“But you hated me.” There is no way he wanted to kiss me this entire time. He didn’t want to be in the same room as me, let alone stick his tongue in my mouth.
“You hated me. You made it clear from the beginning you thought I was an entitled asshole,” he corrects me. “I’d be lying if I said I liked you all the time at the beginning, but things have changed over this last month. I consider you to be one of my friends.”
“Friends?” I laugh as I rock my hips against the bulge that hasn’t gone down at all. “You treat all your friends like this?”
“No,” he says, but he’s not laughing. “I don’t.”
“Good.” I lean in and touch my lips to his, unable to bite back my smile that Quinton Howard Junior likes me likes me. “I don’t either.”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He pulls his hands out of my sweatshirt before grabbing onto my butt and standing up, keeping me attached to him. “Now let’s go get snacks so I can see what this movie is about and sneak some more kisses.”
And just like that, this is no longer the first Halloween without my dad, but the first Halloween I have with Quinton.
And there’s kissing.
Lots and lots of kissing.
He may have filled the ache in my heart, but he also created a new one between my legs. But I’m okay with that.
Twenty-eight
I was this close to blowing off being an adult and spending the night at Quinton’s house last night when I remembered I had to meet with Mr. Mahler to look at venues and hopefully get the details needed so I can plan this event.
However, being an adult doesn’t mean I didn’t stay late and that Quinton didn’t wake up with a few hickeys on his neck this morning. I would normally never do that, but he’s Quinton and even though I’m not totally sure what’s going on between us, I’d be crazy not to try and find one way to tell the world that he was mine.
I pull my car into the historic Denver neighborhood where I’m meeting Mr. Mahler and feel out of place almost immediately. Where Quinton’s neighborhood is ridiculous and filled with mansions, I still don’t have a complex driving my Camry there. But here? It’s old money. It’s filled to the brim with people looking for reasons to look down their noses at me. Which is the exact reason I know Mr. Mahler is going to love it.
I don’t need my navigation to direct me to Fitz’s Mansion. Nestled deep in the heart of Denver, Fitz’s Mansion was built in the early 1900s, something that is apparent as soon as I pull up. Thankfully, I don’t think anyone will ever part ways with this architectural beauty to let someone else get their greedy modern hands on it. Without stepping foot on the property, you’re aware of how special it is just from looking out of your car window. The beautiful stone covering the exterior isn’t something you see anymore and neither is the ornate molding lining the tall windows and giant door. It isn’t huge by any means, but that only makes it better. Only the most exclusive clients can have events here. And although I have other venues lined up, my fingers are crossed that Mr. Mahler will want Fitz’s Mansion the second his old eyes land on it.
I’m walking up the stone-paved walkway when a Rolls-Royce turns onto the street. And even though I’m sure just about everyone in this neighborhood can afford one, Mr. Mahler is the only person who would be seen riding in one. The car comes to a stop and the driver steps out and opens the back door. Mr. Mahler climbs out, followed by the man I met at Quinton’s event. I panic for a moment as I struggle to remember his name, but thankfully it comes to me just before I run out of time.
“Mr. Mahler, Mr. Carlin,” I greet them.
An arrogant smile appears on Mr. Carlin’s face, framing his yellowing teeth. He looks more like a super villain than I’d care to admit, but at least I know I got his name right.
“Elliot, how are you, darling?” Mr. Mahler leans in and kisses my cheek.
Gross.
This man really needs a lesson in personal space and talking to employees.
“I’m well, thank you.” I suppress my shudder and start walking in step with him. His leathery skin somehow manages to seem even harsher beneath the bright Colorado sun. “Have you been to Fitz’s Mansion before?”
“Once,” he says as we step onto the patio that wraps around the building. “It was wonderful.”
“Yes, the Ramsey event, wasn’t it?” Mr. Carlin, clearly not one to be left out, adds. “That was a great event.”
I take their mutual fawning as a good sign.
I open the door, holding it open for both men as we walk into the classic opulence of old money.
The entryway alone is enough to take my breath away. The owners take pride in the preservation of this estate; they boast that all features are still the originals. From the dark cherry staircase to the wide crown molding to the tiles on the floor, it’s like stepping back in time—just with electricity and air-conditioning.
A door to the left opens and an older woman that I assume is Elizabeth Holding, the woman I’ve been speaking with for the past week, steps out to greet us. In a gray skirt suit with pearls resting at the base of her neck, Elizabeth is just how I imagined her. Her black hair is pulled up in a twist and her face is made-up in perfectly neutral tones. Even her closed-toed heels promise competence.
“Elliot? So nice to meet you.” She reaches out her hand to shake mine. I want to point out the appropriate greeting to Mr. Mahler, but don’t. He is in charge of my career, after all.
“It’s nice to
