by Fields, MJ
“I don’t know, Bryce. Won’t that make things a little too…complicated?”
He shrugged and gave me a tight smile. “Maybe. But I’m willing to give it a shot. You and I are taking things day by day, yeah? Take the same approach with the inn. There’s no urgency, no reason for a self-induced deadline that only stresses you out. Okay?”
“Day by day,” I repeated, nodding my head mechanically while I contemplated his suggestion. “I can do that.”
“That’s the spirit.”
And just like that, Bryce McKnight managed to take a tiny bit of the weight off my shoulders. This feeling—this trust tickling my heart—was risky. Dangerous. It was either laying the foundation for something stable and long-lasting, or it was setting me up for one hell of a fall.
We’d both finished eating, so Bryce leaned over the table to pick up my plate. I gripped his wrist and stopped him.
“Bryce?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” I replied, edging forward in my seat to peck his cheek.
His lips curled into a smile as he slowly pulled back and took my plate with him. “Any time, El.”
I gathered the rest of our dishes and followed him into the kitchen to help, but he wouldn’t have it. He insisted he was just going to rinse them off and would finish later. I acquiesced and wandered into the living room while he rinsed because Nana taught me to never argue with a man offering to do dishes.
“All done,” he called a couple minutes later, rounding the corner at the same time I traced my fingers along the strings of a guitar.
I jumped back and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. It was open, and I was curious. You play?”
“A little. Started teaching myself when I was seventeen. I needed an outlet for my anger about being shipped off to Washington, and it was either this or drag racing.”
“Drag racing? Really?”
“It was an all-boys prep school. Options were limited.”
“Why that school, Bryce?”
“My father grew up with the head master, and I guess he thought it was his best shot at making me ‘see the light’ or some shit like that. Back then my parents and I butted heads about everything, especially my future. They meant well, but I didn’t see that at the time. I refused to listen when they tried to teach me the ins and outs of winemaking, and they shut down any of my attempts to talk about alternative careers. The only reason I was able to study architecture was because I double-majored.”
“Wow. I knew you didn’t always see eye-to-eye with your parents, but I guess I never realized how…challenging your adolescence was.”
“That’s probably because, with you, I never had to think about those expectations. I got to live in our ‘B and E’ bubble. Plus, you were, what, fourteen when I left? Things were different then.”
“Things are different now, too,” I countered.
Everything about the look in his aqua eyes echoed my words as he studied me. It was as if he was seeing me for the first time—like he wasn’t the boy who taught me how to pop a wheelie when I was eight. “You’re right, they are.”
When I couldn’t handle the intensity of Bryce’s gaze, I dropped my eyes back down to the guitar and tried to convince my heart to go back to its normal rhythm. I wanted to ask him to play something for me, but that felt too intimate. Maybe someday…
“So, should—”
“Do you wan—”
“I should probably go,” I said, shifting on my feet and twisting my fingers together.
Bryce looked down at his watch and frowned. “It’s barely eight.”
“I know, but I have some work I should get done tonight.”
Bryce disappeared into the kitchen and came back out a second later with his hands behind his back. “That’s too bad. Guess I’ll just have to eat this all myself then,” he said, pulling a pint of cookies n’ cream ice cream out from behind his back.
My favorite flavor.
I’d have been impressed about him remembering that, but we’d debated the merits of cookies n’ cream versus chocolate chip cookie dough on more than one occasion as kids.
“You don’t play fair, Wario.”
He smirked at the moniker. “Never claimed to. I like it dirty, remember?”
He wiggled his eyebrows and bit his bottom lip, and I was pretty sure I’d never seen anything sexier than the sight in front of me. I think I like it dirty, too.
“You keep saying that, and yet…here I am, still waiting for you to prove it.” I took the extra spoon and dipped it into the carton, making a show of slowly licking the ice cream off and batting my eyelashes.
He reached out and tucked a chunk of hair behind my ear, letting his hand linger, waiting for me to react to the contact. “Oh, Uno,” he trailed off with a tsk-tsk-tsk sound. He leaned in, his lips brushing the outer edge of my ear. “Just you wait. You’ll see.”
He pulled back, but stayed within the perimeter of my personal space.
I let out the breath I'd been holding, meeting his eyes. “You, Bryce McKnight, get way too much satisfaction out of this little game we’re playing.”
“I’ve always loved the games we play, El, but if you think this is true satisfaction, clearly you’ve never been properly fucked.”
At that, my jaw practically hit the floor.
It should’ve alarmed me, the way Bryce took the simmering sexual tension between us and effortlessly escalated it to a boiling point. The implication in his words floated between us, a silent promise that he could easily rectify that situation.
“That so?” I asked. The words were breathy and awed so I cleared my throat. “Is this the part where you say you’re just the man to fix that?”
He slowly lifted his spoon, dipping it in the ice cream and lapping it off in a blatantly suggestive way. “Nope. This is the part where we watch Dateline and eat ice cream on the couch. C’mon.”
“Seriously?”
Bryce paused halfway to the couch and turned back, searching my face and reading the confusion there. He retraced the handful of steps separating us and put the ice cream down before grabbing my hands and pulling me close. “Seriously. Of course I want to ‘fix’ that, El. I can’t look at you without wanting to fix it immediately. In case you didn’t already know, I’m wildly attracted to you, Uno,” he said, brushing his fingers along my jaw and down my neck, pausing over the galloping beat of my pulse. “But we agreed that we’d take this slow and see where things go, and I know how far out of your comfort zone it is to not have a plan. I might not know everything about you, but I know you’re not the type to jump into bed with a guy without knowing where things stand or are going between you. As strange as this is going to sound…I won’t use sex to influence where things go with us. Does that mean I’m going to be the perfect gentleman? Abso-fucking-lutely not. But it does mean I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure we do this right.”
Emotion clogged my throat and threatened to blur my vision. Still, knowing Bryce was right didn’t mean my body was on board with the idea of the slow track. I lifted a hand to travel over his shoulder and rest against the nape of his neck. “So…you’re saying you think I’m hot?”
A groan in Bryce’s throat sent a vibration through my palm and made my smile impossible to keep in check. “That is all you got out of my sincere, well-intentioned speech?”
“No. But it’s either focus on that part, or focus on the part where you told me you don’t want to have sex with me and it was incredibly sweet and only made me like you more.”
“I think you misheard, El. I want to fuck you from now until Christmas. But you…we…aren’t there yet. And I respect that.”
His confession was startling—another taste of the dirty-talker-Jekyll hidden beneath the gentleman-Hyde.
I gazed up at him, studying the dark dirty blonde lashes framing his aqua eyes. “You’re a rare breed, Bryce. A perfect balance of sinner and saint wrapped in one alarmingly hot package.”
He grinned and pe
cked my lips before putting space between us. “The only saint-like thing about me is my patience. Now come on, the ice cream’s melting.”
Despite the fact I really did need to get some work done, I couldn't resist cookies-and-cream. Or Bryce. We split the pint and watched a couple episodes of Dateline, making a competition out of predicting the endings.
He was wrong about one thing; his self-restraint was also saint-like. Other than a PG-13 make-out session at my car when I was leaving, we managed to keep our hands to ourselves.
I knew going slow was the right move, at least until we had a better idea of where things were going between us. It would be incredibly reckless not to consider Peyton, not to prioritize her above all else. Bryce made it clear that we’re heading toward the more-than-friends zone, but dating him means being a part of her life too, and I had to wonder if he realized what a massive step that was.
Fourteen
Elliot
“Tell me about your childhood,” Mr. Adams requested, taking me by surprise as he set his drink on the table and slipped back into the seat across from me.
I had just gotten my latte when I spotted Mr. Adams studying the menu from the back of the line. I gestured for him to join me after he got his drink, and we’d spent the last half-hour talking about Serenity—how my grandparents ran it, their philosophy behind its operation, even the origin of the name.
I expected that line of questioning. This? Not so much.
“My childhood? Why?”
“You were raised by some pretty extraordinary people, and I’m betting you’ve got lots of stories. I’d love to hear some of them.”
“How’d you know they raised me?” I asked, crossing my arms. I was certain I hadn’t said anything that would’ve given him that impression.
Adams picked up his tea and took a sip, unfazed by my confusion. “There are photos of you and your sister throughout your grandfather’s office. He spoke as if you were his children, calling you two his ‘pride and joy.’ It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.”
“Oh.” I sank back in my chair, feeling a little dumb for not realizing that myself. Come on, Elliot, he’s just trying to get a clearer picture of the people who built the business he wants to buy. People like Adams look into every minor detail before making major financial decisions. Nana and Pops said they really like him. Stop being weird.
“I consider it part of my job to familiarize myself with anyone I do business with, Ms. Kincaid,” he said, reading my mind. “Personal life included. How a person treats their flesh and blood speaks a lot to their character. Wouldn’t you agree?”
His gray storm-cloud eyes studied me intensely, and I couldn’t discern what it was they held. Intensity came with the territory of his job title, which he had in spades; but this was different. Intimidating. Like he was trying to see inside my head and unlock the answer to his question with his stare alone.
I got the feeling he’d ask about my favorite cereal with equal intensity.
“I guess. But if that’s the case, it seems only fair that you tell me about your family too.”
He pursed his lips together and twirled the gold band adorning his left ring finger before momentarily shifting his attention to a pair of women passing by outside, his posture rigid and cold. “I don’t have a family anymore. I lost my wife and son to complications during birth.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Adams. I didn’t mean…”
He turned back to me and waved his hand dismissively, shedding all traces of ice in his demeanor. “That was another life. Though I suppose you could say they’re why I have somewhat of a soft spot for family-oriented businesses.”
I had a feeling that was about as close as Greg Adams ever came to sharing personal information. The man was still a complete mystery, but I figured the most important thing was his interest in maintaining the principles Serenity was built upon.
“Well, Serenity is definitely rooted in family values. The majority of guests are repeats, which is something my grandparents take immense pride in. Every summer when I was growing up, George and Millie would tell us to pick a state, and we’d make a big road trip out of it and find things to see along the way. We’d get quality family time by traveling in an RV, and they also got to ensure firsthand that the staff at each Serenity property was upholding their standards. They taught my sister and me a little about the business in the process as well. I know using guest feedback to enhance the experience at a hotel isn’t innovative or uncommon, but Pops prided himself on doing so on a personal level. Think Undercover Boss style.”
“Sounds like George knows how to kill multiple birds with one stone. Impressive.”
I nodded. “He is. They both are. I’m lucky to have grown up with them as my role models. So many times—”
An alert from Mr. Adams’s phone cut me off, and he looked down and frowned. “I’m sorry, Ms. Kincaid, something’s come up that requires my immediate attention.”
He stood, and I stuttered at his abrupt urgency.
“Oh. Um, okay, no problem.”
He thanked me for the help, and I’d barely had a second to respond before he rushed out the door.
Huh. Weird.
I shrugged off his hurried departure and headed to the counter to order another drink. My last appointment of the afternoon had canceled this morning, so I decided to stick around the coffee shop and do some of the behind-the-scenes grunt work like drafting contracts and sorting through emails.
I had my headphones in, letting Ed Sheeran serenade me in the background, when the ping of an iMessage over the music caught my attention.
BRYCE:MORE coffee??? Are you aware of potential heart issues caused by an increased caffeine intake?
My head jerked up, instinctively looking for hair the shade of dark honey. He sat across the room at a tiny table with his laptop out. Smiling eyes behind black-rimmed glasses met mine before he shot me a wink. I smiled and turned back to my computer.
ELLIOT:Are YOU aware of the term ‘restraining order’??? Exactly how long have you been watching me, McStalks-a-lot?
BRYCE:Never heard of it. And…long enough. This is MY coffee shop, remember? Also, if you’re expanding the potential nicknames to Mc-somethings, I prefer McDreamy.
ELLIOT:So humble. Too bad that one’s already taken. But feel free to keep the suggestions coming.
BRYCE:Ask and you shall receive…
BRYCE:McDreamboat. McHotBody. McLicious. McMagicDick.
I spewed iced coffee onto my laptop screen and keyboard. Grabbing a napkin, I wiped up the mess.
ELLIOT:McLicious? What are you, some kind of McDonald’s dessert? I’m thinking McCock…y seems highly fitting.
ELLIOT:Also, my fingers are now sticky, thanks to you.
BRYCE:If we’re about to swap confessions about masturbating after you went home last night, we should move this conversation somewhere more private.
BRYCE:Then again, I do love the idea of making you squirm in public…
ELLIOT:??????
BRYCE:El. Reread your text.
I did, and my face immediately burst into flames of mortification. Other parts of me also burst to life at Bryce’s words.
Also, he wasn’t wrong about what I’d done after I got home last night.
ELLIOT:You wouldn’t.
ELLIOT:Besides, even if that was remotely true, how do you know *you* were the reason behind it?
BRYCE:I can see you blushing from here. That’s how.
BRYCE:It’s adorable, by the way. But now picturing you touching yourself is giving me very NSFW thoughts and ideas.
ELLIOT:Such as?
BRYCE:Elliot Kincaid…are you trying to get me to sext you…from across the room, while we’re both on the clock?
I leaned back in my chair and bit my lip, refusing to look his way. Crap. Is that what I’m doing? I can’t do that while we’re both supposed to be working. While part of me worried he actually would try to sext me right now, the idea of seeing ho
w far I could push Bryce was too tempting to pass up.
ELLIOT:Maybe.
BRYCE:Dirty girl. I’m coming over there.
ELLIOT:No!
ELLIOT:Not yet. I actually do need to work. And you coming over here right now would probably make that impossible.
I swore I heard him sigh from across the room, but when I looked over, his eyes were on his screen.
BRYCE:I’ll make you a deal. We both work—no distractions—for a solid hour, a ‘power hour’ if you will, and then I’m coming over there.
ELLIOT:Deal.
I closed out of Messages and successfully resisted the urge to turn and look at Bryce.
No distractions.
Right.
Easier said than done when he was in my vicinity, hijacking my thoughts every other minute.
Fifteen
Bryce
Note to self: Mental images of Elliot Kincaid, flushed and naked, writhing under me while I finger-fuck her is the definition of distraction.
Why does she have to be so damn cute when she blushes?
Why did the sight of said blush—and knowing I was actually right about last night—immediately get me hard?
Last night.
My complete honesty with her was impulsive, but not a mistake.