Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel

by Erin St. Charles

  "So, tell me about Cooper's," she says conversationally. "I've seen their locations. It seems like they been around forever."

  "They're a family-owned business," I tell her. "Lincoln's grandparents founded it 50 years ago. The chain has 53 locations. Link wants to create a casual brunch type of concept."

  "Link?" she asks, cocking a well-manicured eyebrow. I feel my face going hot with embarrassment.

  "Everyone calls him that," I say. I'm a little uncomfortable with this. I don't think I'm being overly familiar...am I?

  "Interesting," Tamara says. She opens the browser on her phone and pulls up the restaurant's website. "Has Link approached other investors?"

  She puts special emphasis on "Link," her eyes boring into mine like she knows all my secrets.

  "I believe he's talked to a few," I say. "Most recently, Marcia Pittman. Do you know her?"

  Tamara rolls her eyes, her eyebrow hitching up again. "Everyone knows Marcia Pittman."

  We’re close enough to each other that I can see where she goes with her browser. Under the "about" link, she finds Lincoln's photo. The eyebrow hitches again, and I start to wonder whether it might touch her hairline.

  "Sharp-looking dude," she says. "I can see why Marcia Pittman was interested."

  I narrow my eyes at my friend. I pinch my eyebrows and wonder if she's implying what I think she's implying.

  "Marcia has a bit of a reputation in equity circles here in town."

  She settles back in the seat slightly and looks at me. Have I mentioned Tamara also has a law degree from Southern Methodist University? She is every bit the shark you might imagine someone with her credentials to be. I decide to try steering the conversation in another direction.

  "Anyway, he's looking for investors to help him realize the dream of a brunch concept," I say. "The idea is to minimize downtime for the Cooper's brand assets. The “Linc's" brand locations would be next-door to the Cooper's locations, similar to how Corner Bakery is often co-located with Maggiano's."

  Tamara nods thoughtfully. She starts to ask another question when Lincoln walks up to our table accompanied by a trendily dressed, sleekly coiffed, young, brunette. Her blue-black hair is so shiny that it reminds me of the iridescent black of a grackle’s feathers. She favors us with a dazzling smile, revealing rows of orthodontially-assisted perfect teeth. She places a hand on Lincoln's arm and gives it a gentle squeeze, no doubt because she can't help but test the firmness of the bicep under his suit jacket.

  I've been there too, sister, I think. To be close to Lincoln Cooper is to want to grope him.

  Tamara and I get to our feet to greet Lincoln, and I'm aware of the fact that I have eaten off my lipstick. My skirt has wrinkles, and as I stand, I wobble ever-so-slightly on my tall shoes, then introduce Lincoln and Tamara. Pleasantries are exchanged around the table, but instead of skedaddling, the hostess continues to grab Lincoln's arm like she just jumped off a sinking ship and he's the last available wooden door.

  Lincoln, of course, does nothing to ameliorate this state of affairs as he looks good enough to eat. His dark charcoal suit and pale blue shirt make his eyes pop despite the low-key mood lighting. He has enough scruff to trigger fantasies involving whisker burn along my inner thighs. His hair is slightly tousled and flops over one eye. I know instantly he's been working on something with deep concentration and has been running a hand through his hair with frustration.

  "I'm expecting an important personal call, so I may have to step away for a moment, but I'll keep it brief, I promise," he drawls with a smile. I blink at him, wondering what that personal call could be.

  "Not a problem," Tamara says.

  We stand and smile at one another until it begins to feel uncomfortable. And the shiny-haired heifer keeps groping Lincoln, which I do not appreciate. Either Tamara or I could be his significant other, for all she knew.

  "Why don't we all have a seat and get to know each other?" I suggest. I give the hostess a pointed look, and finally, she scurries away.

  We sit, and Tamara encourages Lincoln to give her his pitch.

  As he speaks, I watch both of them carefully, assessing how Tamara is taking the pitch. She seems receptive, and as always, Lincoln is relaxed and confident.

  In the middle of answering a question, Lincoln's phone rings. He removes if from the suit jacket he has draped over the back of his chair, looks at the screen, and makes his apologies.

  "Sorry, this is the phone call I mentioned earlier," he says standing. "I'll just be a moment."

  He quickly leaves the table, holding the phone to his ear as he goes. Tamara and I are left to look at one another. I break the silence.

  "Well, what do you—" I say, only to be cut off.

  "How long have you and Lincoln been involved?" Tamara asks casually, taking a sip from her wine glass. She has those assessing eyes of hers on me, a sure sign she is taking mental notes of my reactions.

  I blink at her. Her expression is placid and expectant. "What do you mean, involved?"

  Her lips curl into a sly smile.

  "We were roommates at Berkeley," she says. "For two years. I think I can read the chemistry between the two of you."

  I squint, my eyebrows mashed together. I narrow my eyes at my friend.

  "What?" she says, looking amused at my expression. She waves a dismissive hand.

  "Come on," she says, her face eager. She puts down her wine glass, leans against the table, and grins at me. "Spill."

  I resist, uncomfortable with this blending of my business and personal lives. But Tamara is correct. We had been roommates.

  "We're just having fun," I smile, waving a dismissive hand. "It's not serious."

  "Are you sure?" she asks, looking thoughtful. "There's something about the two of you together. It's chemistry, but it's more than chemistry. Also, you were glaring at the hostess like you were fixing to take off your earrings and throw down."

  I can't help but smile and roll my eyes at her colorful description. Back in grad school, Tamara and I had bonded over our Southern roots. My family is from Houston, and she's originally from Atlanta.

  "I don't know what you mean by 'chemistry,' and it's only a fling," I say, thinking Lincoln and I had only given each other a cursory glance when he'd arrived at the table.

  "I thought I was just having a fling on the down low when I met my husband," she says. "We still work together, you know."

  "Like I said, it's just a fling," I say. "I don't like to fool around with people I work with, ordinarily."

  "Even when he's talking to me, he's shooting you looks," her eyes widen suggestively. "And you return the fire."

  I frown. "You're reading too much into it," I say. I'm eager to change the subject. "What do you think about Lincoln's new concept?"

  I've had enough wine this evening, so I reach for my glass of ice water, taking a gulp while she answers.

  Tamara's eyes twinkle. "Why are you changing the subject?"

  I think of Howard Becker and that whole shit show that ousted me from my previous position. I do not want to go down that road again.

  "You ever hear the expression, 'Don't eat where you shit?'" I ask. "I prefer to keep my business and personal lives separate."

  She pouts, then sighs with disappointment. "It's a good concept," she says.

  "Isn't it, though?" I say.

  "I think Darren would be interested," she says, referring to Darren Knowles, her husband and business partner. "Tell me, has Lincoln ever thought about allowing his employees to buy a stake in the business?"

  "I don't know," I say. "Maybe we should ask Lincoln when he's back."

  A deep, rich, bass voice joins the conversation. "Ask me what?"

  Lincoln smiles at the two of us. His beautiful blue-green eyes flash at us, and I feel my face go hot. I lower my lashes, thinking of what Tamara and I have been talking about. Both she and I go quiet at Lincoln's question. He picks up the napkin on his seat and sits down again.

  I think about what
Tamara said about how Lincoln looks at me, and I give him a sidelong glance. I'm shocked to find he's looking straight at me, his expression tinged with warmth. Since Tamara brought up our "chemistry," I notice that while Tamara and I are seated across from each other, Lincoln is seated right next to me. So close our knees almost touch.

  Subtle, we are not.

  Tamara goes on to explain her idea of offering employees a stake in the company, as a way to raise capital for the expansion. Lincoln looks thoughtful. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.

  "That's not a bad idea," he says. "It's not something we've ever done in the past."

  Tamara takes another sip of her wine. "I've been to your restaurants before," she says. "I don't believe I've ever had such a singular restaurant experience before. The service at Cooper's is exceptional."

  I think about how attentive the waitstaff always is when Lincoln and I meet.

  "Many of the staff have been with Cooper's for years," I say. "I'd say they're much more committed to the business than most waitstaff."

  I've learned quite a bit about the restaurant business since I started as Lincoln's concierge. It wasn't unusual for restaurants to turnover 100 percent of their waitstaff within a year.

  The three of us bat around this idea for another fifteen minutes, considering various angles, but ultimately agree to meet again in another week to see whether it makes sense to proceed.

  We all shake hands and prepare to leave.

  Tamara hands the valet her ticket as Lincoln does the same.

  He cocks an eyebrow at me and smirks. "No car tonight?" he asks.

  "I Ubered," I shrug.

  I look away, aware of Lincoln's eyes on me. He's going to offer me a ride home. Tamara reaches for my hand, then leans in to give me air kisses. "Have a good night," she whispers in my ear, and as she pulls back to smile at me, she sneaks in a subtle wink.

  Her car arrives, and she climbs in. She drives a pristine white Mercedes SUV, and I can see in my mind’s eye her toting her little Knowles’ around town in the expensive grocery-grabber. I wonder whether that will be me anytime soon. Tamara pulls away from the curb with a little wave.

  Lincoln and I stand there in silence, waiting for his Audi. When it arrives, he waves off the valet and holds the passenger side door open for me. He pins me with a smoldering look and nods at the car. He doesn't ask me if I want a ride home. He's telling me he's driving me home.

  I could protest, sure, but to what end?

  Without a word, I get in the car. He hurries around to his side, climbs in, then closes the door. He leans over the console and gives me a rough kiss on the lips before he pulls away from the restaurant.

  My face tingles from beard burn. Without thinking about it, I finger my lips where the sensation lingers. When we come to a stop light, he turns to look at me, his lips set in a line, a muscle in his jaw ticking. His thumbs drum the steering wheel impatiently.

  I say nothing, and the light turns to green.

  "You look beautiful," he says into the silence.

  I turn to study his movie-star profile. "Thank you," I say.

  "I've seen you in jeans, and I've seen you in an evening gown, but never in a suit," he says. He steers us onto the tollway. "I like it."

  I have no idea what to say to this. "Thanks."

  We haven't talked at all about the...incident in his office earlier this week. I'm not sure I want to talk about it. I don't want to tell him, once again, that a relationship between us is not a good idea. It seems like a conversation that goes in circles for us, and really, I want to keep having sex with him. When Sheila comes back from her medical leave, he won't need me anymore. I will just keep having sex with him, help him with his funding, and find an appropriate charity for him. Sure, it would be better if we never got involved in the first place, but now that we have, we might as well make the most of it.

  The only downside? When we finally go our separate ways, it's going to hurt like a bitch.

  "When is Sheila coming back?" I ask.

  He frowns. "Sheila?"

  "Yes," I say. "Your assistant, Sheila."

  He appears to give this some thought. "I suppose she'll be ready to come back to work in a week or so. Let's call her."

  He initiates a call through his car's Bluetooth.

  "Sheila, sweetheart, how are you doing?" he says when she answers. "You're on speaker, and I have Samantha here with me."

  "Hello Samantha! Doing fine, boss man," Sheila says in her strong Texas accent. I have spoken to her on the phone a few times, and she's always helpful. "You burn the place down yet?"

  Lincoln chuckles. "No, I'm keeping it together—but just barely."

  Hearing his words throws me a little. I guess I'm not really helping him all that much, and I tell myself that this isn't a big deal. Nevertheless, I can't help but feel a twinge at his apparent eagerness to have Sheila back. He's used to her, and she seems like an easy person to work with. And she doesn't come with any personal complications.

  Lincoln doesn't want anything serious—at least he's never said he does. And that suits me.

  Lincoln chuckles. "I can't wait until you're back, that's for sure."

  "God, you have no idea how sick I am of being at home," Sheila says. "I can't wait to be back in the office, even if it is part-time. I’m looking forward to meeting you, Samantha."

  Huh? Sheila and I will not be working together. When she comes back, I'll be leaving.

  "It'll be great to meet you in person," I hedge. I don't want to give anyone the wrong impression.

  Lincoln hangs up, and we continue to drive. We drive past my exit.

  I blink at him. "Where are we going?"

  "My place," he says. The bastard doesn't even blink when he says this. He just assumes that's how this is going to go.

  "What if I told you I don't want to go to your place?" I ask.

  He shrugs. "I'd tell you that your bed is too small for two people who are six feet tall or more." He's being deliberately obtuse, as if my only quibble is where we are going, rather than the fact that we are going anywhere at all. Presumably for sex.

  I let out the softest of sighs, resigned to an evening of rolling around in Lincoln's bed, eating takeout food, and reality-bending orgasms. Such a sacrifice on my part.

  "I don't have anything to wear at your place," I say, thinking of how it would be to do the walk of shame in heels and my Prada suit.

  "I've got you covered," he says.

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Lincoln

  There is nothing better than waking up with a beautiful woman in your arms. The fact that the woman in my arms is Samantha Mack makes it so much better.

  We made love all night long.

  This morning, I wake her up with my mouth on her pussy, and she pulls my hair hard as she grinds her pussy all over my face. The woman is completely insatiable, and that's one of the things I love about her.

  The conversation with my mother clarified so many things for me. I realize there was something about Samantha that spoke to me from the very beginning. I'm a control freak, yet I had no problem asking a stranger to pick up my dry cleaning. Not only that, if anyone had told me that I'd be giving a stranger my money and my dry cleaning, I would've said they were nuts. I gave her the cash because I wanted to ensure I would see her again.

  And now look at us. She's waking up in my bed, my name a hoarse cry on her lips. She's finding ways to support my business, going far beyond what any personal concierge would do. She is a generous woman, maybe even more generous than she realizes, and I feel like the luckiest man in the world.

  After her morning orgasm, she is dewy and relaxed in the tangled sheets. She gives me a sleepy smile, but turns her face away when I go for her lips.

  "Morning breath," she mumbles. She rolls off the bed and, bare-ass naked but wearing her night bonnet, she pads toward the en suite bath. I hear water running, a toilet flush, then her husky voice calls out,

  "How did you
know what I would need for an overnight?"

  I think a moment before responding, not sure it she'll find my attention flattering, or stalkerish.

  "I took photos of all your toiletries last time I was at your place," I say easily.

  She says nothing at first, and I'm starting to think that in her mind she's leaning toward stalker when I hear her spit into the sink and turn the water off. She appears at the bedroom door, still gloriously naked, but with the bonnet replaced with a shower cap. She strides to me, climbs onto the mattress, and hovers over me.

  "That's one of the nicest things a man has done for me," she murmurs. She gives me a light kiss on the lips, then pulls back quickly to avoid my grabby hands.

  "There are also leggings, t-shirts, underwear, and sneakers," I say.

  "Super nice of you," she says, smiling. "And thanks for not going overboard with the expense. I'll pay you back." She gives me another quick peck on the lips, then hustles into the bathroom.

  When I enter the en suite behind her, I smell her lavender body wash drifting toward me on a cloud of shower steam. She's already in the shower, so I stand at the toilet and pee. Although Samantha has resisted spending any time at my condo—and with me—she is here now, and I'm glad I took the time to pick up a few things at Target for her. I had even made space in my drawers and in my closet for the things women normally kept at a steady boyfriend's place. I am delighted at how things are going.

  I brush my teeth, pull on a pair of boxer briefs, and make my way to the kitchen.

  My condo, which is in a high-rise in Turtle Creek, affords me breathtaking views of the city. It's an open floor plan space that is as roomy as a suburban McMansion, but with the advantage of all the amenities available in the city. It is mid-morning, and the sun spills into the family room and kitchen area, and as is often the case in Texas, the sky is blue and virtually cloudless.

  I start the coffee pot brewing and open the fridge to see what looks good. As part of my expansion plan for Coop's, lately I've been trying a variety of breakfast staples. Since Samantha has already had my waffles, I decide to make her French toast. As I start to mix milk, eggs, and cinnamon, and bowl in hand, I wander over to the floor to ceiling windows that look out into the city.