Man Candy

by Lila Monroe

  And then Nick just took the files, thanked me, and disappeared off to some stuffy men-only club to drink scotch and celebrate the patriarchy, or whatever it is guys do in a place like that.

  So, another day playing tourist then.

  Not that I can complain. I wanted to travel, and here I am: free to explore the city on someone else’s (very generous) dime. So, I strap on my comfy espadrille wedges, pack my phone and notebook, and take the elevator down to the lobby. Nick said to call the car service if I need to go anywhere, but I’m a New Yorker and I love to walk.

  I step out outside and find it’s another bright, summer day. I think about heading to Fisherman’s Wharf, or maybe the Chinese Gardens, but instead, I find myself heading towards the financial district. I tell myself it’s because Little Italy and Chinatown are further up the hill, but who am I kidding? The bright-pink CandyShack sign comes into view, adorning their massive flagship store—with the company housed in the office building above.

  I’m just turning the corner, when I hear someone yelling my name.

  “Alice? Alice! AAAALLLIIIIICE!”

  I look around. Across the street, Tiffany, my savior from the CandyShack party, is behind all the hollering. She is carrying a large box in her arms as she calls my name again.

  “Hiya!” She waves and starts toward me, a big smile on her face. I’m just crossing towards her when—almost in slow motion—her body jerks to a stop, and the box hurtles out of her hands and through the air.

  Right toward me.

  Finally, all those years of high school volleyball pay off. My quick reaction is to grab the box.

  Like a boss.

  If I had a free hand, I’d do a fist pump.

  “OHMIGOD!” Tiffany cries, as I reach her on the sidewalk. “YOU ARE THE FUCKING BEST.”

  I laugh.

  “That box is filled with a bunch of one-of-a-kind blown glass decorations I just picked up from the artist,” she explains. “You just saved like forty thousand dollars’ worth of Tiffany getting fired.”

  “Wow,” I blink.

  “Yeah, I know.” She makes a face. “If I had a spare forty K, I would not be spending them on baubles. I better get this back to the office.” She makes to move, then stops.

  “Oh shit,” she says. And then grunts.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “No!” Tiffany yelps. “My heel!”

  I follow her gaze down toward her feet. Actually, foot. It takes only a second to see the problem: she didn’t just trip, her heel is stuck in the grate.

  “Here!” I bend down and grab her ankle to steady her and then undo the straps to set her foot free. But the heel is really stuck. I wiggle it and wiggle it, exerting just the right amount of—

  The shoe gives way and I fall backwards onto my ass.

  Tiffany helps haul me to my feet. I hand her the shoe—now sporting a broken heel. “I have some glue in my purse that will fix this,” I suggest. “At least to get you through the day.”

  She does a double take. “Really? You carry glue around?”

  I laugh. “I’ve spent a lot of time in New York—grates everywhere. This has happened to me twice, actually.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, insurance Don maybe had a point.

  Tiffany looks at me in awe. Sort of like I’m Shoe Yoda. Then her face breaks into a grin and she nods toward the building. “Come on inside. Have you gotten a tour yet?”

  “No. But I’d love one!” I say, thanking the gods of sidewalk grates because I have just gotten a lead. A really, really good lead.

  Because, as an admin myself, I know for a fact there is no one closer to the CEO than their assistant.

  After we drop off the box of decorations, we head to the bathroom to fix Tiffany’s shoe. A little glue later, it’s set, and Tiffany whisks me into the flagship store.

  It is basically heaven on earth.

  This shop makes the Times Square location look like a subway ticket booth.

  And the smell? Nirvana. And I’m not talking the old grunge band. I’m talking warm, sweet, comforting, delicious. What I imagine getting a hug from the Easter Bunny would be like.

  “Oh God,” I sigh, drooling. “How do you work here and not weigh three thousand pounds?”

  Tiffany laughs as she leads me up to the counter. “You might be surprised to hear that you get used to it. The first few weeks are killer, I’ll admit. But now? Not so bad.” She slides her palms down her shapely but trim hips. “Anyway, I gotta stay in performance shape, if you know what I mean.” She winks at me. “Order whatever you like. It’s on the house.” She goes on to tell the woman behind the counter—whose name tag says Dani—all about how I came along at JUST THE RIGHT TIME. And how I saved her from CERTAIN DEATH earlier.

  The story is filled with extra details, subplots, villagers, and more drama than a shoe stuck in a grate should have. But Tiffany’s a natural storyteller and even I get caught up in her tale. Dani is enthralled, gasping and laughing at all the right times. Even when none of the story resembles actual events. It’s so ridiculous, such things wouldn’t even be possible if I were THE Alice and found myself in Wonderland.

  Are there sidewalk grates in Wonderland?

  Whatever. All that matters is my hero routine leads to me getting a salted caramel latté topped with a mountain of whipped cream and chocolate shavings. And here I thought it was too early in the morning for something really decadent.

  “You deserve it,” Tiffany insists.

  We sit at a table in the middle of the store and my eyes almost hurt from the colors and array of candy around me. It’s kind of mind-boggling, actually.

  Tiffany leans forward and licks the top of her own tower of whipped cream. Then she winks.

  “Almost as good as the real thing.”

  I snort, but am not touching that comment with a ten-foot barber pole. “So, what’s it like working here?” I ask instead.

  “It’s okay,” Tiffany says with a shrug. “Some good perks. Like, I never have to buy chocolates or candy for anyone anymore. Good benefits and insurance, too.”

  I nod. “That’s important. What’s Mr. Janssen like as a boss?”

  Like, I’m wondering if he’s honest. Not above stealing trade secrets? A ruthless cutthroat?

  She opens her mouth.

  Yes, spill! I want to say. Tell me everything!

  But she clamps her lips shut. Then she looks at me sideways, suddenly frowning. “Why do you want to know?”

  Uh-oh.

  I’m so busted. You are the worst spy ever, Alice!

  Nick is going to kill me.

  “I’m just wondering.” I say quickly. “He seemed like a nice man when I met him at the party. And my fiancé has been hanging out with him all week.”

  “Oh.” Tiffany seems to relax. “Yeah, he’s an OK boss. There’s way too much work though. The other assistant just quit, so I’m, like, run off my feet.”

  She slurps her drink, looking relaxed, like she has all the time in the world.

  Wait a minute . . .

  “So, you need another assistant?” I ask, perking up.

  She nods. “You know anyone?”

  “How about me?” The words leave my mouth before I can think about it, but once I’ve said it, I realize how perfect it would be. An all-access pass to the CEO’s office? I would find the evidence in no time!

  Tiffany pauses. “But why do you even need a job?” Her eyes drift to my engagement boulder. “Aren’t you engaged to that rich, Italian yacht guy?”

  Yes, Alice, aren’t you?

  “Yeah.” I think fast. “But he’s been dragging his ass on setting a date. He’s heading back to Salerno soon. But maybe I’ll stay here and work for a while. You know, to remind him I have options.”

  “Sneaky. I like it,” she says, holding her hand up for a high five. “The job doesn’t pay much.”

  I shrug. “I don’t need the money.”

  She laughs. “Of course you don’t.”
<
br />   “But will it mess you up if I don’t work here for very long?” I ask. “I mean, no offense, but if he wants to whisk me off to Florence to elope, I am so outta here.” I might be jeopardizing what she’s just handed me, but after what she’s done, I don’t want to totally screw her over.

  “Nah, s’all good,” she says, waving me off. “I mean, I’d rather have a hot guy under me, if you know what I mean. But you already saved my ass once today, so . . . The job is yours.”

  “Don’t I need an interview?”

  She shrugs. “Bertie trusts me.

  “Then I’m in!” I say, delighted.

  “Perfect,” she says. “Drink up and I’ll take you upstairs and we can get started on the paperwork. You can start tomorrow, right?”

  Tomorrow? Is she serious? She seems to be. But I don’t even flinch—my acting skills are definitely improving.

  “Of course I can!” I say with tons of enthusiasm.

  Though maybe that’s the sugar talking.

  11

  Nick

  Day drinking isn’t normally my thing, but meeting Jackson in this bar in the middle of the afternoon is less about drinking and more about the job.

  Not bothering with paper coasters, the unsmiling waitress puts the beers in front of Jackson and me. She’s thirty-something, world-toughened, and thick-skinned. Definitely not the type to flirt for tips. She also never takes any shit. I kind of love her for it.

  “Thanks, Deb,” I say, giving her a smile.

  Her name tag clearly reads Candace.

  “Fuck off, pretty boy,” she says with a grin—just like usual.

  “This place looks even shittier in the daylight,” Jackson says. He reaches for his beer.

  “Yeah, but the beer’s cold and we won’t be overheard,” I say. But he’s not wrong about this bar—it is a dive. And not a hipster-pretend-dive kind of way. This place is a legit shithole. There’s a trio of patched up bikers at the pool table in the back. A couple of self-medicating regulars sit at the bar, well out of earshot.

  Perfect for keeping things undercover.

  I take a drink. I wasn’t kidding about the beer being cold. It goes down good. I need it after the twenty-seven holes of golf I played with Janssen this morning. Not to mention the full round yesterday at Pebble Beach. It turns out, infiltrating this crowd is more like country club living, 24/7.

  Despite the dehydration, I should be loving my life right now.

  Should be.

  “What’s the frown for, sunshine?” Jackson smirks. “Too much living the high life got you down?”

  “Don’t bust my balls,” I say. “This case is killing me. But before I really start whining, show me what you got. Maybe my mood will improve.”

  Jackson’s face is blank as he slides his folder across the table toward me. His poker face is the stuff of legend. And I mean his actual poker face—bastard cleans up at his games. Lady luck and close-up cons are the only ways I can beat him. Good thing I like the guy.

  I open the folder and scan the phone records and the Janssens’ personal financials . . . and come up blank. “Seriously?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “Nothing?” I glance back down, eyes scanning the page, but no, I haven’t missed anything. “Absolutely nothing that ties them back to the traitor from Lainey’s company?”

  “I dug as deep as I could,” Jackson says. He’s a little defensive, but knows I trust him a thousand percent. My frustration is not personal. Maybe he prickles because he’s frustrated too. “You know as well as I do that it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. But, dude, I can only find so much. Especially if they’re being smart. If they’re using throwaway cell phones I may not ever know. If Janssen is laundering money for payoffs, we may never catch it. There’s a million ways he can cover his ass.”

  I know this. But it doesn’t make it easier to take. I thought this would be a quick, easy case, and instead, it’s getting dangerously complicated.

  “Or maybe it doesn’t originate with Janssen,” Jackson suggests. “Maybe it’s someone lower down the food chain. A member of the board with a lot of shares. A crooked COO?” He shakes his head. “Could be anyone.”

  “I know.” I sigh. “But there’s still usually something to grab onto.”

  “How about someone on the inside?” Jackson asks.

  I shake my head. “We don’t have time. We need to expose the theft soon—like, now. Lainey’s company is going to tank if CandyShack launches that bar. She’ll be finished.” I feel like I’m running out of options. I’m good, but Janssen’s proving to be better. I hate that, too.

  “At the very least, you’ll be able to console Lainey when this all goes down.”

  I look over. “What does that mean?”

  He gives me a smirk. “The fuck do you think it means, man? She’s hot. Those legs . . .” He whistles.

  I roll my eyes. “Not interested.”

  “Really?” Jackson is surprised. But he doesn’t know the history. Lainey’s a friend, sure. He’s not wrong about her being hot, either. In a perfect, untouchable model kind of way. “Because the last time you passed on a pretty woman was . . . never. You’ve never done that. What happened, she do a number on you?”

  “Nah, it wasn’t like that.” I take another drink. “We just weren’t a good mix. Had some fun, though . . .”

  Jackson drinks. Then he gets an “aha” look. “You’re into that woman.”

  “Which one?” I ask casually, even though I know exactly who he means. So does my cock as it gives a little twitch of acknowledgement. “Because there are always a few . . .”

  “Your fiancée?” Jackson says. “Remember her? The one you gave your grandmother’s ring?”

  “My pretend fiancée,” I say as I wave him off. “Who I hired for this job. And the only reason she’s got that ring is because I forgot to get a fake one before she got here. It was just sitting in the safe. She knows this isn’t real.”

  Jackson looks at me sideways. “Sleep with her yet?”

  I glare.

  “That’s not a no,” he says. Normally I like how smart he is. Until it’s used against me.

  “I. Have. Not. Slept. With. Her,” I say. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  He didn’t ask if I’ve thought about it. Because there isn’t much else I’ve thought of, especially after that night in Janssen’s office.

  God, that was fucking hot. Her body pressed tight against me, and that breathy moaning sound she made when I kissed her neck. Fuck, it took every last fiber of my normally steely will to stop.

  I so easily could have bent her over that desk and . . .

  Nope, not going there. Not even in my head and especially when I’m across the table from Jackson.

  I clear my throat. “It’s a professional relationship. You saw the contract I had to sign. The Agency would probably take my first-born if I broke any of their rules.” And I’m keeping as far away from her as I can. Hence sitting in a bar with you while she’s back in my condo.

  “Deny it all you want but I think you like this girl,” Jackson teases, sing-song.

  Fuck, he can be annoying. Like a bratty younger brother, even though he’s my age.

  “She’s working for me. And she’s a sweet girl.”

  “With a naughty streak, I bet.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Librarian by day, sex kitten by night.”

  “Enough,” I bark. I know he’s baiting me, but I’m not in the mood.

  “Don’t bust my balls.”

  “Don’t be such an ass.”

  He smirks, unconcerned. “I’ll keep looking, but I still think you need someone on the inside. Maybe Janssen’s secretary. She looks like she’d sing if properly motivated.”

  It’s not the worst idea. But I’ve found that someone who can be motivated to turn into an informant can just as easily be motivated to double-cross. That’s the last thing we need.

  “Fucking candy espionage.” I shake my head. “Did you ever think we
’d come to this?”

  Jackson clinks his bottle into mine. “Not in a million. But damn, it sure keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

  Several beers and four (five?) games of pool later, I head home . . . to Alice. Which probably isn’t a smart move… Hell, I’m a little buzzed, but I’m sure I can resist her.

  Fairly sure.

  Maybe 50 percent sure.

  Unless she’s wearing those bunny slippers.

  Because yeah, if she’s wearing those, I’m screwed.

  I’ve had visions of those bunnies up in the air, ears bouncing as I . . . Stop it, I tell myself as I ride up in the elevator, my cock already at half-mast.

  Resistance might just be futile.

  Beer was a bad idea. Coming home buzzed? The worst idea.

  The doors open at my penthouse, and a second later, there she is, right in front of me. “You’re back,” she grins. She’s excited about something, smiling wide. Bouncing on her toes.

  Her naked toes. While they’re cute, I have to admit, I’m still pretty devastated. “Where are your bunnies?” I ask.

  She frowns and looks down at her feet. “I don’t know. In my bedroom? I have something to tell you.”

  That you want to wrap your legs around my head?

  Don’t go there, Cameron.

  I shake my head. Bad idea. I grab a bottle of water and head to the couch. “What’s going on with you?” She follows me. “Hold on. Are you drunk?”

  She’s adorable when her nose crinkles. Just like a bunny. I look at her feet. Damn, still no slippers.

  Wait. She asked me something. Oh right. “I had a few. I met up with Jackson to get some intel.”

  “Ooh.” She brightens. “What did he find out?”

  I hold up my hand and make a big donut with my thumb and forefinger. “Zip.”

  Her face falls.

  “I know,” I say. “He thinks I need someone on the inside.”

  She grins. God, I like her smile.

  “Really?” she says. “Well. About that . . . You’re going to like this.”