Getting It Now!

by Rhonda Nelson

  Rupert winced. “About that,” he said tentatively.

  “What about that?” Philip growled.

  His face fell. “They didn’t go for it.”

  “What?” Philip exploded.

  Rupert flinched, then let go a weary sigh. “They wouldn’t budge, Philip. I tried.”

  “What happened to talking some smack?” he all but wailed.

  “I got smacked back.”

  Thoroughly disgusted, Philip groaned, collapsed heavily into his chair and blew out an annoyed breath. “I need a drink.”

  “Want me to get one for you?” Rupert asked quickly, evidently seizing upon something that he could do, since negotiating a contract in his client’s favor didn’t seem to be working out.

  Philip shook his head. “No. Forget it.”

  “I just think that you need to dial things back a notch,” Rupert suggested. “Do your job…but don’t do it quite so well.” He hesitated. “I saw her in the hall. So much for asking her to wear more, eh?”

  Philip closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the chair. “Clearly that wasn’t one of my better plans.”

  “We all make mistakes,” Rupert said soothingly.

  Philip snorted.

  “She’s getting to you, isn’t she?”

  He lifted his head and glared at him. “You saw her. What do you think?”

  Rupert smiled. “I think it’s a miracle you don’t have a mouthful of feathers.”

  Philip felt his lips twitch. “Yeah, well, I think it’s going to take a bloody miracle to get me through this week.”

  Rupert wandered to the door, preparing to take his leave and grinned. “I suggest the miracle of sex. It does wonders.”

  “Sod off,” Philip said with a weary chuckle. He needed a miracle, all right—divine intervention to prevent him from sleeping with her.

  “THIS ONE AND THIS ONE,” Frankie said, pushing forward her favorite two of four petite sandwich samples.

  Carrie nodded approvingly and made a note. The cucumber and tropical chicken salad were her picks as well. Frankie currently sat at Carrie’s kitchen table, obligingly sampling various items for her wedding reception menu.

  After this morning, Carrie had needed something to get her mind off kissing, groping and having wild passionate gorilla sex with Philip.

  Or more important, not kissing, groping and having wild gorilla sex with Philip.

  She’d decided that planning Frankie’s reception would fit the bill and had jumped into the kitchen—her safe haven/psych ward—and had attacked the job with an almost desperate furor her friend had undoubtedly picked up on.

  But she couldn’t help it. When in doubt cook, Carrie thought. She glanced around her retro kitchen and winced. Every surface was covered with delectable treats meant for Frankie. So long as she didn’t eat all of this, she should be fine.

  At any rate, considering that Frankie’s wedding was Saturday, she really didn’t need to leave things to the last minute. Aside from the cake, she could pull together enough food to feed fifteen the night before, but she’d never been a leave-things-to-the-last-minute kind of girl.

  “This really isn’t necessary, you know,” Frankie said, eying her speculatively. “I totally trust your judgment.”

  Carrie poured up three different samples of punch and slid them to her friend. “Be that as it may, this is your special day and I want you to be completely pleased.”

  Frankie harrumphed, took a sip from the first cup. “So long as Ross shows up, I’m not going to have any complaints.”

  Carrie shot her friend a droll smile and beat down another burst of envy. “I seriously doubt you have anything to worry about.”

  Frankie hummed with pleasure as she sampled the second cup. “Me either,” she confided. “But we’re riding together, anyway.” She smiled. “Never hurts to make them feel needed,” she said, then gestured to the cup. “I really like this one,” she commented appreciatively. “It’s different. Smooth.”

  Carrie made another notation on her pad, then moved on to the various sketches of wedding cakes she’d pulled together this afternoon and handed it to her. “Now for the cake,” she said, leaning against her white tiled countertop. “I know a lot of people prefer the butter cream icing, but if it’s all right with you, I think the rolled fondant is classier.” Furthermore she had something really special planned for her friend’s cake—a sentimental memento—and the fondant would work better for her purposes.

  Frankie nodded, idly thumbing through the drawings. Finally, she looked up. “All of these are beautiful. Any one of them would make a fine choice, so I’ll leave this completely in your competent hands.”

  “You don’t want to pick one?” Carrie asked, surprised. She fully expected her friend would want to micromanage at least a little. It wasn’t in Frankie’s character to simply surrender, particularly something as important as this.

  Her friend shrugged helplessly. “I’ve already made the most important choice,” she said matter-of-factly. “I chose Ross. We’re having a baby. We’re going to be a family,” she said in a voice that came dangerously close to cracking. “Everything else is secondary.”

  Well, when you put it that way, Carrie thought, feeling a curious lump of emotion lodge in her throat. Would that someday she would have that sort of perspective. Frankie had gone from Bride-zilla to content mom-to-be with startling rapidity and ease.

  “I’m so happy for you,” Carrie told her friend. And she meant it from the bottom of her heart.

  “That’s why I know you’ll do a good job. I should have left it all to the people who really cared about me to start with,” she said, wincing with the wisdom of hindsight. She pulled a halfhearted shrug and let go a breath. “As I’m sure you noticed, I got all caught up in having a girly-girly wedding, when what I should have been thinking about and thanking my lucky stars for was the impending marriage. That’s what’s important and I lost sight of it.” She smiled, grimaced. “It’s a miracle Ross didn’t run screaming for the hills.”

  Carrie chuckled. “He’d never do that. He loves you.”

  Frankie smiled, lifted her shoulders in another helpless gesture. “Yeah, he does. Go figure.” She pulled in a bracing breath. “And you’ll find someone who’ll love you, too, you know.”

  Carrie grimaced, started tidying her kitchen. “Let’s just get you married off before we start worrying about me.”

  “I think we should worry about getting you laid,” Frankie told her in her customary frank manner. “Speaking of which, how goes it with sexy Philip? Today was your first day working together, right?”

  Carrie nodded. “That’s right.”

  “And?” Frankie prodded demandingly.

  And it was fun and amazing and she wanted him more with each passing second. Which irritated the hell out of her when it was clear he thought her show was a crock, that he thought she was some sort of opportunistic bitch out to steal his show. Granted his previous experience no doubt contributed to that fear, but she wasn’t that woman. And while she might want a better format, she’d never accept one based on compromising his.

  Still, she knew Frankie would appreciate her less-was-more tactic. It had been her idea, after all. She told her friend about Philip’s condescending assistant request, then shared his other little comments regarding her attire. She sighed when she finished bringing Frankie up to speed. “In short, he’s an arrogant ass.”

  Frankie chuckled darkly and arched a pointed brow. “Please tell me that you didn’t let this go without retribution. Tell me that you took our advice.”

  Carrie grinned. “I did.”

  Frankie whooped and slapped her hand on the table. “Oh, thank God. I knew being the world’s most infuriatingly calm woman couldn’t last forever.”

  “Hey,” Carrie admonished, taking slight offense.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. But you know it’s true. You’ve been letting things slide for far too long. Personally, I’m glad that this guy finally p
ushed you past the breaking point.” She smiled, seemingly impressed. “It’s going to be interesting to see what comes out of it.”

  Interesting wouldn’t be her word for it, but she did feel better. Liberated. Energized. It would be curious to see if that energy stayed with her tomorrow, particularly if Philip made good his threat and started combating attraction for attraction.

  God help her if he did, Carrie thought. It was hard enough keeping her perspective while she tortured him. If he decided to reciprocate the gesture, she’d undoubtedly turn into a quivering, babbling, incoherent nerve of need. And then there was always the possibility that she’d simply snap and their Summer Sizzling programming would have to be X-rated.

  Carrie cleared her throat. “I did have fun,” she confided, cautiously biting her lip. “Being a pain in the ass was quite entertaining. Who’d have thought?”

  Frankie grinned. “I’ve always enjoyed it,” she said with a modest bat of her lashes. “I’ll have to watch your show. This sounds like it’s too good to miss.”

  “Yeah, well, be sure and tune in tomorrow,” she told her. “I have a feeling that’s when things are going to really get interesting.”

  Her friend’s eyes sparkled with a do-tell kind of humor. “Oh?” she asked. “And pray tell why is that?”

  “He’s realized that I’m, er, slightly attracted to him and—”

  “Only slightly, eh?”

  Carrie blushed. “—and informed me this afternoon that two could play my game.”

  Frankie chuckled delightedly. “Oooh, I wonder if he’ll come to work in a Speedo?” she asked, relishing this new turn of events.

  She certainly hoped not, Carrie thought, remembering the impressive tent at the front of his apron. Her mouth inexplicably parched and a shiver of heat tingled in her sex. Quite frankly, she didn’t think there was enough material in a Speedo to hold him. That erection—and knowing that she’d caused it—had plagued her all damned day. It was bad enough being obsessed with his ass, but imagining full frontal nudity absolutely made every cylinder of her libido fire like it was juiced with liquid nitrogen.

  In all honesty, Carrie knew this attraction—this need, pull, drive—to land him between her thighs was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She’d never questioned her ability to maintain control—to think before she acted. With Philip, she instinctively knew that wouldn’t happen. If he lit her up, she’d lose control and they’d both undoubtedly end up roasted as a result of the inferno. Gave a whole new meaning to “Feel the burn,” she thought, her lips quirking with dreaded humor.

  The thing was, if she thought for one minute that she could simply sleep with him and move on—that she could somehow inoculate herself from the attraction with one round of hot, back-clawing sex, she’d do it in a heartbeat. No question. She’d be on him like white on rice.

  But for whatever reason—self-preservation, most likely—she knew that wasn’t the case. There’d been something that had drawn her to him from the very beginning. Before she’d ever even met him. She’d felt this curious pull, an odd connection that she’d often spun elaborate fantasies around.

  Despite their differences, working with him today had only compounded that feeling. And as much as she was attracted to him, she enjoyed working with him—simply being around him—even more.

  Considering that they’d spent a grand total of five hours together over the past few days, that told her that she was in way over her head. He was way out of her league. And she was in imminent danger of losing her heart.

  Simply put…she liked him too much.

  Her gaze slid to Frankie, to the serene glow of knowing she was loved on her friend’s face. That’s what she wanted, Carrie thought, swallowing a wistful sigh. What she knew she’d end up wanting from him. Crazy? Premature? Ridiculous?

  Yes, all of the above.

  But it didn’t matter. She knew her own mind—twisted as it was—and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she couldn’t just sleep with Philip Mallory and be done with it.

  She’d want the total package.

  And, if she had to guess, despite the fact she could tell he was reluctantly enjoying himself in her company, depressingly, she’d say he was only interested in untying her bow.

  7

  “LOTS OF PEOPLE LIKE TO BUY nuts which have already been shelled,” Carrie was explaining, much to Philip’s humorous chagrin, “but if I have the time, I prefer to shell them myself.” She gave a hard squeeze, then a gratifying smile curled her lips as the shell ultimately cracked. She shot Philip a little triumphant grin which competently telegraphed the double entendre she intended.

  No doubt it was his balls she’d love to put in a vise and crack, he thought, silently enjoying himself.

  He chuckled. “Maybe we should forget calling you The Negligee Gourmet and retitle your show The Nutcracker,” he teased, knowing it would irritate her.

  She merely smiled. “Are we using a flambé technique to grill our spicy pork tenderloin?”

  “Er…no,” Philip replied, not sure where she was going with this. She’d taken the ad-lib thing to a whole new level this morning, had basically avoided the teleprompter altogether.

  She blithely sprinkled the nuts over her salad. “Then maybe you should stop worrying about how I crack my nuts and put out your fire.”

  She said it matter-of-factly, as though him setting things on fire in the kitchen were a regular occurrence, which is why it took several seconds for his brain to process what she’d implied. His gaze belatedly darted to the grill, where five-inch flames licked up the sides of their tenderloin, slightly charring the outside.

  Philip mentally swore, then quickly—smoothly, lest their viewers suspect he didn’t know what he was doing—grabbed the mister they kept on hand for these very instances and gave the grill a couple of squirts. Steam billowed as the flames died down.

  Good Lord, Philip thought, shaken that he’d made such a rookie mistake.

  “Ah, now that ought to do the trick,” he said in his most professional voice. “We want to get those flavors locked in,” he explained. “An excellent sear is always welcome.”

  “And if you aren’t sure how to get an excellent sear,” Carrie chimed in as she worked on her vinaigrette, “just burn it a smidge,” she instructed. “A little char makes things more interesting, wouldn’t you say?” she asked Philip.

  It wasn’t charred, dammit. It was just a little…crispy. He shot her a tense smile, turned the meat to a more flattering angle for the camera. “Always,” he said for lack of anything better.

  Carrie finished up her vinaigrette, plated her salad, summer vegetable medley and hot roll. Meanwhile, Philip removed the tenderloin from the grill and started carving it into medallions. An unwelcome crunch sounded every time he sawed through the meat, a condemning noise which told everyone in the studio and at home that he had indeed burned it.

  A stinging litany of obscenities streamed though his head. Mortification stung his cheeks, and to make matters worse, Carrie—damn her barely covered ass—had sidled up next to him, purposely angling her breast against his arm. It was no freaking wonder he’d burned the damned thing, Philip thought, his mind an embarrassed quagmire of irritation. What man could possibly work, much less cook, under these conditions?

  After yesterday’s feather fiasco Philip hadn’t thought that she could wear anything that would distract him any more.

  He’d thought wrong.

  Today’s ensemble was decidedly worse. She wore a black and red bustier-type outfit which vaguely reminded him of the old Wonder Woman garb. It was tight, formfitting and satiny.

  But that’s where the similarities ended.

  Carrie’s laced up the front and tiny little cut-outs lined the tops of the cups, giving a daring peek at her creamy flesh. He imagined dipping his tongue into each opening, then springing the tie nestled at the heart of her cleavage and allowing those gorgeous orbs to pop free, thereby granting him ultimate access.

&nbs
p; “Oh, that smells good,” Carrie said, thankfully derailing that erection-exploding line of thinking. Beads of sweat had begun to pop out on his forehead. Christ, he was beginning to lose it.

  “Why don’t you slip a couple of pieces of that onto the plate?” she told him.

  Philip’s eyes refocused and he realized that he’d continued to carve the tenderloin when in fact he only needed two slices to add to their demo plate.

  He’d screwed up. Again.

  Forcing his lips into a snarling smile, he dutifully added the meat to the plate. “Ah, now,” he said, once again trying to sound like he knew what he was doing. “That’s a fine meal.”

  “Hopefully a prelude to better things,” Carrie said with a suggestive wink, effectively wrapping up their show. “Until tomorrow, best wishes for your hot dishes.”

  Joyce called the session a wrap and Philip slouched against the counter, massaged the bridge of his nose and swore.

  Still provokingly too close, Carrie tutted softly under her breath. “Such language.”

  Philip glanced up and caught her slightly mocking smile. “You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

  She preened. “Yes, actually, I am.”

  “Not to worry about the small fire, Philip,” Jerry said briskly as he hurried over. “The tenderloin still looked wonderful.”

  “It wasn’t on fire,” Philip said tightly. He scowled. “There were just a few high flames.”

  Jerry smiled. “Right. Well. Excellent show. We’re already fielding tons of e-mail and a couple of the local shock jocks are talking up the show.”

  Rupert’s dial-it-down-a-notch warning echoed in the wake of Jerry’s enthusiasm, causing Philip’s abominable mood to blacken even further.

  Joyce wandered over to applaud their performance as well. She beamed at them. “Wonderful show, guys. Carrie, you’re so relaxed and you look like you’re having a ball.” She smiled, seemingly marveling at the change. “And you’re much more at ease in your Negligee costume. Who would have thought putting a guy on set with you would loosen you up? Frankly, my concern was that you would be more uncomfortable—” her gaze slid to Philip “—but clearly I was wrong.” She paused, then aimed a you-sly-dog smile at Philip. “Philip, as always, you’re fantastic. I liked the distracted-by-my-sexy-co-host bloopers, by the way. Splendid touch.” She went over tomorrow’s game plan, then finally took her leave. The rest of the studio emptied out, leaving them alone once again.