As if following his line of thinking, the blonde pinned Cole with a crystal blue glare before redirecting her frigid lasers back to the woman standing beside him. Not wanting to be caught in the middle of a catfight, Cole swiveled himself around to face front. The best views were from the sidelines for that kind of scuffle anyway.
“I’m paying and leaving.” Cole’s attractive neighbor glanced sideways at him, visibly agitated by the other woman’s lack of discretion. He pretended not to listen.
“That’s it? That’s how you want to end it?” Cole swore he heard the petulant smack of a heel on the wood floor littered with broken peanut shells.
The woman beside him flipped open the folder the bartender had set down in front of her. “What I want doesn’t matter when it comes to you, Liv. You’ve made that terribly clear.” Cole couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the total, and he choked on his sip of beer. The woman glanced at him with a wry smile. “Told you,” she mouthed, punctuating the silent statement with a sexy wink. She pulled five crisp one hundred dollar bills from her handbag and closed them inside the folder for the bartender to scoop up. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Sam Adams.” Her eyes indicated the beer bottle seemingly glued to his palm, his knuckles white from the hold he had on the damn thing. Which, after seeing the price of the bottle of wine that had eaten up most of her insane tab, Cole couldn’t help feel was rather inadequate.
Holy fuck, he’d never seen anything quite as hot as a woman who looked the way she did, dropping a huge chunk of change without a hint of hesitation. The bill equated to a week’s pay at Jacobson’s for most of the upper management on staff.
The woman strode toward the exit without another word to her friend, who stalked off in the opposite direction, cursing loud enough for the whole bar to hear. How about that, Cole thought, finishing the rest of his warm beer and watching the stranger’s elegant departure. If his assessment of what had transpired was right, those two were more than just friends. Or at least had been. Nope, he was definitely not in Sweetwater anymore.
“Yeah, they’re together together.” The bartender tossed a damp towel over his shoulder, a huge grin painted from ear to ear. He held a hand up to his mouth, attempting an obscene diagram of what the two women might do in private. Although in the minimal light, Cole couldn’t make out the exact gesture. “Well, I guess not no more.”
“Yeah, it would seem so.” Cole chuckled.
“That blonde is always making some sort of scene.”
“Really?” Cole attempted a casual indifference. “How about the other one?” he asked, finding himself intrigued enough to stop wallowing in his own despair. For a few salacious minutes, anyhow.
The bartender’s grin grew wider, if that was even possible. “Usually quiet and usually pays.”
“Interesting.” Cole noticed he had hunched himself over the bar, far too eager to learn more about the mystery woman, and sat back.
“Yeah, guess we know who wears the pants in that relationship.” The bartender laughed at his own joke and then wandered off to serve another customer, leaving Cole to decipher his meaning.
Done with his beer and his need for distraction, Cole stood and pulled on his jacket, unable to shake the alluring beauty from his mind or an image of those two sumptuous women touching each other in ways that would cause his jeans to get uncomfortable if he didn’t stop. With a final nod to the bartender, he headed in the direction of the door, following the soft, sweet perfume that was still lingering in the air, or maybe just in the back of his mind. Making his way through the banished-smoker crowd outside, he shoved his hands into his pockets and trekked the several blocks to his new temporary home. The next day would be his first at the firm, and he would need all the sleep he could get. If he could clear his mind enough to sleep at all.
“Are you following me, Sam Adams?”
Cole skidded to a halt and found the alluring woman from the bar waiting a few steps ahead. He glanced around to make sure her question was in fact directed toward him. She crooked a delicate finger and ducked down the dark alley next to his apartment building. How did she know he lived here? Could it just be a damned coincidence? With slight hesitation, Cole followed, eyes locked on the hypnotic sway of her hips in that red dress, backlit by the moonlight cascading down. He wondered if she felt the chill in the night air and considered offering her his canvas Carhartt jacket. When she stopped, she pressed her back against the brownstone, her mesmerizing eyes challenging him to step closer. Cage her in.
“Come, now. I won’t bite.” The unsaid “yet” bounced around in his brain as his feet parked themselves between her fuck-me heels. She reached a palm out, and fire skated up and down the length of his body. Her hand closed around his t-shirt, yanking him toward her. Soft, commanding lips took control of his mouth. Cole groaned into the hungry kiss, his hands doing a little exploring of their own. Her body melted into his touch, gentle curves begging to be caressed. She sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, and Cole saw stars at the feel of her teeth.
“Christ,” he exhaled, his palms gliding up tight thighs in search of more. He waited for a tug on his wrists, a palm across his face, or some sort of indication that he had the wrong idea about what she wanted, but it never came. Maybe she intended to mug him after seducing him into compliance. He was in Mason, after all.
“You started without me?” Cole heard another sultry voice behind him and turned with reluctance. Wearing a pout much like the one she’d had in the bar, the blonde sidled up behind him, molding her lithe body to his back. A hand moved to the raging erection in his jeans. The slow tick of his zipper opening was music to his ears. Cole cursed in disbelief, eyes pointed skyward, as teeth grazed a sensitive spot on his throat. If in fact these two women planned to mug him, he wouldn’t put up a fight so long as they allowed him to revel in the fantasy a moment longer.
“Tell me your names, so I know what to say when I come,” he pleaded, caught up in the ride of his life.
The woman in front of him tugged his face down by his chin and smiled, eyes at half-mast. “My name is–”
Cole shot upwards at the sound of his alarm, and then slammed down the snooze button in painful disappointment.
Wait, what? It was just a dream? But who was the woman in red? And what’s got Cole so grumpy? Drawn Through You gets even more intriguing, we promise. Find out how by visiting us at TrystBooks.com/drawn-through-you.
And the pork belly pinchos really are that good.
But wait, there’s more...
Ms. Conception by Jen Cumming
From debut author Jen Cumming, Ms. Conception is an honest but light-hearted novel inspired by the ups and downs of fertility treatments and the emotional burden that rests on those trying to conceive.
Abigail Nichols has tried everything from rash-inducing herbal creams to acupuncture in a desperate, last-ditch effort to get pregnant. Wedged into her iPhone schedule among new business pitches and rebranding design meetings is Abby’s ovulation cycle, along with potential opportunities for illicit afternoon quickies. With all of their hopes and savings on the table, Abby and her husband Jack enter the whispered world of fertility clinics.
Along with a meddling mother-in-law, competitive pregnancies, and constant obligatory sex, Abby’s baby-track mind conspires to ravage her career, her marriage, and her sanity. One thing she knows for sure: a healthy sense of humor (and the occasional glass of red wine) is the best coping strategy. One thing she wishes she knew: whether it will be enough.
Chapter 1
A procreation vacation? What the hell is that? The first email is from my best friend, Jules, one of the few people who know Jack and I are struggling to have a baby. I ignore the rest of my inbox and start Google searching.
There are hotels in the Caribbean that offer fertility vacations? Seriously? Powder white sand beaches, private infinity pools, couples massages with fertility-boosting kelp wraps and reflexology, all to supposedly stimulate semen production. After three year
s of unsuccessful pregnancy attempts, I’ve found fertility utopia.
Wait, hold on; there’s something here about drinking sea moss elixirs. That doesn’t sound overly appetizing. I read a quote from a successful vacationer: “I conceived as soon as I got home.” With rising excitement, I check out the menu, knowing Jack loves a great meal. Darn, there’s a lot of tofu – this might not fly. My husband Jack is many things, but tofu lover is not on that list.
I click on another link and find the Fertile Turtle vacation package. Apparently sea turtles are symbols of fertility. “You can watch sea turtles hatch while trying to fertilize your own egg.” My cheeks flame. I couldn’t have sex with anyone watching, even poor sea turtles. Jules is definitely yanking my chain. Hitting reply to her email, I type, “The poor turtles. You bitch!”
This is what my life has come to. The ongoing struggle to have a baby has spilled over into desperate Internet searches, sexy lingerie purchases, and my ovulation cycle scheduled into our iPhones. Oh god, sexy lingerie purchases. My face flames brighter at the memory. I thought spicing up our sex life might help, but in my crazy one-track baby-on-the-brain mind, I’d stupidly put the office address in the “ship to” box. That was a really fun day in the office. Pressing my hands against the heat of my cheeks, I sigh and turn back to my computer. Another day begins for me, Abigail Nichols, marketing maven by day, fertility-obsessed sex fiend by night.
“You okay, Abby?” My assistant, Scott, is hovering in the doorway. Cheeks betraying me, I quickly close my browser, hiding evidence of my infertility desperation. He is the best assistant I’ve ever had, anticipating my needs before I have a chance to articulate them, right down to keeping a spare pair of panty hose in his drawer in case of emergency, and for all that, I can forgive his office gossiping. He crosses the room gracefully, and sinks into my spare chair with a sheaf of papers requiring my review or signature. I smile tightly, mentally telling my hot cheeks to cool it, and reach for Scott’s pile. He pulls back out of reach.
“Spill it, lady.” Scott looks huffy. He knows something is up, and not being a part of it is maddening for him.
It’s not really Scott I’m worried about. I don’t need my bosses, both “guys’ guys,” to find out their hard-working director of client services is eyeing a maternity leave. Granted they can’t sack me for trying to have a baby, but they can make my life miserable. Marketing agency life, particularly at small boutique shops like ours, can be brutal. It’s all about the bottom line. Well, and the profit line for the partners. I have yet to make partner, but don’t want to jeopardize the possibility.
“Is Production finished with the promotional package for Saber?” I ask, hoping the change in subject will throw Scott off the scent. Saber, a high-end furniture manufacturer, is one of my clients, and we are creating a new marketing strategy and corporate identity.
“Not yet. They got backed up with a design for Marco. You’re next in the queue.” Scott isn’t remotely British but is always trying to work in words like “queue” and “flat” to sound more cultured.
“Damn him; probably a new logo for his effing bowling team.” Marco is one of our two partners, and constantly uses work resources for personal gain. He cultivates a four-season tan, blond-enhanced wavy hair, and smoldering gray eyes. Some women are drawn to his Euro fashions, others to his BMW, and me to nothing about him. Charlie is our other partner. His name is actually Norman, but we all refer to him as Charlie, as in Charlie’s Angels. He mainly communicates with the senior staff via email, voice mail, or notes on our desks and is rarely spotted in person. I am positive he sneaks into the office at night to review our work because, despite his absence, he seems up to date on all our latest projects. Charlie and Marco bonded (strangely, because they are like oil and water), began working at an advertising agency together, and took what they learned, along with a few choice clients, and started up our agency. Charlie, the senior partner, is the brains of the operation, and Marco is its face.
Many of the other females who have worked in our office, though, have landed the job because they were “shagging” Marco, as Scott would say. They are all young, buxom, and sorely lacking in intelligence or skill, at least in office matters. When Marco bores with one of his conquests, he breaks up with her by giving her a job and leaves it to me to fire her.
When I first joined the firm, it was rumored throughout the building that I was his latest blonde, but soon it was clear I lacked the credentials: too much brain, too-small breasts. When he hits a dry spell, he tends to focus his flirting energies in my direction, but he’s pretty much harmless. There are days when our working relationship feels more like mother and delinquent child, not employee and boss.
Scott and I finish reviewing the production schedule and move on to my calendar.
“You’ve got yourself booked out at one o’clock today?” I can hear the curiosity in his voice.
“Doctor’s appointment.”
“Didn’t you have one last week?”
“Follow-up. Totally routine.” I’m not a very good liar. The truth is in my iPhone. I’m ovulating, and Jack and I are meeting up for a quickie, but there is no way in hell I’ll let Scott know that. The desperation kicked up a notch when Jack and I celebrated our third anniversary two months ago. I’m thirty-one and Jack is forty. Our relaxed, wait-and-see approach is no longer working.
“Hmm…” He doesn’t sound convinced. “You should really think about getting your hair colored. I think I see a gray or two,” and with that he twirls, nose in the air, and flounces out of my office. Ouch. Cringing, I reach for my compact to check out my hair. When I can’t spot a single gray hair in my blonde chin-length bob, I realize he’s just being petty. He knows I’m holding out on him. Standing, I smooth down my navy blue skirt, shrug into my suit jacket, and head downstairs. Hounding Production to drop Marco’s latest personal project takes up most of the morning, so I text a quick reminder to Jack as I get ready to sneak home.
To Jack: C u in 20 mins. Xo Abbs
To Abby: 2day not good. 2nite work? Xo Jack
To Jack: ovul8ing – NOW.
No answer.
To Jack: Just wam bam thank u ma’am – no 4play, quick, I promise. x
To Abby: fine. 30 mins.
Great. I need a willing partner in this venture and he’s already grumbling. Jack has been having trouble with our baby-making plan. I know he desperately wants to be a dad, but he finds the pressure of trying to get pregnant seriously affects his performance. Truthfully, turning forty hasn’t helped in that department either. He worries about being an old dad. That’s why racy lingerie and illicit “nooners” were high on the list of ways to spice up our sex life. The challenge, he tells me, is that he still knows it’s a command performance. My ovulation window is only open for so long, so it’s do-or-die time. This quickie is going to take a little extra effort on my part.
I jog to the subway station, which is quite a feat in my heels. I’m slightly ahead of schedule, but I’ll need to take a little extra time primping, to help Jack along. Good thing there is all that newly acquired lingerie in my closet. The chime sounds to warn of the subway’s imminent departure just as I dash on board. I plop into a seat and notice a young woman with a stroller. My uterus instantly contracts. Gasping, I close my eyes. I don’t hear any actual ticking from a biological clock, but my body reminds me of my childless state every time I see a baby.
I open my eyes as the subway lurches forward and watch as a little bootie drops from the stroller. Balancing myself against the swaying of the cars, I scoop up the boot and hand it back to the young mother.
“Oh, thank you, she’s always kicking them off,” she says with a mix of exasperation and pride. I smile and sneak a look into the depths of the stroller. My breath catches and my uterus throbs.
“She’s gorgeous. How old is she?” My voice sounds breathy.
“Six months,” she answers as she gathers up her things, preparing to leave at the next station. She waves good-by
e as the doors slide open, and I slump back into my seat, close my eyes again, and cup my belly protectively with my hands. I picture myself as a mom; pushing a stroller through Toronto, playing in the park, coming home from work and seeing the joy that “Mommy’s home.” I want all of that. Taking a deep breath, I mentally chant my mantra, as my hippie mother has suggested.
“I will get pregnant, I will have a baby, I will be a mom.” I continue to repeat this as the subway rumbles across the Bloor Viaduct, and by the time we pull into Broadview Station, I am feeling calm. I am feeling fertile. I know this will work.
Making it to our tiny two-story house on Ellerbeck Street in record time, I scan the street but don’t see Jack’s car. Perfect. I drop my keys on the front hall table and dash upstairs to the bathroom. This is the next room on our to-do list, but after three years, we still have yet to tackle it. The tacky seventies tile with its gaudy orange flowers mocks me as I rummage through the drawers for makeup, hairbrush, and perfume.
I hear Jack’s key in the door as I fluff my hair one last time and adjust the sexy but abrasive black-lace teddy. A man must have invented these damn things. There is certainly no way on earth the creator has ever tried one on. I sprawl across the twisted sheets of our unmade bed and listen for Jack’s footfalls on the stairs.
“Abbs, I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but can we hurry this along? Traffic is awful and I left in the middle of a meeting with a potential new client and … wow. Wow.” Jack appears in the doorway, looking rushed – his navy tie slightly askew against his blue pinstripe shirt. He is momentarily speechless and runs his hands through his brown hair, then lights up in a huge smile, blue eyes widening and his twinkle turning to a hungry glint as he catches sight of me. Knowing time is precious, Jack strips down, tossing his clothes in a heap.
Caramel Beach (Lessons in Pure Life Book 2) Page 10