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Chapter 1
Izzy
Istand in front of my clown house mirror in my underwear and panties.
Clothes are strung around the floor like wrapping paper on Christmas.
And I ask myself out loud the question that’s been on repeat in my head ever since I got the surprise of my life phone call from Ethan Savage:
“What does one wear on a date with the man they’ve been crushing on for most of their life?”
Unfortunately, Ethan isn’t just any man. He’s a wealthy, sexy, silver fox of a man. At 18 years older than me, he is forbidden. It’s not appropriate, even if his penetrating blue eyes have a way of shooting fire-dipped arrows into my heart and soul (all the while grazing other places of my anatomy). I mean, I’ve known this man my entire life, for fuck’s sake. When I was making my way into the world, he was walking across a stage accepting his high school diploma.
But wait. It gets even worse.
He’s my dad’s best friend.
I know, I know. It’s so bad. But trust me, men in their late twenties and even early thirties got nothing on Ethan Savage.His name alone implies that he is a gentleman capable of unsavory things, things I have thought about while laying in bed at night many times, just me, my phone and a vibrator. A vibrator that if I had to guess holds no candle to Ethan himself. I mean, the man is six four, lean and toned. His gelled hair and fitted suit say, “I am distinguished.” But his eyes? And that smirk? God. That smirk alone says, “Come here.”
I realize I am going to have to change my panties if I don’t stop thinking about him and rummage through the pile of discarded clothes again. Everything business pants and blouses to summer skirts and even a couple evening gowns. But again, I don’t know what I am supposed to wear. The phone call, which was actually a voicemail because I was in the shower, took me by so much surprise that, once I listened to it, I couldn’t for the life of me pull myself together again.
“Isabelle. It’s Ethan. I’m sure you’re wondering why I am calling. Don’t worry, it’s not to give you shit about working for a fashion magazine, which by the way, your father cringes about that daily. Actually, I was wondering if we could chat. Business talk. I have a proposal for you of sorts. If you’re available, I’d love to meet for drinks. Give me a call and we can make the arrangements.”
The implications around the voicemail peppered it with more red flags than a fucking golf course. He started with an insult about my job, though I’m not surprised. Most of the guys at Next Big Thing, Denver’s hottest business magazine, don’t look too highly on fashion magazines. To be honest, it wasn’t really my cup of tea either. But I was fresh out of college, desperate for a job, and Slay tossed glitter in my eyes along with big numbers and I took the job.
That was mistake number one.
The thing about Ethan Savage is he is equal parts charming and arrogant. The way he said the word ‘chat’ like this is casual.It’s anything but casual. We never talk. I have actually made a point of avoiding him for the last ten years, for one because he’s a dick. And two…I can’t stop thinking about that dick. Insert palm face here.
Then there’s the word ‘available’ which is gushing with implications of its own. Not to mention ‘proposal’ and ‘arrangements’. Not to mention, him calling me Isabelle. Ever since I was little, I’ve hated my formal name and anyone who ever spoke to me knew that. Ethan was on the top of the list of people that knew me and when I defiantly corrected him, he’d smirk that smirk and hold his hands up innocently saying,
“My bad, Izzy-not-Isabelle.”
Long story short, I listened to this voicemail no less than twelve times before hovering my finger over the call button. Ultimately, I chickened out and texted him instead.
Izzy- Hey Ethan! Sorry I missed your call. I was in the shower.
Insert second palm face here. Like, tell me you sound like a teenage girl without telling me you sound like a teenage girl. Did he imagine me naked?
Ethan: No worries. There’s a chic little cocktail lounge on sixteenth called Backporch. Are you familiar?
Familiar, sure. I mean as of a week ago I can’t afford to go there but with its swanky atmosphere and extravagant cocktail menu, I’ve obviously heard of it.
Izzy: The one on the Hyatt rooftop?
Ethan: That’s the one. So what do you say? We can grab a drink, catch up…
The ellipses threw me and I hate to admit it but my heart tripped over its own feet. Nothing is more implicative than ellipses. They’re the grammatical trail off…a literally eyebrow waggle if you will.
I swallowed hard and punched in the most level headed response I could manage, thankful we weren’t having the conversation over the phone.
Izzy: I thought you said it was a business proposal.
Ethan: And it is. But we’re friends. No reason we have to spend the entire evening boring each other.
Friends. Ethan is a lot of things. My dad’s best friend and business partner. And thanks to his cocky attitude paired inconveniently with the fact that I can’t look at him or even think about him without biting my lower lip, he is complicatedly more than that. A question mark at best and an obligatory enemy at worst. But friends? I literally snorted a laugh at that.
Ethan: I’ll tell you what. You meet me at Backporch on Thursday evening, let’s say 8:30. I’ll buy you a drink and give you the spiel. And if you aren’t sick of me after that, I’ll buy you dinner too. Sound like a deal? I hear their lemon chicken is phenomenal.