Delayed Satisfaction Read online

  Sloane: Oysters are one food I can’t stand. Feel free to avoid all oyster-centric dates, now and forevermore.

  Malone: Duly noted. Oysters are on the official forbidden list.

  Sloane: If you’re looking for something new and adventuresome, might I suggest that we try shopping cart races and push each other down steep hills?

  Malone: Wow. This is like an X Games–style date. Should we get on skateboards and ride up crazy-high ramps too?

  Sloane: Excellent idea. I’ll bring the kneepads.

  Malone: I could go in so many different directions with kneepads.

  Sloane: You have a dirty mind.

  Malone: I absolutely do have a dirty mind, and I’d like to use it with you soon.

  Sloane: I’d like you to use it with me soon too.

  Malone: Until then, I’ll sign us up to go skydiving.

  Sloane: Or, wait for it, I have an idea . . .

  Malone: Do tell.

  Sloane: It’s a little crazy, a little edgy . . .

  Malone: This is going to be out there. I can feel it.

  Sloane: I’m almost too nervous to suggest it. But what about . . .

  Malone: The anticipation is killing me. Just say it.

  Sloane: Dinner!

  Malone: Whoa. How did you just come up with that, like, on the fly? Or, tell me, have you been thinking about that for days?

  Sloane: It just came to me. I swear!

  Malone: Dinner. Wow. It’s almost as if something existed just to provide the perfect opportunity for two people to get to know each other.

  Sloane: Is that what you want?

  Malone: To get to know you? Yes. Very much so.

  Sloane: Same here. I had an amazing time last night. It was almost unreal.

  Malone: Yet, I have a hickey on my neck to prove it happened, and I haven’t stopped touching it or staring at it.

  Sloane: WHAT? I gave you a hickey? When?

  Malone: Just kidding. But seriously, I feel the same, and I’d like to speed up time and have it be tonight so I can see you again.

  Sloane: I think if anyone ever figures out time travel, it will be the infatuated.

  Malone: Is that you?

  Sloane: Oh, I’m definitely infatuated.

  Malone: I can’t wait to kiss you and taste the infatuation on your lips. Until then, would you like Vietnamese, Japanese, sushi, or Italian?

  Sloane: Vietnamese. It’s my favorite.

  Malone: See you at seven.

  Sloane: Counting the minutes.

  Malone: The seconds.

  7

  Malone

  I wait outside the restaurant, trying once again to make heads or tails of my desire to see this woman. She’s been on my mind all day. I thought about her at work, between patients. Hell, she crossed my mind when I went to my second-round job interview at the new practice, the one that looks incredibly promising.

  Images of Sloane flitted through my head as I toured the clinic with Doug Fredericksen, the guy who owns and runs it. I had to shut off the faucet of thoughts when we went out to lunch to discuss the possibilities of working together. He told me he admires my work and could see me on a fast track to becoming a junior partner. It sounds like it could be a perfect job and the ideal next step in my burgeoning career.

  Becoming a partner soon would be a dream. Both mine and the one my dad had, which he didn’t have a chance to fulfill. The one I want to make come true for him since he’s gone. I’ve talked with a lot of clinics recently, and I’ve been looking for the right opportunity to take the next step in my career. This chance with Doug could put me on the path to be the kind of vet I want to be, the kind of vet my father was before he died too young.

  I want to do all the things he wasn’t able to do. That’s my tribute to him.

  And that’s why I’m so damn glad the new job looks like it’ll happen.

  I check my watch. It’s nearly seven, and I’m waiting outside this restaurant in Gramercy Park. I’ll see her any second, and the best part is, I won’t have to war with my own thoughts. I’ll be free to focus on her all night.

  She’s all that can possibly occupy my mind when she gets out of the cab a few minutes later, looking radiant and sexy in a green dress that clings to her delicious figure, a little black purse swinging from her hand. She wears a grin that says she’s been counting down the hours too. For a moment, I wonder how two people can connect this deeply, this quickly?

  It happened so fast. So unexpectedly.

  I didn’t go to last night’s event looking to meet someone. I went with some colleagues to show support. And there she was, and I couldn’t look away.

  Lust at first look? Maybe. But then we talked. Then, it felt like it could be more.

  As she strides up to me, her heels clicking on the sidewalk, those thoughts of what if, and what’s next, and what’s wrong crumble to dust. I reach for her, loop a hand through her hair, and drop my mouth to hers. I claim her lips, capturing her in a hungry, greedy kiss. I can taste that she’s been wanting to kiss me too with the same fevered need.

  This kiss? It tastes exactly like infatuation. It tastes exactly like I feel, and it goes to my heart.

  We break the kiss, and in my best deadpan style, I offer, “Want to eat noodles or spend the whole night kissing in front of the restaurant?”

  She tap-dances her fingers up my shirt. “I’m going to need fuel to kiss you all night.”

  I drop my hand to her delicious ass and squeeze it. “Let’s fuel you up, then, woman.”

  We head inside, grab a table, and order, thanking the waiter. She spreads her napkin across her lap. “How old are you?”

  I crack up at the bluntness of her question. “Do I look old?”

  She shakes her head. “Not really. Not a day over fifty, I’d say.”

  I lift my brows. “Wow. The Botox is working, then, since I’m sixty.”

  She holds up her hands in shock. “Whoa. I want the name of your plastic surgeon.”

  “You’ll have to meet him in a back alley.”

  “Only takes cash?”

  “Only the best do.” I clear my throat. “I’m twenty-eight.”

  She lifts her chin a little proudly as she says, “I’m twenty-two.”

  “I had a feeling. Since you said you recently graduated. Is twenty-eight an acceptable age for you to date?”

  She taps her jaw as if she’s thinking deeply on it. “Hmm. I suppose so. Actually, I don’t think the age difference is anything. I was just curious.”

  Then we enjoy the best second date in the history of dates. She tells me she already heard from an executive at one of the rescues, who she met last night, and she’s hopeful it’ll turn into something good. She’s longed to work in animal rescue most of her life—it’s her calling, she says.

  I tell her that I had a good second meeting too, so we toast to new opportunities.

  After dinner, we walk again, strolling through the night, and it already feels like this could be our thing, that we could be one of those pairs of New York City lovers who wander through the city, stopping in front of shops, sneaking kisses, slipping hands into back pockets, touching, brushing.

  I don’t know how anyone could be so lucky as to meet somebody they share this fast and easy a connection with. But we do. With Sloane it feels like there are no games, there are no charades—we are just two people who like each other and who aren’t afraid to say so.

  I push those nagging thoughts away, stealing as many kisses as I can, so many they become countless, till we stop in Madison Square Park. We grab a bench and resume kissing like crazy. When it turns into the kind of make-out session where she’s straddling me, her back arching, her breath coming fast, I recklessly want it to continue and realistically know it must end.

  I slow us down, breaking the kiss.

  She looks at me, questions in her eyes, her breath coming rapidly. “Are you sure you’re okay taking it slow?”

  I stroke her cheek. “Sweetheart, y
ou are worth waiting for.”

  And the thing is, I know deep down that she is. I’ll wait for her as long as I have to.

  8

  Sloane

  On our third date, he takes me to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, and we stroll among the flowers, inhaling the scents of tulips and honeysuckle.

  As we wander, we do more of what we’ve done so far. We talk, and we kiss, and we get to know each other. I learn more about his family and how close he is with his twin sister, and he tells me about his friends. I tell him, too, about Piper.

  “And what about your parents? Are you close with them?” he asks.

  I make a see-sawing gesture. “Mostly. I’m definitely close with my mom since she did the lion’s share of raising me. My father and I have a decent relationship. Funny thing—he’s a vet,” I tell him, then I adopt a serious tone. “Whatever would Freud say?”

  He laughs, tugging me close. “Let’s hope Freud would have nothing to say on the topic.”

  “That’s one of my life’s great ambitions—to be uninteresting to Freud.”

  “An admirable goal.”

  We talk about dreams and the things we want to do in life as we meander through the flowers. I’m enjoying everything about this man. Something feels so incredibly right when we’re together.

  The next evening, we go to a beer-tasting event in Soho, and I confirm my expectations. “Never liked beer. Never will.”

  “But you gave it the old college try.”

  When we leave the brewery, I spot a gigantic black-and-white cat lounging on the sidewalk. I survey the block for a person. “Do you think he’s lost?”

  “He might be,” Malone says. We walk over to the cat and the big guy is quite friendly. I reach down and look at his tag. His name is Applejack. “We should call Applejack’s owners. He probably shouldn’t be outside. Not in Soho at night.”

  Malone nods as I reach for my phone then dial the number. “Hey. I’m outside the Soho Craft Brewery, and your cat is here.” I wait. “Sure, I’ll see you in a minute.”

  Malone bends down, picks up the cat, and holds him.

  “They’re coming over in a minute to get him,” I say.

  “Look at you, Sloane. You’re a cat superhero.”

  I point to Malone, soothing the feline. “And you’re a cat whisperer. Cats run from most people. This cat runs to you.”

  “It’s my natural animal attraction.”

  “It seems to work on me too.”

  A minute later, Applejack’s person runs up to us, relieved to have found her cat. “Don’t you escape again,” the black-haired woman says to the cat, then thanks us profusely. “I swear he should have been named Houdini.”

  “It’s never too late to change his name,” Malone calls after her.

  As we walk in the other direction, he glances behind us then furrows his brow. “Are you sure you really want to do publicity for a shelter?”

  I shoot him a curious look. “Why would you ask me that? It’s something I’ve always wanted to do—work with rescues, getting them as much awareness and support as I can.”

  Malone hums as if he’s thinking. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea. But I could see you doing more. I could see you running your own rescue someday. I think it suits you. I think it’s exactly a thing you would do.”

  “Because we called Applejack’s owner?”

  “Yes, but also because it’s what you want. It’s your heart. Your passion.”

  “You think?”

  “You’d be amazing at it. Mark my words. Someday you’ll do it.”

  The next night, we go to a piano bar, and we listen to aspiring singers take their turn at the mic. Malone even sings along quietly as we watch. His voice mesmerizes, just the same as it did the first night.

  I grab his sleeve. “Hey, I think you should be a singer.”

  He coughs. “I have a job. I’m happy as a vet.”

  “I don’t mean as a new job. As something you do for fun, because you love it. You’re constantly singing, always humming under your breath.”

  He laughs it off. “I have no aspirations to be Michael Bublé.”

  “But you don’t have to make money at it,” I say. “You don’t have to record albums. Do it because it’s something that you enjoy. Do it because it’s an adventure.”

  He arches a brow. “An adventure, you say?”

  I nod, excitement wiggling around in me. I can tell this idea is taking flight in him. “You have a real passion and a real gift. Don’t let it pass you by. Singing doesn’t have to be everything. But maybe it can be just enough to be your adventure.”

  He drops his forehead against mine. “Being with you is an adventure,” he murmurs.

  “And I’m glad I followed its path.”

  We continue our adventures over the next few nights, and during the days, I interview at the rescues. But I keep thinking about Malone’s idea.

  Start a rescue.

  Should I?

  Am I too young to do that?

  What would I need before I could truly go out on my own?

  It’s not only the rescue idea that won’t stay quiet. I’m constantly thinking of both the man and the possibilities that our life together might hold.

  Especially the naked ones.

  Because we make a plan—after our seventh date, I’m going to his place.

  9

  Malone

  I walk through the clinic with Doug, who beams and says, “Malone, I feel like we could work well together.”

  “I do too, sir.”

  I want to pat myself on the back. I’m glad that he likes my work so far. I can see myself here, building a career and a practice. It’s exactly the type of place where I’ve always wanted to work. It’s exactly the type of clinic where my father wanted to work.

  As Doug outlines the opportunities and how he sees me moving up over time with an eye to taking on a partnership role, I’m more certain than ever that this job is everything I could want.

  When we head into his office, before he even sits down at the desk, he turns around and says, “You know what? I’m not going to keep you in suspense. You’re perfect for this job. I’d like to just go ahead and offer it to you.”

  He extends a hand, and I shake it. “I accept. I’m thrilled.”

  Thrilled is an understatement. I’m beaming inside.

  I sit across from him at his desk as I sign the contract. As we review the final details, my eyes land on a picture frame, and it’s like I’m seeing double. As if I’ve slipped into another dimension. Maybe I have been thinking of her too much. Maybe she’s etched into my brain. Because how on earth could her photo be here in his office?

  My brain slows. The cogs turn sluggish. Everything is a blur as I try to process the stunning image of Sloane staring at me. I stare right back at her, unable to tear my eyes away.

  “How does that sound to you?”

  I blink, having no clue what Doug just said. Somehow, I manage to pull my gaze away from the optical illusion—it must be—on his desk. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”

  He smiles, nods at the photo. “She’s quite pretty, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “That’s my daughter, so don’t get any ideas.” He says it playfully, adding a wink, like that softens the warning. But the teasing note only underscores the words. He means what he said.

  I swallow past a thousand razor blades in my throat. I need to be certain. “That’s your daughter?”

  Please say no. Say this is a massive misunderstanding. Say you’re kidding.

  There’s no way that Sloane Elizabeth is the daughter of the man who’s just offered me the job opportunity of a lifetime.

  He sighs happily and picks up the photo. “That’s my darling daughter, Sloane. She’s a great girl. You’ll meet her someday. I’m sure you’ll love her.”

  The trouble is, I’m pretty sure I already do.

  * * *

  My heart is numb. I’
m going to have to end the most wonderful relationship I’ve ever had before it’s even truly begun.

  That night when I see her, we don’t kiss when she gets out of the cab. I tackle it right away. “That job I’ve been interviewing for? It’s with your father.”

  Her jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I only wish I were.”

  She purses her lips. “So what does this mean?” Her voice trembles, thick with tears.

  And then I can’t resist her. I haul her in for one last kiss. A deep, hungry, needy kiss. A kiss that says I’m sorry. A kiss that says We can’t be together. A kiss that says I wish everything was different.

  When I break the kiss, I stroke my fingers down her cheek. “Sloane, I’ve accepted the job. I can’t be involved with my boss’s daughter.”

  She nods, taking it on the chin, understanding completely. “That would be a mistake.”

  “I hope you know I’ll always look back on this last week with—”

  She holds up her hand, shakes her head. “Don’t say it. I have to go.”

  I let her leave, with her voice breaking, her shoulders sagging.