Because I Can (Montgomery Manor)

by Tamara Morgan

  “I don’t see why I should have to humiliate myself so you can save face with your golfing buddies.”

  “You’ll humiliate yourself because I’m asking you to.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  His dad locked eyes with him over the family coat of arms that hung in the main foyer. They normally wouldn’t lower themselves to have this kind of conversation in a room where anyone could overhear—especially since sound carried through the black-and-white granite entryway the same way it did the ventilation hood of a stove—but Monty had hardly been able to credit his ears when his dad casually mentioned having their tuxedos sent out to be cleaned.

  The tuxedos only came out for galas and weddings. As galas were officially off Monty’s plate now that Jake had offered to do the schmoozing for him, that could only mean one thing.

  “You won’t refuse, so spare me the theatrics, please.” His dad scrubbed a hand over his face. Given the advanced state of wrinkles on his beige suit—a wardrobe staple for as long as Monty could remember—his father had probably slept at his desk last night. “I’m sorry if it pains you to see Ashleigh getting married to another man, but there’s no way around it. We’ve been struggling to repair the damages of your breakup all year. We have to put a good face on this.”

  The face Monty gave his dad was anything but good.

  He’d known, from the outset, that his relationship with Ashleigh Bridgerton had full family approval. Bridgerton Luxury Spas could be found in several of the Montgomery hotels nationwide, and his dad was nothing if not mercenary when it came to strengthening personal and business relationships. It was part of the reason Monty and Ashleigh had gotten together in the first place. There were only so many times two people could be blatantly seated next to one another at dinner parties before they eventually discovered something in common.

  Theirs had been a dislike of salmon puffs.

  Fish pastries might not have been a memorable start to romance, but it had been push enough to set the relationship wheels in motion. Unfortunately, his father seemed to have a difficult time understanding that there was a difference between being nudged toward appetizers and being forced to don a tuxedo in the ultimate act of self-immolation.

  “I know Jake’s marriage to Rebecca filled some deep-seated need of yours to monetize your children’s love lives,” he said carefully, “and I wish I’d been able to do the same with Ashleigh, but I wasn’t. I’m not sure what else you want from me.”

  “I always thought you gave up on her too easily.”

  Monty set his jaw. “Would you like me to break up her engagement? Is that what you’re asking?”

  “Please don’t be dramatic, John. I was merely stating an opinion about your lack of social ambition.”

  That was as good as a declaration that Monty was a failure. His dad spoke and acted in subtleties—he was the sort of man who would never say an unkind word about anyone to their face—but he retained the ability to crush a man under his heel all the same. Monty hadn’t closed the deal with Ashleigh Bridgerton, and the disgrace of it would follow him for the rest of his life.

  “I’m sorry to let you down, Dad, but this isn’t up for negotiation.”

  “You’re right. It’s not.” His dad held up a hand before Monty had a chance to say more. “I don’t want to argue about this. It’s already decided. Will you be working on the Hamilton account later today?”

  Monty wanted to tell him no. Even though he had more than enough of his own foundation work to last a lifetime, the plans to acquire a smaller chain of New Hampshire inns for his father had been his primary focus for the past few months. He ate, drank and slept those hotels. He dreamed of them. He also occasionally fantasized about burning the lot of them to the ground, so complicated had the negotiations become. The idea of telling his dad exactly where he could shove the proposal was one that filled him with untoward glee.

  But he didn’t. He never said no—at least, not since he was eleven years old and he’d once mentioned an urge to ride his bicycle instead of alphabetizing the filing cabinet. From the way his dad had reacted at the time, you’d have thought he requested a room full of hookers and blow.

  “I’ll put the finishing touches on it tonight and have it on your desk by Friday,” he promised. Then, because his eleven-year-old self mourned for a bike—and because his thirty-five-year-old self mourned for hookers and blow—he added, “But I’m taking this weekend off, so any follow-up you need will have to wait for Monday.”

  His dad’s heavy white brows came up in surprise, but he nodded, accepting this unprecedented weekend off as the price for obedience.

  “And all weekends this month, actually,” he added, feeling reckless. It was the same impulse that had driven him to kiss Georgia the other night. The second kiss, his kiss, the one he’d been unable to prevent and couldn’t find it in him to regret.

  He hardly knew how to credit it, but it had something to do with the way Georgia had responded to him, as if he were a Tarzan warrior claiming his bride. No woman had ever acted like that when he’d kissed her before. With Ashleigh and his handful of previous girlfriends, kissing had been a slow mating dance, the embraces quiet and deep and meaningful—the way he assumed they were supposed to be. Sex had always been a transcendental experience to him, more important than the mere fusing of two bodies.

  But kissing Georgia had been barbaric. He wasn’t sure how else to explain it. He felt no emotional connection to her, couldn’t imagine taking her on a romantic sunset dinner for two, yet he’d wanted to rip her robe off with his teeth, leaving only those ridiculous orange rubber boots while he sank into her.

  What is wrong with me?

  “Is there something wrong with you?” his father asked, echoing his sentiments.

  “No. Nothing wrong,” he said, and resolved himself to believe it. When a man had gone through a week like his, he was allowed a little leeway in the sanity department. “It’s just that I’m going to be working with Georgia’s charity for the foreseeable future.”

  “Georgia...?”

  “Lennox,” he supplied. “Our handywoman. Apparently she runs the local Homeward Bound chapter. Did you know that?”

  “Of course I know that. I’m the one who suggested she volunteer in the first place. I’ve been very proud of her progress.”

  Monty wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear his father had a hand in shaping her life. He had a hand in shaping the lives of everyone who lived or worked at Montgomery Manor—himself included. Himself especially.

  “Well, it seems her progress could use a little boost,” Monty said. “Her volunteer numbers are low, so she asked if I could step in and help. I figured it couldn’t hurt for me to get out more. And who knows? It might be fun.”

  “Fun?”

  Monty stifled his laugh. “I know. It sounded strange to me too. But she made a compelling argument.”

  And by compelling, he meant naked. Naked and looking at him with those flashing tawny eyes of hers, calmly asking him to be the first man to give her an orgasm—and for no reason other than that he was John Montgomery the Third. As if by might of his name and birth alone, he was some kind of sex god.

  He wasn’t. He wasn’t even close.

  But for the first time in his life, it didn’t seem like too much of a stretch.

  He stood straighter, forcing his blood to move in its regular cyclical pattern instead of a relentless downward spiral. It wasn’t as if he was planning on taking her up on the offer of sex anyway. It wasn’t as if the offer still existed in the first place. He was going to have a hard enough time convincing her to let him on the job site at all.

  “I do like the idea of you getting out into the community more.” His dad didn’t look entirely pleased at the idea, but Monty didn’t care. He wasn’t asking permission. “As long as you’re comfortable adding
it to your regular duties.”

  Monty felt a twitch in his temple, a flare that was equal parts anger and frustration. Of all the thousands of people who worked for his father, none of them—not a single one—was treated like a machine the way he was, forced to carry the burden of ten men. And he’d seen people work hard before. The Montgomery Foundation funded over a hundred nonprofit campaigns—most of them concentrated in childhood education and foster care advocacy—and the men and women who worked at the grassroots level were some of the most dedicated people he knew. Thomas was unquestionably his favorite, the recently emancipated eighteen-year-old serving as a spokesperson for many of Monty’s projects with an enthusiasm that never flagged, but even he took the occasional weekend off—and without anyone questioning his audacity at such selfishness.

  It sometimes felt as if the entire world was allowed to enjoy life at the expense of Monty’s own. Their vacations were his vacations. Their celebrations were his celebrations.

  Unfortunately, their happiness had never been quite so easy to pretend was his own.

  “I can manage it,” he said tightly.

  His dad nodded, accepting Monty at his word. “Oh, and John?”

  He was almost afraid to ask, but in this, as in all things, he had little say in the matter. “Yes?”

  “It would be better for all of us if you could manage to find a date in time for that wedding. A pining man is rarely good for business. It makes us appear weak.”

  * * *

  Georgia spent the week doing every conceivable task on her to-do list before finally giving up and heading out to Montgomery Manor. Handywoman Express currently served three dozen clients, but most of them only needed her a few days out of the year. Gutters and plumbing disasters, the occasional spackle or loose roof shingle—she liked to think she could make a good living if she bothered to spend time and money on marketing. As it was, the most she managed was to slap her name on the back of the jerseys of a dozen six-year-old softball players and hope for the best.

  More often than not, the best meant relying on the Montgomerys to fill in the financial gaps.

  “That’s probably why it was a bad idea to proposition and then insult the oldest son,” she muttered as she hoisted her toolbox out of the back of her truck.

  Forget the personal mortification she’d suffered at Monty’s rejection—she must have been crazy to put her livelihood in jeopardy for the sake of a roll between the sheets. Montgomery Manor wasn’t just a place where she occasionally pieced together a few wooden boards and called it a day. She freaking loved it here. She loved the house, a sound piece of architecture riddled with woodworking details she’d never tire of studying, and she loved the expansive setting of the surrounding countryside. She also loved the people—and not only the ones she fantasized about naked. Not once, in all her time working at the Manor, had she been made to feel out of place or as if her oddities outweighed her value.

  That level of acceptance—unequivocal, unquestioning, hers from the moment she’d arrived—wasn’t something she got very often. It had been stupid to risk throwing all that away for a few seconds of bodily fluids and muscle contractions.

  “Here. Let me give you a hand with that.”

  She felt the full forty pounds of her toolbox being lifted from her hand and clutched her fingers more firmly. “No, thanks. I’ve got it.”

  Her forceful tone was due primarily to the fact that she was suddenly standing so close to Monty she could smell him. Almonds again—except this time, she found the scent less of a heady intoxication and more like maybe he was steeped in cyanide.

  “Let go,” she repeated when he made no move to relinquish his grasp. She used to go weeks at a time without a glimpse of this man, and now he was everywhere. “I don’t need help with my own toolbox.”

  “It’s heavy.”

  “Of course it’s heavy. It’s full of metal.” When not even that got Monty to back away, she tugged as hard as she could. He let go so suddenly she almost lost her balance and sent hundreds of dollars’ worth of socket wrenches flying, but she was saved from hitting the ground ass-first by his stabilizing hand on her wrist.

  Dammit. She could feel the strength and heat radiating through him as he held her firm. Why couldn’t he have spindly T-Rex forearms? Making a fool of herself wouldn’t be such a guarantee that way.

  “I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.”

  She shook his grip off and brushed nonexistent dirt from her coveralls. As usual, she was dressed to impress absolutely no one in her standard work uniform, while Monty had been poured into a dark suit perfectly molded to his shoulders. She latched on to that—to how unfairly handsome he looked for nothing more than sitting at his desk for hours—and scowled. What kind of a man dressed up if he never planned on leaving the house?

  “The day I’m too weak to carry my own tools is the day I give up on life and start crocheting doilies. Did I pronounce that right? Crotcheting. Crooshaying.” She sighed. “Sewing shit with hooked needles.”

  “You like doilies?”

  “Of course not. No one likes doilies. They’re the tattered remnants of a patriarchal society that doesn’t believe in allowing women to be idle.”

  He smiled at that, at her irritation and the unjustness of a world that believed women and yarn were good for nothing but decoration. “First calculator watches, now this. Do you have conspiracy theories for every inanimate object you don’t care for?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed and showed his teeth in a rare demonstration of enjoyment. “I believe you do. I look forward to hearing more of them.”

  His words were overly formal and slightly ridiculous—no one wanted to listen to her rant about how Tamagotchis had inadvertently trained a generation of neglectful parents—but they were sincere, and that was enough. Even though she didn’t say so out loud, she forgave him for everything. For being so unfairly attractive. For turning her down. For causing her extreme embarrassment and several sleepless nights.

  But mostly for kissing her as though she were worth being kissed.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said.

  “Please don’t. If you do, then I’ll have to, and I hate apologizing. Can we pretend the other night never happened instead?”

  “I’m afraid that would be impossible for me, Georgia. Even if I wanted to.” The way he said her name, all rumbling and deep, made her loins quiver. As in actual quivering loins. She whimpered and pressed her thighs together, but that only made the wobbly sensation worse.

  Wobbles were not good for business.

  “There must be some way we can make the other night disappear,” she pleaded, feeling desperate. “I could try swinging my toolbox at your head in hopes of causing amnesia. Ooh, or I could try swinging it at my own head. You wouldn’t worry about apologizing if I was unconscious, would you?”

  Nothing. Not even a twitch to acknowledge that she spoke at all.

  “I’m not going to be here long anyway. Apparently, there are a few paving stones loose in the garden. I’ll be out of here in half an hour.”

  Still nothing.

  “Okay, fine,” she said, and dropped her toolbox with a clang. She didn’t know if he was doing it on purpose or not, but she couldn’t take much more of this intense staring. As an intimidation tactic, it was right up there with needles to the eyeball. “You win. I’ll apologize. I’m sorry for saying I didn’t want to talk to you, and I’m sorry for throwing myself at you practically naked, and I’m especially sorry for telling you way more information about my personal life than you could ever want to know. My grasp on reality has always been a cause for concern.”

  The reward for her apology was one more of those half smiles, resulting in yet another overwhelming rush of forgiveness moving through her. Forgiveness. Right. As if that was the sentiment currently puckering h
er nipples.

  “I can see why you hate apologizing. You’re terrible at it.” Monty took a step forward, his arms out as if he wanted to embrace her. But the very idea was ridiculous, and her momentary distraction gave him enough time to clasp her hands in front of her and hold her in place. Doubly in place, because she was also unable to look away as his gaze bore down into hers. She was trapped. “Besides—none of those are anything you should be ashamed of.”

  “You only think that because you’ve never thrown yourself naked at someone before,” she said. Then, since that night wasn’t a topic she wanted to dwell on for all of eternity, she added a sincere, “And I am sorry about what I said right before you left. I was hurt and I lashed out. That’s what I do. Sometimes I say mean things. Other times I throw a wrench. Fistfights are also a distinct possibility.”

  “You have anger management issues?”

  “No. I have brothers.”

  His lips turned up at the corner, stopping her heart. “Fair enough. Apology accepted. Now it’s my turn.”

  “You really don’t have to—” She tried to pull away, but he held her fast, his thumbs rubbing a soothing pattern onto the backs of her hands. There wasn’t anything romantic about the gesture, and she was sure he didn’t mean to send sparks of sexual awareness up her arms, but what her mind knew and her body longed for had always been two vastly different things.

  Hence her current predicament.

  “I didn’t handle myself well the other night, and I’m sorry for it.” He spoke in the same careful manner that gave him his reputation for solemnity, but there was such an intimacy about the combined physical and emotional connection—a thoughtfulness so often lacking in her life—that she fell spellbound. “I shouldn’t have been so shocked by what happened. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of your vulnerable situation. And I really shouldn’t have enjoyed myself as much as I did. If it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d appreciate another chance to volunteer with you this weekend. That’s to build houses, in case there’s any confusion.”