by Tara Lain
Trudy beamed. “Oh boy, some of that great potato salad.”
Felicity shot Remy another glare as she flashed a phony smile toward Trudy and John Jack, who were scooping food onto their plates. Trudy passed a platter of roast beef toward Felicity and froze. “Oh dear, you don’t eat red meat do you?”
“Uh, no.” Her small teeth gleamed as she stretched her smile overlarge.
Mama paused in the process of slathering her mashed potatoes with butter. “Right. I remembered. That’s why I asked Florence to make the chicken.” She returned to her buttering as Felicity’s lips became even tighter.
Remy whispered, “Take off the skin.” He held out the patter.
Felicity’s snort had a pugnacious quality, but she extracted a breast from the platter and placed it gingerly on her plate.
Remy crooked a finger at Nigel, who hurried over. Remy softly asked for some sliced tomatoes for Felicity. As for himself, he knew a rock and a hard place when he got squeezed by one. Every scoop of carbs would get a sneer from Felicity, but his mama would clearly watch to be sure he took a bit of each of her special dishes. Truthfully, it wasn’t a real decision. Felicity could be stern, but Mama was a Southern grand dame when she wanted to be, to say nothing of being his boss. She won.
He helped himself to potato salad and dug into his fried chicken. Most of his meals tended to be sandwiches at his desk or restaurant dinners carefully overseen by Felicity, the no-red-meat, keto fanatic. He might not love Southern cooking, but fried chicken was Mason Dixon neutral and it tasted good. He added some mashed potatoes, another universal food, to his meal and took a couple of the tomatoes that Nigel brought to Felicity. She flashed him disapproving glances, but he mostly ignored her and even ate some of the chocolate ice cream his mama served with her Arkansas Possum pie.
Finally, the meal was over, and he got to stop watching Felicity try to excise every millimeter of fried crust from the chicken and nibble tentatively on the resulting denuded meat.
They carried their coffee into the great room. Remy poured in his usual quart of cream. At least Felicity didn’t give him crap about that. He sat on the couch, and she settled beside him. Leaning in, she murmured, “Can we go soon?”
Trudy and John Jack both walked in then, so he didn’t reply. Instead, he examined his weird feelings. Felicity had come in her own car, so asking if they could go probably meant she expected to spend the night with him at his house—or maybe her house since she hated his—with good reason. He should be excited about that. Right? Sex with your girlfriend was something every red-blooded American boy wanted. Right?
But damn, he was so tired. If I’m going to stay awake, I’d rather work. If I’m going anywhere near a bed, it ought to be to catch a few hours of z’s.
But he and Felicity hadn’t had sex in weeks. Shouldn’t he have a set of horns that would put Dasher, Dancer, and Prancer to shame? Hell, he was in his twenties. Even if he was sleepwalking, shouldn’t he be ready to stick his cock in anything female that passed within five feet of him? Wasn’t that the way most guys felt? Shit, these questions haunted the back of his brain all the time while the front worried about the business. And it wasn’t like he didn’t know why it worried him.
He sipped coffee and glanced at John Jack, who was smiling at his wife with open lust. It’d be nice to have somebody he trusted to tell him straight if he was undersexed or asexual, or…. He sighed softly. But he and John Jack didn’t have that kind of relationship. John Jack was seven years older and was more a product of Arkansas than California. He put a lot of store in “being a man,” and Remy was scared of what John Jack would say if Remy tried to get personal. Remy worked all the time, so everyone he knew was associated with the company, and since Remy was the boss, who the hell was he going to tell his troubles to?
His mama’s voice came from the direction of the kitchen, telling Nigel she’d like some more ice cream.
Felicity turned to Remy and leaned in. “I’m going to make my excuses. I’m too tired.” She put a hand on his arm. “Sorry, dear.” She kissed his cheek, rose, said a fast goodbye to Trudy and John Jack, and was gone before Mama even made it into the room.
Remy had a pretty good idea he shouldn’t be smiling.
Chapter Two
“MORNING, EDDIE.” Remy nodded at the security guard who opened the front door of the Merced Technologies building for him. They didn’t unlock the building until 8:00 a.m.
Eddie flashed his characteristic grin. “Morning, sir. A little later than usual.”
“Yep. Thought I’d sleep in today.”
They both laughed since it was six thirty instead of Remy’s usual six or even five in the morning.
Eddie said, “A couple people already came in. Bet they’ll be mighty pleased that they finally got the jump on the boss.”
“I could lose my mystique.”
“Not likely, sir. Have a good day.”
Remy smiled and walked to the elevator. The moment he pushed the button, the doors slid open, and he stepped on for his ride to the seventeenth floor. Inside, he leaned against the reflective metal wall. Man, even after most of a night in an actual bed, he felt like he’d been beaten with a stick. Of course, he’d done more thinking than sleeping. Mostly he’d been chewing over the big idea for the company he couldn’t quite make work, but thoughts about his personal life had crept in. He and Felicity had been dating for a year. At first, having a girlfriend who worked as hard as he did and who never minded if he broke a date at the last minute had been a restful revelation, but now it felt sort of like neither of them cared enough to mind. It wasn’t that he wanted someone who expected him to be attentive, exactly. More like he wanted someone to whom he couldn’t help being attentive. Someone he wanted to be with so much he didn’t mind leaving work.
Yeah, that’ll happen right after Amazon gives up world domination.
The doors slid open.
He walked down the aisle between desks toward his glass-enclosed cubicle. His space was mostly the same as all the other employees’ except he’d given himself the glass walls so that his constant time on the phone didn’t bother the mathematicians and programmers he surrounded himself with. Halfway to his space he stopped. Coffee. The aroma drifted toward him like the promise of spring. Yes.
Speeding his steps, he followed the smell and stopped a few feet from his own office. His glass door stood open, which was unusual. It wasn’t ever locked, but he generally closed it out of habit, and Eartha left it that way. Maybe she’d put something on his desk and didn’t close the door when she left? Of course, she didn’t tend to arrive before eight. She had kids to get off to school. He glanced at his watch. Six forty-five.
He walked to the door and—oh, heaven. The coffee aroma drifted from a huge steaming cup sitting in the middle of his desk. Like he’d seen an oasis on the desert, he hurried toward the cup. Holy cow. Not just hot but white. Obviously loaded with his favorite cream. He set down his backpack and grabbed the cup before even taking off his leather jacket. After a deep inhale, he sipped. Oh wow, perfect. Eartha hardly ever put in enough cream for him, and this was—different. Unique. What a flavor.
He took another swallow, then set it on the desk and took off his jacket, his gaze already drifting toward his laptop. Cradling his cup, he slid into the chair, toggled the space bar, and stared at the results from their three pilot regions, then sighed. Fuck. Not bad, but sure as hell not good.
“Are you ready for a refill?” The voice that came from his still-open doorway sounded like someone had poured extra cream into it as well.
Remy looked up, bobbled the cup, and splashed white coffee onto his desk and jeans. “Ow! Shit.”
“Oh Lord, I’m so sorry.”
By then Remy was on his feet, brushing at the drops clinging to the denim and frantically examining his starched white shirt. Before he quite grasped what was happening, long-fingered hands were brushing at his pant legs from behind, dangerously close to all kinds of personal items.<
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Remy danced in a circle. “Uh, wait. Enough. I got it.” He extended an arm to ward off the intrusive ministrations and came face-to-face with—who? He’d never seen the guy before. Young, with straight dark hair that was just that bit too long, kind of like his own, a slim face with high cheekbones and huge, doe-like eyes of clearest blue behind dark-rimmed glasses. Adorable nerd came to mind although it was a strange way to describe a guy. “Who are you?”
The guy clearly took a breath because his chest in a maroon sweater vest expanded and his nostrils flared. “Mr. Merced, I’m Harper Treadwell, your new assistant.”
For a second nothing quite computed, then his mother’s pronouncement of the previous day rushed back. “Oh.”
“I’m so mortified to have gotten off on the wrong foot. I just noticed you seemed to like the coffee and wondered if you wanted more.”
“The coffee?” Remy stared at the cup on his desk sitting in a small ring of spilled french roast.
“How about I clean that up and get you a new cup?” Harper grabbed the cup, pulled a real-life hanky from his pocket, and captured the drips, then rushed out of the office.
Remy kept staring. His brain must be too exhausted to click into gear, because whirlwind Harper returned with a brimming cup, a spray bottle of some kind of cleaner, and a rag before Remy even blinked. Harper carefully set the cup on a bookcase, sprayed the desk and cleaned it like he was doing art restoration. Then he lovingly set the cup on the desk and stepped back. “I’ll be happy to take your jeans to the Laundromat, sir, if you’d like.”
“Wha—no. Uh, thank you. How did you know about the coffee?”
“Know?”
“About the extra cream?”
“Oh, I asked my mama to ask your mama.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and then smiled with lots of teeth, but his gaze skittered around. “So how can I help you this morning?”
Remy was still somewhere back on the “asked my mama to ask yours” portion of the conversation. He shook his head as he stepped past Harper and sat in the desk chair. The coffee steamed so invitingly, he had to take a sip. Man, as totally perfect as the first cup. He inhaled the aroma, then gritted his teeth. “Look, uh, Harper, my mother hired you without my permission.” He cringed a little at his choice of words since he was far from giving his mama permission to do anything. “I mean I didn’t know she was doing it. I don’t really have any work to give you.”
The expression “his face fell” was a real thing. The bright smile seemed to melt, and his brilliant blue eyes dulled. “Oh. My mama said you were so busy and desperate for help. I wouldn’t have bothered you… I—I’ll just get my things.” He turned, surprisingly wide shoulders sagging.
Remy glanced at his coffee cup then at the retreating figure. “You don’t have to leave. Go find Eartha Anderson and tell her to put you to work. I’m sure she’s got overflow.” He sighed. “It’s just that my work is, you know, kind of specialized, and I haven’t got time to…. Ask Eartha.”
Harper turned and gave Remy a surprisingly direct gaze. “There’s no cause for you to be payin’ for someone you don’t need. I’m sure I can find another position elsewhere.”
Oh hell, his mama would kill him. “No, I’m sure we can use your services somewhere in the company. It’s not that we don’t have the work. Just not with me. I’m used to working alone is all. Okay?” He glanced at his smart watch. “Eartha should be here any time. Just introduce yourself.” He waved a hand. “Uh, by the way, I sure appreciate the coffee.” He raised his cup. Harper gave him a neutral look and walked out of his office. Of course, Remy got to watch his stiff back as he strode down the hall and disappeared around the corner.
He’s probably going to quit. Hell, he’s probably not even really hired yet. Isn’t there some kind of trial period or something? At least I didn’t fire him. As if that would make a difference to his mama. She’d know what happened.
Remy stared at his screen, forcing his brain to not watch Harper Treadwell and focus on the reports from the pilot projects. He sipped coffee and relaxed into the notes.
In each case, people tried the online grocery ordering service and maybe used it a couple of times, but then they dropped off. If MercedMart, the grocery arm of Merced Enterprises, offered some kind of major incentive, customers would come back, but then they’d stop using the service again. When asked by researchers what they thought of MercedMart Online, shoppers all said they liked it, but when the callers dug in and asked why they weren’t using it regularly, people sort of verbally shrugged. “Not used to it.” “I forgot.” “I’m used to picking out my own produce.” “I don’t know what I want until I see it.”
Remy sighed and wiped a hand over his neck. Damn. Poor kid. He must have gotten here at six. Remy sat up straighter. Well hell, I’m thinking about Harper again. The guy didn’t even have a desk, but somehow he’d found the coffee and the cream and gone out of his way to make it for Remy. He looked so excited. First job out of school, and I go and wreck it. But Mama should have butted out.
“Remy.”
Uh-oh. He looked up at Eartha, tall, regal, her always-perfect hair in tight braids, as she stepped into his office and closed the door behind her.
Remy swallowed and cleared his throat to cover it. “Good morning.”
“Am I to understand that I now have some kind of assistant?”
He gripped the bridge of his nose then released it. “I’m sorry, but Mama hired him without telling me.”
“She hired him to be your assistant, right?”
“Well, yes, I guess.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. Eartha was pretty formidable, a woman in the same mold as his mama. Yes, he was a glutton for punishment.
“Not the assistant to your admin.”
He sighed. “Look, I don’t want to let the kid go on his first day. Can’t you find something for him to do?”
She crossed her arms. “Are you aware this so-called kid has an MBA from Washington and Lee that he received when he was effing twenty?”
“Uh, not exactly. Mama said he’d finished school.”
“And did you happen to notice that he’s about the cutest, sweetest MBA ever created?”
He cleared his throat. “I noticed he seemed very earnest.”
“Earnest.” She snorted. “So in answer to your question, hell yes I can give him stuff to do. So can most of the people in the company, so don’t worry. I just wanted to be sure you were being idiotic enough to pass him up.” She waggled her fingers. “Byyyye.”
Remy felt his own frown. Cutest and sweetest. He took a breath. Stupid words to use about a man.
Chapter Three
HARPER FOLDED his T-shirts into the dresser drawer and then hurried to the walk-in closet to hang the last of his suits in the corner Sylvan had cleared for him. He stepped back and looked around to be sure he wasn’t claiming too much space. Sylvan had a lot of clothes and a particular way he liked to arrange them. Harper had suggested he keep his things in the guest room, but Sylvan insisted they give this arrangement a try.
Harper’s heart thumped. The closet wasn’t the only arrangement they were trying out. He couldn’t think about his new life too much or he’d hyperventilate. In fact, he felt like he hadn’t taken a full breath since that fateful night at the roadhouse when he’d almost drowned in his own shock and disappointment at the people he’d thought were his friends and decided the next day to move to California with Sylvan Hoag.
With a backward glance at the closet, he walked into the big bedroom—and gasped. “Oh my Lord, you gave me a fright.”
Sylvan was sitting in one of the easy chairs by the bay window, legs elegantly crossed. Sylvan did everything elegantly, including smile. “All unpacked?”
“Pretty much. I still have a couple boxes of books and personal items in the garage.”
Sylvan raised a silver eyebrow. “If there’s one thing this house doesn’t need more of, it’s books.”
Harper glanced at his
sneakers. “They’re business books I use for reference mainly.”
“I’m sure we can find them in eBook.”
“I have notes in the margins.”
Sylvan smiled. “Of course. I expect there’s room on the shelf in the guestroom.”
Harper smiled and nodded.
Sylvan patted his lap. “Come sit. I haven’t seen you in days.”
Harper laughed. “One day.” He bounded across the wide room and settled himself on Sylvan’s carefully creased trousers.
“The way you do days, darling, feels like weeks. I wish half my employees were so dedicated.” He leaned up and kissed Harper gently on the lips.
Oh sigh. Harper wrapped his arms around Sylvan’s neck and kissed back.
Sylvan wriggled then pushed Harper back. “Why don’t we table this until I’ve changed so I don’t ruin these very expensive slacks?”
Harper grinned. “I kind of wondered about that.”
“Yes, well, you make me do impulsive things.” Sylvan stood, placing Harper on his feet. At six feet, Harper was actually a little taller than Sylvan, but Sylvan outweighed him by at least fifty pounds—a fact Harper wouldn’t ever mention. Of course, Harper was thin, so that didn’t make Sylvan fat, just filled out. Sylvan liked to say that Harper was so willowy because he was barely postadolescent. At twenty-three that was stretching the case, but Harper wouldn’t argue. Sylvan was nineteen years older than Harper and was sensitive about his prematurely silver hair, even though he was famous for it.
Harper perched on the edge of the bed as Sylvan changed into his robe. He called it a dressing gown. Harper asked, “Are you hungry?”
“No. I ate. But Tia Maria left some food in the warmer for you.” Sylvan maintained he called his housekeeper Tia Maria because he thought of her as an aunt, but Harper suspected it had more to do with the coffee liqueur Sylvan liked.
“That was very kind of her.”
Sylvan walked out of the closet, wrapped in the paisley silk that reminded Harper of scenes from Downton Abbey. “That was her job.”