Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

  This attitude she knew well enough, and she refused to let the old blueblood intimidate her. She crossed her arms and cocked her hip. “I always try to be interesting.”

  “I’m sure you do. And I’m sure, in some circles, you’re positively fascinating.”

  Whatever. Figuratively speaking, she had an engraved invitation to this thing, and she wasn’t above waving it in the stuck-up bitch’s face. “Booker seems to think so.”

  Miranda’s lips pressed into a grim smile. “Men’s interests can be so predictable, can’t they? And predictably short-lived once they satisfy their curiosity, but I suspect you already know, given your pedigree.” Hard blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she brushed past Laurie. “Enjoy your evening.”

  It will be your last at an event like this. The unspoken words taunted her as vividly as the iconic red soles of the stilettos gracing the older woman’s feet. Each step sent a dismissive echo reverberating down the hallway. Laurie ducked into the powder room and faced her reflection in the gilded mirror at the same time she faced a few facts.

  Fact one: Miranda had, essentially, nailed it. Once her six-date commitment to Booker ended, they ended. He’d offered her a deal. Nothing more. The side benefits, interesting as they were, didn’t change that fundamental truth. He needed her as a short-term diversion.

  Fact two: she couldn’t let herself forget fact one, because if she did, she might just—the carsick feeling returned in full force—fall in love with him.

  Don’t. She used a tissue to blot her forehead and tried to calm her churning stomach with a heaping dose of reality. You care for him. He means more to you than any man ever has, but don’t fall in love. You’re not wired for it. You don’t believe in forever, remember? Booker does, and he deserves forever with someone who fits the brand, and has the pedigree, and, most importantly, doesn’t have an ugly skeleton in her closet.

  She flipped the tap on full blast to drown out her thoughts, and held her hands under cool water. It helped. After a moment she turned off the tap and risked another look in the mirror…and faced one more fact.

  He didn’t ask you for forever. He asked you for six dates. Get out there and do what he’s counting on you to do.

  Right. After drying her hands, she opened the door, and stepped into the hallway—directly into Booker’s mother.

  “Oh, how perfect. You’re just the person I hoped to find.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Come with me.” Rebecca took off down the hall, away from the party, and motioned for Laurie to follow. “This won’t take long. I have something for you. Something you’ll find very useful, I think.”

  Great. Was Rebecca going to write her a check to get her out of Booker’s life? If so, the woman sure was chipper when it came to bribery. She led them to a sleekly feminine office and stepped over to a small, round table with a Best Life shopping bag sitting on the smooth, glass surface.

  “When Booker told me he was bringing you tonight, I took the liberty of curating some selections from one of our in-development product lines. This is all very top secret.” She reached into the bag and pulled out a box with the scrolled, gold Best Life logo across the lid and held it out to Laurie. “I don’t want to sound too much like a proud spokeswoman, but I know you’ll find we hit the right balance between authenticity, elegance, and comfort.”

  Laurie reached for the slim, rectangular box. It felt light and insulated, and…valuable. “Mrs. Booker, I’m flattered—”

  “Call me Rebecca. We should be on a first name basis.”

  She had next to no experience with mother-of-the-boyfriend relationships, but this one seemed to be moving awfully fast. “Rebecca, I’m flattered you thought of me, but—”

  “But nothing. I see an opportunity to improve something, I take it.” Anticipation sparkled in Rebecca’s eyes. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  The lid lifted off easily. Inside was a white, suede clamshell box with the same embossed gold letters across the top. The kind of box a jeweler might use to hold a necklace or bracelet. “Really Mrs. Booker, you—”

  Rebecca reached over and flipped up the lid.

  “Shouldn’t have,” Laurie uttered as she stared at the polished silver handcuffs nestled in white silk. Holy crap, Booker’s mother was giving her Best Life bondage gear.

  “I just couldn’t help myself!” Rebecca lifted the cuffs out of the box. “These are sterling silver, hypoallergenic”—she pressed a trigger and opened one cuff—“velvet-lined, and best of all”—she pressed another trigger to open the second cuff—“they have these handy little release buttons, so you’ll never get stuck. I think the market will go crazy for them, don’t you?”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.” Inappropriate was the only word that sprang to mind.

  Rebecca laughed. “Look at you, blushing. Please. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. My children are adults, and I know they have sex. I’d be worried if they didn’t. After all, a satisfying sex life is integral to health and happiness. Why wouldn’t I support that?”

  She hoped it was a rhetorical question because she couldn’t come up with a proper response. Nothing in her admittedly limited etiquette handbook covered this scenario. Just take the gift, say thank you, and get the hell out of here before things get really—ha—off the chain. “Well, um…thank you. They look very…durable.” Shit.

  “They are. Those beauties will hold up to anything. And I do mean anything. Best Life puts every product we develop through rigorous testing.”

  “That’s…” She shut the box, fit the lid back on top, and struggled for a word to get her out of this encounter without further discussion on the merits of fancy handcuffs. “…reassuring. Thanks again, for the, uh, thoughtful gift.” With that graceless stammering hanging in the air, she took a step away from the table.

  “Wait.” Rebecca offered the bag. “Don’t forget the rest.”

  “The rest?” Laurie’s arm went on autopilot, and she watched like a spectator as Booker’s mom looped the silk cords of the bag handle around her outstretched fingers.

  “I’m planning to market this as a kit. We’ve put together all the essentials. Some organic massage oil, a few naturally flavored gels, and some other goodies.” She winked at Laurie. “We want to keep things interesting.”

  Interesting. There was that word again. She managed a smile and another thank you, and then made her way back to the party, wondering if everyone she passed was secretly thinking, Get a load of the interesting girl Booker brought, and her interesting bag of tricks.

  Booker appeared out of nowhere, and handed her a glass of wine. “I was about to send out a search party.”

  She took a swallow, but her mouth went dry as she looked at him. The uniform had always done it for her, but tonight he was walking, talking, broad-shouldered suit porn. Corporate America had missed out big time when Booker had opted for law enforcement over a corner office. “I got waylaid. Said hello to your good friend, Miranda, and then had a chat with your mother.”

  “Busy girl. What’s in the bag?”

  “I don’t want to tell you, and you don’t want to know. Let’s just say your mom is committed to your health and happiness.”

  His eyes narrowed on the bag, and then flicked to her. She raised a brow.

  “You’re right. I don’t want to know. Feel like getting some fresh air?” He shrugged his jacket off. The sight of him in his tailored, white shirt did ridiculous things to her hormones, and shoved a whole lot of her earlier crazy to the back of her mind. Don’t overcomplicate things. You’re two consenting adults with a mutual attraction. Nothing could be simpler.

  “Fresh air isn’t really what I’m in the mood for right now.” She turned so she faced him and rested a hand on his chest. Beneath his shirt, his heart beat strong and steady. “Remember what you promised me if I came in here and played nice with your family?”

  His eyes darkened and his hand strayed to the small of her back. “I do.”

  �
��Did I earn it?”

  “Hell yes. Any way you want it, for as long as you can take it.”

  …

  “Oh my God. No more. I can’t take it,” Lauralie moaned into the pillow she hugged, and dug her heels into his collarbones in a halfhearted attempt to pull away. He clamped his hands around her waist, and used his tongue to prove her wrong. She took it, and took it, until the momentum of her orgasm lifted her body almost completely off the bed. A few pulsing seconds later she collapsed onto the mattress.

  “I think I’m paralyzed. I can’t feel anything from the waist down.”

  He dislodged one foot from his shoulder, and kissed the arch. “Feel that?”

  “Um…I’m not sure.”

  “How about this?” He kissed the inside of her knee.

  Her lips curved into a smile. “Hmm. Nope,” she replied, not bothering to open her eyes.

  “Time for extraordinary measures.” He flipped her over, and bit her ass.

  She shrieked, and struggled to get her knees under her. “Booker…!”

  “Hey, look at that. You’re cured.” He released her and ducked to avoid her foot as she scrambled across the bed. “It’s a miracle.”

  A pillow sailed over and bounced off his chest. “It’s a miracle you didn’t get kicked in the head.”

  He eased onto the bed, staying low. “Fortune favors the bold.” Because it was there, he brushed his lips over her ankle, and then drew away and ran his thumb over the small, smooth dents of the two triangle shaped scars.

  She stiffened for a moment, as if realizing he inspected the scars. He looked at her, not surprised to see wary blue eyes focused on him. “Surfing?”

  “I don’t remember. They’ve always been there.”

  He kissed the old wounds again. They’d spent the evening with his family, so he’d deliberately brought them back to her place, where she’d feel most comfortable. Her turf. Her bed. Her safe zone. If he couldn’t get an honest answer out of her now, they were doomed. “You have an excellent memory, Lauralie.”

  She stayed silent so long he almost prompted her again, but then she said, “When I was little—like four or five—my mom took me with her one afternoon while she visited her friend Bob.” She made air quotes around the word.

  “Uncle Bob?” He deliberately kept the question light, although muscles tightened in his gut.

  “Ha. Nobody stuck around long enough to earn uncle status. Anyway, this particular friend had a huge house and big backyard complete with pool, spa, sports court—the works. He also had a big Doberman. I think it usually had the run of the yard, but since we were there he put it in the fenced area around the pool. My mom told me play in the yard until she came back.”

  “She left a four year old unsupervised?” It wasn’t really a question. They’d never talked about it before, but even on the night they met, he’d understood Denise hadn’t suddenly checked out as a mom when Lauralie turned sixteen. Still, hearing such a bald-faced example of neglect triggered protective instincts over twenty years too late to do her any good.

  Lauralie stared at the ceiling, but her lips twisted into a tight smile. “I learned to look out for myself at an early age.”

  He gently tapped her scarred ankle. “But?”

  “But, I was kicking this little soccer ball around the yard, and I kicked it too hard. It sailed over the fence surrounding the pool, bounced a few times, and rolled to a stop about a foot short of the gate. The dog was at the other end of the enclosure, and it stood when I approached the gate, but it didn’t make any sounds. The ball was right there. I figured I could stick my foot through the posts and use my foot to roll it closer, then reach in and grab it. As soon as tried, I found myself playing tug-a-war against a snarling Doberman latched onto my ankle. I screamed bloody murder, and between that and the dog growling, Denise and Uncle Bob came running. Lucky for me, the dog let go as soon as it got the command. Lucky for Denise, Uncle Bob was loaded, and forked over a wad of cash to forget the whole unfortunate incident ever happened.”

  Hot, useless rage burned through him, but he held it in check because it wouldn’t do her any good now. He couldn’t stop himself from brushing his thumb over the marks. “Have you heard from her since New Year’s?”

  “Nope.”

  “Jailbait?” He waited until her eyes flicked his way. “Tell me if she contacts you.”

  “The odds are low.”

  “I didn’t ask for the odds. I asked you to tell me if she contacts you.”

  She rolled over and settled her chin on her folded arms. He interpreted the move easily enough. She wanted this conversation to be over.

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you.” Tight muscles in his gut relaxed a measure. He couldn’t protect her when she’d been a kid, but he could protect her now. He kissed his way up her body.

  “No more scars,” he murmured when he reached the nape of her neck.

  “No. I learned to guard myself better.”

  Correction. No more visible scars. Hers were the kind most people couldn’t see. And he had to be careful with them. He moved to the head of the bed, and pulled her into his arms. She let him gather her close.

  Looking to change the topic to something less heavy, he asked, “Why baking?”

  She moved her head to where his chest met his shoulder, and snuggled into the hollow. “I like the smell of goodies fresh out of the oven. Who doesn’t?”

  “Um. My mom? I can honestly say we didn’t have that smell in our house very often growing up.”

  Her fingertips drew lazy swirls over his chest. “Me neither, actually. Denise’s cooking skills extended to cereal, canned soup, and frozen dinners. She wasn’t going to bake a cake for my birthday, or make cupcakes for the school fundraiser.”

  Somehow the conversational road led back to the place he’d been trying to steer them out of. Before he could try again, she went on.

  “The first time I ever had a home-cooked anything was at Chelsea’s sixth birthday party. Denise dropped me off way early because she had plans, and I remember walking into the house and smelling something amazing. If happiness had a scent, it was coming from Chelsea’s kitchen. Her mom was baking her cake—chocolate, with chocolate frosting. I sat in their kitchen with my little mouth watering, thinking life would be awesome if I could smell that smell every day.” Her hand stilled on his chest. “I did, for awhile, and it was awesome.”

  He threaded his fingers through hers and kissed her temple. “You will again, soon.”

  “We’ll see.” Doubt clouded the words. “The insurance company is still doing their investigation. Chelsea’s bonus looks iffy.”

  “You know I’m loaded, right?”

  “We’ve been over this. I’m not taking any money from you other than what comes as part of our deal. Besides, investing in a bakery would be awkward for you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Babycakes doesn’t suit the Best Life brand.”

  “I’m not part of the Best Life brand. I never have been. I’m my own man, Jailbait.”

  She patted his hand. “Booker, you’re part of the brand just by breathing.”

  The comment set off a flare of annoyance inside him. He tamped it down because she’d just spent the evening immersed in his family, listening to his mom preach the Best Life gospel. Best Life wasn’t his life, but he understood why the distinction might be blurry for her about now.

  He could afford a little patience.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What’s the word from Maui?”

  Laurie held her phone to her ear with her shoulder while she unlocked her apartment.

  “A cautious thumbs up,” Chelsea replied from the other end of the phone. “I had meetings this week to try and resolve the snag I told you about in the sale of the hotel. The parties reached an agreement, in concept. Nothing’s final until the contracts are signed, but I wanted to let you know my bonus is back within the realm of possibility.”

  Hope expanded in L
aurie’s chest. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing.” She walked into her apartment, shut the door behind her, and then absently picked up the silver commuter mug Booker had left on the end table on his way out that morning. Somehow, spending last weekend together had evolved into spending every night of the past week together, and as a result she had a little collection of Booker’s stuff at her place: the coffee cup, a six pack of his favorite beer in her fridge, a dark blue Montenido Sheriff’s Dept. sweatshirt that smelled like him—and swam on her, but she had commandeered it anyway.

  “Save the thanks until I come through with the money.” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Like I said, the deal’s not done until the deal’s done, but things look decent.”

  “You sound tired.” She put her purse on the kitchen counter, along with Booker’s mug, and leaned on the opposite counter.

  “I’m okay. A little tired. I’ve been working a lot.”

  Guilt gnawed at her. “No bonus is worth your health.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m fine. Any word from the insurance company?”

  Laurie sensed the deflection beneath the sarcasm, but she went with the subject change because she actually couldn’t mother Chelsea from this distance. “I spoke with the adjuster today. They have my itemized claim, and they received the report from the Montenido fire inspector, which states the cause was an electrical short.”

  “So, that’s good, right? They should be able to process your claim soon?”

  “God forbid they be that up-front. They’ve got their own investigator, who still has to submit his report, but as long as it raises no, quote ‘new information or questions,’ I should be good to go.”

  “Great. That means they’ll issue payment soon. What new information or questions would there be? An electrical short caused a fire that resulted in a total loss of your business. End of story.”

  Information like I stopped by the bakery that morning, and emptied my safe? “I have no idea.”

  “I know this is impossible, but try not to stress about it. How’re you holding up?”