a quiet ballad, a Jackson Browne song that my mom loves. The sudden shift from thumping bass to soulful piano changes the air around us and the molecules inside of everyone in here, and the awareness shifts from the lower torso up to the heart. I fucking love the playlists in this bar, and I fucking love the way this woman is looking at me like I’m some deep philosophical question that she doesn’t know the answer to but she’s willing to muddle through anyway.

  “Try it again,” I say, nodding towards her glass. “Take a sip and close your eyes. It’s meant to be savored.”

  Slowly lifting that tumbler to her beautiful lips, she takes a sip and closes those gorgeous eyes of hers—sky blue and black. I savor her like my whiskey, so jealous of the rim of the glass that gets to touch her lips. I watch her respond to every smooth and warm, surprising flavor as it caresses her tongue—the fruity honeyed sweetness, the sherry and licorice and ginger, the peppery spice that erupts in her throat as she swallows, the hint of toffee that lingers. When she opens her eyes again and looks at me, she lets out a sigh, and I know that she gets it now. The union and explosion of unexpected soulmate flavors that can change the way you experience the world. It’s like drinking music. Just a taste and you know how big and magical and soft this dangerous collision of contradictions can be.

  But two seconds later, she shakes herself out of the reverie and I can see her trying to rein in her fear of that big magic. I get it. She doesn’t know if she can handle it. Then her expression changes again and I get the feeling she’s about to surprise both of us.

  “So, I don’t usually do this, but … here’s my number.” She hands me a folded-up piece of notepaper that already has her name and number written on it. “My roommate dared me to give a guy that I like my number even if he doesn’t ask me for it. So just in case there’s a hurricane or a zombie apocalypse in the next hour or so, I’ll get this out of the way now.”

  “Thank you. I would have asked you for your number anyway.”

  “Well, that’s nice to know.”

  I reach for a napkin on the bar and pull out the pen from my pocket.

  “I don’t usually give beautiful women who don’t like whiskey my number, but in case of hurricane or zombie apocalypse … This is my cell phone, if you need assistance.” I hand her the napkin with my name and number on it.

  “I appreciate it. I keep a pretty cool head during natural disasters, but I lie awake at night worrying about zombies.” She carefully folds up the napkin and places it in her purse.

  “I can definitely help you get to sleep if necessary.”

  I take off my leather jacket, expose the ink, so she knows it’s not just a long-hair situation she’d have to deal with.

  Her eyes widen as they scan the parts of my arms that aren’t hidden by my T-shirt. I can tell she likes what she sees, but she gets a whiff of something that she does not like when I move my jacket to my lap.

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Not much anymore. I used to … up until an hour ago.”

  “You really shouldn’t smoke.”

  “I have been meaning to quit.”

  “You really should.” Her spine straightens and she places her glass down on the bar again and actually raises her index finger in front of my face and wags it. “Smoking damages nearly every organ in your body, you know, not just your lungs. And not just your organs—your brain and your bones and your cardiovascular system! It’s shortening your lifespan by more than a decade. There’s poison in tobacco you know. It’s not just the nicotine, you’re inhaling carbon monoxide and tar! I just don’t know why anyone would do that to themselves—not to mention the people around them. And cancer—do you want to talk about cancer, Chase McKay?”

  “I really don’t.”

  I think I just quit smoking.

  “Point taken. You got some sort of rule about not kissing smokers, Aimee?”

  The lighting in here may be dim, but I can see her blushing even harder. She clears her throat. “I did … up until a minute ago.”

  I think I just quit other women.

  When I sit up straight on this barstool, Aimee and I are about the same height. She’s staring at my mouth and her lips are parted. I’m not aware of how much time has passed since she walked in here, but I’ve been wanting to kiss her for what
feels like forever. Leaning towards her, I notice her chest expanding as she prepares herself for my kiss. Just when she starts to lean in towards me too, a hand slaps her on the shoulder.

  “Aim! Honey! I am so fucking sorry I’m late! That fucking F train has it in for me, I swear.”

  The woman whips her around for a hug while giving me the once-over.

  I can’t tell if Aimee is frustrated or relieved by the interruption—maybe both. Maybe I’m feeling the same way too. Her friend sizes-up the situation. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or amused or both.

  “Well, fuck me,” she mutters.

  “Uh, Roxy, this is Chase. Chase—Roxy.”

  “Hello there, Chase.”

  Shaking Roxy’s hand, I utter a friendly “Hey, how are you?” but I turn my attention right back to Aimee. I can tell that Aimee’s probably used to men gawking at her friend, and I just won a few points for not being most men. But Aimee is not most women. Not to me. Not tonight.

  “I was just encouraging Chase here to quit smoking.”

  “Is that what you were doing? Can I just borrow Aimee for one second?” She pulls Aimee a couple of feet away and yells in her ear.

  I, along with the whole bar, can hear Roxy tell her: “You need to take it down a notch, Professor McGonagall.”

  “What?!”

  “I saw the way you were lecturing him when I walked in. You might as well just flash him your granny panties.”