Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

“Dude, wait. That drink is not for you. It’s for Booker’s date. She’s in the restroom.”

  She glanced at Booker, who appeared to be stifling a laugh. “I’m back from the restroom.” So saying, she took a purposeful drink.

  Granted, Jessie read the subtleties of a wave better than he read the subtleties of a situation, but it took what Laurie considered an insultingly long time before he slapped one hand to his forehead and lifted the other to Booker for a welcome-to-the-club fist bump. Also wrong. Booker was smart enough to dig for his wallet right then and “miss” the not-so-secret handshake.

  “Oh, wow. You’re his date. I did not see that coming. But”—he regarded them for a moment, and nodded as if happy with what he saw—“cool.”

  Not really, but they’d managed to convince one person they were on a legit date. She called that a win, and toasted herself with another swallow.

  When Jessie stepped down the bar to serve other customers, she turned to find Booker’s eyes on her. Knowing and persistent. Like he awaited a confession.

  Why was he giving her that look? She checked her earrings to make sure she hadn’t accidentally worn a mismatched pair. Nope. The oversize silver hoops matched. “What?”

  A dark eyebrow arched.

  Oh. “Once. A while ago. Don’t you dare throw stones.” She shrugged out of her jacket and draped it over the back of the barstool. “You’re no virgin. I can name names.”

  His laugh startled her. “I have no intention of getting into a stone throwing contest with you. And for the record, I don’t give a single fuck who you entertained yourself with before New Year’s Eve.” He caught her chin and pulled her close for a hard kiss that ended way too soon. When he eased away his smile returned—the confident smile. “You’re mine now.”

  Mine. She understood the context of his comment, but even so, the word uncaged wings in her stomach. Another big swallow of wine settled the annoying flutters. “I’m yours for now, pursuant to our…arrangement, which, judging by Jessie’s reaction, is going to be a hard sell.”

  He rested a forearm arm on the bar, and leaned toward her. “What makes you say that? We sold Jessie.”

  “Please. You can’t judge by what came out of his mouth. Reactions speak louder than words. Even with me standing right beside you, it took him a full minute to realize I was your date. The sheriff and the troublemaker don’t make the most intuitive of matches.” Nor did a guy from a wealthy, respectable family and a girl whose family tree might as well be a cactus. The list of reasons they made a laughable couple went on and on…

  “You’re not a troublemaker.”

  “Interesting statement, coming from you. I’m pretty sure I didn’t give myself a nickname like Jailbait.” Shit. This topic led down memory lane. A journey she didn’t want to make. Seeking escape, she reached for her wineglass.

  His hand covered her wrist, stalling her. She looked up to find him staring at her with a serious expression. “I called you Jailbait because I wanted to get your attention, and make you understand the risks inherent in your situation. Lecturing you would have wasted my breath and your time.”

  “Hey.” She shrugged, and slid her wrist out from under his hand. “The shoe fit.” Hoping that put an end to the conversation, she lifted the glass to her lips.

  “You couldn’t see yourself the way I saw you, back then.” He rested his arm on the bar and regarded her, but she had a funny feeling he was looking back in time.

  “You saw a troublemaker.”

  “I saw a trouble-magnet. A beautiful girl who looked more mature than she was. Vulnerable in ways you didn’t appreciate.” His laugh sounded slightly pained. “You fucking terrified me.”

  “I terrified you? Why?”

  “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to protect you.”

  Oh, God. This man. A part of her wanted to wrap her arms around those save-the-world shoulders of his and hug him for giving a shit about a smart-mouthed brat who couldn’t even inspire an ounce of concern from her own mother. Instead, she put her glass down and pushed at the sleeve of her sweater. “I didn’t need protecting.”

  “You did, first and foremost from yourself. Sometimes you still do.” He trailed his fingers over her jaw.

  It occurred to her Booker touched her whenever and however he pleased. Not just sexually, though there was always a spark whenever their skin brushed, but more like she…belonged.

  You belong to yourself. You look after yourself.

  She straightened and shook her head. Shook off the gentle caress. “I haven’t been jailbait for years, and I outgrew any need for protection a long time ago.”

  “One of the first things you learn in law enforcement is we all need someone watching our backs. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

  The warning sirens sounded again, but not as loud, or maybe she was just getting better at ignoring them because she wanted to hear what he had to say. “You had my back?”

  “Always.” A smile raised the corner of his mouth. “I’ll always have your back. But you’re right about the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “You’re not a kid anymore. You grew up, and into a smart, hardworking, accomplished woman. I’m proud of you.”

  Warmth crept up her neck and into her face. Jesus, was she actually blushing for the second time in one night? Before she could point out her accomplishments had burned to the ground yesterday, the hostess appeared and invited them to follow her. Booker motioned her ahead of him, and soon they were seated next to each other at a small corner table.

  The hostess handed them menus, and then leveled an inquiring gaze on Laurie. “Another wine?”

  She froze in the process of raising her glass to her lips and realized she only had a swallow left. Pounding wine smacked of a Denise coping mechanism, so she put her glass down and pushed it away. “I’m good.”

  The girl assured them their server would be over shortly and retreated. Booker shifted in his chair. A hard thigh brushed hers. “Are you good, Lauralie?”

  His voice held no hint of challenge. He really wanted to know how she was doing. More alarming, she was pathetically tempted to tell him. Rest her head on his strong shoulder and pour out her troubles. “Just dandy.” She crossed her legs and pulled herself together. “Okay, we’re on a date. What now?”

  He lifted her fist from where it rested on the table, and cradled it in his palm. Her hand—her average, unremarkable hand—looked small and delicate compared to his, especially when he ran this thumb over her knuckles. “Now we engage in the lost art of conversation.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Whatever’s on your mind. Have you notified your insurance company yet?”

  Speaking of troubles. She plucked at a loose thread on the tablecloth. “Let’s not ruin a perfectly good fake date with reality.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” His thumb made the trip over her knuckles again.

  She sighed and nodded. “Yes. I actually met with my agent yesterday afternoon at the bakery.”

  “That was fast.”

  “The benefit of going with a local agent. He’s not like a good neighbor, he is a good neighbor, and if I need to file a claim on New Year’s Day, he’s there. Anyway, he walked me through my coverage, took photos, and helped me complete and submit the initial claim paperwork.”

  “Did he mention next steps and give you any timeframe?”

  Another sigh threatened, but she swallowed it. “He said pretty much what Chief Nelson said. The company will do its own investigation, I’m obligated to cooperate, and these things take time.”

  His hand settled on her knee, big and comforting. “Nelson read it as an electrical fire, which is pretty damn straightforward. As far as the claim itself, I’m guessing there are no curve balls. You weren’t stockpiling mink coats or laptops with your sugar and spice?”

  “I was fresh out of mink coats. My losses are total, but not out of the ordinary for my business.�
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  “Okay then, it might take their lab a few weeks to corroborate Nelson’s opinion on cause, and their adjudicator will need to spend some time with your claim, but there’s not a lot for the investigator to chew on. You’ve given them a clean set of facts.”

  “Yeah…” Except there was one not-so-clean fact lurking in the shadows.

  She dredged up what felt like a half-hearted smile. Everybody knew Babycakes had been closed New Year’s Day, and she’d confirmed to Booker, Nelson, and her insurance agent that she’d personally locked up the prior afternoon. But nobody had asked if she’d returned to the premises any time after closing. She hadn’t volunteered the information because…well…she wasn’t stupid. It looked bad. Discovering she’d not only been in the bakery the morning of the fire, but had cleaned out her safe, would definitely give the investigator something to chew on. Something that maybe looked and tasted a lot like insurance fraud. It might take years to rebuild Babycakes. If she got the chance at all.

  She also had to think of Booker’s reputation. If the investigation turned up anything off-putting and they pointed the finger at her, there’d be no stopping people from jumping to the wrong conclusion.

  Would they fire Booker for dating a suspected arsonist?

  No. Nelson already had a decent idea of when and how the blaze had started, and she hadn’t seen anything to confirm or dispute his impressions during her short stop to get Denise her go-the-fuck-away money. Bringing her mother into it, airing that nasty bit of dirty laundry, added nothing useful to the investigation. Things would fall into place. They had to.

  “Meanwhile”—he squeezed her knee—“you’ve got time to evaluate what worked well the first time around, and what you want to do differently.”

  “You sound just like Chelsea.”

  “I doubt that. Her voice is much higher than mine.”

  “Har. You know what I meant. By the time she finished giving me a long-distance pep talk yesterday evening, she almost had me believing this was all a blessing in disguise. Babycakes will be back, bigger and better than ever, and to help make it happen, she’s determined to stake this big bonus she might get at her new job.”

  His brows lowered a notch. “Let me get this straight. Accepting a loan from me violates your standards of self-sufficiency, but it’s perfectly fine to take Chelsea’s money?”

  Okay, somehow she’d offended him, but dammit, there was a difference. She pushed up her sleeves and propped her elbows on the table. “I didn’t take anything. There’s nothing to take. Her bonus is completely speculative at this point.”

  “But if she gets it?”

  Of course he wasn’t going to let her punt the question. Fine. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Then yes, if my best friend wants to invest her hard-earned money in Babycakes—”

  “You, Lauralie, are a snob.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m not the one who grew up at the top of the hill, with my wealthy family and my fat trust fund.”

  He leaned forward, into her space, and she belatedly realized she’d made a tactical error. She’d literally given up ground.

  “No, that would be me. I’ve got money to spare, but it’s not hard-earned enough for you.”

  The softly delivered accusation nevertheless packed the power to momentarily stun her, and make her question her motives. Did she disqualify people from certain roles in her life simply because they’d been born with advantages? And if so, did that make her some kind of reverse snob, or did it make her smart enough to know taking money from a rich guy—particularly a rich guy she was sleeping with—made her look like a gold-digging whore, and people around here already expected that kind of behavior from Denise Peterson’s daughter?

  “I’m not a snob. And, as it happens, I am accepting money from you.” She glanced around, and then leaned in, too, attempting to reclaim the territory she’d ceded. “In fact, I’m on the clock right now.”

  He didn’t give an inch. “That’s different, and you know it.”

  It was different, but the six grand he’d pay her for helping him keep his mother out of his personal life for the next little while was as far down the path as she intended to go. They both had good reason to keep their business discreet, and, frankly, nobody would question where she got the money to refund a handful of deposits. The stickier question would be why wasn’t it sitting in her safe in the first place. But people sure as hell would question where she came up with the kind of funds needed to reopen the bakery, and if the answer was Ethan Booker, she’d find herself on the receiving end of a whole lot of unflattering assumptions. So would he, for that matter, but the nice thing about sitting at the top of the social hill meant, generally, shit rolled down.

  “Look, I am not a snob—”

  “Oh my God, Booker!” A female voice broke in. “This place is crazy tonight. Can we join you?”

  Chapter Eight

  Booker turned and aimed a stare at his sister intended to convey one word. No. A quick glance at the scalpel-thin woman standing beside Kate, clutching a Hermes bag, and looking like she might contract a disease if she inhaled too deeply had him upping the silent message to a Hell, no!

  Not that it would do any good. Kate hadn’t forgiven him for the New Year’s Day hangover. Her guileless smile tightened at one corner, just enough to issue a silent message of her own. Revenge is mine.

  Not if he had anything to say about it. But he didn’t, as it turned out, because Lauralie gestured to the empty chairs and said, “Of course we don’t mind. Have a seat.”

  Goddammit. Downtown Montenido boasted at least a hundred dining options, and Delaney’s had never been at the top of Kate’s list. Bad luck couldn’t be blamed for bringing his sister and her notoriously uptight wedding planner—Miranda McQueen—to his table tonight. Aaron’s cryptic comment about dinner with the ice queen floated through his mind. Yeah, he’d been sacrificed like a lamb.

  Manners dictated he seat the ladies and make introductions, so he rose and pulled out a chair for Miranda, and then Kate. As he dropped a kiss on her cheek, he muttered, “I hope Aaron’s having a nice evening.”

  “Shame about his last-minute plans. He’ll be sorry he missed you.”

  “Oh, he’ll be sorry.” Fucker. He rested a hand on Lauralie’s shoulder. “Meet my sister, Kate, and our family friend, Miranda.”

  “The pleasure’s all ours,” Kate beamed. “You look—” She paused as a busboy swooped in with two additional place settings and waters. When he retreated, she continued, “You look so familiar to me. Are you local?”

  “Native,” Lauralie confirmed, and took a sip of water.

  “Really?” Miranda chimed in, frowning slightly. He could practically hear her flipping through the pages of the social register stored in her frontal lobe. The woman could trace her bloodline to Montenido’s founding fathers, and she’d married into equally vested families—twice. She was incredibly well connected, and she prided herself on knowing who was who. “What’s your last name?”

  “Peterson,” Lauralie answered.

  “Peterson…Peterson…any relation to Stu and Bitsy Peterson? I did their daughter’s wedding last summer. Pink fantasy, like a fairy tale. We transformed a team of white horses into pink unicorns to lead the carriage that whisked them away on their honeymoon—Montenido Magazine featured a picture on their cover.”

  “Sounds…spectacular,” Lauralie responded, “but no, I’m not related to Stu and Bitsy.”

  “Oh. Hmm.” Miranda’s Botox-impaired frown returned. “I thought I knew all the Petersons in Montenido.”

  Kate glanced at the ceiling, and shook her head. “Only the ones paying for big, splashy weddings.”

  Miranda preened a little at the comment, and then inspected the rim of her glass, before taking a careful sip.

  Kate turned her attention to Lauralie. “How did you and Booker meet?”

  Lauralie swirled the last of her wine around her glass, then swallowed and cocked a brow
at him. “He busted me.”

  Miranda made a choking sound before erupting into a series of hacking coughs. Kate leaned across the table, all smiles and curiosity. “What for?”

  “I didn’t bust you,” Booker interjected, before things went completely off the rails. “It was ten years ago, and she was out after curfew. I gave her a warning and a ride home.”

  “Wow.” Kate propped her chin in her hand. “You got mercy out of my hard-ass brother. That’s impressive. What do you do nowadays?”

  Lauralie’s small grin told him she enjoyed hearing his sister classify him as a hard-ass. “I own…” Her grin faded. “Scratch that, I owned Babycakes Bakery.”

  Kate scooted closer to the table, oblivious to the implications of Lauralie’s use of the past tense. “My assistant raves about your place.” She tapped Miranda. “You know Babycakes. The cute little shop in Nido Plaza with the…”

  “With the logo inspired by a mud flap.” Miranda’s gaze cut to Lauralie. “Yes. Now I know exactly who you are.”

  The hint of extra frost in her voice wasn’t lost on Booker. Old rumors swirled in his memory like snow flurries—annoying and insubstantial debris about Miranda’s second divorce involving infidelity on her husband’s part. He had a sinking feeling Denise’s name might have been in the mix, but Lauralie’s impassive expression suggested she neither knew, nor particularly cared, about old rumors.

  Apparently Miranda preferred to focus on current events as well, because she went on. “I understand your cute little shop met with misfortune yesterday.”

  Kate looked from Miranda to Lauralie. “What happened?” But then her eyes clouded as awareness dawned. “Oh, no. The fire at Nido Plaza. I heard about it, but I didn’t realize… My God, I am so sorry.”

  He took Lauralie’s hand, and laced her cold fingers through his.

  She thanked Kate, and gave his hand the smallest of squeezes, before doing the thing guaranteed to divert attention from her. She asked about the wedding. Within moments, Miranda McQueen was holding court, passing judgment on themes, color schemes, and other matters destined to suck away every ounce of his testosterone. He concentrated on all the ways he’d kick Aaron’s ass next time he saw his future brother-in-law.