Because I Can (Montgomery Manor)

by Tamara Morgan

  That had to be some kind of record—even for him.

  * * *

  The last person Georgia expected to see as she hauled her equipment into her truck was Monty, bearing down on her with a frown so intense he could have buried them both underneath it.

  Well, hell. She hoped she hadn’t misjudged the depth of that nail and stabbed his poor lady friend in the heel after all. It was a fairly clean nail, when all was said and done, but rich people were so sensitive about things like that. One pinprick, and they were suddenly sure they had tetanus.

  “Hey, there,” she said as casually as she could. “Some weather we’re having today, huh?”

  “What?”

  “A summer storm is my guess. I broke my wrist a few years ago, and now I can feel the oncoming rain in my scaphoid. No joke. I almost hope I have arthritis when I’m old so I can extend my radar as far as Vermont.”

  He blinked at her in confusion, which gave her a moment to appraise him. For what had to be the first time in all the years she’d been working for the family, he wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, and he even had the top two buttons of his shirt open and slightly askew. That tiny flash of skin was like cracking open the gates to heaven—dazzling and illicit and somehow all the more compelling because of it.

  Monty was never anything but completely pulled together. She was alarmed almost as much as she was aroused at his dishevelment, especially when he leaned closer, dismissing her small talk with a tightly controlled, “This morning, did you mean what you said? About me?”

  She stopped, wholly unprepared for that question and the sudden burst of butterflies it released in her stomach—and it took a lot to stump her. She was a killer at Thursday night trivia down at Wings ‘n’ Brew, rolling off sports statistics and incredibly dated pop culture references like she was born knowing them.

  So much for the blonde bombshell being a girlfriend of some sort.

  “Um, yes?” she said when he didn’t back away. “I guess so.”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  Of course she didn’t sound sure. She didn’t know how many times he’d had an attractive and strapping young man demanding an opinion of his virility, but this shit was hard. What did he want?

  Yes, Monty, I think you’re a ten. I look at the way your shoulders span massive distances and wonder how it might feel to have your arms crushing me against your chest.

  Yes, Monty, I wish you would challenge me to an arm-wrestling match. If you beat me, I’ll perform any sexual act you want.

  Yes, Monty, I do dream of you between my legs every night. In fact, it’s pretty much the only way I can get myself off, thanks for asking.

  Yeah...no. She wasn’t saying any of those things out loud. Especially since he’d just keep looking at her in that intently assessing way of his. Conversations with this man would be greatly improved if he’d stop falling into the habit of ominous silence every few seconds. Or if the earth opened up and threatened to swallow them both. In all her apocryphal longings, the conversation with Monty never flagged. Probably because they were too busy repopulating the earth to bother with niceties.

  He cleared his throat, as if waiting for her to respond.

  Girding her loins—in probably the most literal way a woman could gird them—she took a deep breath and said, “I’m still sure.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Nothing has changed in the—” she scanned the sky, “—eight hours since I’ve seen you last.”

  He followed the path of her gaze with a frown. Once again, he took a few extra moments to formulate a question, but this time she was happy to let him. It was enough to have an uninhibited opportunity to gaze at the chiseled outline of his profile. There was a sameness to all the Montgomerys—a kind of glistening ginger goodness that culminated in the most unfairly attractive crop of auburn hair ever to grace the human head—but she hadn’t been kidding when she said she preferred this man. It wasn’t only that Monty was taller and more robust than his brother. There was a dormant quality to him, as if he’d spent an entire lifetime building up tension and was merely waiting for an opportunity to let it go.

  Oh, how she wished he’d let it go. She wished he’d let it go all over her.

  Monty raised his brows in a controlled expression, clearly not ready to release all that latent power yet. “Did you just tell the time by looking at the sun?”

  “Um, yes?”

  “You can do that?”

  “Sure.” She looked up at the sun again to make sure she hadn’t misjudged. She’d lived in this part of Connecticut for so long—spent so much time on these grounds in particular—that she was able to track the sun’s path no matter what the time of year. “It’s been eight hours and about fifteen minutes, if I’m not mistaken.”

  He pulled out a pocket watch to check her accuracy, even going so far as to shake the miniature clockwork piece when she turned out to be right. Although she appreciated that he carried a pocket watch in lieu of a more modern timepiece, she wasn’t sure shaking it was the best way of demanding precision.

  “That’s incredible,” he said. “How long have you been able to do that?”

  “Since those calculator watches were invented.”

  He stared at her.

  “Calculator watches. Remember them? With those tiny buttons you had to use a pencil to push?”

  “I’m familiar with the technology, yes.”

  “Well, I didn’t trust them when I was a kid. I still don’t, to be honest. If those strap-on computers weren’t proof the government was laying the groundwork to track our every movement, then I don’t know how else they could have spelled it out for us.”

  Now he wasn’t just staring at her—he was goggling. And making it look good too, his glittering blue eyes wide, the strong hinge of his jaw open enough to allow her a glimpse of how well-crafted his molars were.

  What? She liked a man with strong, healthy teeth.

  “You’re very strange, do you know that?”

  She did. Oddity wasn’t the sort of attribute that snuck up on you, like depression or a receding hairline. She’d been made aware of her outsider status a long time ago—and by enough people that she’d stopped trying to fight it. Like accepting her inability to pitch a softball faster than sixty-five miles an hour, there were limits to what she could legitimately accomplish in this world.

  Normalcy included.

  “I’m just saying. Computers we inadvertently carry around with us everywhere we go? Sounds like the start of a conspiracy to me.” She whistled the theme song from the X-Files and was rewarded with a low chuckle. It seemed Monty was good at incredibly dated pop culture references too.

  But his laughter turned off as quickly as it had flashed on, and he leaned close once again. “I’m glad I caught you before you left. I wanted to let you know that I changed my mind, and I’m interested in your offer.”

  She kept shaking her head, even though he hadn’t asked a question and she was getting a little dizzy. Fortunately, Monty seemed to accept her insanity as a matter of course. A reputation for eccentricity came in handy sometimes.

  “Is it something you can follow up on today?” he asked, lifting a hand to stop her head from its incessant back-and-forth movement.

  And that was it. That was all it took—his fingers gripping her chin with an easy strength she could have broken free of in a second, but didn’t. She didn’t want to. She wanted him to keep holding her until his gaze softened just enough for her to feel beautiful.

  She could wait.

  “Georgia? Did you hear me?”

  Or maybe not.

  Even though she could have taken a few more minutes—hours, days—of that intense staring, there was no need for such lengthy preparations. Desire was overtaking all other sensations—and at a rate that would probabl
y alarm him, were he privy to the inner workings of her inner thighs. Her heart pounded, her body flooded with heat and her breasts grew heavy with anticipation. It was almost infuriating the way her body jumped at the chance to make preparations for the act of love and then refused to cooperate once she finally got there.

  It was the ultimate in Girl Card mockery. Of the exactly six sexual partners she’d had in her life, a total of zero of them had managed to rock her world. And by rock her world, she meant basically anything other than a minor fizzle downstairs. She could have orgasms—she had them just fine when it was only her, a rotating showerhead and whatever Monty fantasy she decided to conjure up for the day—but the moment she tried to do anything with an actual human being, it was as if everything went into lockdown mode. Dry it up, pack it in and call it a day—her body became a fortress. A penetrable fortress, sure, but a fortress all the same.

  It was as though her vagina recognized the futility of even trying. Sorry, Georgia, it said. Maybe it’s best if we sit this one out. Wouldn’t want you to get unrealistic expectations, eh?

  Frankly, she could do with a lot more unrealistic expectations in her life, which was the excuse she was clinging to for practically accosting Monty in the hallway earlier. Maybe it was foolish to reach for such exalted heights, but she couldn’t think of a better way to break the spell than with the man who inspired so many of her dirtiest thoughts.

  Not even her body would be so cruel as to deny her pleasure at the hands of John Montgomery the Third. Not when it already worked so hard to make her life difficult.

  “Is this a bad time?” he asked, an anxious knit to his brows.

  “No, no—this is fantastic,” she practically shouted, fearful that the longer they stood in the direct sunlight together, the greater the chance he’d notice who he was talking to and change his mind. “What were you thinking?”

  “Well, I’m not quite sure, but I’d like to get my hands in there as soon as possible.”

  She glanced down at her coveralls with surprise. There weren’t many men who looked at pants so baggy she could fit a puppy in there and then chomped at the bit to get inside, but she was flexible.

  “Um. Do you want to go somewhere more private first?” The garden shed would probably work, but she wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable in there, what with the discarded shears and lawnmower parts and enough insecticides to invade a small country. Also, she was sweaty. And had gutter slime in her hair. She definitely needed a shower first. “Or I guess you could stop by my place later tonight. That’s probably best.”

  He dropped his hand and stepped back, all business once again. She tried not to feel bereft at the loss of his touch, at how quickly the wooing stopped once he got a confirmed yes, but the sensation was there all the same. It seemed Monty was an ordinary man after all.

  They all were, once you got down to it.

  “That works. Is your address in the employee files?”

  She wrinkled her nose, finding that idea more distasteful than all the rest of the seedy arrangements currently underway. It was one thing to make an assignation when moved by the flesh. It was another to pull his dad’s billing records into the process.

  “Here—I’ll jot it down for you instead. Does sevenish work? I’ve got kind of an early morning tomorrow, so I can’t be up too late.”

  He nodded, accepting her kick-him-out-early excuse as easily as it was offered, and she couldn’t decide if that made things better or worse. On the one hand, she didn’t relish the idea of forcing more of this one-sided conversation in the heady afterglow. On the other, he could at least pretend to want to get to know her better.

  “I’ve got an early day, as well,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough for letting me squeeze in like this.”

  “Well, you haven’t done any squeezing yet. Maybe you should wait and thank me later.”

  He laughed stiffly, as if unsure whether or not she’d been joking. “Is there anything in particular I should wear?”

  Okay, now things were getting weird. Did he think she had some kind of fetish? Did he have some kind of fetish? Maybe he was expecting her to pull out all the stops with a sparkly thong or even a bridle. The bridle she could probably pull off on such short notice. The thong, not so much.

  “Whatever you’re most comfortable in is fine,” she said. “I’m pretty open-minded.”

  He nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer. She thought maybe she should ask if he had any special requests of his own, but he checked his watch again and glanced anxiously back up at the house. “I should get back to work. I’ll see you tonight?”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  He leaned in, as if he maybe—possibly?—wanted to kiss her cheek, but thought better of it at the last minute. Before she could decide this whole thing was way too bizarre and change her mind, he turned and made his way back toward the house. She indulged in watching him go, his ass roundly encased in expensive slacks that suddenly seemed a touch too form-fitting to be worn in public.

  She was going to get to see that ass. That ass could theoretically be plowing into her less than three hours from now. Holy shit.

  She slid along the side of her truck until she hit the paved ground, her back resting against the tire, pebbles pressing into her butt. Oddly enough, the sensation brought more comfort than pain, forced her mind to accept the moment as reality. For all her secret longings and inappropriate remarks, she’d never actually thought something like this could happen to her. Fairy tales were for other women, girly women, women who believed in happy endings and magic wishes and dresses made of tulle.

  But John Freaking Montgomery the Third made a sex date with her, of all people. John Freaking Montgomery the Third said he couldn’t wait to get in her pants.

  And she, for all her tulle-free, Girl-Card-less ways, couldn’t wait to let him.

  Chapter Three

  There was nothing in Georgia’s closet even remotely appropriate for a pre-arranged sex date with one of the most attractive men in the state of Connecticut.

  Since Monty seemed rather fond of her coveralls, she almost put them back on after she emerged from the shower all pink and steamy clean. Unfortunately, they were already bundled up at the bottom of her laundry basket, steeping in their own filth, which probably lowered the sex appeal overall.

  She stood, wrapped in an ancient bathrobe that was one loose string away from falling apart altogether, and surveyed her closet’s contents. Jeans, jeans, frayed coveralls, jeans—oh, look, her favorite green sweatshirt, which she thought she’d lost at the lake last year—jeans and enough sarcastic shirts to open her own novelty shop. She’d long ago made it a habit to sleep in men’s T-shirts, which were way more comfortable than those strappy, slippery concoctions designers expected women to wrangle themselves into, and as such, her wardrobe had followed similar lines for years.

  She didn’t even have a cute bra to put on. Most of hers had become the same generic shade of gray-beige that all undergarments became when washed on the same cold water cycle as everything else.

  The idea of lounging on the bed in the nude popped into mind when the sound of the back door opening had her heart thumping in overdrive. Oh, dear God. This was a mistake. She wasn’t the kind of woman who had booty calls. She wasn’t the kind of woman that rich, powerful men sought for illicit affairs.

  She had stomach pudge. Her natural scent was an alluring mixture of Bactine and WD-40. Monty was either coming to murder her and stuff her body into the trunk of his car, or this was some elaborate prank she’d never be able to live down.

  She prayed fervently for the first.

  “Georgia?” The low, familiar voice of her brother Danny came from the back, flooding her with a relief crested by annoyance. “Are you home? I’m in the mud room.”

  Technically, the tiny alcove-like spot near the bac
k door was her bedroom, but the layout of her above-garage apartment was small and weird, and she had a lot more mud than she did a need for a separate bedroom. When she’d moved in ten years ago, she’d wedged a bed in her living room, hung her giant flat-screen television on the wall and called it a day. Decoration complete.

  “Georgia?” Unfortunately, Danny had a tendency to get more obnoxious the longer you ignored him. “Hello?”

  “Go away,” she yelled back. “I’m busy.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re probably sitting in your sweatpants eating nachos. I need to borrow a wrench.”

  “Then borrow one and go away.”

  “I can’t find one. Where do you keep your toolbox?”

  “The same place it’s been for a decade.”

  A clatter and a rumble indicated her directions weren’t proving as helpful as she might have hoped. Danny was the youngest of her three older brothers and the one closest to her in age, but he was also the most useless in a crisis. She could remember all too clearly the year they’d had an infestation of yellow jackets in the backyard. They were both highly allergic, but Georgia had somehow been the one equipped with two layers of snowpants, a discarded fencing mask and a hose to rid them of the plague.

  Resigned to helping him before he decided to make himself some popcorn and pull up a chair—which, yes, had been his sole contribution to Yellowjacketgate—she cinched her robe tighter and followed the sound of his voice.

  Like her, Danny maintained pathetically tenuous ties to their mother’s house, having taken up residence in the basement as soon as he graduated from high school. When he’d learned that their mom meant to give Georgia the above-garage apartment upon reaching a similar educational achievement, he’d thrown a fit. Not only was the apartment a good basketball court’s length away from the house—therefore affording some much-needed privacy—but it had its own kitchen. Not that either of them could cook, of course, but when you couldn’t afford to move away from home, every illusion of independence was worth its weight in gold.