by S. A. Wolfe
“Hey, Talia,” Dylan says with a friendly smile. “On your way to work?”
Before I can respond, Peyton leans over the handlebars and gets in my face. “Why are you still riding this heap of junk? I told you it’s unsafe.”
“And I told you I need the exercise.” Since he’s holding the bike solidly in place, I plant my feet on the ground and stand up. “It’s perfectly fine for getting to X, Y, and Z.”
“But it’s not safe for getting from point A to point B,” Peyton says tersely.
“Whoa.” Dylan chuckles. “What’s with you two?”
Peyton ignores Dylan and keeps his icy glare on me. I can’t say I don’t appreciate his alpha male protectiveness, and I did drag my bike through some extra hilly roads just to see him, but it’s also humiliating to have him talk to me like I’m a misbehaving child in front of Dylan.
“What’s the problem?” Dylan asks.
“I told her not to ride this thing. It’s a death trap.”
“Good move. Giving a woman orders is always a brilliant idea,” Dylan says.
“I like my bike. We get along fine. It gets me where I need to go.”
“This bike is falling apart, and it was made for city sidewalks, not country roads. You’re going to get hit by a car if you keep riding this piece of junk.”
We all look over as a large truck roars by. Three men in construction gear are sitting in the bed of the truck, and it passes with a friendly wave from the driver, whistles from the men in back, and three rapid-fire, short honks like “hello, toots.”
“That was for me. My great ass,” I tell Peyton, pointing to my rear.
I wave to the men, whom I don’t recognize.
“Nice,” he says without smiling.
“It’s the biking. It does wonders for my butt.”
“She’s got you there,” Dylan says.
“We’ll discuss this later.” He lets go of my handlebars but then maneuvers around the front wheel and grips my bike seat so I still can’t take off. “And why are you going in so early?”
“I’m catering Adam’s dinner party tonight.”
“That’s great,” Dylan chimes in. “New business. You’re the rock star of shrimp puffs and Talia’s tasty poppers.”
“Oh, shut up,” Peyton says to Dylan, then turns back to me as though he’s assessing how to broach this topic.
Dylan looks between us questioningly. I can tell he’s curious to know what’s going on, and Peyton is doing his best not to give away the secret I shared only with him.
“I’ll shuffle my schedule around tonight and put Greer on the floor so I can help you take the food and equipment to Knight’s place and help you out.”
Dylan cocks an eyebrow. “Dude, she has hired guns to do that. It’s a catering business.”
“He’s right,” I say. “I have a staff when I cater parties and events.”
“Fine. Is Aleska going to be there?”
“No. It’s not her job.” I don’t know where he’s going with these questions. It’s obvious he wants to say more, but he’s guarded in front of Dylan.
“All right.” His tone softens. “I’m going to finish my run. We can discuss this later.” He takes off in a slow jog, and I turn back to watch him run.
Dylan gives me a shrug, then bolts, catching up to Peyton. Within seconds, they’re sprinting again. They are beautiful runners to behold, but I’m really only watching Peyton’s long, muscular back as he disappears around the curve.
When I finally huff and puff my way to Swill, instead of thinking of the menu preparation ahead of me, I’m rewinding my moments with Peyton and playing them over and over in my head. The kisses, the way his body enveloped mine against his chest, his strong arms wrapped around me, protective and tender. When I get to the scenes in his bed, I hit pause and replay … what feels like thousands of times.
I’ve had enough partners to know what’s good or bad, and most were mediocre, at best. I’m not the first almost-bride who was willing to marry a man who could rarely give her an orgasm; women always think they can work on that part once they’re married and improve their sex life. Peyton doesn’t need any help. My face heats thinking about those orgasms.
When I walk into the restaurant, Peyton and Dylan have beaten me back and are standing at the bar, guzzling water out of beer pitchers. I blush as if my illicit thoughts are on display.
Peyton tips his chin at me, pauses for a beat, and then gives me a wicked grin. He knows I’m having dirty thoughts about him.
I wave nonchalantly and keep walking toward the kitchen. There’s absolutely no way I can stop and talk to them and keep a straight face.
Peyton
I FOLLOW HER INTO the kitchen, like the stalker of Talia I have become. Her hair has come undone from the bun she loosely twists on top of her head. The rubber tie is hanging at the end of a long strand of hair, and I snatch it off her bouncing waves.
She feels the tug and quickly turns around, so I come up short before her face can slam into my chest. There it is. Her face is flushed, like how she looked when she was in my bed. Like how she looked when I watched her walk into the restaurant moments ago with a secretive smile.
“Are you going to complain about my bike again?” She looks away as if she’s suddenly shy with me. That’s enough to tamp down my irrational thoughts about her interest in Adam Knight. He’s not here. I am. I get to see her like this.
Whether it’s only professional or she’s developed some feelings for the guy, I can’t say it doesn’t bother me. It bothers the hell out of me. I spent months with Flora and couldn’t care less if she admired another man or even what went on in that pretty head of hers. I was always more consumed with my own life. But I look at Talia and think she deserves better than what she’s had. Better than her ex. Better than the Wall Street guys who spend vacation time in Hera, looking for cute ass on the side. And she deserves better than me. That’s why I feel like a hypocrite. I want her cute ass, too, and I want her undivided attention, and I want a career outside of this sleepy, albeit charming, one-bar town.
Acknowledging my own hypocrisy doesn’t deter me, though.
“Let’s talk in my office,” I urge.
Bash and his cooks don’t seem to notice as Talia and I cross the kitchen to the hallway where our private offices are located.
“What’s up?” she asks as I close my office door behind her. When I turn the deadbolt, she raises an eyebrow at me. “Top secret?”
Her smile disarms me … again.
“It shouldn’t be, but you seem to want it that way. I like you, Madej. You’re growing on me. Since we’re both busy professionals with no social life, why don’t we spend more time together?”
She laughs. “More sex, you mean? I wouldn’t mind that. I’ll schedule you in.” Our flirting is easy and natural.
“You have this sweet disposition, and then you say things like that.” I move toward her and cup her chin with one hand. “I’m all for more sex, but I also want to go out with you. Not that there’s any place to go to in this town, other than here or the diner. But we could go to a restaurant in Woodstock or Kingston. Maybe a movie. Something other than being at Swill all the time.”
Her smile disappears and her eyes narrow. “You’re serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. Why can’t we go out? Like regular people?”
“You mean like people who date? Like a couple?”
“Like people who are spending time together.”
“Because we’re not a couple. We’re not serious about each other. We can’t be. You said it yourself. You’re here to get Swill up and running, and then you want to get out so you can build bigger and better restaurants.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t say it like that. I’m not talking about serious stuff. Just a movie or something.” I stroke her cheek with my thumb, causing a rosy hue to wash across her face again. Her skin is soft. I tilt her chin up and lean in for a quick kiss, but once my mouth brushes against her
plump lower lip, I’m a goner and a simple peck is out of the question.
I really need a shower. I’m subjecting her to my after-workout stench, but she’s kissing me back.
I want more.
I snake my other hand around her waist to pull her closer as I explore her mouth with my tongue like it’s a first kiss. In fact, each time I’m with her, touch her, my mind and body react as though it’s the first time, the exciting moment that only happens once. Her response is just as eager, and if this kiss was happening anywhere but at work, it would go well beyond a kiss.
I was hard the minute she stepped into the office, but now I’m downright uncomfortable, and my gym shorts can’t conceal my erection. My whole body is alert with the close proximity of this woman. Suddenly, beer production and inventory seem unimportant, at least until I can get this woman’s undivided attention and have her think about me the way she’s focusing on Knight’s party.
I know I shouldn’t be jealous of her clients. She’s not jealous of the women on my staff or the female customers who flirt with me. I’m a salesman, so sometimes I flirt back. On a busy night, I make my rounds to each table and talk to everyone, lay on the charm and goodwill. Talia doesn’t bat an eyelash. In this case, she has a better grasp of separating business from pleasure.
But she has this one client who has me on edge. One client out of many. One man, a guy who happens to be good-looking, rich, and available. And she may think he sees her only as a caterer, another person he hires for his expensive lifestyle among the beautiful, wealthy set, but I see the way he looks at her. I see the way his eyes lock on her and watch her move across the room. I saw the way he looked at her at Norma’s house. I recognize this in him because I’m positive we share the same growing appreciation for Talia.
“Come over to my place tonight,” I say as plainly as possible, the way you’d ask a friend to have a drink after work.
“I think I will, MacKenzie.” She’s straightforward, no coyness. Typically, I would appreciate that. It’s exactly what we both signed on for, so why the fuck am I overthinking this?
“Are you all right?” She looks at me with concern.
“Fine. It’s that Knight guy. He rubs me the wrong way.”
“I don’t understand how you could dislike the man. He’s my client, and he’s your customer, don’t forget. And he’s a nice guy. He took a mud bath helping you catch Baby.”
“He was showing off for you. I don’t know if I really trust him.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “Trust him with what? He comes in here and drinks beer, eats food, and pays his bill.”
“You know what I’m referring to. I don’t trust him with you.”
“You sound jealous.”
“Maybe I am. A little. You’re cooking food for him in my kitchen. You’re going to be at a party, with him.”
“I’m serving him dumplings and wine. You and I meet for sex. What you and I have is a little bit more, don’t you think?”
“Nevertheless, watch yourself around him. He’s smooth, he’s clever, he’s manipulative.”
“Stop it.” She laughs again. “Someone might think you care too much, and you can’t afford that. Can you, MacKenzie?”
“Good point.”
She wriggles free from my grasp and unlocks the office door. “I’ll see you tonight after the party. It’ll be late. Should I come by here or your house?”
“I’ll be here. I’m always here.”
• • •
The next four hours are nothing short of torture as Talia crosses my path multiple times in the kitchen, by the bar when we both appear to get water, and then in the walk-in fridge, where I almost lose it.
I drop the tablet with our inventory lists when she bends over to retrieve a bin of lettuce. I curse, pick up the undamaged tablet off the rubber mat, and storm out of there before she can say anything.
It should have been a relief to see her pack her van and drive off, except I know her last stop will be Adam Knight’s. That’s all I’m thinking about. She’ll be working in his extravagant home, a home that’s perfectly situated in the town she loves. I can’t offer her this, I remind myself.
Once the woman of my hardcore sex fantasies leaves the building, my brain can finally concentrate on work issues. Before we open for dinner, I like to make the rounds to talk to the staff and do some quality checks.
As I leave my office, my sister approaches me in the hallway with a perplexed expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“Maybe nothing. Remember Harmony Davis?”
An image of Harmony from high school springs to mind. Tall and beautiful, dark brown skin, and rows of long, thin braids twisted together in thick bundles. She was a reserved but confident girl whose father was a well-known music producer, and she walked around school with no concern for gossipy girls or horny jocks. She did her own thing and chose to spend time with only a few, select people who tended to be the smart intellectuals at school, the ones who lived off the radar in terms of high school popularity. We moved in different circles, but when our paths would cross, she would always ask me interesting questions, and just when I thought she had no interest in me, she let me in.
Once.
“Harmony. I haven’t seen her in about a decade. Not since high school.”
“She’s at the bar. Asked to see you. Alone.” Greer shakes her head. “Maybe she just wants to say hello, but something about it felt odd.”
“Relax. I’ll go talk to her.” I leave Greer and walk into the dining room.
Harmony is standing at the bar, studying her surroundings, and something niggles at me. She’s still beautiful, but she looks more mature. Her long, thick hair has been replaced with a short pixie cut, which shows off her graceful neck.
Before I can say her name, she turns and looks at me with a mix of warm recognition and a certain mysteriousness that always enveloped Harmony when we were teenagers.
“Hello, Peyton,” she says with a small smile. Signature Harmony, kind to everyone, an enigma to everyone.
“Harmony.” I smile, and then we give each other a brief hug before stepping back. “You look the same. Except for the hair. You look great.”
“Looks like you cut yours, too.” She inspects me.
“It was a recent, spontaneous act. I went to the local barber, who’s like a thousand years old, and he couldn’t chop my hair off fast enough,” I say, becoming a little nervous with her staring at me. I reach up to touch my neck.
“It’s good to see you,” she says. “Can we sit somewhere and talk?”
“Of course. There’s more privacy back in my office, but it’s a mess. Or we can sit out here? The dining room will be empty for another hour.”
“I like it out here. Your restaurant is impressive.”
“It’s not just mine,” I say, leading her to one of the four-tops by a window, far enough away from the staff and Greer who are all suddenly thirsty, appearing at the bar to pour large glasses of water.
We sit, and I make sure my back is to our audience.
Harmony is dressed in a black suit with black heels, looking more like a corporate CEO than the teenage ballerina I remember. She crosses her long legs and relaxes against the back of her chair with perfectly straight posture.
“Last I remember, you moved to Seattle with your dad. What brought you back here?”
She looks down at the table and takes a dramatic breath. “This is tough … I’ve imagined this scene a million times, and each time I would concoct a good outcome and a bad one,” she says as she fiddles with the salt and pepper grinders.
My nerves tighten like twine being wound on a reel. I’m being drawn into the strange aura that has always surrounded Harmony. It’s neither welcoming nor frightening. It’s simply the way Harmony is—was—with everyone. People are drawn to her, wondering if she likes them or not.
Her serene face gives nothing away, but her hands flex and twitch as she fumbles with the salt and peppe
r shakers.
“Harmony, what’s going on?”
She pauses, then replaces the small grinders on the table. She looks at me with resignation that is a prerequisite to a confession. “I have a son. You’re his father. We have a son, Peyton.”
Everything in my brain stops. I can’t react or speak. Maybe it’s shock. I’m conflicted, a bizarre elation coupled with disbelief and anger.
I had sex with Harmony once back in our junior year of high school that could be best described as sweet. A one-time event, an extraordinary situation where the elusive Harmony spoke to me in a private conversation, away from the rest of the party. We ignored all the usual teenage angst and drama, the never-ending gossip, and we delved right into divulging some truths about ourselves. It was an open and honest discussion about our families, our problems with our parents’ expectations of us, our concerns over our impending college tours, and how tired we were of high school social politics. It was a confessional of sorts, a breaking of barriers, an aphrodisiac when you’re seventeen.
Then I walked her home to the brownstone where she lived with her father. He wasn’t home that evening, so Harmony invited me in. It was quiet with expensive furnishings, and it was like another world compared to my rowdy homelife with three brothers, a sister, and divorced parents.
Our teenage hormones led us to her bed for an hour of teenage passion and fumbling sex. I wasn’t inexperienced, but I wasn’t smooth, and the last thing on my mind was being clever in bed.
My one-track mind got what it needed, and I enjoyed Harmony’s company. It seemed mutual, and I assumed we’d hook up again, maybe date. It never came to that. Harmony passed me in the school hallways with only a brief smile or a curt hello. Then, a few weeks later, she and her father moved to Seattle, and we didn’t stay in contact.