Her Cherry

by Bloom, Penelope

  He swiped a drink off the tray of a waiter who was walking by and offered it to me. “Maturity is overrated.”

  “What about not constantly stealing things from people. Is that overrated, too?”

  “Highly.”

  I couldn’t help grinning a little. There was something so unapologetic about him. Normally, the slight edge of assholishness he carried would be off-putting. The way he was so blunt and forward would also push me away. But with him, the sheer force of his confidence made them seem oddly charming. I also liked the way he turned phrases and made conversation so playful. It felt flirtatious. It felt sexy.

  I realized I’d set my champagne somewhere when I looked down at the drink he handed me. It was red wine, which I usually didn’t drink because it gave me headaches, but I figured I could make an exception. After all, if a slight buzz was giving me this much courage, what wonders could a little more do?

  I took a sip and raised my eyebrows in pleasant surprise.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “Better than the company.”

  He clutched at his chest. “You wound me.”

  “Somehow I doubt that’s possible.”

  He shrugged a little, still wearing that faintly amused smile that seemed to say our conversation was a game, and so was the party—and life itself, for that matter. One look at him, masked or not, and I could see he was a man who couldn’t be touched. Not by worries or by problems. I envied that almost as much as I was intrigued by it. It was a mentality I wanted desperately to be infected by.

  “I wonder if that tongue of yours tastes as sharp as it sounds,” he said. “Or maybe as sweet as your cherry pie...”

  “You liked it?” I asked. His obvious flirtation flew right out of my mind when he mentioned the pie. I was a baker before anything else, and I think I cared more about his opinion of my pie than whatever dangerous waters I might be treading into with this conversation.

  “It was sweet, but something was missing.”

  My heart skipped a beat. I’d been perfecting that recipe for years. I’d tried so many combinations of ingredients, preparations, and cooking techniques. The idea that he hadn’t liked it stung more than any insult ever could. “What was wrong with it?” I asked, losing all the pretense of poise I’d been wearing as well as my masquerade mask until then.

  “Well,” he said. “It needed more baking… soda?” He held a straight face for approximately one heartbeat before that familiar grin spread his lips.

  I planted a hand on my hip, smiling. “Baking soda?”

  “Right. For the baking part. The soda helps it bake.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I’ll alert the baker’s union, then. We’ve been wrong this whole time. Here we thought it was about leavening.”

  “Leavening?”

  “Making bubbles bigger. That’s what it does.”

  “You and your bubbles. Bubbly baker. Bubbly soda. Bubble butt,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  "I called you a bubble nut," he sighed before I could figure out if he was kidding and tapped his chin, as if he was observing me and making some kind of mental note.

  “What?” I asked. “What does that look mean?”

  “It means I’m figuring you out. Piece by piece, Cherry.”

  “It’s Hailey. And good luck with the whole figuring me out part. Want to let me know when you’re done? I could use a little insight, too.”

  “So far, Cherry, this is what I have figured out.” He snagged the glass from my hand in a quick, smooth motion, took a sip, and then handed it back to me. “Sorry,” he said when he saw the look of indignation on my face. “Things you’re not supposed to have always taste better, don’t they?” He paused, letting his eyes linger on me in a way that added weight and suggestiveness to his words.

  “They do,” I said. Some of the nervousness was creeping back into me. Just talking to William was like being engaged in a verbal sparring match, and the more we spoke, the more I realized he was completely in control. I let my mouth run to fill the powerful silence, because I thought a man like William could do dangerous things with silence, with nothing but those piercing eyes of his and the suggestion he could weave into the slightest twitch of his lips. “We used to trade stuff from our lunches in elementary school and middle school,” I said, more to fill the silence than because I thought he actually wanted an answer. “Airheads candy were like gold. You could trade one Airhead for pretty much anything. Even a full tray of chicken nuggets and fries. Especially if it was the mystery flavor. The white ones. They tasted so much better when you got them in a trade than if your mom just packed them for you.”

  “The white ones were cotton candy. Mystery solved.”

  I tried to summon up the memory of what they tasted like and wasn’t sure I could disagree. “You were saying you’d figured me out?” I prompted. I was admittedly a little desperate to hear what he thought of me, even though I was terrified I wasn’t going to like it.

  “I was, and then you made me add ‘likes to interrupt people who are trying to insert dramatic pauses into conversations’ to the list of things I’ve learned about you.”

  I blushed. “I didn’t realize it was a dramatic pause.”

  “Occasionally lacks basic skills of observation,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, like he was dictating something to be written down.

  “Hey!” I said, laughing and swatting at his arm. I pulled my hand back a little too fast and my laughter died when I realized what I’d done. He didn’t seem to notice my reaction, because he only kept giving me that analytical look from behind his mask, with those blue eyes of his narrowed and discerning.

  “Physically violent…”

  "You better get to the nice parts or I'm going to see if you can drink the rest of this wine as well when it's airborne."

  “Right. The nice parts. Well, that part of the list is private, unfortunately. At least until it’s complete. And, of course, until I’ve had a chance to evaluate your private parts.”

  I glared.

  “You should see your face. I know why they call you Cherry, now. That’s exactly your color when you’re pissed.”

  “They don’t call me Cherry. Only you do. Even though I’ve told you my name is Hailey.”

  “Maybe you should try not to look so adorable when you’re pissed. People might not enjoy provoking you so much.”

  I felt my flushing cheeks grow even hotter. I was about to say something when another man and a woman came up to stand beside William. I had trouble saying for sure with the masks, but I found myself staring in disbelief between William and the man. They were the exact same height, the same build. They had the same eyes, mouth, jaws, even ears. The only difference was the man who’d just arrived wore his hair neatly trimmed and styled, while William’s was the perfect mess I’d seen earlier in the day. The newcomer also wore one of those silky white handkerchiefs in his jacket pocket—I could never remember what they were called.

  "Are you torturing another poor girl?" The newcomer even had an almost identical voice to William. He sounded colder, though. More serious.

  “Cherry, this is my brother, Bruce,” William introduced. “We’re identical twins, but I’m actually a few seconds older, which means I’ll always be a little stronger and better than him.”

  “Statistically speaking, it just means you’re going to die first,” Bruce said blandly.

  “I’m Natasha.” The woman smiled kindly and reached out to shake my hand. She wore a gorgeous white dress that skirted the line between elegant and casual in a way I wished I had the ability to pull off. Despite the breathtaking dress, a face somewhere between adorable and gorgeous, and the fact that William’s twin had his arm around her shoulders, she still managed to seem humble and kind. I liked her immediately.

  “I’m Hailey,” I said, shaking her hand.

  She gave me a slightly questioning look when I said my name.

  “William thinks he’s funny when he calls me Cherry,
” I explained.

  “Oh, trust me, I know your pain,” Natasha said. “I had to endure his attempts at humor plenty of times. I’m sorry he’s using you as his comedy dumpster now.”

  “Hey!” William was smiling despite his wounded tone. “Comedy dumpster? Jesus, Natasha. Some of Bruce’s coldness is rubbing off on you. That actually hurts a little.”

  “Oh,” she said, her own smile faltering a little. “I didn’t mean to actually—”

  “Don’t backtrack, Natasha,” interrupted Bruce. “William’s ego could use as many blows as we can manage. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure it’ll survive.”

  “I’m starting to feel like I’m getting triple teamed, here, and let me tell you… if I’m going to get triple teamed, I’d prefer one less cock in the mix. Especially when said cock belongs to my brother.”

  “An extra cock in the mix is fine, as long as it’s not mine. Got it,” Bruce said, some humor leaking into his serious tone.

  I choked back laughter.

  William dropped something he’d been holding, though I couldn’t see what it was. I only saw him kneel down suddenly in front of Bruce and then stand up, shoving something in his pocket. I almost missed it, but when I looked at Bruce again, I realized the white handkerchief that had been in his jacket pocket was now missing.

  “Well,” William stretched and faked a yawn, “speaking of cocks. Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with Mr. Moneybags?”

  Bruce sighed. “You do realize if he ever hears you call him that, he’s going to immediately stop being our client.”

  “I realize it, and I refuse to stop calling him that.”

  “Of course you do. Come on, Natasha. I do actually need to find Mr. Packard and make an appearance. It was nice to meet you, Hailey,” he said politely before heading off with Natasha.

  "I see. So you're the evil twin and he's…"

  “The one with OCD. I think you could probably dispense ice cubes out of his asshole if you tried hard enough. Crushed, of course.”

  I let out a surprised laugh. “That’s a disturbing image.”

  “Welcome to my world.” William pulled a silky white handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, even though I was pretty sure it didn’t sound like his nose was stuffed at all. He looked at the handkerchief with the faintest smile and then dropped it to the ground.

  “What’s the point of taking it if you’re going to drop it?” I asked.

  He looked slightly surprised, like he didn’t think I would’ve noticed he took the handkerchief in the first place. “Well, not everything can make the collection.”

  “Do I even want to know what the collection is?”

  He thought about that. "It's like my hall of fame, you could say. Play your cards right, and maybe I'll show you someday."

  "Someday," I said slowly. "Sounds like you have big plans for the two of us. Should I start blocking out my calendar?"

  “Just the nights.”

  I chewed the corner of my lip. “Do you always do that?”

  “Proposition pretty girls for sex with not-so-subtle hints? Not usually, no.”

  My grammy had always said if someone gave you a compliment, you never argued with them about it, unless you wanted it to be your last. So even though I struggled a little to believe he really thought I was pretty, especially surrounded by women like the ones here, I smiled and let it sink in. “I see… And these pretty girls you don’t usually proposition for sex. What do most of them do when you drop your not-so-subtle hints?”

  “See,” he said, taking a deliberate step closer that eradicated any shred of comfort and confidence I had. His closeness was overwhelming. Consuming. “I’m having trouble caring about any other girls, or what has happened before right now. There’s just one thing drowning it all out.”

  “What thing?” I breathed.

  “This girl,” he said. He paused, letting his eyes roam me and his lips part. Sexuality dripped from him, covered me, and ignited every sensual nerve in my body. “This girl I met. She’s kind of uptight. A little bit sarcastic. She talks back.”

  “She sounds horrible.” I couldn’t manage to push out more than a hushed whisper, like my throat was tight and my mouth was dry.

  “That’s the thing. I’ve never gone for a girl like her, but this one… I think I like her.”

  “I’m sure she’s flattered.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  He grinned. "You want me to spell it out? Sure, I'll indulge you." He raised his index finger to the space just below my collarbone, where the low neckline of my dress gave him direct access to my skin. He pressed his finger there, drawing a shudder from me and a wave of goosebumps.

  He started to trace some shape with his finger. What it was, I had no idea. My world became his long eyelashes, his thoughtful blue eyes, those full, absolutely sinful lips, and the heat of contact where our bodies met. I didn’t hear the music or the people around us in that moment.

  He pulled his finger back after a few moments and looked expectantly at me. “There. Spelled it out for you. Got it?”

  “What?” I asked. I hadn’t paid attention at all to what shape he was drawing.

  He shrugged. “Some women. You can literally write it on their chest and they won’t get it. Oh well, your loss.”

  “Hey!” I said, smiling a little. “Do it again, then.”

  “Nah. You get one freebie, and you blew it.”

  I put my hands on my hips, which wasn’t a move in my usual arsenal, but William had a way of taunting it out of me. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculously thirsty. I’ll be back with something strong and stolen.”

  “The drinks are free. You can’t steal them.”

  “So innocent, still,” he said wistfully. “Theft is just a matter of context, Cherry. Don’t worry though, I’ll teach you up before long.”

  And with that, he headed off, leaving me wondering what the heck he could possibly mean.

  It wasn’t a second later before a woman gently turned me to face her with fingertips on my shoulder.

  Mask or not, she was breathtaking. Heart-shaped face, kiss-me lips, big green eyes with long lashes, and a body that could’ve been sculpted by a team of horny men. She flipped her jet black hair with a practiced motion of her head that somehow said, “I’m better than you in every way imaginable, and you bet your ass I know it.”

  “Hi?” I asked.

  “Sorry to startle you,” she practically purred. She flashed a smile that managed to look endearing and accidentally sexy at the same time. Part of me was pulled immediately toward liking her, but something deeper in my brain told me to be careful with this woman. “I’m Zoey Parker. You could say I’m kind of like the president of William Chamberson’s ex-girlfriend club.”

  “Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

  “Don’t worry. This isn’t a jealousy thing or a threat. I’m coming here as a friend. As someone who was where you are right now. William is very good at making promises. He’ll convince you he’s a good guy, even if he might be a little bit rough around the edges. He’ll promise whatever he has to. He’ll seduce you. He’ll get what he wants, and then he’ll move on. He’s done it to all of us, and he’ll do it to you, too.”

  “Well,” I said a little stiffly. “I appreciate the head’s up, but I’m a big girl. I think I can decide for myself if I want to be romantically involved with someone or not.”

  She gave me a tight smile. “Of course you can.” She squeezed my shoulder a bit too firmly. “And listen. Don’t take this personally, but William inevitably comes crawling back my way after every couple failed flings. Sometimes I don’t know how I manage to handle him, but hey, it’s not a job for everyone.”

  I smiled, but there wasn’t any friendliness in it. I wasn’t usually the catty type, but this woman was giving off an overpowering aroma of bitchiness that had a way of bringing the fighter out of me. “Sorry, I think I misheard. Did y
ou say you were the president of his ex-girlfriend club, or was it his fan club?”

  She pressed her lips together, but still plastered on that fake smile of hers. “Good luck, sweetie. William eats girls like you up and spits you back out before breakfast.” She twinkled her manicured nails at me as she runway-walked away from me and disappeared into the crowd.

  I was still trying to make sense of my encounter with the ice queen when William came back holding two glasses of champagne. He offered me one, but I waved it off when I saw the lipstick stains on the rim.

  “Don’t you think you’re taking the whole thief thing a bit far here?” I asked. I couldn’t decide yet if I wanted to bring up Zoey. On the one hand, I was dying to hear his side of it. On the other, I didn’t feel like he necessarily owed me an explanation. Maybe he deserved a chance to show me who he was instead of having to defend himself against claims by some crazy ex.

  “Thief is a strong word. I have a slight tendency toward kleptomania. It’s a medical condition. You wouldn’t make fun of a guy for a medical condition, would you? Besides, you can have the flowers back anytime you want. All you have to do is come by my office. So they’re borrowed, not stolen. Your cherry on the other hand… I wasn’t planning on giving that back.”

  “Is that how this works?” I asked, trying to ignore his cherry comment. “Taking my flowers was just the old, ‘I forgot something at your place’ trick but with a kleptomaniac twist?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hm. Well, you can keep them.”

  He tapped his chin. “I see. Obviously I didn’t steal the right object. I guess I’ll have to swing by your shop again.”

  “I can’t really stop you.”

  “Would you want to if you could?” The playful tone drained out of his voice, leaving nothing but a piercing note of sincerity. And there it was again. I’d just start to believe this man couldn’t take a thing in the world seriously, but then he’d show me a startling flash of intensity.

  "Maybe," I said. It was an honest answer. Maybe I'd stop him so I wouldn't need to be afraid of the future, of the unknown and the possibility that whatever this was between us was just a collision course between me and disaster. Or maybe I'd let him because I didn't think men like William just wandered into your life every day. If my past was any indication, it took about twenty years for a man like William to show up, and I wasn't sure I wanted to wait until I was sixty for another shot.