Julie James - About That Night

It was a mistake he would not be repeating. At least, not for a long, long time.

But there was an upside: he was awesome at noncommitment. Casual flings? He rocked that scene. Sex? He sure as hell had never had any complaints. So from now on, he was going to stay in his lane. Do what he did best. Trysts, flirtations, seductions, no-holds-barred monkey sex, it was all on the table. But any feelings deeper than a contented afterglow were out.

Just then, Dex popped his head into the office. “Thought you might be in here,” he said, stepping into the room.

Kyle held up his glass. “Came in for a refill. Figured it’s better than fighting through the crowd out there.”

“Is the party too much?”

Kyle pushed away from his desk and headed toward the door. Maybe the party was a little much, but he knew Dex meant well. “Not at all,” he fibbed with an easy grin. “The party’s just what I needed.”

“What do you think your friends at the U.S. Attorney’s Office would say if they got word of this?” Dex asked with a chuckle.

“Hey, it’s called home detention. I’m in my home, aren’t I?” And as long as he was abiding by the terms of his supervised release, he didn’t give a rat’s ass what the U.S. Attorney’s Office thought. In three days, he would be free and clear of them.

“Speaking of your friends…Selene Marquez just got here,” Dex said. “She’s asking about you.”

“Is she now?” Kyle knew Selene well—quite well. She was twenty-five years old, was a Chicago-based fashion model who did local work while trying to break into the New York scene, and had legs that reached the sky. Pre-Daniela, he and Selene had hooked up occasionally and had always had a good time.

“Maybe I should go say hello. Be the good host and all.” Kyle raised a curious eyebrow. “How does she look?”

“Well, if I were a sex-deprived ex-con who’d been locked in prison for the last four months, I’d say she looked pretty damn good.” Dex thunked his head. “Oh…wait.”

“That’s real funny, dude. Making jokes about a place where I lived in perpetual fear that I was going to get shanked.”

Dex’s expression changed, and he looked instantly chagrined. “Shit, I’m an ass. I shouldn’t have said…” he paused, noticing Kyle’s smile. “And…you’re totally messing with me, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Now, as an ex-con who’s been locked in prison for the last four months, I think I’ll see for myself how Selene looks.” Kyle grabbed Dex’s shoulder on the way out. “Thanks, Dex. For everything. I won’t forget it.”

Dex nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. They’d been friends since college, and nothing further needed to be said. “Any time.”

Kyle left the office and worked his way through the crowd. He found Selene in the foyer by the front door, looking spectacular in a silver minidress and three-inch heels.

She smiled when she saw Kyle approaching. “This is some party.”

Kyle’s eyes skimmed over her. “That’s some dress.”

“Thanks, I wore it especially.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a husky whisper. “Maybe later, I can show you what’s underneath it.” She slid past him, her hand brushing suggestively against his, and headed into the party.

Kyle looked over his shoulder, watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.

This was how things should be. Simple. Easy. No messy feelings or entanglements.

He may not have figured everything out since getting out of prison, but he at least knew that much.

RYLANN HAD NEARLY finished unpacking her suitcases before she realized that she’d been hanging her clothes in only half of the closet.

Clearly, her subconscious needed to get with the program.

Her new Chicago apartment came with exactly one of everything: one bedroom, one den, one walk-in closet, one parking space, one set of dishes, one toothbrush, and, most important, one owner. There was no other half.

She grabbed several of her suits off the top rack and hung them in the empty side of the closet. Then she thought they looked sad and pathetic all by themselves, so she stuffed some sweaters on the rack above them. Then her yoga pants and workout gear.

Still not enough.

She hurried back into her bedroom, where a suitcase lay open on the queen bed, and pulled out two black cocktail dresses that were her standard attire at work-related evening events. Back in San Francisco, she’d been active in the California bar association—she’d even served on the ethics committee—and as part of that she’d often attended cocktail parties and dinners with the movers and shakers of the city’s legal community. As one of San Francisco’s assistant U.S. attorneys—prosecutors who handled federal crimes and were considered to be among the most elite trial lawyers in the criminal justice system—it was a circle she had moved comfortably in.

But she was finding new circles these days. That was, after all, what this move to Chicago was about.

Rylann hung the cocktail dresses on a rack next to her suits and stepped back to survey the results. With the eclectic mix of sweaters, suits, workout clothes, and dresses, it wasn’t the most organized closet she’d ever seen, but it would do.

Twenty minutes ago, there’d been a brief moment in her unpacking when she’d faltered a bit. She’d stumbled upon the dress, the scarlet V-neck dress she’d been wearing on the night of The Proposal That Never Was, a dress that she probably should’ve burned for its bad karma except for the fact that it made her chest look a full size bigger. Bad karma or not, that was a pretty magical dress.

Besides, Rylann doubted that Jon, her ex-boyfriend, ever got misty-eyed in his Rome apartment over the clothes he wore on their last night as a couple, so why should she? In fact, given their complete lack of contact over the last five months, she’d hazard a guess that he didn’t even remember what he’d been wearing.

Rylann paused, suddenly realizing that she didn’t remember what he’d been wearing, either.

Yes. Progress.

She had a six-month plan to get over her ex and was pleased to see that she was on schedule. Actually, she was ahead of schedule—she’d slotted in two days for a temporary relapse after her move to Chicago, but so far she appeared to be doing just fine.

Dark gray suit, light blue shirt, the striped tie she’d bought him “just because” the day after they’d moved in together.

Damn. She did remember what he’d worn that night.

Per her six-month plan, she was supposed to be forgetting details like these. The way that same lock of hair stuck out from the back of his head every morning. The gold flecks in his hazel eyes. How he’d squirmed in his seat when he’d said he didn’t know if he wanted to get married.

Actually, she’d probably remember that particular detail for a long time.

They were having dinner at Jardiniere, a romantic restaurant in downtown San Francisco. Jon had planned the dinner as a surprise, not giving her any clues. But when they’d been seated and he’d ordered a bottle of Cristal champagne, she’d known. True, they both enjoyed wine, and had bought nice bottles of wine and champagne in the past, but Cristal went beyond their usual splurge. Which could only mean one thing.

He was going to propose.

Perfect timing , had been Rylann’s first thought. It was September, which meant she’d have nine months to plan a June wedding. Not that she particularly cared about June, but there were work issues to think about: two of the female assistant U.S. attorneys in her office had just sprung the news that they were pregnant and planned to be off on maternity leave until May. If she and Jon got married in June, after the other AUSAs returned to the office, she’d be able to take two full weeks off for her honeymoon without feeling guilty about sticking someone else with the extra caseload.