by Ivy Layne
She'd blushed so pink I'd known I'd been right. If she had any idea what had happened, she'd rush home in a second. I wasn't going to ruin their mini-vacation. I'd just have to handle this on my own.
I slung the bag over my shoulder and stomped down the stairs, taking a perverse satisfaction in letting my temper out. No need to be professional now. What the hell did I care what anyone thought? It wasn't like I had a job. I didn't even have the prospect of one.
Aiden had blackballed me.
My knees wobbled at the wave of fury. I couldn't seem to get my head around how thoroughly he'd destroyed my career. He knew I wouldn't leave Atlanta.
I love my city. Gage and Annalise aside, my family was here. My friends were here. I could probably find something if I were willing to move, but I wasn't going to flee Atlanta because Aiden was a controlling asshole.
I ground to a halt at the door to his home office. I wasn't above a little petty revenge. Not in my current mood. But what I had in mind wasn't petty. On the shelf behind his desk sat a crystal decanter filled with brown liquid. Aiden's pride and joy. He wasn't much of a drinker, but he did like his whiskey.
I'd never seen him drunk, but I often joined him in his office for a glass after a long day. We drank whiskey together, but not what was in that decanter. I'd never seen him touch the contents aside from a single glass the day it had arrived.
Carefully, I picked up the decanter and one glass, taking them both with me. He'd be furious. Maybe as furious as I was at being fired. Served him right.
I didn't stop to think until I was pulling into the cracked and overgrown driveway at my house in the Highlands. I unloaded my bags, locked my car, and took the crystal decanter and glass to the back porch. The covered porch circled the house, and most of it was rotted and unstable. The section outside the back door was safe enough, I thought.
I liked to sit out there, admiring my tangle of a yard and imagining what the house would look like when I was finished with it. I'd barely gotten started. Too many hours working and not enough free time.
I didn't have that problem now.
My stomach did an uneasy flip at the reminder that I was unemployed. It wasn't the money. Even accounting for the cost of the house, I had money. I'd been working for Winters Incorporated since my freshman year in college and I'd kept expenses to a minimum.
Hard to spend money when all I did was work. I still drove Aiden's car, the one he'd given me when I turned sixteen. I'd lived at home, so no rent, mortgage, or utilities.
He didn't even let me pay for groceries. I never went on vacation and I rarely shopped except for work clothes. Since buying suits wasn't my idea of fun, I kept that to a minimum too.
I was twenty-four years old with a flush bank account, but no job and no life. A tiny voice whispered that maybe Aiden had a point.
Screw that.
It would be a long time before I'd be willing to talk to Aiden, much less admit he might have done the right thing.
This was my life. I knew he could be controlling, but firing me was beyond insane.
Gritting my teeth, I poured myself a generous portion of whiskey into the crystal glass I'd stolen. At the familiar burn of the liquor, I smiled for the first time since I'd walked into Aiden's office a few hours before.
The whiskey was the best I'd ever had. At fifteen thousand dollars a bottle, it should be. Aiden had bought the Macallan Select Reserve Single Malt at an auction a few years before. He wasn't generally extravagant, but he loved this whiskey.
I took another sip and grinned, remembering the first time I'd stolen Aiden's whiskey. I'd been thirteen and gotten my backside tanned. Back then, the punishment had been worth it, though I'd thought the whiskey was disgusting. How things had changed.
Now I welcomed the smooth burn of the Macallan. Aiden had already delivered his punishment, so why not?
If he could yank my entire life out from under me, I could drink his ridiculously expensive whiskey. Even the crystal decanter was valuable. A special anniversary edition, it was worth almost as much as the contents.
Now, all he had of the set was a single glass. I drained every drop of whiskey from the one I'd stolen and refilled it. I was going to get drunk on obscenely expensive whiskey and figure out the rest of my life later.
"Isn't it a little early for whiskey?"
The voice was smooth, dark, and luscious with a husky bite. At first, I thought it was the whiskey talking. Then I looked up.
Shit. Standing on the other side of the fence was my neighbor, the one Maggie and I called Lawnmower Hottie. The name was silly, but apt.
At first, I'd only seen him mowing his yard, always shirtless, his chiseled body on full display. He was tall, taller than my brothers and cousins. At least 6' 6" and solid, with broad shoulders, lean hips, and long legs. All of him was covered in muscle and what seemed like acres of tattoos.
He should have scared me. My cousin Vance was big and had muscles and a bunch of tattoos. But not like this guy. Lawnmower Hottie was dark, with olive skin, black shaggy hair, and apple green eyes. I'd never seen him smile.
And I'd looked. I'm not going to admit how often I'd spied on him. I was Pavlov's dog. I heard that lawnmower start up, and I went straight to the window.
"How much of that have you had to drink?" he asked, nodding at the decanter beside me.
I looked from him to my half-empty glass before I answered. We'd never spoken, never exchanged more than a vague half-wave, but now was as good a time as any to get to know my new neighbor.
For once, I was feeling reckless, my anger and the whiskey mixing in my blood, tugging at my memories of another time, when I'd been another girl.
"This is my second," I said, holding my glass up to the light. "Do you want some? I don't have another glass. You'll have to share with me."
Lawnmower Hottie was over the fence in one fluid leap, landing on the balls of his feet, moving far too quietly for his size. This man was a predator.
Dangerous.
Before I could regret my invitation, he was sitting beside me, his spicy male scent blending with the whiskey and going straight to my head.
Had I said I was feeling reckless? The heat of his body warming my side, he took the glass from my fingers, his skin brushing mine, sending electric sparks shooting down my nerve endings at the brief contact.
My breath caught in my throat. His green eyes were as clear as glass as they studied the whiskey before he raised the tumbler and took a sip.
Up close, he was a study in contradictions—the clarity of his green eyes gemlike, the line of his jaw aggressive, a perfect match for those bladed cheekbones. And his mouth. Lush and full, it was the mouth of a lover, a mouth made for kissing.
I found myself leaning into him, his lips a magnet. I started to pull back, to get myself under control. I was Charlotte Winters. Perfect Charlotte Winters. Perfect grades, perfect clothes, perfect job. Always perfect.
Not anymore. That Charlotte was gone. I was left with Charlie, and Charlie was unemployed, sitting on her back porch in the middle of the day drinking whiskey and thinking bad thoughts about kissing her neighbor.
Charlotte would get up, politely excuse herself, wash out the glass, and set it to dry beside the sink before she went off and did something sensible. But Charlotte wasn't here. And Charlie knew exactly what she wanted.
I didn't care if it was the whiskey, the crappy day, or just good old-fashioned lust. I knew what I wanted. Maybe not in the big picture. My life was in a shambles and I had no clue what to do about that.
But right there, with whiskey and desire fizzing in my veins and Lawnmower Hottie close enough to touch, I knew exactly what I was going to do.
Before I could think twice, I closed the distance between us and pressed my lips to his. Fireworks exploded behind my eyelids. He let out a grunt of surprise and his hands closed over my shoulders. He was going to push me away. Disappointment stabbed through me.
Then I opened my mouth to his, my tongue
stroking across his lower lip, and he pulled me closer, my breasts pressing to his broad chest, his mouth slanting over mine, taking control of the kiss.
My blood sang and my body was molten. He tasted of whiskey and pleasure. Of danger and sex. I had to have more.
I was a mess, lost and without direction. I had no idea what I was doing with my life, but I knew one thing.
I wanted more of this man. And I'd do whatever I had to do to get him.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCAS
I was going to push her away. That was the plan. I've lived a wild life at times, but I didn't go around kissing women I'd barely met. Especially not my neighbor. Hooking up with a neighbor had complicated written all over it.
I didn't do complicated.
But shit, this girl could kiss. I put my hands on her shoulders, thinking to push her back, when her tongue slid across my lower lip and reason flew straight out of my brain.
Instead, I pulled her closer and sealed my mouth over hers, figuring I'd be too aggressive and scare her off.
I was wrong. Her mouth matched mine, her tongue stroking, her teeth nipping, sucking my lip inside before diving back into the kiss.
When I hauled her onto my lap, pulling her hips into mine and pinning the hard length of my cock between us, I expected her to back off, not arch into me, pressing those round tits into my chest.
God damn.
I was in over my fucking head. Most of my brain was focused on my dick and the lush armful of woman on my lap, but I had just enough good sense to realize that:
#1 - I didn't know this chick. She could be a total nutcase. Trouble.
#2 - She'd been drinking.
Whiskey, by the taste of her, and whatever it was, it was the good stuff. For all I knew, she could be wasted. I didn't fuck drunk women. I had one hand up the back of her sweater, my palm splayed over warm silky skin, fingers reaching for the clasp of her bra.
So close.
So close and so fucking ready.
I kept kissing her, well past when I’d decided this had to stop. The taste of her, whiskey and sweet woman, the little noises she was making in her throat, the electric feel of her weight in my lap, and the raw desire in her kiss.
I should have stood up and dumped her on her ass, then run as fast as I could in the other direction.
Don't stick your dick in crazy.
The immortal wisdom of my asshole stepfather. No less true, even considering its source. It was one of the only pieces of advice I'd ever taken from Dale.
I'd seen this woman before, felt her eyes on me when I mowed the lawn, and even exchanged a neighborly wave once or twice. Nothing had indicated she'd ever end up here, straddling my lap, her tongue in my mouth.
No, every time I'd seen her, she was buttoned up tight, pearls, expensive suit, and a line between her eyebrows that said she was always stressed. And now, she was drinking and about thirty seconds from getting fucked on her back porch.
It was possible she wasn't crazy, but this was definitely out of character. Whatever was going on with her, I was too smart to jump in the middle of it without doing a little recon first.
It almost killed me, but I managed to stand up. When her legs wrapped around my waist, I groaned. So fucking close, and she was so goddamned sweet.
"Princess," I managed to say, "give me a minute here."
At the sound of my voice, her legs dropped from my waist and she pulled away. If I hadn't steadied her, she would have fallen right off the porch steps.
Yep, she might not be drunk, but she definitely wasn't sober.
Fuck.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'd been hoping she was completely clearheaded and just really, really turned on. Looked like it was more complicated than that.
Have I mentioned I didn't do complicated?
She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, straightened her shoulders, and met my eyes with defiance. "Don't call me Princess. My name is Charlie."
"Your name," I said, "is Charlotte Winters. I'm Lucas Jackson." I held out my hand and she took it, her grip firm and brisk.
"How do you know who I am?" she asked, eyeing me with suspicion.
After the way she'd jumped me, I was relieved to see she had the good sense to be suspicious. I shrugged. "I checked into you when you bought the house," I said. "Wanted to know who was living next door."
She returned my shrug and sat back down on the top step. She refilled the glass of whiskey before she spoke again. "I don't go by Charlotte. Everyone calls me Charlie."
"Okay, Charlie. So what has you sitting alone out here drinking whiskey in the middle of the day?"
Charlie took a healthy slug of the whiskey. "Do you really want to know? Or are you just asking to be polite? Because I'm not in the mood for polite today."
The perfect opening to get the hell out of there. I opened my mouth to say something like you look like you need to be alone. Instead, I said, "Yeah, I do. I'm curious. I've seen you before. You've never struck me as the 'drunk in the afternoon' type."
"I'm not," she said, holding out the glass and offering me some of her whiskey.
I took it from her and sipped. Holy Christ. I like whiskey. I've had some pretty good stuff, but nothing that tasted like this. I took a second sip before handing the glass back.
"I don't know what that is, but I don't think you're supposed to drink the whole bottle in one sitting."
I leaned against the porch railing and looked down at her, irrationally turned on by the spark of irritation in her aqua blue eyes.
"You're not," she agreed. "At 15K a bottle, you're probably supposed to take a decade to drink the whole thing. But this isn't about getting drunk. This is revenge."
"Only a Winters would get revenge by drinking a bottle of whiskey that costs more than most people's cars," I said, crossing my arms over my chest.
Charlotte flushed. Her eyes narrowed. She should have looked petulant and childish as she took an angry sip of the whiskey. Maybe it was her kiss-swollen lips or the faint pink of beard burn on her cheeks, but she didn't look petulant. She looked fuckable.
Every time I'd seen her before, her hair had been tightly bound in a bun-like thing that looked elegant and restrained. It was still in a bun, kind of, but strands were falling out loosely around her face.
With her messy hair, bright eyes, and worn jeans, she looked years younger.
It was a reminder that she was years younger, twenty-four to my thirty-two. Yeah, I'd already told her I knew who she was. I was way too nosy and too much a hacker at heart not to pull up every detail on my neighbors.
None of them were remotely interesting. Until this morning, I'd lumped Charlotte Winters into the not remotely interesting category.
Clearly, I'd been wrong.
"I thought about murder," Charlotte said after taking another healthy gulp of the whiskey. "But my family has had enough of scandal, and I'd probably regret it later."
Taking the glass from her before she could guzzle the rest of it, I asked, "Who were you planning to murder?"
"My oldest brother, Aiden," she said, her eyes grim and dark.
"What did he do?" I asked. "Cut off your allowance?"
At the furious look she threw me, I was suddenly grateful both the glass and the decanter were out of her reach.
"Fuck you," she said, all trace of the passionate, reckless woman who'd kissed me gone. Her eyes narrowed on my face, coldly furious.
I held my hands up in front of me, palms out, to appease her. "What happened?"
She studied my face for a long moment as if weighing her options before she said, "You investigated me?" I nodded. "So you know who I am, who my family is?"
I nodded again. Everyone knew who her family was. The notorious Winters clan of Atlanta. They'd been a power in this country before my grandfather was born. Charlotte's father and her uncle had taken charge of the family company, Winters Inc., and made it even more of a force than it had been before.
The
y had their fingers in everything—manufacturing, technology, healthcare. You name it and Winters Inc. had a subsidiary making cash hand over fist.
Her older brother Aiden ran the company. Surprisingly, given how many of them there were, Charlotte was the only other Winters actively involved.
The company and their wealth would have been enough to put them on the map, but the murder/suicide of her aunt and uncle, when Charlotte had been an infant, followed by her parents’ almost identical murder/suicide when she was a kid, had made them ripe targets for gossip.
All of them had grown up under the poisonous microscope of the media, and while they worked hard to live quietly these days, it didn't take much to stir up a little scandal.
Probably why Charlotte was drinking in her fenced-in backyard instead of at a bar.
"What do you know about me?" she asked, reaching out her hand for the glass.
I took a healthy sip of the whiskey, savoring the smoky fire of it as it ran across my tongue before I handed the glass back. I could blow her off, give her a bullshit answer. I decided not to.
"Charlotte Winters, twenty-four years old. You live with your brother, Aiden, in Winters House, in Buckhead, where you've lived your entire life. Undergrad in economics at Emory, MBA at Emory. You work as a Vice President at Winters Incorporated, reporting to your brother. No current relationships, but last year, you were photographed with James Conroy and there were rumors you were engaged."
"You're thorough," she said. "And what would I find out about you?"
I couldn't help my laugh. "If you looked? Nothing. You might be able to dig up that I graduated from high school fourteen years ago and joined the Army, but that's it. Unlike some people, I know how to keep a low profile."
Charlotte gave a laugh that was a bitter echo of my own. "Trust me, as these things go, I keep a very low profile. Any lower and I'd have to change my name and disappear. But your info is out of date."
I raised my eyebrows, waiting for her to explain.
"As of this afternoon, I no longer work at Winters Incorporated and I no longer live at Winters House."