by Ella James
“First you didn’t do the truck ride. Now you want to spend the night. Is this the prologue of a murder mystery?”
I’m laughing my ass off, so much that she winces. “Shit. I’m sorry.” She looks disgruntled.
“No, it’s not a murder mystery. This is Burke the friend.”
She throws her head back, and her long hair falls over her breasts. “Burke the friend. You should trademark that and make a figurine. What is it they say? That’s rich. And you’re rich, so see, it works.”
She chortles, making me want to deny it. But to her, it must seem like I am. “All my money isn’t really…money.”
She gives me a look that says she thinks I’m completely full of shit, but I shake my head. “It’s not like you think. It’s tied up in investments.” Almost all of it is powering the startup right now. It’s so expansive and complex, it’s going to take a fortune just to get a workable beta running. “It’s not in my bank account,” I assure her.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure none of it’s in your account.”
“Okay, some of it is,” I admit.
She leans back a little, picking at one of her fingernails before flicking her gaze back up to mine. “You need to drink some more so I can ask you what it’s like to have that much money, and you can tell me.”
“I can tell you now, I guess.”
She arches a brow—an expression that should be dubbed the June Sees Through You. “When you buy food,” she says with a blink and a faint accusing edge, “do you ever think about the price of things?”
I swallow…press my lips together.
“Mmm-hmm, didn’t think so. What about clothes shopping? Do you buy your own stuff?”
Well, shit. How do I tell her my assistant does it? She laughs. “Lord, who does it?”
I’m not saying “my assistant,” so I say, “Someone in my office.” I tug at my shirt, hoping for a little relatable levity. “In fact, she got my last round of shirts a size too small.”
“That does explain why I’d need some Paraflexx to peel it off you.”
I flash her a grin as I notice she said “I” when speaking about who might pull it off me, and it’s her turn to look awkward. “Not I,” she quickly clarifies. “Somebody who wants to do that.”
I let out a whoop. “Ms. Lawler with the burn.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
“What is Paraflexx?” I ask.
“Next question.” She sits up a little, her eyes brightening like she just remembered something. “Do you cook your own food?”
“No, but I—”
“Next question.” I widen my eyes and fix them on her face, and she locks her gaze onto mine like this is a fourth-grade staring contest. “Do you have more than one car?” She puts emphasis on the end of the sentence, inflecting it less like a question and more like an accusation.
I feel guilty.
“I’m guessing that the forehead rumple is a ‘yes ma’am.’ Is that your official answer, Mr. Masterson?”
I bite my lip, and she shakes her head. “How many?”
I wince. “Do you really want to know?”
“I really want to know.”
I swallow. Seven is the answer, but I’m going for Joe Average when I tell her, “Four.”
It’s not uncommon for people to have just two or three cars, right? Four is only one more than that.
Her eyes bulge like they’re going to pop out of her head. “Four cars? And one of them’s not a practical pickup for hauling stuff, is it?”
“One of them’s an Escalade for Tahoe,” I try in a hopeful tone.
She looks confused. “Oh, Lake Tahoe. Is that in California? I don’t even know. Geography was never my thing.”
“It is.”
“Tell me what other ones.” She nudges my ass with her unhurt foot, and I grit my teeth as my cock throbs. “I bet I won’t know any of their fancy pants names, but it’s worth a try.”
I shrug. “Oh, they’re just…sedans.”
“Is sedan code for flashy sportscar?”
I rub my forehead, holding my leg out a little and rolling my ankle like I’m distracted by a pain there—although in actuality, I’m avoiding her accusing eyes. “Define flashy.”
June cackles. “Spit it out, showboat.”
“Well.” I cut my eyes her way, and decide I’ll just let her have it. “I’ve got a Rolls-Royce Wraith. But that’s for picking up investors…you know, driving them around and shit.”
She nods, her big-eyed, tight-lipped expression making it clear that she is definitely judging me.
“I also have a Cullinan.”
“Bonus points because I’ve never even heard of that one.”
“It’s an SUV.”
“Oh, I thought you only had a fleet of practical sedans.”
“I’ve got a DBS SV. That one’s a car.” An Aston Martin convertible is technically still a car. “Anyway, cars are investments. People collect them.”
“Oh, I know. One of my friends collects cars. Whole junkyard with all the parts in different sections.” She smirks, and I feel wealth-shamed. Which I guess I probably deserve.
“I didn’t really expect to be so successful.” As soon as I say it, something in my stomach gives a quick twist, like I’m stepping out onto a wire.
She nods slowly. “Well, at least that much sounds honest.”
“I don’t know why things worked out the way they did with the first two. First two companies,” I tack on, figuring she might not follow if I call them startups. “The third one—the one I’m working on right now—it’s a lot different.”
“How so?” She’s leaned back against the arm of the swing now, her unhurt leg tucked under the one whose boot is resting on my leg. She tucks her flowing hair behind her ears and leans forward slightly, a rapt pupil.
“It’s more a medical app. More complex, because it peripherally deals with other entities like the local and state governments. It’s dynamic. And has multiple functions.”
She asks me what exactly we’re doing—what the app’s primary function is. I answer in the most general terms. I don’t want her tracing the app’s functionality to my mother’s situation. As far as I know, nothing about that is available for public consumption at this point. My father had all those records sealed, and if he hadn’t, I would have.
Chapter 16
June
His startup seems to have something to do with helping people call 9-1-1 via an app. But I don’t know more than that because he didn’t seem interested in expounding.
A beat of silence follows, and during that sliver of time where the only sound is the wind through the trees, I work up the nerve to ask him what I really want to ask: “Did you really think I took them in for the money?”
Even through my giant, plastic ankle boot, I feel his body tense. But I’ve gotta give him credit—the guy’s poker face is flawless. He exhales, so I can tell he’s thinking on his answer before giving it. Then his eyes pin mine and he says, “No.”
He sighs. “I mean—I didn’t know for sure. But no. I didn’t really think that, or I wouldn’t have if I had thought about it. I did the easy thing and believed what I wanted to believe. What suited me,” he adds after a beat.
He swallows, and I can see his jaw tick. “I did that because I wanted them,” he says, facing the porch screen wall in front of him. “I wanted them because”—he shakes his head, a single hard shake, like there’s water in his ear—“I needed something external to direct my focus at.” He says it quietly.
In the silence that swims between us after that, I find that I feel…grateful. There’s a crest of gladness and relief, and then this gratitude that’s almost overwhelming.
“That was generous answer,” I say, surprise seeping into my voice.
He gives me a soft smirk. “I’m a generous guy.” His lips twitch, and he shakes his head. “That’s a lie. I’m a big dick.” He pairs the words with a deadpan face that’s actually hilarious. I’m laughing. Then we�
��re grinning at each other like old friends.
“You’re not so bad,” I concede.
He lifts a brow, and I add, “For the devil.”
Burke mutters something about being right back and disappears inside, and just a minute later, the truck pulls back up and everyone spills out of it with stories about snipes.
I don’t see him again until the house has cleared out. I told everyone he was staying late to put the kids to sleep and tell them goodbye, and no one thought a thing about it—except Leah’s dumb ass. She grinned like a fool when she told me goodnight.
Once it’s just the four of us remaining, Burke says he’ll clean up the yard and take the dogs out while I put the kids to bed—“so they can do their thing with you.” He pops in when I’m turning off the light, and Oliver convinces him to tell a story.
I don’t know where to go. If I go into my room and make it up onto the bed, I won’t be getting down without a lot of trouble. So if the two of us chat at all, it’ll be in my room. And if I have to use the powder room, I might need help. I don’t think that’s a smart idea.
I crutch my way into the kitchen, get myself a glass of tea and a cookie without busting my ass, and settle on the couch. There’s still the armchair if he wants to come and join me.
Join me doing what?
I hear the kids screaming—I think in glee—and figure I’ve got a few minutes to figure this out. I spend them wondering why I agreed to let him spend the night, and then telling myself it’s stupid to be nervous. We’re nothing more than friendly acquaintances, at best, and even though he’s beautiful, with the body of a god, he’s still the devil. I’m not tempted by the devil.
Guy like him could never be my type. I bet his boots have still got the price tag stickers on the bottom. If I touched his hand, it would be softer than a baby’s bottom. Lord knows I like calloused hands—and he’s a city boy down to his wicked, devil core. I lick my lips. Probably better not to use “wicked” to describe him since it gets me thinking more about his body.
I wonder how much time he spends at the gym. One of those corporate gyms, I bet—the kind where you go up to the elliptical on the eighteenth floor after your chauffeur drops you off at work at 3:30 in the morning. Exercise, and then you have your black coffee and your orange and two point five egg whites. I bet his life is just like that.
And then—“Whoa.” I jerk as I spot him in the doorway between hall and living room. “You just sort of poofed there.” I snap my fingers. “Apparated,” I say, using Harry Potter language.
He pinches his T-shirt in between his fingers, pulling it away from his abs, and I realize there’s blue stuff on it.
“What the what?”
He laughs. “I gave the kids a mint I had in my pocket, and Margot wanted to brush her teeth again. Got sparkle toothpaste all over my shirt.”
“Well, hell.”
He walks closer to me, so I can see how messy he is. “Looks like someone shot the tube off on you.”
My cheeks blaze as those words spill from my lips.
Shot off? Really, June?
“Good smell,” he remarks.
“Do you want another shirt?”
He starts to pull it off. “Yeah,” he says from behind the fabric, as his abs peek out below the hemline. “I’ll take one if that’s okay.”
Then the shirt is off. He’s standing two feet from me in all his bulky, chiseled, smooth-skinned glory.
“They’re in my room,” I manage.
“Okay.”
I nod and swallow. “I keep the T-shirts in that big drawer in the very middle of my dresser. Might be one your size in there if you look hard.”
While he’s gone to riffle through my stuff, I try to regain control of my vital signs. Holy hell, he’s pure perfection. Even in my wildest dreams, I didn’t know he’d look that good bare-chested.
A minute later, he strolls back into the living room holding a bright green T-shirt.
“Farmer’s Market?” he says, holding out a shirt I won in a raffle there a few years back.
“Yeah, you can wear that one. What size is it?” I frown, because I thought it was a tighter one.
“Says large.”
I nod. “That should work, then.”
He turns toward the TV—I fumble with the remote, trying to pull up Netflix—while he pulls the shirt over his head. He gets one arm in and then starts laughing.
“Well, shit,” I murmur.
He’s stuck. He’s got one arm in, and I don’t think that he can get it out without ripping my shirt in half. I don’t know how he misread the tag, but that is definitely not a size large.
“Step over here,” I tell him.
He steps closer, his head partway inside the shirt. I tug on one corner, and he chuckles. Hell. That little V of muscle there above his waistband. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, wincing at the cuts I made when I broke my ankle, and I tug the shirt up. My fingers brush his hot skin, fingertips skating over his hard muscle.
“Whoa. You’re pretty.”
Did I just say that out loud?
He huffs out a laugh, and my face gets so hot, I swear I’m gonna cry like people eating hot sauce. I push the shirt up more. “Try to pull it off now.”
“I’m trying.” His voice is low and raspy. I lean up a little, wiggling my hand under the T-shirt and pushing my palm up his hard back so I can try to get the shirt around his thick arm, which is what it’s really stuck on.
I feel a trail of chills under my fingers.
“Bend down more. Why don’t you just kneel down beside me.”
He does, his big fist gripping the couch cushion to steady himself since one of his arms is still stuck in my little bitty T-shirt.
“How is this a large?” he moans from inside the shirt.
“I don’t know. It’s been washed a bunch of times I guess. Oh wait!” I cackle. “It’s a youth large! Should have thought of that.”
“You think?”
I can’t help laughing at him. He looks ridiculous stuck in the shirt, like some sort of trapped T-Rex. “Now you’re down here beside me, I can maybe yank this thing off. If we have to rip it, so what? It’s nothing special.”
I move my hand along the shirt’s seam, tracing around toward his right side, and I feel chills on his skin again.
I trace a line with my nail, and he groans.
“What the fuck?” His voice is muffled.
I do it again—because he’s here beside me and his body’s warm and hard and thick, and he’s the devil. I do it because I can. Because his dark nature is rubbing off on me. I stroke my palm down his side, and he barks a groan.
“Jesus. June.” My name’s a protest.
I swallow as his ribcage expands on a big, desperate breath. “Is this your weak spot, Mr. Devil? You like a little back scratching?”
I trail my thumb along his side…down toward where his hip has got that sharp edge of carved muscle, and I can feel him inhale again.
I hear a rip as he tears the shirt off. Then his hungry eyes are locked on mine. His lips are slightly parted, and his chest is pumping. For a second, no one speaks. Then he rasps, “Don’t do that again.”
I don’t know why I do what I do next. I don’t like him. He’s an asshole, and I’ve never been a girl who tolerates a lot of bullshit. Maybe it’s pure animal attraction. All I know is that as I reach for his flawless six pack, I feel like a light that’s been switched on.
My fingers brush his hot skin, and he hisses. His eyes shut. He grits his teeth, and I trace the taut ridge between muscles.
I stroke downward, and lust hits me like a lightning bolt.
He grits out, “Stop.”
“Are you sure?” I nearly cream my panties when I see his bulge coming to life, pushing against his fly. “Because it doesn’t look like you—”
His mouth clamps over mine so hard and fast that I gasp. When I do, his tongue glides inside. He kisses with what’s gotta be some pent-up lust. His lips are hard a
nd hungry—like my own. His hand, on my neck, pushes up into my hair as we taste one another. I grab his head and shoulder, pulling him in closer.
Then he’s straddling my hips. I’m moaning into his mouth. He tastes hot and minty, and his hands are tugging my hair, holding my head as he ravishes my mouth, tightening their grasp on my poor tresses when I grab at his hip.
He pulls back. “June.” Now it’s a warning.
Then it’s back to kissing—frantic. I lift my good leg so my knee rubs him between his legs. He rubs his dick against my hip, groaning loudly as his mouth devours mine.
“Damn you,” he breathes as I wrench away to get a breath.
“Fuck you,” I say before nipping at his chin.
“Oh God.”
I unbutton his pants like I’m racing to some finish line, feeling warm and tight and heavy in between my own legs. When my hand delves into his underwear, he moans again. His hand cups my breast.
“Aunt June?”
OH.
HOLY.
SHIT.
He’s off me so fast it makes me feel dizzy. Margot stands beside the TV, frowning at me first and then at him. He’s on the couch’s other side now, clutching a pillow and smiling in a way that looks a little scary.
“Hey, honey.” My voice is shaky, and I bet my lips are red. They’re throbbing. So are other places. “What’s the matter?”
She reaches up to wipe some hair off her forehead. “Dream,” she whispers.
“Oh, you had a bad dream?” I reach for my crutches. Then shirtless Burke snaps into motion, his back to Margot as he helps me up. My heart is pounding so fast, I’m barely tracking his hands on my arms, his palm against my back. And then he’s sitting back down on the couch, holding a pillow in his lap to hide his hard-on.
I talk to Margot as we trudge back down the hall toward her room. She dreamed about her mother, sailing away on a ship with long white sails that looked like ghosts. Hearing her tell of this dream breaks my heart. It’s such an awful dream to have—your mom sailing away—and yet it’s no worse than her reality. Sutton is dead, the door forever closed. Okay, well, I don’t know about forever, but it’s firmly shut for a long time.