by Julia Kent
Thank You For Holding
On Hold Series Book #2
Julia Kent
Elisa Reed
Prosaic Press, Inc.
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Thank You For Holding
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About Julia Kent
About Elisa Reed
Copyright © 2017 by Julia Kent and Elisa Reed
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
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Learn more about Julia Kent and join her newsletter at http://jkentauthor.com
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Learn more about Elisa Reed at http://www.facebook.com/elisareedauthor
To Elisa, who has made writing this series so much fun.
To Clark, who continues to be my own personal Superman with a lovely geek streak.
— JK
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For the beloved friends who spend so many hours on the phone with me... definitely including Julia!
—ER
Thank You For Holding
Having it all is a fantasy, right?
Carrie Shelton thought her boyfriend was too good to be true. Her best friend's brother? A guy who loved antiquing? Who cuddled on the couch while watching foodie YouTube clips and talking about artisanal spices? Who helped her accessorize her outfits?
Right.
Fantasy.
So when he ran off with Kevin, the owner of an antique shop, right before his sister’s wedding, Carrie’s life went from fantasy to nightmare.
As maid of honor, she can’t back out of the wedding. And her ex is the best man - but now he has his own best man.
She needs a date. Stat.
Enter Ryan. Sure, he’s a hot male stripper at the O Spa where she works as junior designer, but he’s a few years younger and just, you know -- a friend.
Perfect. She needs a friend more than she needs a boyfriend.
A weekend of playing her boyfriend so she can save face is a lot to ask, but for some reason Carrie doesn't understand, Ryan's all in. Enthusiastic, even.
Especially when it comes to physical displays of affection.
Public kisses turn to private confessions, and pretty soon, Carrie can't tell the difference between fantasy and reality.
Because if Ryan's just pretending he's in love with her, then why does the chemistry between them -- and between the sheets -- feel so real?
Carrie can't settle for almost, though. She's already done that. She's not putting her life on hold anymore.
Turns out Ryan won't, either.
He's holding out for more.
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Thank You For Holding is a STANDALONE in the On Hold series. You do not need to have read book 1 in the series, but after reading about Carrie and Ryan’s friends-to-lovers adventure, you’ll want to. ;)
Chapter 1
CARRIE
I swear to you, when I get married, I am NOT going to make my bridesmaids pay $250 for a dress. A hideous dress that makes them look like a) a grandmother; b) an elephant; or, in extreme cases, c) a grandmother elephant.
I'm not.
Just because it comes from J. Crew Weddings does not mean you can actually wear it again in real life. Trust me on this.
Also, I'm not making them fly to Las Vegas or Cancun and pay thousands of dollars to stay at a resort for three days just so I can post pictures on Facebook and Instagram of them toasting me by the pool. With fourteen-dollar cocktails. And a stupid caption, like, "What would I do without my besties?"
I am not doing this.
And yes, I know, they all said that, too. Before.
Perfectly reasonable women get engaged and apparently their memory banks are instantly wiped clean. Common sense, too.
They forget their college roommate's wedding, when — due to an unfortunate YouTube sensation — they were required to dance (dance!) down the aisle in a $300 sequin minidress (with coordinating sheer organza coat for modesty in church, $95).
They suddenly do not recall their cousin's sweet country theme, with the daisies and the barbeque and the IPA beer, and the $175 lavender flowered cotton maxidress with puff sleeves that went with it. Just try wearing that one to a future cocktail party. I dare you.
In my darker moments, I suspect there may be a kind of payback factor at work here.
Anyway, there's a reason it's called the wedding-industrial complex. And that's not the end! Then there are the baby showers.
Don't get me wrong. I love my friends dearly. I really don't know what I would do without them. I want their special day to be a treasured memory of perfect happiness, rare and well-deserved, documented in photographs. Their joy is my joy.
But my pain is apparently not their pain.
Let's look at the plus side.
I'm going to be the maid of honor in my friend Jenny's wedding. You probably saw that coming. I met Jenny at work here at the O Spa, the women’s private club chain where I am the Assistant Director for Design. O Spas are the “fourth space” for women. Home, work, and other public venues are the first three.
We are meant to be the ultimate space. From highly-trained, well-oiled, hot massage therapists who wear g-strings that are outlawed in 111 countries, to a sex toy boutique with weekly workshops, to a new coffee bar with lattes that are better than sex, the O Spa caters to what women want.
A break, a chance, and a friend.
Jenny loved working for O, but she moved on a year ago, a promotion she could only get by changing companies. We were never just work friends. We're true best friends, and besides that, we could be sisters-in-law someday. I'm dating her brother, Jamey.
Who is standing in front of my desk right now, telling me about the tickets he just scored to Straight No Chaser at the Wang Center in November. We love a cappella.
"Fifth row, Carrie! And it'll be near the holidays, so maybe they'll do songs from their Christmas album!" His dark, wavy hair falls over his forehead in a boyish little curl. His eyebrows are perfectly arched. He gets them threaded more often than I do. His narrow chinos are rolled at the cuff, exposing his bare ankles in brown loafers. And is that my cotton scarf knotted around his neck?
I smile at him. Jamey is a great boyfriend because he always wants to do fun and unusual things. Has ever since we began dating two years ago. Our friends rely on Jamey to keep them current. When Steve Martin curated the Lawren Harris show at the MFA, we were the first people in the door. When Juliet opened in Union Square, we were tasting the tasting menu before anyone else had tasted it.
You can see why a lavender flowered cotton dress — with puffed sleeves — is of no use to me.
“We can go back to my place after the concert and I’ll make cocoa. Bet you’d enjoy something sweet and hot,” I say with a flirtatious grin. I give him what I hope is a smoldering look. He’s holding my hand and his eyes widen in mock excitement, then he looks away.
And he loves me. What kind of guy stops by his girlfriend’s work with Grind It Fresh! cinnamon lattes after finishing his Crossfit routine?
Jamey would fit in so well here at O.
A little too well. Looks like he’s thinking about moonlighting here, judging from the way he’s tracking Zeke, one of the master masseurs.
“Hey,” Zeke grunts, his English accent somehow coming out even in a single-syllable sound.
Jamey doesn’t say a word. He just keeps staring at Zeke, whose face hardens. His eyes dart to me, as if he’s asking What the fuck?
I shrug. “Like what you see?” I whisper in Jamey’s ear.
He jumps so high he nearly knocks my latte out of my hand. I recover quickly. Can’t waste a Grind It Fresh! latte. But a few drops spill down the edge of my skirt.
“Whoops!” he shouts, a little too brightly. “So sorry, angel.” His hug is swift and sweaty, his scent clinging, skin clammy and hot at the same time. Jamey is so affectionate. Always ready with a snuggle or a hug, a hand to hold while we go shopping.
Who needs lots of sex when you have a boyfriend who is practically a professional cuddler?
Not that we don’t have sex. I mean, you know. We do. I’ll bet we have as much sex as any other couple. Or most couples.
I guess.
Just… I am so fortunate to have a man who appreciates affection.
I take a sip of my drink. Now we both track Zeke’s ass as he turns to the left at the end of the hallway.
“You would look great in that uniform,” I tease Jamey.
He flushes, eyelashes fluttering. “What?” He clears his throat. “Why would you say that?” The judgmental tone is harsh, different from anything I’ve heard from him before.
I flinch. “I just meant, um… the way you were looking at his uniform, I thought…”
“You thought what?” He looks wounded.
Oh, God. I’ve offended him. I have to fix this. “Oh, I just meant, you know, that if you’re thinking about getting a part-time job like Zeke’s, you’d be fabulous here.”
His eyebrow quirks. “Fabulous? I’m an associate professor of rhetoric and composition at an R-1 institution. I don’t need a part-time job.” His eyes go a bit dull.
Just then, one of the other master masseurs, Ryan, walks by. He’s coming in to start his shift so he’s fully clothed in faded jeans, flip-flops, and a ragged, tight t-shirt that shows off muscles on top of muscles. Ryan is my best friend here at the O Spa. We started on the same day, two years ago, so we bonded. We’ve been buddies ever since.
Jamey gives him a nervous glance. I think he’s jealous of Ryan. How sweet is that? Look at the way Jamey combs over Ryan’s muscular body… or maybe he’s thinking about getting a tattoo? Ryan’s arms are sleeved with complex geometric shapes. Jamey’s pupils dilate and it’s so obvious.
He’s thinking about working here.
"I'll see you tonight, beautiful. I'll bring Thai,” Jamey says, breathless, a genuine smile in his eyes. “Don't want you slaving over a hot stove when you could be rubbing my feet on the sofa."
Ryan gives him a weird frown, eyes doing that wide and narrow combination where you’re not sure what the person is thinking, but it isn’t good. He disappears down the hall to the men’s locker room for staff.
Jamey kisses me on both cheeks. So European. Then, without even looking at me, he disappears in the same direction as Zeke.
I love Jamey. Did I say that already?
RYAN
I fucking hate Jamey.
I tolerate him because Carrie thinks he hung the moon. When your friend is too clueless to realize she’s dating the wrong guy, there’s only one way to handle it.
Shut your mouth.
I scramble out of my street clothes and into my thong, moving quickly. Can’t have waistband lines marking my body. We show up a little early to get in uniform and adjust to the spa’s atmosphere. Women pay us a lot of money to be their oasis.
No man is an island, but for an hour or two, we can be a peninsula of pleasure.
“You rocked the Captain America costume yesterday,” Carrie says, her troubled look fading as she turns her attention away from the disappeared Jamey. She happens to stare down the hallway as I walk toward her. Now I’ve got her full attention.
Which is how I like it.
“Thanks, but we’re back to the standard uniform. In keeping with our new goal of remaining culturally relevant, the next costume is Dr. Strange.” Her eyes creep over me, my blood’s pace picking up. When Jamey gave me the once-over, it made my stomach clench.
When Carrie does it, other parts tighten.
“I wear more than that when I get a Pap smear, Ryan,” she says with a smirk. A vision of Carrie naked, honey-colored hair fanned out behind her and over the edge of an exam table in a doctor’s office with her shapely legs in stirrups flashes through my mind and oh, shit.
“How’s Jamey doing?” I ask. I don’t give a rat’s ass about him. Talking about anything that will deflate my ever-growing boner is my goal. Think about Donald Trump. Hillary Clinton. Betty White. Jamey.
Perfect. Deflation sequence activated.
“Jamey is so sweet!” Carrie gets that weird look again. Her eyes fill with a mild form of panic, which fades quickly, leaving her chewing on a pen cap. “He got us tickets for a holiday concert and just stopped by with my favorite coffee.”
“Nice. But every guy should do that for the person they’re dating.”
“Really?” She looks so surprised. I hate that she looks so surprised.
“It’s pretty basic Dating 101 stuff, Carrie.”
“Like you know anything about dating,” she lobs back at me. “You haven’t had a girlfriend since I met you.” She walks into her cubicle and nods for me to follow.
My heart just got decimated by a SCUD missile. I can’t look at her. I follow, then pick up one of the metal balls on her Newton’s Cradle and let it clack against the others. The force shoves the ball on the other end to strike out in an arc.
“Well, you know…”
She snorts. “Yeah, I know. Why settle for one woman when you can have a taste of so many?”
I’m not sure when she got the idea that I’m some kind of playboy Casanova manwhore. That’s Zeke. But no matter what I tell her, she doesn’t believe me.
“Right.” Our eyes meet and I can’t breathe. You spend years pretending and hiding your feelings and when those little slivers, fractions of time that don’t show up on a clock, protrude through your facade, you take them as they are.
Real, raw, and so hard.
But so good.
Her expression is serious. The world telescopes. Maybe now is the time. I swallow, my throat dry, and open my mouth as she keeps the gaze.
And then — smack!
A loud crack of a palm against ass cheek ruins the moment.
“You been upping the protein and dropping the carbs?” Zeke asks, butting in. He appraises me like I’m running for Mr. Universe, running his hand up and down my torso, counting my eight-pack. He mouths the numbers.
“You’re more cut than usual,” he adds. A smirk tickles his cocky English face as he widens his eyes, then gives Carrie a meaningful look. “What do you think, Carrie? Ryan’s looking damn good.” He turns me like I’m a piece of meat being inspected.
I fucking hate Zeke, too.
But Carrie, in that moment, does what people pleasers do. She follows his order, her inventory of my body starting with my feet. I can feel her attention, like a lingering touch, a visual caress that makes the hair on my body start to rally. Not quite gooseflesh, but damn close.
She passes up over my calves, across the knees, hesitating on my thighs, which are tight as I remind myself to unlock my knees. I have to control my breathing. Zeke crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorjamb. He’s wearing the same damn shoestring costume I’m wearing as we start our shift, so it’s not like I’m special here at th
e O Spa.
Carrie, though, makes me feel damn special as her look moves on to my package. I’m frantically trying to think about anything but how erotic this is.
Aside from Zeke, of course.
And then Carrie walks toward me.
Think about dead bodies. Rotting carcasses. Dead possum by the side of the road. Jabba the Hut having sex. Jamey having sex — wait, no, because then I have to think about Carrie having sex with that asshole, and I’ll get an angry boner.
Which is worse than a regular boner.
“ZEKE!” Henry Holliday, our master massage therapist and unofficial leader of all the male attendants here at O, calls for him. Peeling off, Zeke leaves me alone with Carrie, whose eyes have narrowed, head tilted, that long hair brushing her shoulder right in that spot I’ve fantasized about kissing a thousand times before.
“You look good, Ryan,” she says to my abs as Zeke walks away.
“Thank you. It’s that all-coconut-oil diet,” I joke.
She won’t make eye contact, but her chest rises and falls a little faster, a light pink dotting the creamy flesh her open shirt displays. Her eyes dart around the hallway, trying desperately to look at anything but me.
Any other woman and I’d go in for the kill. I’d assume she’s aroused and this is the perfect time to make a move. But if I’m wrong...
I freeze, my body ninety-five percent naked and my heart one hundred percent on the line.
She finally gives me a fuzzy smile, like she’s trying to pack a thousand emotions underneath the one casual, bland grin that covers everything.
“You’ll make a great Dr. Strange.” And then she turns away and hurries off with a hand wave.
I slump against the wall and slowly bang the back of my head against it, like a heartbeat.
Chapter 2