by Vivian Ward
It’s strong, maybe a little too strong. They didn’t skimp on the liquor, that’s for sure. Blinking fast, I try not to show how strong it is and avoid making a sour face.
I look at Mr. Ford who’s smiling at me, almost as though he adores me. For some reason, it makes me smile back at him.
“So tell me, Piper,” he leans back against the thickly padded leather. “Why did you want to meet me here tonight?”
“You get right to it, don’t you?” I ask with a chuckle.
He nods as he raises his eyebrows.
“That, I do. You must forgive me. I’m a businessman and a pretty good judge of character. Usually, people don’t ask to meet with you unless they want something. So what is it that you want, sweetheart?”
He’s a bit intimidating. Okay, more than a bit. My heart is pounding through my chest, but I’m not sure why. This man shouldn’t have this much power over me, and I almost feel guilty for the way my body is responding to him.
As my pulse quickens with each passing second, I can feel the tingle in my nipples as they stand on end and the heat pooling between my legs. I’m ashamed of myself.
He sort of gives you that comforting feeling that you’d get from an uncle, but sex exudes every pore of this man’s body, leaving you with the illusion that he’s a sex god. Looking at him, I try to tell myself that it’s normal to be attracted to a man as handsome as Mr. Ford, but the engagement ring on my finger reminds me that I shouldn’t let him have this type of effect on my body.
“I, I um,” I swallow the knot in my throat.
Why does this man have this effect on me?
“You know your party?” I finally spit out.
“Yes, I’m familiar with my party,” he chuckles. “I figured you’d already went out to buy yourself a fancy dress, but Logan says you don’t plan on attending,” he leans in and places his hand on top of mine. “Tell me that’s not true.”
His eyes sear my skin as he commands a response from me—an answer that I can’t give him.
My mind blank, I’m unable to respond. I don’t want to disappoint him by saying no, so I don’t answer at all.
The waitress walks past our table and eyes us before returning.
“Can I get you a refill?” she asks him.
“Please,” he nods, sending her away again.
This time, I’m glad she’s gone and that we’re alone.
“You are coming, aren’t you?” he asks.
But he’s not asking. His eyes and the tone of his voice tell me that he’s demanding and according to everyone who knows this man, you don’t disappoint.
“Mr. Ford,” I begin to say, but he cuts me off.
“No, Piper. Please, call me by my first name. There’s no need to be so formal.”
His hand pats mine, making my heightened senses all the more aware of his touch.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “Oliver, it’s just—,” he stops me again, squeezing my hand.
“No, that’s not what I mean. Call me Olly,” he smiles at me, cocking his head to the side.
I stall, debating if I want to call him Olly or not. He can sense my hesitation and lowers his hand onto my knee.
“Go on, call me Olly,” he gives my knee a squeeze but never really lets up on the pressure. “Now, what were you going to say?”
I take a drink of my tequila sunrise, sucking half of it down in one go and hope that the strong alcohol calms my nerves a bit.
“I was going to say that I’d love to attend your party,” I smile.
“Good, that’s a good girl. Exactly what I wanted to hear,” he grins at me and begins rubbing my upper leg.
“But,” I scoot away from him, making it more difficult for him to reach me. “It’s the same day as my bridal shower, and my bridal party has been planning it for months. My best friend is flying in from Texas to be there. It’s something that I can’t just cancel,” I try to explain to him.
He doesn’t seem to like that I’ve stopped him from being able to touch my leg and it’s apparent he didn’t like my response, either. Tossing his head back, he downs the rest of the scotch that was in his glass and savors the taste in his mouth while he carefully chooses his next words.
“I don’t think you understand, beautiful,” his fingertip traces the outline of my jaw. “If you don’t come with your fiancé, he might as well stay behind with you and all the pretty little bridesmaids.”
Sitting in shock, I come to the realization that he doesn’t care.
“But, um,” I search for the right words, but I’m not sure what they are.
His hand slides up my thigh while he uses his other to grab my face, forcing me to look at him. As soon as his hand stops mid-thigh, I can feel myself blushing as I realize how wet I am.
“Stags aren’t allowed at my parties,” he cuts me off. “I want you dangling on his arm,” he leans over, and his hand slides up the rest of my thigh and stops short of my panties when he reaches my inner thighs. “But if you can’t do that then I’ll have to invite someone else, like Lester or Pardo.”
Logan would die if they got invited instead of him and I can tell from Mr. Ford’s tone that he’s not kidding.
“Mr. Ford,” he gives me a stern look. “I’m sorry, I mean Olly, but I think I need to get going.”
Reaching for my purse, I begin scooting out of the booth when he grabs my wrist and stops me.
“But you will be coming, right?”
Instead of protesting and arguing with him about my bridal shower, I nod in agreement with him.
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
Shutting my car door, I realize that I’ve just made a deal with the devil. The handsome, tempting Lucifer himself; only his name is Oliver Ford, and he makes my body respond to him in ways that it has no business doing.
Now I’ve got to figure out how to keep that promise to him and to my husband without betraying my closest friends.
Chapter 9
Logan
Today has been an awful day. We got tied up in court all day, and our useless team of paralegals was of no help.
Whitlow wanted to argue with us and is trying his damnest to drag things out in court. We’re not doing that. This should be an open and shut case, but he’s got too many damn tricks up his sleeve, and he’s like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat.
After I had left the courthouse, I had to go back to the office to grab some documents that I’ll need since it looks like we’re going to spend another day in court.
What was supposed to be an in-and-out office trip turned into an hour-long debate with our paralegals and Pardo. I didn’t think I was ever going to get out of there on time. Thank God the copy machine is in the front of the office behind the receptionist's desk because that was how I finally made my getaway.
After making all the copies I need, I load up my docs in my briefcase and quietly slip out the front door while everyone else continues to argue in our regular work area. Sometimes I get so tired of listening to all of the bickerings.
Now that it’s almost 7 PM, I’m sure Piper’s pissed that I didn’t make it home for dinner in time and she probably had to eat alone. I don’t like my fiancée having to eat dinner by herself.
She was probably sulking at the kitchen table, bored out of her mind eating whatever delicious meal she cooked up for the two of us.
In an effort to make it up to her, I pull over on the side of the road and call our local bakery.
“Baker’s Delight,” a bright, chipper girl answers the phone.
“Hello, can I place an order for pick-up please?”
“Uhh,” she hesitates. “Sir, we close in less than 10 minutes. Will you be able to make it here by then?”
I look down at the car clock, completely forgetting that most bakeries aren’t open very late.
“Yes, I can do that. Do you have any fresh chocolate cheesecakes?” I ask.
“We sure do! Just boxed some up for tomorrow. Need anything else?”
“No
, that’s all,” I say, watching the traffic in my rearview mirror.
“And the last name, sir?” she asks me.
“Kraft, spelled with a K.”
“We’ll have that ready, sir,” she says. “And we close in eight minutes.”
“Right. I’m on my way,” I promise her as I hang up the phone and weave back into traffic.
Baker’s Delight is only a few blocks away, but the thick traffic is hardly moving. Putting on my turn signal, I begin inching over into the slow lane so I can make a right two blocks ahead.
Pulling into the bakery right as they’re about to close, the woman whom I presume answered the phone is about to turn the open sign to closed when she sees me, and I hold up my finger.
“Wait! I’m here,” I say, bolting from the car.
Although Piper’s not expecting me to bring home dessert, I think it’s the least I can do. She kept asking me what time I was going to be home. Maybe she wasn’t up to anything. Maybe she just wanted to make us a nice dinner but I got caught up at the office, and now I feel bad for getting home so late.
“You barely made it,” she holds the door open for me.
Inside of the bakery, all I can smell is the sweet scent of cakes, pies, and cookies. Sugary frosting floats through the air with a hint of chocolate trailing behind it. I don’t know how anyone who works here is as thin as this woman is.
She’s a short redhead with a sprinkling of freckles that runs right across the bridge of her nose and big, hazel eyes.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the door from her. “I got here as fast as I could.”
Locking the door behind us to prevent other customers from coming in, she makes her way behind the counter.
“Are you the one who called in the chocolate cheesecake for Kraft?” she asks.
“Yes, please.”
She retrieves it from the cooler behind her and places the box on the counter. The cheesecake is in a decorative pink box with their name stamped on the lid in a fancy gold font.
“That’ll be $18.43,” she says as I pull my debit card out.
“Here you go.”
After she finishes our transaction, I promptly leave and weave my way back into the traffic. Luckily, it’s died down a bit since I started my drive home so I shouldn’t keep my bride-to-be too much longer.
I feel bad anytime I get home this late. It’s not fair to her, and I hate to keep her waiting. She’s always so good to me by having dinner ready every night. I just want to show her how much I love and appreciate her.
“Piper?” I ask as I walk through the front door.
The house is silent, but her car is parked in the driveway. I also don’t smell any dinner. I hope I didn’t piss her off so bad that she didn’t cook. That’s how I know when I really fuck up.
She loves cooking, and she loves playing the role of a domesticated housewife, but when she gets mad, she’ll refuse to cook. Those are the nights that I sleep on the sofa—and they’re very far and few between.
“Babe?” I call out again.
Setting the cheesecake on the kitchen counter, I see her emerging from the hallway bathroom as she makes her way toward me.
“Hey, babe,” she says, walking into my open arms. “How was your day?”
Resting her head on my chest, she snuggles up to me, and I can immediately tell that she’s not pissed. She looks like she’s had a rough day. I don’t know why but I feel sorry for her.
Her makeup looks slightly smudged like she’s been crying and her bottom lip looks swollen.
Rubbing her lip, I lean down and gently kiss her on the cheek.
“What’s wrong, babe?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she whispers.
But I know it’s more than nothing. Something has upset her, and I want to get to the bottom of this. Nobody makes my girl cry.
Nobody.
“Pipes, tell me what’s wrong,” I pull her into my arms and hug her.
Holding her against me, she remains silent for a moment before she begins shaking her head from side to side and lets out a long sigh.
“Are you going to tell me whose ass I’m kicking or what?” I ask her. “Because I know some mean dudes. I see them in court every day. I can make all of your problems go away,” I tease her.
She laughs for a second and pulls away but remains in my embrace.
“Let’s eat dinner, okay?”
I know that she’s just trying to change the subject, but I’m not letting her off that easy.
“Okay,” I play along with her charades.
Looking around the kitchen, I see no signs of food. She didn’t cook dinner, or if she did, she’s already cleaned up.
“How are we supposed to do that if you didn’t make anything?” I ask her.
“I don’t have to cook to have dinner,” she shakes her head at me and presses her lips together as though she’s outsmarted me. “I picked something up on my way home.”
I see the takeout on the kitchen table. Neatly stacked Chinese boxes tower over two plates; one for me and one for her.
“Chinese food actually sounds pretty good,” I tell her. “I picked up dessert on my way home.”
I open the pink bakery box on the counter and present dessert to her.
“Chocolate cheesecake,” I say, holding the box open.
“Yum!” she says. “Let’s eat dinner and then we can have some of that.”
I watch her carefully scoop the food out of the boxes onto our plates. She does everything with such grace, and I can’t stop looking at her.
“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” I ask, halfway through dinner.
She pretends to chew her food longer than necessary, biding time that she won’t have to answer the question.
“Well?” I ask again.
She holds her finger up and swallows a few minutes later before taking a long drink from her glass.
“Sorry, I didn’t think I’d ever get finished with that bite,” she wipes her mouth with her napkin. “Nothing is bothering me, but I was doing some thinking.”
“About what?”
“Your party and my bridal shower. Maybe I should try to find a way to go with you somehow.”
“No,” I cut her off.
That’s one of her big days, and I’m not letting her give it up for Ford’s party.
“You’re not giving that up. You’ll have your party, and I’ll have mine.”
“Logan, I don’t think you’ll have a party if I don’t go. I have a feeling that your boss is serious about you losing the invite if I don’t come. I’m going to try to figure out a way to make it there so that I’m by your side.”
She’s the best damn woman a man could ask for, but I can’t let her do it. I won’t let her do it. What kind of man would I be if I allowed that to happen?
“Everything will be just fine. Don’t worry about Ford.”
“No, I—I want to go,” she says.
The tone in her voice isn’t compelling, but I can tell that she really wants to be there with me.
“Why? Why do you want to go with me so badly?”
“I love you, and I want to be there to lend my support,” she briefly smiles at me.
Something is off about her tonight—and last night— but I don’t know what it is.
“There’s no way you can make it,” I try to explain to her. “Just focus on you. You’re obviously stressed enough as it is. I’ll take care of things. Maybe Ford won’t even notice that you’re not there.”
She tilts her head to the side and scrunches up her face.
“Nobody’s that dumb. You’ve already told him that I won’t be there and from the way everything sounds, I bet he would notice. You told me yourself that he’d withdraw your invitation.”
I hate that I told her anything. She doesn’t need to worry.
“It’s fine. I’m going to figure out a way to do this,” she insists.
I have no idea what’s gotten into her, but whatever it is, sh
e’s not going to tell me.
Chapter 10
Piper
I was so glad that he didn’t ask why we were eating takeout when he came home so late. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t have had dinner ready, except for the fact that I went and met his boss without him knowing.
And the chocolate cheesecake added to my guilt. I could barely eat it, but he knows that it’s my favorite so if I wouldn’t have eaten it, he would’ve known that something was really up.
He kind of did, actually. He knows me better than I know myself sometimes. There’s no hiding my feelings from this man because he can read me like a book.
Sometimes I think it’s a gift, other times I think it’s a curse.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad that he knows me so well. I truly am. It means that he pays attention and that he loves me.
It also means that I can’t slip anything past him. I’m also a horrible liar, so that doesn’t help things either. He knew that something was wrong and that I was troubled which is why he wouldn’t let it drop.
Even as we pulled back our duvet cover to climb into bed, he was still asking me what was wrong.
After I had left The Indigo Room, I broke down and had a good cry in the car before I made it home. The stress of the wedding, his party, my bridal shower and having the secret meeting with Ford were all too much.
The guilt of meeting up with his boss behind his back and the way my body reacted to his touch still weighs heavily on my shoulders. Part of me feels like I should feel guilty and disgusted, but I’m not.
It’s had the complete opposite effect on me. I’ve been all hot and bothered by it; and to make matters worse, I had a sex dream about his boss last night.
A freaking sex dream!
About Mr. Ford.
Who the hell does that? The last thing you should do is dream about your husband’s boss fucking your brains out. It’s even worse that our wedding is so close.
When you’re about to marry the love of your life—the man who gives your body the oxygen it craves—the last thing you should do is dream about another man.