Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel

by Erin St. Charles

  I throw off my bed covers, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and get to my feet. Then I wobble on weak legs, hissing at the sensation of strained groin muscles, as I stumble to my en suite bath, piss like I'm a racehorse, then brush my teeth. I throw on my tank top from the previous night, then go looking for my pajama bottoms. I no sooner retrieve them when my door bell buzzes, and I notice the scent of coffee brewing. When I enter my tiny kitchen, I discover, to my horror, Lincoln Cooper standing in front of my open refrigerator, examining the contents.

  I study the hunk of man-meat standing in my kitchen. He straightens with a bright smile on his lips, his blond stubble framing his full lips, the mandala tattoo I’d traced the night before with my fingertips...and my tongue...on display. He’s wearing my apron and nothing else. On him, it looks like a gingham loincloth. Alarmed, since I know Hannah is on her way to my place, I run back to my bedroom to retrieve his pants.

  "Lincoln?" I say, waving the previous night’s jeans at him. "What are you still doing here?"

  He looks at me, a grin plastered across his face. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm making breakfast." His voice is chipper, his smile radiant. He cocks an eyebrow at me. His body is magnificent, all muscles and broad shoulders, the mandala tattoo beckoning me to touch it once more. He pulls me into his strong arms, making a mockery of my protests. He plants a kiss on my gaping open mouth and squeezes my ass before he slaps it. As freaked out as I am, I feel my juices begin to flow between my legs. His eyes flicker over my face. "You look beautiful this morning. What is on your head?"

  I reach up and find one of the bonnets I sleep in. "Um, I sleep in it," I say. I don’t remember putting it on last night, but I’m glad I did. “I’m expecting Hannah. Please put your pants on.”

  "It looks kind of like a beret. That must be Hannah now. Kind of early in the morning, isn’t it? Why don't you go answer your door?” He takes hisjeans and steps into them. He grins at me, then turns his attention back to the refrigerator. "Tell Hannah to go away, so we can eat, and I can get back in that tight little snatch of yours."

  My face heats with embarrassment. My libido stands up and takes notice at his words. My brain struggles to keep the rest of me in check.

  Lincoln is here. Hannah is here. This is not what I planned.

  "I don’t want Hannah to find you here,” I say.

  He frowns. "Why not?" he asks.

  "Um..." I say, not sure how to answer that question. "Because…"

  He raises his eyebrow even further, and his face is alight with humor. As ludicrous as he looks in my apron, he also looks kind of hot. "She's my best friend," I say, like that explains everything.

  "So?" he says, clearly not getting the importance.

  "I thought we agreed to keep our relationship on the down low," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. I am annoyed.

  "Not really," he says. "You said that's what you wanted. I never agreed to it."

  I make a sound that is half scoff, half sputter of disbelief. "Seriously?"

  He chuckles, the irritating man. There is a knock at the front door, and I can feel my eyes stretching.

  "Aren't you going to get that?" he asks lightly.

  "Not until you go in the other room," I say

  I close the refrigerator door, then steer him toward the bedroom. The big bastard laughs at my attempts to move him. Pushing him is like pushing at a brick wall.

  "Can you please put more clothes on?" I plead in a whisper-yell as I push him through the bedroom door. The big bastard laughs at me again, but allows himself to be manhandled. I slam the door behind him.

  I collect myself, then head for the front door. On my way there, I see Lincoln's giant loafers between my coffee table and loveseat. I kick them under the loveseat, then answer the door.

  And there stands Hannah on my threshold. "Hi," I wave.

  "Hey, girl," she says, stepping forward to enter the unit. I put a hand up to stop her.

  "I'm not dressed," I tell her hastily.

  "So?" she says, yanking the door. I hold on.

  "What the hell is wrong with you?" she asks, jiggling the door. "Let me in."

  "Um, I'll just meet you downstairs, okay?" I say. "Give me five minutes, okay?"

  Hannah squints at me, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've seen you buck ass naked before. What are you hiding?"

  You can fool the world but not your BFF, apparently. She is not buying me right now, yet I feel I must try to get her to leave before she and Lincoln see one another.

  Then, as if my mind conjures him, I hear a deep male voice behind me.

  "Good morning!" Lincoln exclaims. He reaches around me to shake Hannah's hand. "I'm Lincoln. I believe we met last night?"

  I whip around to find Lincoln standing behind me, his chest bare. I look him up and down and see his feet are also bare. In fact, the only thing he's wearing is last night’s jeans. Hannah pumps his hand with a gleam in her eye. She looks at him, then looks at me, then back at him.

  "Fancy meeting you here, Lincoln," she says. She breezes right past me and into the living room, closing the door behind her.

  "Ah, Lincoln was just leaving..." I say lamely. I'm nervous because I am really not in the mood to explain why my boss is here on a Saturday morning, half dressed.

  Hannah takes in Lincoln's physique. She openly admires him. He, in turn, flashes her a charming, toothy grin. I feel a twinge of jealousy at the meaningful looks they exchange. Suddenly, I'm not uncomfortable at having been found out by Hannah, I'm more about telling my single, horny friend to stop eye fucking my boss/hookup.

  "Was there something you wanted?" I ask Hannah, getting annoyed.

  Of course, we'd planned to hang out today, but none of those plans included ogling my temporary man. I glare at Hannah.

  "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" Hannah says, catching me in my lame-ass wool-gathering.

  "Hm? No! Come in!" I say, even though, obviously, she is in and the door is closed as we stand around awkwardly trying to not look at the shirtless beefcake that is my man-boss. Maybe I can play this off by saying Lincoln stopped by to talk about work, and somehow got mud splashed on his shoes and shirt only, and was using the master bedroom bath to clean up. Hey, it could happen. It's all in how I sell it.

  "Are you joining us for breakfast? Smack just got up," Lincoln says, pre-emptively ruining the lie I was about to spit out.

  I glare at him. In response, he gives me a shit-eating grin. Then he wraps an arm around my waist and plants a lingering kiss on my temple.

  "Smack?" Hannah frowns. “You hate that name.” Her eyes dart around and settle on the various points where Lincoln and I are connected.

  "He's kidding," I say, waving a hand dismissively and laughing nervously. Because this is not what we agreed to last night. I can see the gears whirring in my bestie's brain. She is making connections like a toddler playing with Tinker toys.

  "No wonder you were in such a hurry to get me home last night," Hannah opines. She has this look in her eye. Maybe more like a gleam, accompanied by a cocked eyebrow that assures me she'll be grilling me about this later. "And yes, I'd love to have breakfast with y'all."

  I make a side pout and furrow my eyebrows at her.

  Turns out, Lincoln makes a good breakfast. He makes waffles from scratch, and they are as light and fluffy as a cloud. He takes the frozen blueberries that have been living in my freezer for three months and makes a delicious compote, which he spreads over the waffles, then tops them with pats of butter and warmed maple syrup. Evidently, Lincoln can cook.

  We sit at my smallish kitchen table as Lincoln serves us. Hannah and I take the first bite simultaneously, eyes wide and moans bubbling from our chests. I close my eyes to savor the sensation. When I open my eyes again, Hannah makes what might be described as an O face. I wonder whether I am making a similar face, like I'm also having an orgasm. A food-gasm. A mouth-gasm.

  My eyelashes flutter, and I look up at Lincoln, who has a bemu
sed expression on his face.

  "Good?" he asks.

  "Yesssss," Hannah hisses.

  "Mmmrph," I grunt.

  "It's a recipe I've been working on for my new restaurant concept," he says, blue eyes twinkling. He looks pleased with himself. "I just need to get the funding..." he trails off, turning away from us.

  I think about Lincoln and Marcia Pittman, and the ongoing issue of his needing an investor. I think there are a few people I can approach for help, and I resolve to ask around this weekend.

  "Well, they are wonderful," Hannah enthuses.

  Lincoln leans against the kitchen sink, watching us. His expression is pensive. He is still shirtless, and wearing my little plaid apron, making him equal parts hot and ridiculous. But then, he's been slightly ridiculous in all the weeks I've known him. In turns grumpy, sarcastic, bossy, self-deprecating.

  He unties the apron with a frown on his face, and I realize he's worried about his business expansion.

  "I'm going to get going," he says. Suddenly, I don't want him to leave. I don't want to do that one-night-stand booty call thing with him. I don't want to forget we fooled around. I want to fool around some more with him, only this time, not kick him out of my condo the next morning. We could roll around in the bed the morning after and eat cold cereal while bingeing whatever is on my DVR.

  He leaves the kitchen, presumably for the bedroom and the rest of his clothes. I watch the doorway he's just exited, eyes wide. Hannah primly dabs syrup from the corner of her mouth.

  Then she mouths, "Is he a show-er or a grow-er?" And I worry that I know what vulgar thing she's mouthing. I glare in response.

  “I feel that I know what your O face looks like,” I deadpan. “And this is something I do not want to know.”

  She makes a "scoot" motion with her fingers, clearly indicating I should go after him. Then she ignores me to pop more of the wonderful waffle into her mouth while making more O faces in appreciation.

  I scramble to my feet and head for the bedroom, only to run smack into a wall of man chest, this time, covered in yesterday's t-shirt. He's poking at the screen of his phone in a gesture of simian curiosity.

  "Hey," I say, my eyes on his. Up close, it's so easy to lose myself in his blue, blue eyes. Skin-to-skin contact makes my libido re-awaken, and my nipples pebble under my thin tank top. I fold my arms over my chest. I feel ill at ease, awkward, unsure of how to manage this situation. My boss is making the walk of shame out of my condo, and I do not know what to do with myself.

  "You don't have to leave," I say, and this somehow makes things even more awkward. I like to be able to handle myself in almost every situation. I like to be able to get things done, no matter what. It's what my clients pay me for. This situation confuses me.

  His eyes hold a note of bemusement. He smiles. "Don't forget to pick up my dry cleaning."

  And then he leaves.

  Chapter Sixteen: Lincoln

  It is late afternoon several days after the evening at Samantha's house. I have not seen Samantha all week. I know she is avoiding me. Sooner or later, though, she will have to come into the office and face me.

  I've been replaying what Samantha said to me before we made love—had sex, knocked boots, or whatever—over and over in my mind. When she said we were a one-night stand, I knew immediately that was not going to work for me. The more I had of her, the more I would want. I could not imagine she didn't feel the same way.

  The sound of the door opening in the reception area has me on my feet in an instant. My heart pounds in my chest, thinking it must be Samantha, but I am let down to see Brad standing in the doorway. He's wearing his regular attire of jeans and a black t-shirt.

  Annoyed, I gape at him and sit back down with a huff.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask.

  "Trying to find out what happened to this guy I know who stood me up for our basketball game," he smirks and gives me a narrow-eyed, disapproving look.

  I frown, wondering what the hell he is talking about. What basketball game?

  "It's Wednesday," he says, cocking an eyebrow. "We play basketball at the club on Wednesdays?"

  I blink at him, confused. It couldn't be Wednesday, could it? But I realize it's true. I sigh and lean back in my office chair, tipping it backward and staring at the ceiling.

  "What's with you?" Brad demands, looking irritated.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, throwing the irritation right back at him.

  "You’ve been different since that gal of yours started working here," he accuses.

  "I have not!" I say.

  Brad gives me the stink eye, then another look that says "seriously?" He makes himself at home, sitting at a guest chair on the other side of my desk, and he manspreads.

  "I have," I concede. "She's got me all twisted up."

  "Tell Uncle Brad all about it," he says sarcastically.

  "I went to see her the other night," I admit. "She saw me with Marcia Pittman and got the wrong idea. Then she made a point of telling me she was going out drinking, and...well..."

  I let my words trail off.

  "Well?" he says, eyebrow cocked.

  "One thing led to another..."

  He throws his head back, lets out a loud bark of laughter, then makes a lewd gesture with his hands.

  "Awesome!" he says. "Get it out of your system, then move on, and everything will be cool."

  Samantha's words come back to me then, both the words she'd used to keep her distance from me, as well as the filthy words she'd used to seduce me. I was steadfast in my desire to continue the relationship outside of our business interests. But how to go about doing that?

  I am literally snapped out of my musings by a pair of snapping fingers. Brad leans over the desk and snaps his fingers mere inches from my nose, annoying the fuck out of me.

  "Why are you doing that?" I ask.

  "Because I'm not sure you're with me," he says. He continues smirking at me, which I do not much appreciate.

  "You know what?" he asks.

  I run a hand through my hair. "What?"

  "I think you really like this girl," he says, resuming his manspreading posture.

  I glare at Brad, wondering why I ever became friends with this clown.

  "You should let me help," he offers.

  I busy myself tidying my desk.

  Brad is a successful real estate investor. He is also good looking, and these two factors together mean he has no shortage of female companionship. Brad has often regaled me with stories of the women who threw themselves at him on the regular. I doubt Brad is the person to counsel me on winning Samantha. Brad was all about repelling women. So, I ignore him.

  Undeterred, Brad keeps talking.

  "What does she like to do?" he asks. I ignore him.

  Brad tries again. "What did she do before she started working here?"

  “She was in advertising...or something,” I say.

  "That’s it?" he asks. "You haven't Googled her?"

  I frown. "I haven’t gotten around to it.”

  As I sit and ponder, Brad takes initiative and turns my laptop around so that he can see it.

  "Hey!" I say.

  Before bending over the screen of the laptop, Brad jumps up to close the door between my office and the reception area. Then he silences me with a dismissive wave. "Don't worry, I won't mess up your porn bookmarks. What's her last name?"

  "Mack," I say. "Samantha Mack." I feel I'm intruding a bit into Smack's personal life, but I tell myself I'm not doing the intruding. My friend is snooping on my behalf. I try to avoid staring like an eager puppy as Brad's fingers fly over the keyboard. Instead, I open drawers, rifle through them as if they hold items of great interest, then close them again. I sort through the slips of paper and realize I somehow have a dry cleaning receipt on my desk.

  "Hm," Brad says, his brows furrowed. He looks up, cocks an eyebrow at me, and returns to looking at the screen.

  I ignore the obvious ploy to catch
my attention and go through the procedure of examining my desk again.

  "Huh!" Brad exclaims, presumably uncovering some startling information.

  I get up, holding the trash can I keep under my desk. My intention is to empty the trash into another can outside my office, using the action as an excuse to look at the laptop screen. As I pass Brad on the way to the reception area, I peer over his shoulder. I see Samantha on the screen wearing a stiff-looking navy suit with a white blouse. Her hair is long and straight. She is wearing a soft, professional smile. She looks pretty, in a junior-executive-next-door kind of way.

  Without looking up at me, but being clear that he knows I'm snooping right along with him, Brad turns around quickly and grins.

  "She’s even hotter in person,” Brad says.

  "Don't ogle her," I say tartly. I put my hand on the doorknob.

  "Hey, now!" Brad looks up at me, an expression of utter offense plastered over his features. "I'm here to help. I'm your buddy. Your wingman."

  I see the website Brad has up on the screen is for one of the city's top advertising agencies, Johnson and Mathers. The caption under the photo reads, Samantha Mack, Senior Account Director. I wonder what makes a woman with such a prestigious title at the top ad agency leave it behind to become a girl Friday.

  "It looks like she still works there," I say.

  "This is a cached version of their website," Brad says. "She was probably taken off the website some time ago, but while jobs may be temporary, the Internet is forever."

  "Remind me never to get on your bad side," I say, impressed by the level of Brad’s stealth.

  Next, Brad goes to Samantha's website. There is another picture of her, more casually dressed this time, as well as a list of all her services. Another page reveals a list of client testimonials. I see the Peter she was running errands for the day we met, as well as a local sports figure and several business executives. All the reviews are glowing, actually, gushing over how awesome she is. I realize she told me more than once I was not her only client, but until now, I've thought of her as being there for me exclusively. All things considered, I haven't exactly been considerate of her need to carve out enough time for her other clients. In fact, I'm a bit of a heel.