A Sip of You(89)

They were candid shots of my everyday activities—images of me walking alone, walking with Laird, running by the lakefront, juggling bags as I got out of my car, walking up the front steps to my building. They looked like they’d been taken on different days and at different times—I could see the varying amounts of snow in the background, indicating whoever was watching me and snapping away had been doing so on a regular basis.

I tried to remember if the envelope had been in the pile Beckett amassed during my days in Napa or if I’d pulled it from my mailbox and, if so, when. But I couldn’t remember at all. Maybe William had intended to tell me he was having me followed and this was how he’d planned to share it with me. But what was the point? To show he was having me watched even during the mundane, routine parts of my life? To demonstrate that he could keep tabs on me because he could? What the fuck. Didn’t he have anything better to spend his money on? And what did this prove anyway—other than he was a bit obsessive? I stuffed the photos back into the envelope and sighed. We were only going to work if this kind of shit stopped.

I arrived at Morrison Hotel only three minutes late for my meeting with Hutch, which had to be some kind of record for me. The restaurant was housed in an ordinary-looking, two-story, red brick store front. Morrison Hotel was arched across the front window in big white letters drop-shadowed in red. I stepped inside and squinted slightly until my eyes adjusted to the dark. It was small and intimate, and I had a view of the entire layout from the entrance. It appeared empty, but I could hear voices and sounds coming from the kitchen, which I could see was in the back.

I studied the sleek, modern lines. The exterior of the building didn’t suggest the interior at all. The floors were stone throughout and the tables were polished dark wood. Some had already been set in preparation for dinner with crisp white tablecloths and wine glasses. Tables lined either side of the center aisle framed on one side by plush banquettes and by simple metal and cushioned navy chairs on the other. The ceiling, ornamented with wooden and metal arches, was open, and sleek industrial lighting spotlighted the tables, while circular fixtures gave the entire restaurant a soft glow.

I had only been standing in the entrance for a moment when a leggy brunette in a tight black skirt and a white blouse walked toward me. “You must be Catherine Kelly,” she said, heels clicking on the stone as she crossed the restaurant.

“Yes.” I still had my hands in my pockets to keep them warm, but I took one out and she shook it. “I’m here to see Hutch Morrison.”

“He’s waiting for you. I’ll take your coat.”

I wasn’t quite ready to give up the warmth of my coat, but I shrugged it off and let her hang it on an antique coat rack near the door. She led me into the restaurant, and I figured she was taking me back to the kitchen to meet Hutch. But as my gaze swept the room, my spine began to tingle, and when we neared a booth that had been hidden from the entrance by a dark blue partition, I knew right away the man seated there was Hutch Morrison. He looked exactly like his picture—cocky, confident, and sexy as hell. He was blond, tan—interesting since it was deep winter in Chicago—and heavily inked. As I neared, he gave me a slow, sexy smile, which made my heart thunk in my chest. For a moment I was a bit dazed.

Hutch stood, unfolding his long, lean body and easing to a standing position right in front of me. And then it struck me why I was reacting to him so strongly: he reminded me of Jace. They were about the same height, and had a similar build and coloring. I might be with a tall, dark, and handsome man now, but blond and ripped had always been my type. Jace’s hair had been naturally blond, and Hutch’s looked more light brown with blond streaks from the sun, but the two men really did bear a resemblance. Of course, with all the tattoos, Hutch looked a whole lot edgier and more than a little dangerous. He wore a close-fit black v-neck t-shirt, and I noted the tats peeking out on his upper chest.

I took in his corded, defined arms, also covered in tattoos. I could imagine those arms braced on either side of a woman as he knelt above her in bed. I took a shaky breath and tried to banish the image before I looked too closely and had to admit the woman I pictured him pleasuring was me.

“Thank you, Madison,” he said, dismissing the woman. His eyes never left my face. “Miss Catherine Kelly?” His voice was the same one I remembered from the phone, slow and soft. The way he said my name, in that Southern accent, was completely disarming.

“Hi,” I said. Hi? That was so not the way I began business meetings. If Beckett were here he’d be sniggering already. “I mean, yes. I’m Catherine. You must be Mr. Morrison.”