by Blue Saffire
She nods, giving me a sigh that’s half forlorn, half rapturous. Hearing it makes me smile. “And Twinkies. And frozen burritos. If it comes pre-packaged and contains enough preservatives to build a murder defense around, it’s probably in my kitchen.”
“And that’s a problem because...”
“Because—” She stops herself. I can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. Whatever she says next, that’s the real secret. That’s the thing she’s never shared. The thing I want to know. “Because I want to own my own restaurant someday.”
“And?” I laugh.
“And who’s going to reserve a table at a restaurant, a year in advance, with pizza rolls and Twinkies on their menu?”
I think she’s joking. I hope she’s joking, because I laugh even harder. “Are you laughing at me?” she says, eyes narrowed slightly.
I lift my head off the pillow and look at her. She’s glaring at me but her mouth is held in a barely suppressed smile. “No,” I say shaking my head. “I would never.”
“Good,” she says in a prim tone that reminds me of the way she crossed her legs at the ankle while she was sitting alone at Level earlier tonight. “Because I’m baring my soul here.”
“Your soul made of pizza rolls?”
“Asshole,” she says, laughing as she rears up to poke me in the ribs, giving me a perfect view of her full, soft breasts. Her dusky pink nipples. The shadowy cleft between her thighs. The way her long tumble of dark hair frames her perfectly. Having her in bed with me, I’ve been hard for hours now but catching a glimpse of her naked, makes me ache.
“Guilty,” I say, reaching up to capture one of her breasts, holding it in my hand, skimming her nipple with the pad of my thumb, loving the way it tightens and swells at my touch. “I’m not a nice man, Argenta.” I say it softly, not wanting her to hear me but needing to say it anyway. Needing to warn her. “I don’t know what this is—what tonight is all about—but this isn’t me. I’m not this guy. I’m not—”
“Shhh...” Kneeling over me she leans in to press her mouth against mine. “Whatever it is, don’t spoil it,” she says as her hand travels down the length of my torso, pushing past the sheets pooled at my waist to wrap around my cock.
I press into her grip when she starts to move her hand along the length of my shaft, my own hand following suit, moving lower until my fingertips brush against the top of her cleft. I look up at her, fingers teasing her, urging her to let me inside. Levering herself up on to her knees, she pushes them apart, opening herself up to me.
My way eased by her arousal, I push myself deep inside her with a groan, penetrating her with my fingers. “Christ, you’re wet.” I stroke her, over and over, gathering her honey, slicking it over her most sensitive spot until she’s moaning and writhing against my hand, her own pumping up and down the desperate length of me, matching the rhythm I’ve set between her thighs.
I can feel it building for us both. We’re going to come this way, together. But I want more.
Need more.
One moment, she’s kneeling beside me, riding the strokes and thrusts of my fingers inside her and the next, she’s under me, thighs spread wide by the press of my hips against hers, the blunt head of my bare cock pushing at the center of her.
“Argenta.” I say her name, softly and only once. I’m not sure if I’m begging for permission or urging her to stop me. She’s looking up at me, her dark hair a wild tangle beneath her, eyes wide and nearly black with desire.
I feel her hands slip down my shoulders, coasting along the length of my spine, lower and lower until her fingers stroke over the cheeks of my ass before digging in, urging me to take her. “Yes,” she moans, her knees coming up, tilting her pelvis toward me, offering herself to me, stroking the head of my shaft with her throbbing, wet core. “Please, Tobias.”
And then I’m inside her, the hot, silky feel of her wrapped around me, so much better than I imagined.
11
Boston, Massachusetts
“Noah.” I sigh, leaning my head against the locked bathroom door. “Please let me in.”
“No, thank you.”
I close my eyes and pray for patience.
I do it at least a hundred times a day.
“Noah James Fiorella—” I put on my mom voice, hating the way it makes me sound. “Open this door right now or I’ll—” My mom tone is cut off by the sound of a flushing toilet and the sudden rush of water. Defeated, I step away from the door and wait for it to open.
When it does I wrangle my face, pushing it into a frown and aim it downward. “You know better than to lock the door.”
Noah just shrugs, looking up at me. “You know better than to walk into an occupied bathroom, but you still do it.”
He’s four.
I am in so much trouble.
“It’s my bathroom,” I tell him, even as I remind myself not to get pulled into another debate with him. He loves to argue.
He’s so totally my kid.
“Aunt Lilah’s in mine,” he says, skirting around me on his way to the kitchen. “Can I have a Poptart for breakfast?”
I follow him down the short hallway. “No.” Guilt lifts my hand to my mouth so I can brush away any residual crumbs. “They’re not good for you.”
He looks at me as he climbs onto his stool at the breakfast bar, giving me a wry smile that lances straight through my gut. Causes my heart to twist in my chest like its being wrung dry.
He looks just like his father when he smiles like that.
“Then why do you buy them?”
Because I’m a junk food junkie.
Throwing a quick glance at the clock I see that, despite everything, we’re running ahead of schedule. “How about I make you some waffles,” I offer, ignoring his question completely.
“With peaches and whipped cream?”
“Strawberries,” I counter, taking mental stock of our refrigerator.
“Can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “Aunt Lilah ate ‘em when she came home last night.”
Son of a bitch.
I don’t ask him how he knows. Mainly because I don’t want to know what he may have bared witness to. When it comes to my sister’s behavior, ignorance is definitely bliss. “Did she eat the blueberries too?”
Noah shakes his head. “She didn’t get the chance. She started throwing up right after the strawberries.”
So much for ignorance.
On cue, retching sounds erupt from the guest bath down the hall.
“Okay, waffles and blueberries, then,” I say, pulling waffle mix from the cabinet while ignoring the sounds of my sister’s liver trying to make a break for it.
“Compote?”
“Noah.”
“What?” His gray eyes go wide beneath his mop of dark hair. “Like it’s hard to make?”
He may be my kid but he’s my father’s protégé.
“Okay,” I say, pulling out a saucepan because he’s right. “Waffles with whipped cream and blueberry compote.”
Noah wrinkles his nose and shrugs. “Rather have a Poptart.”
Yup. My kid. Straight to the bone.
Before I can break out my mom voice again, the toilet flushes down the hall. Seconds later, the door opens and Delilah emerges, weaving her way through the living room. She’s still drunk. Fantastic.
“What’s for breakfast?” she says, sliding onto the stool next to Noah.
“Not Poptarts,” Noah says, studying her. “You look bad.”
Delilah shoves her mass of blonde hair out of her face to reveal raccoon eyes and what Noah lovingly refers to as clown mouth. “Yeah?” She narrows her eyes at him. “Well, you smell bad.”
“Not as bad as you,” he tells her, leaning in to take a whiff. He jerks back, his face scrunched up in four-year-old disgust “You smell like you slept behind the dumpster at grandpa’s restaurant.”
She swivels in her stool, almost falling off. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?” She lo
oks at me, holding onto the breakfast bar in an attempt to keep herself upright.
I look at Noah and sigh. “Apologize to your aunt.”
“But it’s true.” He goggles his eyes at me. “She smells like old fish and throw-up.”
“Noah James.”
He scowls at me before turning in his seat to face her. “I’m sorry you smell like old fish and throw-up, Aunt Lilah.”
I’m not going to laugh.
I’m not.
“That’s enough. Go get ready for school.” I manage to get it out without cracking up.
“But—”
“Now.”
Shooting Delilah a dirty look, he jumps down from his stool and stomps his way down the hall. As soon as he’s gone, I turn toward my sister.
“He’s only four,” I remind her, abandoning my waffle plans. Instead, I pull a banana from the bunch on the counter and slap it down in front of her.
“Are you sure?” she says, looking at the banana just long enough to turn green. “Because he’s the crankiest old man I’ve ever met in my life.”
I open the fridge and pull out the chocolate milk “I’d be cranky to if I woke up to my favorite aunt, throwing up all over my bathroom.” I get a glass and start pouring.
“I’m not his favorite aunt anymore—Sophie is.” She curls her lip. I’m not sure if it’s the chocolate milk or the mention of our sister that does it. I set it down in front of her, next to the banana. She promptly pushes it aside. “He told me so last night.”
I turn toward the cabinet above sink and retrieve the bottle of ibuprofen. I shake two from the bottle before replacing it. “While you were hosing down his bathroom in old fish and strawberries?” I laugh at her, rattling the pills in my hand, gesturing for her to hold out hers.
“I didn’t hose anything down.” She cups her hand and I dump the pills into her palm. “I’m not an amateur,” she mutters, tossing the tablets into her mouth.
“No...” I sigh, finally letting my worry bleed into my tone. “You’re my sister. Noah’s god-mother. And I don’t like seeing you this way. I don’t like him seeing you this way.” I pick up the chocolate milk and press the glass into her empty hand. “Drink it.”
Ibuprofen. Chocolate milk. Banana.
The Silver Fiorella hang-over cure.
I’ve administered it to her too many times for my liking.
“You’re no fun anymore,” she chides me around her mouthful of pills.
“According to you I was never fun.” I make an impatient gesture with my hand. “Drink.”
Delilah sighs, tipping the glass to her mouth. Once she starts, she doesn’t stop until it’s drained. Setting it down she glowers at me while swiping the back of her forearm across her mouth, smearing chocolate milk and red lipstick all over her face. “There. Satisfied?”
“Not until you eat the banana.” I wait for her to peel it and take a bite before I come out from behind the counter. “After that, two glasses of water and—”
“A cold shower.” She grins at me, purposely pushing mashed banana through her teeth.
“You’re disgusting.” I shake my head at her. “I should take pictures of you and sell them to the tabloids—Hotel Heiress Delilah Fiorella—The Morning After.”
Swallowing the mouthful of banana she just shrugs. “You wouldn’t get more than fifty bucks for them—this is pretty tame compared to my usual shtick.”
But I know that’s why she’s here. Why she showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night instead of her standing suite at the Hawthorne. Because she doesn’t want anyone to see her this way. Because she’s ashamed of herself, even if she won’t admit it. It hurts my heart.
“Lil—”
“Want me to take Benjamin Buttons to school for you?” She sounds almost hopeful. Like she wants to be useful. Responsible for something.
But it’s Noah and I can’t risk it. “No,” I shake my head, tempering my refusal. “I’m going to take him. I have to get to the restaurant early today—we’re receiving a shipment of Langoustine and the last time I let Jean Luc sign—”
She waves her hand at me and rolls her eyes. “Got it.” She shoves the rest of her banana into her mouth and chews, mumbling something around it that sounds like, Better hurry. Don’t want to disappoint Dad.
I scowl at her for a moment, ugliness flaring in my chest.
No, that’s your job.
As soon as I think it, I put it away.
It’s not my fault. But it’s not her fault either.
“If I text you a list, think you can go to the market for me?” I ask, wanting to trust her with something. Wanting her to feel useful.
She nods, sullen. “Sure.”
She’ll probably just call and have them delivered but that’s okay. Delilah picking up a phone for something other than Instagram or Twitter is the same as graduating from Harvard as far as I’m concerned.
I’ll take it.
“Great.” I head down the hall to finish getting ready for work. “Noah,” I shout as I go. “Meet me at the door in ten minutes.”
He doesn’t answer but I know he heard me because when I emerge from my room twelve minutes later, he’s standing at the front door in his favorite Chewbacca T-shirt, his backpack already on his shoulders. He’s tapping his toe and looking at an imaginary watch on his wrist.
Did I mention he’s only four?
When I get there, he shoots a glare into the living room where Delilah is sprawled out on the couch, watching TMZ. “I didn’t get breakfast.” He says it loudly. “And my bathroom smells like a bait shop.”
“How would you know,” Delilah calls from her spot on the couch. “You’ve never even been fishing.”
He opens his mouth to say God only knows what. Thinking fast, I reach into my bag and pull out a shiny Mylar package and hold it out to him.
His eyes light up and he reaches for it, but I shake my head, jabbing a pointed look in my sister’s direction.
“I love you Aunt Lilah,” he says and I know he actually means it, even if he’s as frustrated with her as I am.
Mouthing thank you, I hand him the package.
My last strawberry Poptart.
12
Tobias
“What’s this guy’s name again?” I say, flipping through the stack of papers in my lap, trying to find the name of the potential business partner I’m meeting for lunch.
“Fiorella,” Angus prompts me from the front seat of the Mercedes-Maybach S600 he’s piloting through downtown Boston. “Davino Fiorella.”
“Right. The chef.” Not my usual flavor when it comes to business partners. Chefs tend to be temperamental. Unreliable. This meeting is more a favor to my brother, Logan, than anything else really. A friend of a friend and all that. “Give me thirty minutes and then pull me out of there,” I say, reaching for the door latch when he stops the car, in front of a swanky-looking restaurant.
“You touch that door and I’ll break your hand,” Angus says in a conversational tone. “Sir.”
“Bring it, old man,” I snap back. Old isn’t exactly accurate. I’m not sure how old Angus is but he’s well under fifty which makes him about ten years older than me. “I’m not afraid of you.” But I stall my hand and wait for him to exit the driver’s side door and circle the front of the car. Not out of fear but because if I open my own door it will upset him. Angus takes his job very seriously.
A few moments later, he’s opening my door with a small flourish. “That’s not what you were saying this morning when you were crying for your mama.” We spent forty-five minutes sparring this morning that ended with me on my back and with a shoulder that had to be snapped back into place.
“Fuck off,” I laugh, buttoning my suit jacket. “I let you win.”
“Of, course, sir.” Angus’s British butler mask slides into place. Once that happens, he’s like one of those ridiculous-looking guards at Buckingham Palace. Completely unshakable. He hands me my briefcase. “Shall I park?”
<
br /> “No. Stay here.” I give the restaurant behind him a long look. They’re not open yet so they’re valet service isn’t running. “And thirty minutes. Don’t leave me in there to rot. I’ve got the plane waiting and I still want to see Logan before I head back to New York. I’ve got that dinner meeting at eight.” Jase and I have been working for a nearly a year on an energy deal that, if all goes according to plan, will result in a government contract worth a several billion dollars and tonight’s dinner is the culmination of our efforts.
“Very good, sir.” He bows his head slightly, making an ushering gesture with his hand. His way of telling me he’s had enough of my micro-managing bullshit. “Enjoy your lunch.”
The car door shuts behind me as I make my way into the restaurant. The transfer from light to dark momentarily blinds me and I stop just inside the doorway, allowing my sight time to adjust.
“Mr. Bright?”
I hear my name and turn to find a guy standing a few feet away. Dark hair. Clear green eyes. An inch or two taller than me. A few years younger. The kind of face that looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. Blueprint tube tucked under his arm. I recognize him instantly. Logan’s friend and boss, Patrick Gilroy. The boy scout.
“Call me Tobias,” I say extending my hand and he takes it, shakes it firmly while looking me in the eye. “You must be the architect.” I try to sound interested and not at all like I made up my mind before I boarded my plane this morning that investing in Chef Fiorella’s New York restaurant would be a mistake.
“I am.” He flashes me a dimpled grin while re-claiming his hand “Patrick Gilroy,” he says. “Thank you for meeting with us today.” He makes a gesture with his hand, inviting me to proceed him. “I know that doing so is more of a favor to Logan than anything else, but I hope Davey and I will be able to convince you that investing in his New York property will be worth your while.”
Balls. This guy has balls. Not many people would call direct attention to the fact that the billionaire investor they’re trying to court isn’t really interested in the venture they’re proposing. I like him instantly.