by Nana Malone
Beckett looked up, and his heart kicked again. When he glanced back at the old lady, he would have sworn there was a knowing look in her eye, but it was gone just as soon as he noticed it, replaced by an impassive stare. He cleared his throat. “It’s not me you have to convince.” He inclined his head at Ricca. “I’m afraid she thinks I’m beneath her.”
Ricca slapped him on the arm. “Would you stop?” She huffed a breath. “Fine. But if you’re going to kiss me, make it good for the camera. Some kids need a pool, or so someone tells me.”
Beckett watched as Ricca licked her full lips. His body jerked and went rigid. Shit. Breathe. His fingertips tingled with the urge to touch her. In so many ways this was a huge mistake. In so many ways this could ruin everything.
Too bad he didn’t care.
Ricca looked from side to side. “Okay, let’s do this.”
He looked over at Adele Westhorpe, who wore a beatific smile. Fine. He could do this. Stepping into Ricca, he inhaled her scent. Something lemony and sweet. As familiar to him as his own cologne.
She tipped her head up and gave him a wry smile. “Why do you look terrified?”
He hadn’t had to think through the mechanics of a kiss so much since he was sixteen. Beckett wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his body. She leaned back, and wide, honey-brown eyes stared up at him. He swallowed hard as he walked himself through the technical mechanics. Lean over. Hold her tight. Angle your head. Place lips on hers.
The instant electric sparks made his brain fuzz. All he heard was the blood rushing through his head. Immediately, they pulled their lips apart and just stared. Under his fingertips, he felt her racing pulse, and his eyes widened. She’d felt it too?
She puffed out a tiny breath, and he smelled champagne and mint mixed with her lemony scent. He couldn’t have predicted what would happen next. When her lips parted, cohesive thought didn’t even factor. He slid his lips against hers again. Her breath mingled with his and his tongue sought hers. When she tentatively met his tongue with hers, he devoured her. Clamping a hand behind her neck, he held her in place. His hands shifted from her waist to her ass. He held her against him and groaned when her hands tentatively went to his face. The soft, generous curves of her breasts pressed into his chest.
She made a soft mewling sound, and he immediately deepened the kiss as a low growl rumbled deep in his chest. His libido roared to attention, and his erection throbbed against his tuxedo pants. In this moment, it was him and Ricca, alone and both willing and ready to do something carnal and dirty and—No, they weren’t alone. And he wasn’t kissing some random chick he’d picked up in a bar. He was kissing Ricca.
His brain gave the command to remove his hand from her ass, but his body rebelled against the instruction. Ricca didn’t help matters when her hands shifted from his face and fisted into the hair at the nape of his neck. An errant thought intruded into his lust-filled haze. Is she pulling you in, or is she pulling you away? Shit.
He straightened and pulled her upright, separating them. He took a deliberate step away and met her gaze. Her lips, plump and juicy, parted just a little. Her dark eyes were heavy lidded, and her pupils dilated. His body screamed to go back for more.
Ricca blinked, opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. Beckett racked his brain but didn’t have the words for what they’d just done. After all there wasn’t a Hallmark for this kind of thing. Sorry I just kissed you like you were some bar girl I picked up in Pacific Beach.
“Well, if that doesn’t win best kiss, I’m dying to witness what does.” Adele Westhorpe looked pleased with herself.
Beckett’s fingers twitched, and he still felt the tingles in his feet. There it was, the inevitable urge to flee. Far and fast, away from anything important and serious. But he couldn’t just walk away from her. “Ricca, I—”
She quickly averted her eyes. “I—um. I’m just going to go. I’ll see you later.”
Beckett watched as she nearly ran in the opposite direction.
“Are you just going to let her walk away?” asked Adele.
“I don’t really have a choice.”
Chapter Two
I never should have kissed him.
As Ricca iced her last cupcake, she anxiously checked her phone again. No texts. Exactly one week, two days, and nine hours since she’d gotten the kiss of her lifetime from Beckett, and not once since then had he texted or called. You haven’t called him either. Ricca glowered at her inner Diva.
It’s not like she’d been the one to jump him. It was supposed to be a silly kiss. Then somewhere along the way, it had changed into something hot enough to melt her panties. Icing oozed over her fingers as the memory of Beckett’s hand on her ass, cupping her against his body intruded.
“Oh shit.” She grabbed a checkered kitchen towel and quickly wiped up the icing from her large, butcher-block island. Reaching down, she snapped open the cupboard under the island and searched for the perfect container. She needed one large enough but not too expensive, in case her container walked away like her last two had. She grabbed the one she was looking for and placed the cupcakes into the dish. She had enough for the morning meeting staff and a few left over for the assistants.
Hell, she didn’t even like the birthday girl very much. But she was the cake girl—the one who baked something for everyone’s birthday on the mid to senior staff. Who was she kidding? She pretty much made cupcakes or desserts for everyone she had any direct contact with. The way she figured it, it paid to be nice to the staff. When she was in a jam with a client, she could usually call in a few favors. And things could get hairy this week. As it was, she already had an anxious mother-to-be breathing down her neck for the perfect baby shower, complete with baby elephants and a bratty teenager who wanted to get One Direction for her party. Apparently, Ricca was a miracle worker instead of a fantasy event planner. Just once, she’d kill for the opportunity at one of the master fantasies. Master fantasies were where the challenges were. Out of the box thinking. Too bad she’d been asking for one for over a year, but no dice.
Again she checked her phone, and again she cursed. If Beckett hadn’t texted or called by now, he wasn’t going to. They’d both been with family for the Christmas holiday and busy, so it was understandable that he hadn’t called. It was just so far out of their routine that it worried her.
Suck it up, kid. She would get to see him today, so she’d just have to deal till then. Pull your big girl thong on and act cool and breezy. It was just a kiss, not the end of the world. They’d both laugh about it and go back to being Ricca and Beckett.
Satisfied with her mini pep talk, she grabbed her stuff and headed out.
Once she arrived at work, she laid out the cupcake spread with a card and balloons—thanks to Karen, her intern—and tried not to bite her nails. As everyone filed in, Ricca received cheery good mornings and grateful sighs as folks started picking up their treats.
The birthday girl, Emily, strolled in with her sidekicks, a.k.a, the Bitch Brigade, and Ricca plastered a smile on her face. Fake it till you make it. “Happy Birthday, Emily.”
Emily’s eyes lit up as she eyed the red velvet cupcakes. Then Angel, the Bitch Brigade’s leader nudged her, and she mumbled, “Thanks, Ricca, but I’ve given up sugar.”
Ricca blinked once then twice. She’d woken up at five AM to make these for someone who didn’t even like sugar? Schooling her expression, she muttered, “I wish I’d known. I’d have brought you something else. I’ll um, just give it to Reception or something.”
“Oh, c’mon, Ricca, it’s obvious you like cupcakes. You should just have Emily’s. It’s not like you're watching your weight or anything. After all, you did all the hard work.” Angel smiled sweetly.
Ricca clasped her hands tightly in her lap as she clenched her jaw. If you kill her, Micha and Jaya aren’t here to help you move the body. Breathe. She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. God, she hated Angel. Why the skinny blonde was so cruel was beyo
nd her. Maybe in another life, Ricca had stolen her boyfriend or something. One of these days it would come to a head with the two of them, and Ricca would blow.
Luckily someone muttered, “God, I love birthdays. Ricca, you should open your own dessert place.”
Distracted from her anger, Ricca mumbled a thanks and kept her eyes peeled on the door. No Beckett. Maybe he wasn’t coming back today after all. Despite what the company calendar said.
As always, Serena Witt, President of Fantasy Inc., started the meeting on time. As Ricca’s boss droned on about last quarter’s profits, Ricca tried to keep her attention on the job and not on Beckett. She certainly wouldn’t think about the kiss. When the stupid photographer at the stupid Westhorpe, Year End Gala had suggested a stupid smooch under the mistletoe for the charity auction, she should have said, “No way.” “Nein.” “No thank you.” “Never in a million years.” Shit, he should have been the first one saying, “Hell no!” But ever the consummate flirt, Beckett had kidded her into compliance.
Shit. Who the hell was she kidding? His mouth should have come with a warning label. Warning: Side effects include scorched lips, flushed skin, an inability to stop picturing your best friend naked, along with sleepless nights. Please see your battery operated boyfriend if any of these symptoms occur. She had to stop thinking about him, the kiss, all of it. It was bad for her health—and her libido. Talk about torture.
She licked her lips in an effort to remember the taste of him. Without much effort, she recalled the mint and scotch on his tongue, and she shivered.
No. She couldn’t do this to herself. She shook her head, tried to shove the memory aside. But this flashback was more resilient than the others she’d managed to shut down. Her memory kept spinning the movie reel of their kiss, and she immediately remembered how his lips molded to hers. How he’d dragged her body to his and practically lifted her off the ground like he’d wanted to eat her alive. For that moment in time, she’d wanted to pretend it all could be real. But it wasn’t.
When the flashbacks of hot and heavy wouldn’t subside, she forced her gaze over to the Bitch Brigade. Yep, that did it—Angel’s scathing glare put a chill on any embers in Ricca’s body. Suppressing a shudder, she turned her gaze toward Serena and tried to pull herself back to the meeting. Focusing on Beckett when she was supposed to be listening to her boss was self-destructive.
Somewhere in the distance, she heard Serena say, “The leads for our next Master Fantasy will be Angel Flannigan and Beckett Mills, if he ever shows up.”
Say, what the fuck? Angel was getting this client?
Ricca sat bolt upright and sputtered around her sip of latte. She darted a glance around the conference room, hoping no one had noticed she’d been daydreaming. As it was, she’d only heard snippets of what Serena had been saying. Something along the lines of “New Fantasy client…out of the box thinking…important to the agency…very wealthy and high end…fun…” Ricca had been angling to be lead on a Master Fantasy for over a year. Master Fantasies were the big-ticket clients, who were willing to spend fifty thousand or more. It looked great on the resume, and it was a chance to really spread her wings so she could finally stop doing sweet sixteen parties.
Ricca blinked, stupefied. This was supposed to be her fantasy. Angel didn’t even have any planning experience. She was on the fantasy acting side. She played the part for guys who wanted a fantasy Vegas weekend. She was the arm candy travel partner for old rich guys who were socially awkward. She was a junior planner—how the hell had she gotten this gig?
Ricca gnashed her teeth together. Busting out with “That heifer can’t plan her way around Neiman’s” would not help her get the job. Her only option was to speak to Serena after the meeting. Bratty antics would get her nowhere.
Serena went on as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Angel, you get to select your team, but Ricca will work with you. She has the experience you’ll need for the romance fantasies.”
Screw professionalism, Ricca itched to throw her cupcake at her boss.
“I expect you two to knock this one out of the water, or whatever the saying is.” Serena’s eastern European accent was so minimal it was barely noticeable most of the time, until she said something she was unsure of.
Ricca rolled her lips inward to moisten them. She glanced around the room, only letting her eyes rest on Angel for a split second before moving on. “I’m not sure I’m right for this fantasy. Angel should be able to pick her team, it’s only fair.” Read, no way you can take my Master Fantasy, give it to that self-serving bi—erm, ex-model, and expect me to play ball. She prayed Serena would buy that and not give her a public flogging.
“What’s the matter, Ricca, you afraid I’ll outshine you?” Angel’s voce was smooth with just a hint of sarcasm.
Serena was quick to cut off their jibes. “That’s enough, you two. These clients are not only important to the business, but they are personal friends of Zachery’s and mine. I expect these fantasies to be flawless.”
And just like that, Ricca was working for the enemy.
****
Shit. Late again. Beckett grabbed his gym bag and hustled to work. Even though he'd be making it by the skin of his teeth, he still went the long route so he could check on the renovation progress of the dilapidated building he’d bought with his brother, Braedon. There, on the corner of 13th and J street, was the old gym, Swim on J. Years ago it had been a boxing gym. Back when downtown San Diego had been a red light district, some great boxers had come here to train. But the building had stood empty for almost twelve years. Everything on the inside and the outside of the exposed brick was getting a face-lift. Just like he’d planned.
He and his brother Braedon had taken on the job with their mother. As a former swim coach, she’d been passionate about giving at-risk kids an outlet through sports and competition. She’d gone over every plan and blueprint for the place. But then she’d died. He and Braedon had taken over the job, but for two years they’d struggled to really do it justice. To cut costs, they’d opted to do much of the work themselves. When she’d died, she’d left money in a trust for both of them to continue, but with a few legal snafus, Beckett’s half of the trust was tied up with his father. It didn’t matter though. Come hell or high-water, they were getting this building done. He’d promised her.
Hustling through the building, Beckett did a mental scan, making note of any subtle changes. He wanted to make sure no homeless people had moved in and could claim squatter’s rights. Braedon had clearly been here over the holiday—the lockers in the men’s locker room were halfway mounted.
Beckett couldn't help the giddy excitement about the building. Ever since his mother had told him and his brother about her plans for it, he'd been dying to get started.
But then she'd passed away, and instead of building the project together, he and Braedon were on their own. But Beckett had made her a promise to build this place and he’d see it through no matter what it took.
He hustled down Island St. and made his way to the Fifth Avenue building where Fantasies, Inc. resided. As he rounded the corner, he did a run-by on the local coffee stand and smiled as he saw the barista finishing up his usual order. One latté, extra whipped cream, and one black coffee.
“Thanks, Helen." He flashed her a smile.
She grinned at him good-naturedly. "One of these days, you're going to buy me coffee, you hear?"
"Anytime. Just as soon as you leave your husband." He grinned and headed into Fantasies' building. The twelve-story building had once been a historical San Diego hotel. The developer who bought it had renovated it to make it more hospitable for businesses and added modern touches like the uber-modern lobby, but the outside exterior had that old time Spanish architecture and feel. Some of the offices were structured like hotel rooms and were connected by interior doors.
And for Beckett, if it wasn’t the waves, it was the indoor pool constantly distracting him. He'd long since hung up the mantle of Olympic hope
ful, but a small part of his subconscious mind held on to the dream. It didn’t matter that he was almost thirty. He still trained as if the opportunity might present.
He didn’t bother with the elevator. Instead, he took the stairs two at a time and headed straight to the conference room. Zach's wife and business partner, Serena Witt, wouldn’t appreciate his tardiness, but then again, she never did. But she started the meetings at 9:15am on the dot to accommodate for her husband. Serena would have preferred to have the meeting at 9. Her eastern European sensibilities caused her to frown every time she saw Beckett squeak in just in time for the meeting. Today, he checked his watch as he eased down into the only available seat and handed the black coffee to his left. Nine thirty. Really late.
He didn’t dare slide a glance in Ricca’s direction. If he acted normally, things would just fall in line, right? A week was the longest they’d gone without talking. Or texting. He had to fix the awkwardness before it ruined their friendship.
“Nice of you to join us, Beckett.” Serena rolled her eyes.
He smirked. “Sorry.”
I never should have kissed her.
Beckett willed his eyes not to look in Ricca’s direction. Begged them even. But they were in no mood to cooperate. The moment he caught sight of her shifting in her seat and the way her thick wavy hair strained against the bobby-pinned bun she always wore, he squeezed his eyes shut to clear the imagery. Bad idea. Immediately, his brain transported him to that moment under the mistletoe when he’d gone back for that second kiss. He’d made that one choice unconsciously, grabbing her ass and hauling her against him, devouring her lips like a starving man.