by Evie Claire
“Yep.”
“Inherited or bought?”
“It was my uncle’s.”
“What’s up there?” She pulled out of his arms to motion upward, and he fucking hated it. Hiding his grimace, he followed her finger with his eyes.
“Three empty stories and then my apartment.”
“Nothing? For three stories?”
“Nope.” Brody busied himself smoothing a rough spot out of one thumbnail with another. Anything to avoid eye contact with her. He didn’t need to see her disappointment. He could hear it just fine.
“Why haven’t you developed it?”
“Because that takes money and bar business isn’t exactly a cash cow.” Brody turned and looked into the afternoon sun, avoiding her again.
“I could lend you the money. I’d actually love to,” Phebe said, then immediately opened her mouth and shook her head like she’d spoken too soon.
“Don’t.” Brody held up his hand to wave off any backpedaling she was about to do. “I wouldn’t take your money even if you’d love to give it to me. I don’t have the first clue about real estate development.”
“I wasn’t rescinding my offer. I was doubling down. Commercial real estate is my life.” Phebe slapped a hand over her chest in a proud way, but then her face twisted and she had second thoughts. “That sounds absolutely pathetic. Doesn’t it?”
“No more so than me saying a bar is mine.” They shared a laugh for about two seconds before Phebe went stone-sober serious again.
“All jokes aside, Brody, if you wanted to make something out of this,” Phebe pointed to the building, “I would be your partner in a heartbeat. And secure financing. I know people who would be happy to work a loan on this.”
Her offer hung in an awkward silence. No way was he taking her money. Every man had his limits—of both emasculation and pride. Instead of sealing the deal with a handshake agreement, he blinked, nodded, looked at the building, and then back to her. Stalling like he was genuinely considering her offer.
“Yeah, sure, I’ll think about it.” Brody pressed the Hendrick’s back into her hand. A business partner wasn’t exactly the kind of relationship he hoped to establish with Phebe. Even if it was sexy as hell to hear her talk business like a damn boss. So sexy, he certainly didn’t need her to be his boss. Sexual harassment and all.
“I’m sorry.” Phebe covered her face with her free hand, suddenly blushing. “I just get…real estate excites me…the possibilities…the risks…the rewards.” She tried to excuse her intensity.
“I like you excited. Though I hadn’t exactly planned on using my real estate assets to do that today.” Brody bit at a smile and then turned it sheepishly her way, something he had discovered over the years did something to women…if they wanted it to.
And Phebe obviously did, reclaiming her spot in his arms and even laying her head once again on his chest. A move Brody wasn’t prepared for at all. One that left him with his arms extended awkwardly at his sides. When his brain caught up with reality, he quickly closed his arms around her and pulled her closer.
Brody braced against the thud that thundered in his chest—so hard, so deep, it threatened to break his ribs to get to her. What the hell was she doing to him? Aftershocks quaked down to the spot that was quickly becoming hers. He stiffened to regain control, only to feel her arms tighten, refusing to let him go. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the feeling created when a woman like her wanted him.
Holy hell.
She was big-time trouble. And Brody was really good at being bad.
Chapter 9
Phebe
Phebe slid a thumb through the sweat slicking her highball glass. Bellied up to his bar was the last place she should be. At home, in a ratty Braves shirt, downing a bottle of red, and throwing mental darts at the image of Steve’s face when he uttered the words You’re fired was a much better place for someone in her condition.
She stole a sideways look down the bar top at the only reason her ass was still on the stool. She’d already rationalized blaming her former supervisor for her burgeoning bartender crush, too. Technically, it was Steve’s fault she’d found her way to The Guns in the first place.
And while crushing on hipster hotties wasn’t how she normally spent +a Monday afternoon—mainly because it required time she didn’t have—she’d suddenly found herself without anything to do for the foreseeable future. Doing Brody Cantrell was now a top priority. Thanks to the gin, she’d mentally undressed him and made love to him on every surface in the place. She couldn’t get the thought out of her mind. Not that she’d tried that hard.
Twice she’d decided it was time to go. But right when she’d grabbed her bag, he had appeared. And even though her eyeballs were practically floating in the Hendrick’s he offered, she took it, anyway. Because she couldn’t decide why she wanted to fuck him so badly. Her insides were all out of sorts. So much so that leaving a wet spot on the black leather stool when she stood was a very real possibility. Was it because she needed the distraction after her horrible day or because of the growing suspicion that their chemistry between the sheets would set a bed on fire?
Maybe the barroom propaganda was getting to her. She grinned at the thought of them in her sheets and studied a fire-breathing red-devil dragon on the glass of water Brody had brought her the last time he came over. It was for Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey, a liquor that promised to taste like heaven and burn like hell. Good god, wouldn’t that be everything on a day from hell?
“Bartender!” Phebe waved a hand in the air, playfully demanding Brody’s attention. He snapped to with a smile.
“If you get too rowdy, miss, I’ll have to throw you out,” he teased with a grin.
“Is this true?” Phebe held the glass up so Brody could read the slogan. His eyes traced over the words, a mischievous smile growing.
“You’ve never had Fireball?” he asked. Phebe shook her head. “I thought every woman of drinking age in this city had tried it by now,” he said with genuine dismay.
“I don’t get out much,” Phebe admitted. It was true. And when she did, it was for work dinners or straitlaced networking events where whiskey shooters were decidedly frowned upon. Brody lined up two shot glasses and grabbed a bottle with the same dancing devil dragon on its label.
“Then welcome to heaven with a dash of hell.” Brody took both shot glasses in one hand and held one out to her. If looks could melt her insides, which they were proving capable of doing today, that wet spot was no longer a mere probability.
She accepted the shot and threw it down her throat. Cinnamon flooded her senses, followed by a burn that could be described only as liquid fire screaming into her gut. She closed her mouth, swallowed hard, and exhaled through her nose, certain she would snort flames. She stilled, fearing what else the drink had in store for her. The fire eased and left a sweet burn so intoxicating, she immediately wanted more.
Tears flooded her eyes with the final aftershock, but she held out her shot glass again. Brody hesitated, but relented and poured them both another. They took it together. Phebe relished the burn this time, exhaling slowly and pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth to savor it. Brody quickly put the bottle away before she could ask for more.
“So, I was going to make a couple burgers,” he added in a knowing way. Phebe’s stomach growled at the suggestion. Shit. When was the last time she ate? Certainly not at lunch. The nerves of negotiating her future had kept that from happening. It was entirely possible the only thing she’d had all day was a cup of coffee. That wasn’t good. But it explained why she’d had such shit luck removing herself from the barstool.
Phebe Stark was sloshed.
“Mmm…there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for one of your burgers, Brody,” Phebe said in a throaty tone that was way too suggestive. Realizing how uncharacteristically slutty she was currently sounding, and
desperate to hide her drunk, she rambled in an effort to recover her fumble. “Mmm, a burger and fries sounds great. Do you have fries? I loooove fries dipped in mustard with a burger. Yellow mustard. Not Dijon.”
“Come on!” Drew interjected from the other end of the bar, dramatically throwing his hands in the air. Phebe wobbled on the stool when she turned her attention to him. “Nobody likes mustard on their fries! Nobody except you two weirdos. Just hook up and get it over with already!” Drew made a gyrating hip gesture that would’ve been obscene if he’d had any rhythm at all.
“Quit offending the patrons, Drew.” Brody grabbed a cocktail cherry from the garnish tray and hurled it in his direction. The Maraschino landed in a bright red splat on Drew’s shoulder. Phebe couldn’t help but notice the pink that flamed at the edges of Brody’s beard.
“Who’s offended?” Phebe asked, selecting a cherry, and tossing it at an unsuspecting Brody. He caught it midair and shot her a challenging look. Damn, it was sexy as hell. Too sexy for a girl in her condition.
Brody cleared his throat and swallowed.
“Drew, will you go start some patties?” he asked, not bothering to look at his employee as he gave the order. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t. He licked his lips, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and pointed at the glasses he’d been stacking. Phebe watched him go, lusting over every rise and fall his heavenly ass cheeks made. She made a mental note to redact her previous stance on the preferred hipster wardrobe. Any man with a backside like Brody’s should wear skinny jeans all day, every day.
While she watched him go, she was vaguely aware of another body that entered her peripheral vision. One that was walking right by, but stopped in its tracks the moment it came even with her barstool.
“Ms. Stark?” The voice came out of nowhere, threatening to knock her off her perch. She turned to find Emmett, a now former coworker—and office gossip—standing behind her, the BHI name tag still clipped over his chest pocket. “Is it true he fired you?”
And just like that, Phebe’s world screeched to a halt. She’d made her peace with her situation, but damn if her pride didn’t get the best of her when she heard someone else utter her fate so callously. Not to mention that if Emmett knew, it meant the entire damn company was humming about it. She gritted her teeth to calm her anger.
“Yeah.” It was all she could manage to get out. She stood and gathered her things. Grabbing a hundred from her wallet, she waved to get Brody’s attention, so he would see her leaving it on the bar. Whatever plans her vagina had had for the evening would have to wait. It was five o’clock, and she had zero desire to rehash her firing with every BHI employee who came through the door.
“Oh, Phebe, wait.” Brody sprinted down the length of the bar. “Would you mind looking over the offer from Stewart Capital before you leave? It’d be a huge favor.”
“Offer from Stewart Capital?” Emmett nearly choked on his own tongue repeating Brody’s request. Phebe’s mind swirled to try and make sense of the situation. Emmett had worked his ass off on BHI’s attempt to buy The Guns building. When the deal didn’t happen, he’d taken a “mental health day” to recover.
“Sure, Brody. I’d love to.” Phebe didn’t miss a beat, though she hadn’t a clue what the hell was going on. She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and turned to the hallway that led to Brody’s office. “See ya ’round, Emmett.”
It wasn’t until they were in the privacy of Brody’s office that Phebe freed the giggles she’d been choking on. “That was brilliant! How did you know the one thing that would shut him up?” Phebe gaped in bewilderment.
“Emmett became a regular trying to convince me to sell to BHI. He had pie-in-the-sky dreams of a big promotion if he succeeded.”
“I can’t…I just…” Phebe leaped into Brody’s arms, wrapping hers around his neck. “Thank you. He was totally killing my buzz, and now I’ll be the last thing on his mind.” They lingered in the embrace, then Phebe pushed away, her hands resting on his chest. “But…wait. Is there an actual offer you’re considering?”
“Hell, no. I was just trying to get him off your back.”
“Good. This beauty should be the last thing you ever let go of.”
“Oh, I fully intend to hold on to this beauty as long as I can.” Brody’s grip tightened infinitesimally around Phebe’s waist. At first, his words were lost in the visceral reaction his tiny gesture had caused within her. Heat—hot as fucking fire—flamed to life in her crotch, radiated throughout her body, and finally found an outlet through the tiny pores at the nape of her neck. She drew in a heavy breath, calming herself enough to hear him. When she did, the same warmth flooded across her cheeks. She studied the dip at the base of his throat; she was beyond flustered, her cool hopelessly lost by his manly presence in her personal space. Of course, she knew the beauty to which he referred. But men never took charge of Phebe Stark. She was way too intimidating for that. To find one who did, one who made her wet in places not fit for public discussion, no less, was more than she could handle after gin and whiskey.
“I was referring to your building, Brody.” Phebe stepped away to regain some composure.
“So was I,” Brody said good-naturedly, with a pirate’s smile and a wink. It was an overly ambiguous gesture that frustrated the hell out of her. Did he want to fuck or flirt?
“Uh-huh.” Phebe nodded and pulled her hair into a topknot, fanning the sweats from the back of her neck.
“You want a tour?” Brody offered.
Hell-fucking-yes she wanted a tour. Preferably one that ended with his hipster jeans on the floor. He had five minutes, or else she’d have to go home and finish things herself.
“The construction started in 1906, but it caught fire halfway through and wasn’t completed until 1910. You can see char on some of the bricks.” Brody switched on a single-bulb work lamp dangling from an overhead beam. A gentle hum from the busy bar below rattled the floorboards underfoot.
“What’s above?” Phebe raised a finger to the ceiling. For all her hormonal raging, historic architecture was almost always able to distract her. Almost. Always. With each step, she found herself pressing her thighs together more than was required.
“The third and fourth floors are just like this. Then the fifth is my living space.”
“Your apartment.” She recalled their earlier conversation that seemed like forever ago. Brody nodded.
Phebe had rarely seen a building with more potential. The bones of the structure were completely untouched from their original state. Wide-open expanses of hand-hewn wooden floors were interrupted by large columns gouged with wear and Father Time. Wavy-glass windows stretched from board to beam along the outer walls. It had obviously been a factory of sorts. Probably cotton, given the age and proximity to the old rail lines. She was relieved that BHI hadn’t gotten hold of it. They’d never know how to appreciate a building with such charm.
“It’s gorgeous, Brody. I’m dead serious about my offer. I’d love to help you develop this space. If you’d want me as a partner?” Phebe scratched a nail over a small pebble lodged into the grain of a nearby column. For an unoccupied space, the building was considerably clean. When the pebble loosened under her finger and fell to the floor, Phebe hiked up her skirt and leaned over to retrieve it. Brody made a small, quick sound, but he didn’t answer her question. Somewhere in the back of her gin-soaked subconscious she knew her ass was pointed directly at Brody. She also knew her skirt—hiked like it was—was probably doing a shitty job of being a skirt.
When Brody still hadn’t answered, she turned to him, only to find his eyes locked on her assets. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and his mouth hung slightly open like he wanted to taste her. She knew the look. It was the same one she’d given him all afternoon.
Her heart gave one hard beat. One that rad
iated down to her toes. It was about to happen. All the flirtations exchanged via sexts the night before. All the ways she’d mentally made love to him. Her every fantasy was about to meet his flesh.
Normally it took an act of Congress, or a bottle of red, to switch her mind from business mode to something else. But that afternoon, with Hendrick’s and Fireball calling the shots, it took only a single knowing look from a man she wanted more than anything else.
Her muscles warmed like they did when she knew pleasure was about to be hers. The edge that defined her slipped further away, replaced by a feminine flirtation she usually suppressed. She loved a man who made her feel like a woman. That didn’t happen very often, and even if love wasn’t in the cards for them, hot sex certainly was. That much she could feel in the deepest reaches of her womanhood.
She didn’t press him for an answer. She liked his eyes on her, repaying the favor of a mental undressing…and then some. It made her hot. So hot, she found herself searching for something to soften the hand-hewn wooden floor she was about to fuck him on. But there was nothing. Not even a pillowy whisper of cotton left from days long gone.
In a corner near a western-facing window, where the last rays of yellow sunshine spilled into the dark room, stood a large rectangular object. Big as a bed, but much too high. Whatever it was, it’d have to do. Phebe crossed the room to it. She could feel his gaze still heavy on her. His footsteps echoes behind hers.
“What’s this?” she asked, her words throaty and low. Grabbing in one hand the white sheet that covered it, she ripped it away to expose a pool table in the final stages of a major restoration. The sheet slipped from her fingers and floated to the floor.
“Uncle Nuck’s old pool table. I work on it in my spare time.” Beside the table was a straight-backed chair. Another small work lamp was clipped to its top rung, and a box of wood polish and rags was in its seat. Brody set a bottle of Fireball on the table’s side rail and bent to turn on the lamp. The antique wood shone under soft, diffused light. Phebe grabbed the bottle of Fireball and took a strong pull. Not that she needed it.