Connection (Temptation Series Standalones Book 2)

by K. M. Golland

  I frown. “You don’t know that.”

  “Have you seen Mrs Hunter?”

  “Of course I’ve seen her.”

  “Well, then, you’ll agree she looks like she belongs on a street corner.”

  My jaw drops. “Oliver!”

  “What?”

  “That’s uncalled for.”

  “She dresses like a prostitute, Libby.”

  I shuffle in my seat, uncomfortable with his comments.

  “Take you for instance,” he continues.

  “Me?” I turn and glare at him.

  “Let me finish.” He raises his hands in the air and chuckles. “Take what you’re wearing for instance. It’s classy, appropriate, and doesn’t scream prostitute.”

  “I should hope not, but…” I pause then decide to bite my tongue. I don’t want to get into an argument on our first date.

  “But what?” he probes. “Go on… what were you going to say?”

  Ah, fuck it!

  “Clothing shouldn’t ‘scream prostitute,’ Oliver. A person has the right to wear what they want without being judged or labelled. What’s on the outside doesn’t define what’s on the inside.”

  “All I’m saying is you look respectable. You’re covered up and decent.”

  “Just because I’m ‘covered up’ doesn’t mean I deserve more respect than if I weren’t.”

  He claps his hands together, reaches for his laptop, and drags it onto his lap. “Let’s agree to disagree.”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  I welcome that notion and focus on the worksheets, and before I know it, they’re all corrected, my stomach is grumbling, and sunlight no longer fills the room.

  Stretching my arms above my head, I’m about to ask when we’re leaving for dinner, when the backdoor opens and slams shut, followed by a ruffling sound in the adjacent room.

  “Halloo. Olivaaa.”

  “Be right back.” He shoots to his feet and disappears into the next room, Italian conversation soon filling my ears. My mother’s mother was born in Bologna, so I’m somewhat familiar with the native tongue.

  Making out words and sentences such as not now, Nonna, and I do it, I do it, I stand up and make my way into the same room as them to find Oliver wrestling a washing basket full of neatly folded clothes from the arms of a short, silver-haired woman, a gold crucifix dangling from a chain around her neck. She stumbles backward, and I instantly reach out to steady her.

  “Gran, be careful!” He pries the basket from her hands, his laugh uneasy. “She’s very stubborn.”

  “I am no stubborn. I wash and bring to you.”

  “Yes, Gran. You washed and brought me my clothes. You shouldn’t have.” He kisses the top of her head and sets the basket down on the table.

  I smile, waiting for my introduction, but Oliver doesn’t deliver it, instead wrapping his arm around Gran’s shoulders and guiding her back out the door. “Come on, let’s get you back to your flat, Nonna.”

  “But I bring washing and say hello.”

  Standing there, a little dumbfounded as they leave the room, I murmur, “Well, that was weird.”

  And there’s that word again. Weird!

  Oliver returns moments later, eyes rolling as he sweeps his hand through his hair. “Sorry. She just takes it upon herself to do my washing even though I’ve told her not to.”

  Something tells me that’s not entirely true, but it’s none of my business, so I smile and fiddle with the collar of my jacket. “Are you hungry yet? Perhaps we should go.”

  “Go?” Oliver rests his knuckle on his chiselled jaw, smiles, and opens a drawer in the kitchen, riffling through it before frisbeeing me a takeaway menu from Pizza Palace. “You pick. I’m not fussy. Just no pineapple, okay?”

  Pizza Palace? I almost drop it as I fumble with the catch. And no pineapple? You weird son of a bitch.

  Sucking on my tooth, I exhale, grit my teeth, and force a smile as I frisbee the menu back to him. “I’m not fussy either.”

  “Excellent!” He pulls out his mobile phone from his pocket and dials the number.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” I ask, my throat tight.

  “Down the hall. Last door on the left.”

  Turning my back to him, I ferociously blink back tears, utterly disappointed, and escape the room. Escape him.

  Clearly, Oliver Bunt is no Prince Charming.

  Seriously, why do I even bother?

  The rest of our evening turned out as boring as the pineapple-less margarita pizza Oliver ordered us, and I realised rather quickly that the purpose of our “dinner date” had been for him to manipulate me into doing his catch-up work, which I was stupid enough to do.

  I’m an idiot. A naïve, wannabe-princess idiot who thinks fairy tales are real. Well, not anymore. Enough is enough. That shit is for books and movie screens. So-called Prince Charmings don’t exist, and men in general are a waste of time.

  Okay, so they help grow the human race. I’ll give them that. But if I want a baby, there are ways of having one on my own. Not that I want a baby. I’m content with the twenty-plus kids I call “mine” every day.

  They fill my child-well.

  And speaking of those twenty-plus kids now on their way home to spend the weekend with their parents, I can’t help but smile, recalling their responses to a recent task I’d set them while I make myself a cup of tea in the staffroom.

  “So, to sum up Emergency Education Month,” I say while jiggling the teabag in my mug. “I asked the kids a partial question, and they had to fill in the blank.” I giggle, nearly choking on my words. “Some of the answers were hilarious. Want to hear?”

  Sally—Ms Taylor—leans over the staffroom table and grabs a handful of M&M’s from an open packet. “Yeah, shoot.”

  “Okay, so I said, ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s…,’ and I asked them to raise their hands with answers I could write on the brainstorm board.” I squeeze the teabag and dump it into the bin before taking a seat next to Carly. As well as being my roommate, we also work together. That’s how we met. Carls is the “office lady” at school.

  She shuffles her seat over a little to make room for me. The only other spare seat is next to Oliver, who’s sitting next to George—Mr Tims—at the opposite end of the table. Oliver and I haven’t really spoken since his fake date, and he’d have to be a few eggs short of a chicken orgy to not know I’m dirty on him.

  He smiles, but I ignore it and continue my story.

  “Some of their responses were pollution, a smoker, a teepee, a cold morning, burnt toast, a bushfire, and, of course, a fire.”

  “Burnt toast?” Brooke—Ms Lewis—laughs. “Oh my God, I love it.”

  “I know, right? I tell ya, trying to explain to Jet Bradley that our breath on a cold morning isn’t smoke is like pulling teeth.”

  Carly’s phone rings from within her handbag, so she pulls it out, stands up, and walks away for privacy.

  “That wouldn’t be the sexy-arse firefighter, would it?” Brooke asks.

  Carly’s new squeeze, Derek, was one of the firefighters at our school’s Emergency Education demonstration last month. And not only was he very informative and demonstrative, let’s just say he also set a few fires in many a teacher’s underwear.

  Carly doesn’t answer Brooke, instead leaving the room with her phone pressed to her ear. I go to continue my discussion of Emergency Education week, when Oliver takes the now empty seat beside me.

  “Hey! You got any plans tonight?”

  “Um…” I cup my mug in my hands and bring it to my lips. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  He waits for me to explain what plans I have, but I have fuck all plans so don’t know what to say.

  “Because I was thinking—”

  “I’m getting my hair cut,” I blurt, setting my mug back down.

  His brows pinch just as Carly bursts into the room and says, “Right! Opals… tonight, who’s in?”

  We all look up.

  “I’m in,
” George offers, eagerly.

  “You’re too old. You’re not invited.” Carly pokes her tongue out at him. “And anyway, something tells me Mrs T would have your balls for breakfast were you to accompany us tonight.”

  George stands and not so subtly covers his package with his hands in a show of protection. “Nobody’s havin’ my balls for breakfast, especially Mrs T. She can have porridge.”

  I giggle. I love George.

  “Brooke, Sally, you in?” Carly plonks her butt on the table and nearly spills my tea.

  I pick it up, finish it off, and stand to take the empty mug to the sink. “I can’t, Carls. Sorry.”

  She laughs, and it reminds me of Maleficent. “Ha! You don’t have a choice.”

  I spin in her direction. “Says who?”

  “Me.”

  “Yeah, I’m in.” Sally grabs yet another handful of M&M’s and shovels them into her mouth.

  “Sal!” Carly points at the candy-covered chocolate.

  Sally has appointed Carly as her don’t-let-me-put-anymore-weight-on marshal, which Carly has taken rather seriously.

  Her eyes flame at Sal.

  “I’ll work it off tonight on the dance floor,” Sal mumbles as she chews. “I promise.”

  “Oh, I know you will.”

  “It’s all right for you. You can eat whatever you like and—”

  Carls cuts her off like the insensitive, no-bullshit marshal she is and says, “Okay, we’ll taxi it from my joint then.”

  Sal glares and sneaks another handful.

  “Brooke?” Carly asks.

  “I’ll let you know. I have to see what Lance is doin’. If he’s busy, then, yeah, I’m in.”

  “No probs. Text me later.” Pushing off the table, she picks up her handbag. “Okay, you ready, Lib?”

  “Wouldn’t matter if I weren’t,” I grumble. “You’d leave without me.”

  She shrugs. “You snooze, you lose.”

  Oliver gives Carly a disgusted look as we walk out the door; he’s not her biggest fan.

  Well, at least I have real plans now.

  Chapter Four

  “Why the urgency to go out?” I ask Carly as we climb into her car to make our way home from work.

  It’s her turn to drive. We take turns and carpool to save money on fuel.

  “No urgency. I just want a night out with my friends.”

  I scoff; she’s only ever keen to go to Opals when she wants to pick up a one-night stand.

  “You seem to forget, even though I tell you all the time, that you are the world’s worst liar.”

  Rolling her eyes, she leans forward and turns up the radio to avoid telling me the truth. It’s typically Carly.

  I lean forward and switch it off. “That was Derek on the phone in the staffroom, wasn’t it? What happened?”

  “Nothing. He just said he’s going away for a while, that’s all.” She shrugs as if she’s not hurt by him leaving.

  I turn to face her. “That’s not all.”

  “Just let it go, Lib.”

  “No. Not until you tell me the truth.”

  “Oh my God! What are you, a mentalist?

  “Maybe.” My smile is smug.

  Carly glares then returns her attention to the road and murmurs, “More like mental.”

  I ignore her childish stab and continue. “So Derek said he had to leave for a while and that the two of you are over, is that it?”

  “No.”

  I narrow my eyes as if I’m confused—I’m not—and continue to bait with ridiculous theories. “Hmmm… so he said he was leaving indefinitely and wanted to try a long-distance relationship but wasn’t sure if it would work?”

  She keeps staring straight ahead but taps the steering wheel and sneers. “No.”

  I groan. “Then what’s the problem? I’m not seeing one. He’s going away for a little while. So what? That doesn’t mean the two of you are over.”

  “He said he had to go to Sydney for ‘family’ issues,” she snaps, emphasising the family bit with one-handed quotation fingers. “He didn’t tell me any more.”

  “Again, what’s the problem?”

  “The part where he wouldn’t tell me any more.”

  “Maybe it’s personal, or he’s not even sure what that ‘any more’ part is just yet. And maybe when he does, he’ll let you know.”

  “Or maybe he has a wife and kids up there and I’m his dirty little secret,” she adds, sulking.

  Oh for God’s sake.

  “Don’t be so fucking stupid, Carly.”

  Her head snaps in my direction, her eyes wide. “Whoa! Geez, I didn’t know my love life meant so much to you.”

  “Yeah, well, it shouldn’t, because it obviously doesn’t mean that much to you. You’re forever sabotaging your own chance at happiness. Finally, a guy comes along who appears to mesh with you, a guy you’re clearly smitten with and he with you, and yet you refuse to stop playing this what-we-have-is-nothing game.”

  “I’m not playing games, Lib.”

  “Then why are you building that wall of yours? For once, don’t. Don’t build it. Enter a relationship without the fucking wall.”

  She glances sideways at me again, and I know she knows I’m upset. I rarely swear out loud. It’s not a good habit to have when you teach children.

  “Now”—Carly drops her hand from the steering wheel and pats my leg—“how ‘bout you tell me what’s going on?”

  I huff and say, “Nothing,” but then decide to tell her what I really think. “Actually, I will tell you. Here you are with a drop-dead gorgeous guy, and you choose to push him away. You do this all. The. Time. It’s not fair. Where’s my drop-dead gorgeous guy, the one who if he showed even the slightest bit of interest in me, like Derek shows you, I would certainly not push away?”

  Carly dips her head, and I know she feels bad.

  Good.

  But now I feel worse.

  Because I just inadvertently realised I’m jealous she has her Prince Charming and I don’t.

  A few hours later, Carly, Sal, Brooke, and I are at Opals, one of the nightclubs at City Towers.

  Contemporary, sleek décor fits out the building, and with three levels dedicated to various musical genres, the nightclub caters to everybody. Carly knows the owner, so when we arrive, we’re escorted to a VIP roped-off section near the stage with our very own private bar.

  “This is so awesome!” Sal beams. “How do you know the owner again? What’s his name… Bryce?” She happily sips her Cosmopolitan, her brown wavy hair pinned into a sexy mess of curls on top of her head. She’s wearing a black and gold-speckled off-the-shoulder top, which complements her black dress pants.

  “He and my bestie Alexis are seeing each other. They live in the penthouse,” Carls explains. She smooths down her black-sequinned shift dress, which rests midthigh. As always, she looks like a million bucks.

  Sal’s eyes widen. “No shit! Really? They live in the penthouse?”

  “Yeah, really!” Carls sweeps her long, blonde hair off her shoulder and throws back her Slippery Nipple shot.

  I give her a sceptical glare. “Are you going to pace yourself tonight?”

  She licks her lips. “Probably not.”

  Just as she’s about to scoop up her second shot, a masculine hand darts out of nowhere and swipes it from her, the contents of the small glass disappearing into the hand-owner’s mouth.

  “Mm.” The guy gives her a boyish grin. “I love a good Slippery Nipple.”

  My jaw drops, and I’m about to shove the jerk for stealing her drink and being an inappropriate pig, when Carly smiles at him, recognition in her eyes.

  “It just so happens that I like Slippery Nipples as well, and now you”—she presses her finger into his chest—“owe me one.”

  “Carly—” He licks the rim of the glass, his voice low, playful, and sexy as hell. “—if it weren’t for Derek beating me to a pulp, I’d totally give you one.”

  I swallow and nearly
choke, all of sudden craving a Slippery Nipple too—they must be good.

  She rolls her eyes at him. “Derek beat you to a pulp? Surrre. I’m almost certain he wouldn’t give a flying fuck what you gave me.”

  “Are you shittin’ me?” He steps back and lets out a deep belly laugh, and I take it he knows Derek well.

  “No, I’m not shittin’ you. Derek has never once hinted he and I are anything more than just ‘extra-special’ friends, Will.” She motions the bartender over. “I’ll have four Slippery Nipples. What do you girls want?” Carly turns in our direction, finally acknowledging we’re standing next to her.

  Sal giggles and waves her fingers, but I just purse my lips at the rude bitch.

  “Shit! Sorry! Will, these are my friends and work colleagues, Sally, Brooke, and Labia. Girls, this is Will, Derek’s mate.”

  Heat burns my cheeks. Did she just introduce me as a vagina?

  “Labia?” The arrogant jerk rests his knuckle on his lips, his amused eyes raking me from top to toe and back again. “Doesn’t get any sweeter than that.”

  I. Beg. Your. Pardon.

  “My name is Lib, or Elizabeth,” I say, teeth gritted.

  He turns his body to face me then leans on his elbow against the bar, and I’m able to get a better look at him—short dark-brown hair, tousled and peppered with a sexy hint of grey, a well-groomed beard and moustache, and pouty lips to rival Brad Pitt’s. He’s wearing a white shirt—possibly a size or two too small—sleeves rolled up to his biceps that could be easily mistaken as basketballs.

  I stare at them and they flex, so I blink and focus back on his face.

  “I think I like Labia better,” he says and winks.

  My eyes narrow into slits, nostrils flared, but I’m too furious to say anything.

  “Gee.” He raises his hands. “Lib or Elizabeth it is then.”

  “Thank you,” I say, my smile sarcastically sweet.

  “So what would your royal highness Elizabeth like to drink?”

  “Royal highness? Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “As if I haven’t heard that before. And anyway, I’m quite capable of getting my own drink—”