Otherwise, I’m so busy I’m either here at the bakery, helping out my parents, or having long meetings at the bank trying to straighten out our financial mess with an advisor who’s worked for my dad since before I was born.
Then I go home late at night and collapse into bed, only to start all over again the next morning.
Talk about living in a sheltered little bubble. I’m the complete embodiment of it.
“Well. He sounds horrid.” Gina sniffs.
I hold back from rolling my eyes. My mother’s younger sister loves to rush to judgment. It’s one of her finer qualities, my mom always says. Her steadfast loyalty is always appreciated. And we work well together, despite her occasional moodiness and uneven temperament.
Of course, she could probably say the same about me, so . . .
“He wasn’t that bad.” Major understatement. No, Gage Emerson definitely isn’t horrid. Handsome, yes. Sexy, indeed he is. Confident to the point of smug, oh yeah.
I’ve always found confidence in a man attractive. I blame my father. He embodies all of those traits in a most handsome package.
“Do you forgive him?”
Blinking, I turn to find Gina studying me, her gaze shrewd. “What did you say?” I ask.
“What with the flowers and the card he sent you, do you now forgive this man who insulted our family? And why would he go so far and apologize like this? How long did you two talk?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Ten minutes?”
Her lips tighten to the point of almost completely disappearing from her face. How does she do that? “So a man you spoke to for ten minutes and treated you rudely sends you flowers that probably cost hundreds of dollars? I smell a rat.”
“You always do,” I joke with her, trying to lighten the moment, but she won’t have it.
Shaking her head, she rounds the counter and stands on the other side, sticking her face into the bouquet and breathing deep. “This is by far the most beautiful arrangement I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.” That was the truth, considering Gina used to create beautiful cakes for wedding receptions. We gave that up when I took over. I’d streamlined the business completely, something my aunt was very grateful for. She’d been working herself to the bone.
Now I guess it’s my turn.
“He’s just trying to impress me with his money,” I joke, making her smile. “Probably hoping I’ll fall to my knees and praise him for his lavish gifts.”
“Now that sounds like an interesting scenario,” a man’s voice said from behind her.
Gasping at the sound of the faintly familiar, velvety deep voice, I glance up to find Gage Emerson himself standing in the middle of the bakery, looking disgustingly gorgeous, clad in another one of those perfect suits he owns. The man dresses to perfection. And why didn’t I hear the bell ring over the door? “Oh my God,” I whisper, absolutely mortified. His suggestive tone said he found my words . . . titillating. Great.
And while we’re standing in the presence of my very overprotective and slightly angry aunt.
“I take it this is the rat?” she asks, making me groan inwardly.
“At your service, ma’am.” Gage goes to her, his hand outstretched. Gina eyes it warily, as if it was a snake that might strike her at any moment. “Gage Emerson, aka The Rat.”
She laughs and takes his hand, charmed. Just like that. It might not last, knowing my aunt, but come on . . . everyone seems to fall for him.
Why does her positive reaction rub me the wrong way? Why does Gage rub me the wrong way?
If I’m being honest with myself, I could get on board with him rubbing me the right way. And I don’t normally fall for smug assholes. I’m attracted to confident men, but there’s something about Gage I don’t like. His arrogance is over the top. He seems like he’d be bad for me. And I’ve never had a bad-boy fetish.
Not that he’s a bad boy, per se. But he’s definitely trouble. Trouble I don’t want.
Yeah, you do.
I’m arguing with my own self inside my head. Clearly, I’ve lost my mind. I don’t get it. I don’t get my reaction to him.
Correction. I don’t want to react to him, and I can’t seem to help myself.
Chapter Three
* * *
Gage
THE TWO WOMEN eye me carefully, the older woman—who I assume is Marina’s aunt—relaxing somewhat.
At least someone has a sense of humor around here. You could cut the tension in this cute little European-style bakery with a cake knife.
“How are you, Marina?” I walk toward the counter, noting how she grips the edge so tight she’s white-knuckling it. Do I make her that angry? Or maybe . . . that nervous?
I know she makes me nervous. She’s all I think about, which can’t be healthy.
For once, I really don’t give a damn.
“Good.” She lifts her chin, her expression neutral. Only her eyes give her away, a hint of nervousness fluttering in their depths. This woman standing before me is completely different from the one I first met a few nights ago. This version looks younger, sweeter. More like the woman in the photo on the Autumn Harvest website. Not quite as poised as the elegant siren luring me in with her dangerous smile and sweet voice. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“My conscience wouldn’t let me stay away. I had to seek you out and apologize for how I offended you.” I gesture toward the flowers that cost me a shit-ton of money. Cost doesn’t matter though, since I believe she’s worth it. Getting me an in with her father, her entire family?
Even more worth it. Plus, I can eventually write off the expense.
Christ, you’re a jackass.
I can’t even admit to myself that I really wanted to buy her those flowers. That the bright, colorful arrangement made me think of her. Hiding behind it in the hopes of getting an in with her father is only part of the reason I’m here.
Marina Knight. She’s the true reason I’m standing here worried I’m going to make a complete ass of myself.
“How did you find me?” she asks warily.
Now she probably thinks I’m a stalker. I can’t give away my source. Yet. Archer’s the guy I want to hook her with eventually. If I can’t charm her, I need to find another way to make her see me again. “I figured out who you were and put it all together.”
“Hmmm.” That’s her reply. She sounds like she doesn’t believe me.
Great. I wouldn’t believe me either.
“Do you like the flowers?” I ask when she still doesn’t say anything else.
“They’re beautiful,” she admits grudgingly, making me smile. She doesn’t return it, screws her lush mouth into a little scowl instead. “Thank you,” she mumbles.
“So.” I offer her my best, most humble smile in return. “Am I forgiven?”
“You think it’s that easy, Rat Boy? That you can just waltz in here and have yourself declared forgiven all because you threw your credit card at the most expensive flower shop on this street and bought the biggest arrangement they’ve got?” Her aunt snorts and shakes her head. “I don’t think so, young man.”
Raising my brows, my gaze meets Marina’s. Guess the aunt has no problem letting her opinion be known. “It was an honest mistake,” I say. “And well, you sort of jumped to conclusions, you have to admit.”
Marina’s expression hardens in an instant. Jesus, what is with me constantly saying the wrong thing to this woman? I’m usually a smooth-talking motherfucker—direct quote from Archer—and if anyone is an expert at that subject, it’s him. I put women at ease, I make them laugh, and if I’m lucky—on certain, especially rare occasions, at least lately—I get them to agree to come home with me.
“You’re two seconds from getting kicked out of here,” she whispers fiercely, her eyes shooting fire. Aimed right at me.
“Sorry! Shit.” I throw my hands up in front of me defensively, her aunt’s mutterings of “stupid Rat Boy” coming from somewhere behind not going unnoticed. “I just . . .
I’m sorry.”
Marina crosses her arms in front of her chest, the movement plumping up her breasts, drawing my attention. I can’t help it, I’m a guy and she has nice ones. She’s wearing a black T-shirt with AUTUMN HARVEST written across the front in elegant gold script, her long blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, minimal if any makeup. She looks tired. There are dark smudges under her eyes and her mouth is tight. “Go on,” she prompts.
Hell. I have to say more? Breaking out in a light sweat, I forge on. “I was rude. And I didn’t mean to offend you. I had no idea who you were—”
The aunt makes a harrumph noise, but I ignore her.
“—and my friend had to point out who exactly you were a few days later.” Stuffing my hands in my front pockets, I shuffle my feet, feeling all of about ten years old and having to confess everything I’d done wrong to my dad. Waiting for the inevitable punishment that was sure to come.
“Who’s your friend?” she asks, her voice curious.
What? No ‘you’re forgiven,’ or ‘thanks for the apology’? I’m boggled. And I may as well reveal my secret source. I have the distinct feeling she’s ready to tell me to get the hell out.
“Uh . . . Archer Bancroft.”
Her arms drop to her sides, curiosity written all over her pretty face. “I know Archer. Vaguely. He owns the Hush and Crave hotels, right?”
Slowly I nod, wondering at the sudden gleam in her eyes.
“So how do you know him?” she asks.
“Where you going with this, girly?” her aunt pipes up.
“Gina. Don’t you have a cake to check on?” Marina asks pointedly.
“Crap! I do. Oh my God, I hope it’s not burning. I’ll be back.” Aunt Gina gives me the evil eye as she passes by and pushes through the door I can only assume leads to the kitchen, disappearing in an instant.
“Sorry about that,” Marina says, taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly. “So do you mind telling me? How you know Archer Bancroft?”
Hmm. Someone wants something. I can see it in the way she’s looking at me. Like her question shouldn’t matter but it definitely does. I wonder what she wants from Archer? “We go way back,” I drawl. This could be fun, making her work for it.
“Really? So are you two close?”
Best friends since high school, but like I’m going to give her that info. Yet. “Close enough,” I say, purposefully vague.
“Hmm. You know, I had this idea I wanted to propose to him, and I keep forgetting to give him a call, I’ve been so busy. Maybe you can help me with that,” she says hopefully, her eyes wide, her expression open.
Is she serious? I can’t tell. But I haven’t even earned her full forgiveness yet. “I can help you with whatever you want.”
Her gaze narrows. “You say things like that, and it sounds sexual.”
Guess this attraction between us isn’t all one-sided. Good news. Just looking at her and I want to touch her. Run my fingers through her hair. Drop a soft kiss to her very kissable mouth. She might punch me if I try though. Can’t push her too hard. “I guess I can’t help but think of sex when I’m near you.”
Her mouth drops open. “Are you serious?”
Shit. Yep, there I went, pushing too hard like I can’t help myself. I need to change the subject quick. Most women who flirt with me have no problem talking about sex. This one acts like I just asked her to commit a crime. “So, what sort of idea were you thinking?”
Her expression instantly goes blank. “Like I’m going to tell you anything. I don’t even know you.”
Fine. She wants to play that way? I can play right back. “You want my help talking to Archer?”
She nods so subtly I can almost believe she didn’t do it. Almost.
“I need your forgiveness.”
“You’re forgiven,” she says automatically.
Meh. That was quick. And it really didn’t count since I know she didn’t mean it, but I’ll let it slide. “You can’t make me feel guilty about this anymore. What’s done is done.”
“Fine. Great. Works for me.” She releases another shaky breath. I think I make her uncomfortable. Perfect, because she makes me incredibly uncomfortable.
As in the I want her so much I feel like I’m going to lose it if I don’t touch her in the next five minutes kind of uncomfortable.
“I’ll need one more thing from you before I can make this happen,” I say quietly, trying to amp the anticipation. I’m dying to see her reaction when I tell her.
Marina rolls her eyes, sexy despite her irritation with me. Since when have I ever been excited by a woman’s irritation? I’m a sick bastard.
“Oh, come on. What more could you want?” She sounds completely put out. And clueless.
Well. I’m about to rock her world with one single word.
“You.”
Marina
“LISTEN, I’M NOT some whore you can buy and sell,” I say, immediately regretting my words. I sound completely over the top.
The look on his face shows he knows it. “That wasn’t what I was implying,” he says carefully. “I just . . . like you. I was hoping maybe we could see each other sometime.”
The man is insane. Gorgeous and confident and with a surprisingly good sense of humor, considering how deftly he handled crazy Gina, but he’s also a complete pain in my ass.
He has something I want though and I can’t believe I forgot. Connections: one I somehow missed, so shame on me. And that connection is Archer Bancroft: a transplant, not necessarily considered a local, but definitely a man who’s moved into the area within the last five years and done positive things to regenerate the economy. His hotel business is thriving; he’s provided lots of jobs and plenty of sales revenue. He’s solid, and his reputation is relatively golden, helped considerably since he settled down into a serious relationship. This community is small enough that everyone knows each other’s business, and Archer’s not shy about making a public statement.
He is definitely someone I want to do business with. I’ve had these new ideas bouncing around inside my brain, and I think he’s the perfect candidate for one of them. Well, his hotel is the perfect candidate. If I could get my aunt’s desserts into his restaurants, the extra exposure and revenue might help save the bakery.
And I exaggerated. I don’t know Archer. I know of him. I’ve met him a few times. We always exchange polite hellos when we see each other at social events, but that’s not very often considering I’m always working and rarely out. I just don’t have time.
That’s the extent of my so-called friendship with him. Whereas Gage really knows him. And even though I don’t trust him and know he wants to buy up my family’s property—including the bakery—I may as well use him while I can, right?
So yeah. I want him to get me an appointment so I can propose my idea to Archer.
Not with these sort of stipulations put on me though. Saying he wants me? That has cheap sexual thrill written all over it.
Sighing, I finally shake my head. “Of course. I know. It’s just . . . it’s been a long day. And then you send me the gorgeous flowers, and my Aunt Gina flipped out.”
“She’s quite the character,” he inserts politely.
“You’re too kind.” Smiling wryly, I continue on. “Then you show up begging for forgiveness and . . . you distracted me.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“When a girl needs to focus on working, her business, and nothing else—yes. It’s a very bad thing.” Deciding to hell with it, I move away from behind the counter and head toward the front door, flipping the sign from OPEN to CLOSED and turning the lock.
“Closing up?” he asks. He sounds incredulous.
“There are no customers in here besides you.” And it’s near enough to our actual closing time that it won’t make any difference.
“So are you going to answer me?” he asks, watching me move around the tiny café. His big body seems to eat up all the space, filling the air until all I can bre
athe and see is him. I do my best to avoid him, straightening chairs, picking up miscellaneous straw wrappers and crumpled napkins that still litter the tables. I’m trying to avoid answering him. Too full of nervous, restless energy he can no doubt pick up on.
What more could you want?
You.
I mean really. Who says that sort of thing? I feel like I’m in some bad, cheesy made-for-TV movie or something.
“What sort of answer are you looking for? You never really asked me a question,” I finally say, glancing out the corner of my eye to see him approaching.
“I did so.” He stops mere feet away from me. I can feel his body warmth reaching toward me and I’m tempted to lean in. Absorb all of that strength and warmth and gorgeousness. Though he looks utterly untouchable in the finely tailored suit that I can tell cost a fortune. “I asked if you wanted my help in getting you a chance to talk to Archer.”
“Of course I do,” I say, my voice quiet, my thoughts a confused jumble in my brain. What is going on here? Why am I even talking to him? Why do I want to be close to him? It makes no sense.
I can’t stand him.
Really. I can’t. I don’t care how good he looks in that suit or how his sexy hair probably needs a trim. How bad I want to run my fingers through it. Or maybe grab his tie and yank him closer, see what he might do if I reared up on tiptoe and kissed him . . .
“Then go out to dinner with me,” he suggests, his voice bold, his expression arrogant. The glint in his eyes, the curl of his lips . . . he’s too damn confident. Like he knows I won’t be able to resist him.
Irritating, because I’m this close to giving in and saying yes.
I slump my shoulders. Seconds ago I was imagining violently kissing him, and now I’m considering some other sort of violence toward him—like bodily harm. He infuriates me, yet he interests me. Usually if I’m interested in a guy, it’s because I like him. I don’t want to smack him upside the head.
“You’re going to force me to go out to dinner with you and in return you’ll help me arrange an appointment with Archer Bancroft?” I laugh though I find no humor in his suggestion. I might find it . . . arousing. Which is wrong on so many levels I lose count.