Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

  Which put it back on him. He understood her well enough to know he meant more to her than she wanted to admit. This was no longer a sport to her. Even so, throwing down an “I love you,” pushed the boundaries of fair play. Love wasn’t part of their deal. If he added it in now, he was unilaterally changing the rules on her while there was money at stake. Money she was counting on. No matter how much a part of him shouted Fuck fairness, he couldn’t do it. Not when waiting a few weeks would level their playing field.

  But he could and would keep the game tight. Keep the pressure on. The lights from Las Ventanas twinkled on the bluff like a reminder. “I spoke to my mom today.”

  “How’s mom?” She drew back a little, despite her casual response.

  “Ambitious.” He kept his hands at her waist and continued their unhurried two-step. “She called to inform me I’m expected to attend the Las Ventanas re-launch party. Apparently she’s got her eye on a business relationship with the St. Sebastian family. I think she’d like to see Best Life products in all the guestrooms. Want to be my date?”

  Her steps faltered. “I can’t. I’m already going.”

  He stopped, and told himself to remain calm. “With who?”

  “With the hired help. I’ll be there as a server. My old boss put out a call for extra hands—at a really good rate, I might add—and I answered.”

  “Cancel. I’ve got you covered.” The words were out before he realized how they sounded. Okay, that was why any discussion of their feelings needed to wait until after the wedding.

  “I can’t.” She backed away and wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t afford to piss off one of my best sources for catering jobs with a last minute cancellation. I need real work. What if Chelsea’s bonus falls through? What if the insurance company finds some loophole to justify not paying?”

  Then he’d figure out some other way to help her. But he couldn’t tell her that either, and what came out instead was a highly frustrated, “Fine. Forget I asked.”

  “Thanks for understanding.” She started toward the limo. He bit back a curse, because he knew damn well he’d just convinced her he didn’t understand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The St. Sebastian family knew how to throw a party, Laurie decided as she carried a tray of cannoli-cream-filled chocolate cups toward the dessert buffet, navigating a crowd of people in evening clothes that cost more than her rent. Not that it took a genius to master the formula. Throw open the doors of a beautiful, landmark hotel after giving it a multimillion dollar facelift, invite the right mix of local luminaries, celebrities and media personalities, and pour liberal amounts of top-shelf champagne over everything.

  Around her, those lucky enough to make the guest list talked, laughed, and posed for pictures destined for the pages of aspirational magazines. Readers with disposable income would soak in the glossy images and immediately realize Las Ventanas was the destination for the hip and glamorous.

  Attending the festivities as one of the extra hands they’d recruited to help with the party took most of the glamour out of the night for her, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do. Earlier today she’d paid bills and mailed out refund checks to half the clients she owed. She was tapped out, and being Booker’s date-for-hire was no kind of long-range solution. Getting back on the roster of extras Las Ventanas called on to handle large events was.

  Three years spent as a pastry chef at the resort meant she knew the kitchen, most of the staff, and enjoyed a little more respect than the average temp. But a part of her less receptive to logic couldn’t help feeling like she’d taken a giant step backward. Back to a kitchen that wasn’t hers, and recipes she’d had no input on, following someone else’s directions. Hearing the sous chef call, “Peterson, you know the difference between vanilla zabaglione and white-chocolate mousse. Get out there and tell me what we’re running low on,” had only underscored the fact.

  Getting “out there” meant a chance to escape the kitchen for a moment, and the nagging fear this whole working-for-someone-else situation might be more than a temporary thing. She had a job to do—as quickly and invisibly as possible, but she found herself dawdling. Booker circulated somewhere in the crowd and she wanted to see him.

  Unfortunately, milling bodies prevented her from getting a good view the room.

  And you’re not here to take in the scene. Stay on task.

  Right. She concentrated on unloading her tray of cannoli onto the buffet and noting which items they needed to replenish next. When she finished, she straightened, and inadvertently bumped someone standing behind her.

  Apology at the ready, she turned, but it stuck in her throat when she found herself face-to-face with Miranda McQueen. Fucking awesome. She swallowed and forced the words out. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Miranda’s dismissive gaze raked over her white smock, and for a second, Laurie thought the woman might not recognize her. No such luck. Those pale, icicle eyes narrowed as they studied her face, and then came the frown.

  “You.”

  “Laurie,” she supplied.

  “Of course. Booker’s interesting friend.” One corner of her mouth tightened into her haughty version of a smirk. “Not on the guest list tonight?”

  Laurie straightened, uncomfortably aware of the satisfaction Miranda took from the discrepancy in their positions. She refused to give the old stick the added satisfaction of seeing her sweat the situation. “What can I tell you, Miranda? I’m a woman of many talents.”

  “I’ll bet you are, although…” Miranda’s gaze shifted to somewhere over Laurie’s shoulder, and her smirk stretched into a serpentine smile. “Perhaps not quite as interesting and talented as you like to think.”

  Laurie turned. Groups of people separated at that moment, and left her with a sightline to the edge of the terrace. Booker stood there, effortlessly handsome in his tuxedo, completely at ease in the lavish surroundings. And why wouldn’t he be? Even if his position as sheriff didn’t earn him a spot on the guest list for events like this, his last name did. Hell, he grew up in this world. He knew it well. He belonged.

  The thoughts registered along with a realization he was deep in conversation—eye-to-eye, nothing else exists conversation—with a slim, raven-haired beauty who hung on his every word. They leaned toward each other as they spoke. Her hand rested on his forearm.

  Something hot and volatile boiled through her blood, leaving her shaky and short of breath. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she fought an urge to stride over and knock the woman’s hand away.

  Cause a scene, look like a crazy freak—make Denise proud.

  “It appears Booker has other interests, doesn’t it? Do you recognize her?” Miranda’s insidious questions pricked like needles. “Arden St. Sebastian,” she said when Laurie didn’t reply, “of St. Sebastian Luxury Resorts. A lovely girl from an excellent family. I’m a wedding planner, not a matchmaker, but I have to admit they look good together. She and Booker have quite a bit in common.”

  Booker leaned closer to the woman, practically whispering in her ear.

  “I’m sure,” she managed through a throat clenched as tight as her fists. The overly familiar hand on his arm didn’t belong to just any woman. It belonged to a beautiful, privileged hotel heiress. Belonged. There was that word again. Miranda McQueen belonged. Ethan Booker belonged. Arden St. Sebastian most definitely belonged. The only person in the room right now who didn’t belong?

  Lauralie Peterson.

  She should fix that before she did something stupid. With the tray tucked under her arm, she stepped away. “Nice bumping into you”—Lauralie Peterson, master of sarcasm—“I have to get back to work.”

  …

  Numbers told a story, even when they didn’t add up. The number of times he’d texted Lauralie during the party, hoping to spend a few minutes with her during a break? Three. The number of times she’d replied? Zero.

  Fair enough. She’d been working, but more numbers factored in, such as the 1:
45 a.m. staring back at Booker from the screen of his phone, and the three additional unanswered texts he’d sent since leaving Las Ventanas. The story these numbers told didn’t make a fuckload of sense yet, but he intended to get some clarity right now.

  He exited his car and took the walkway leading to her door, equal parts relieved and annoyed to see light shining from her windows. He deliberately slowed his steps, letting the relief sink in—his line of work left nasty possibilities in his head when someone suddenly went incommunicado—but as the knowledge she wasn’t lying in a ditch somewhere eased the knot of tension in his gut, it fired up the itch of irritation under his skin. Despite three straight weeks of spending nights together, despite knowing damn well he expected to hear from her, and despite his texts, she’d gone home after the party without so much as a word of explanation. She owed him one, and he wasn’t leaving until he had it.

  After a warning knock, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. The scent of fresh-baked…something…hit him first, and pulled his attention across the living room to the kitchen beyond. She stood there, framed by the pass-through, wearing a white apron, and holding a chocolate-covered spatula midair.

  He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “You should lock your door.”

  She dropped the spatula into the mixing bowl that sat on the counter in front of her and then wiped her hands on a towel before fixing the sliding strap of the little black slip she had on beneath the apron. “You should wait ‘til you’re invited in.”

  Those flashing blue eyes were all it took to have his dick lifting. “The evidence suggests I would have been waiting all night.” He crossed the room until he stood on the other side of the counter. “Apparently sometime during the last few hours you lost the ability to communicate.”

  “Maybe you were too busy communicating with someone else tonight to notice me making an attempt?”

  The moody comment surprised him. Her, too, judging by how she snapped her mouth shut, and began rearranging ingredients on the counter.

  “Care to elaborate, Jailbait? Right now I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You know what? I don’t care to.” She picked up the mixing bowl and began stirring the contents with the spatula. “I’m tired.”

  The vigorous stirring jiggled her tits. If she kept that up, this was going to be a short conversation. “That’s why you’re baking up a storm in the middle of the night?”

  “Baking relaxes me. Unlike uninvited company and unwanted conversation. If you feel like communicating, go find Arden St. Sebastian. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to continue whatever fascinating discussion you were having tonight while eye fucking each other in the middle of a goddamn party.”

  Okay, yes, he had talked with Arden tonight, one-on-one and at some length, but there’d been absolutely no eye fucking on either of their parts. Obviously, Lauralie had seen them and jumped to a different conclusion. Her misread of the situation was clearly pissing the shit out of her, and while he never would have intentionally toyed with her emotions, the jealousy brought an almost obscene level of gratification. A laugh escaped before he could hold it back.

  Her head jerked up and she glared at him while she continued stirring her frosting with real violence now. “Get out.”

  Well aware he risked bodily harm, he rounded the counter and strode into her kitchen. She’d been busy. Flour covered the surface of the butcher-block island, and a rack of pastries sat cooling on the counter. “Not on your life ”

  She slammed the bowl onto the counter and turned on him. “Was it her?”

  “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  Her barefoot strides closed the distance between them and she stabbed her finger into his chest. Her fingertip left a white imprint on his tuxedo jacket. “You do so. Was she your first choice? Is she the reason you came sniffing around my door on New Year’s Eve, desperate for a rebound fuck?”

  He would have laughed again at the absurdity of the notion he’d had any agenda except being with her when he’d shown up at her apartment that night, but she seemed to genuinely believe he might. “Jailbait, I barely know her.”

  “Yeah. Right. You always find a quiet corner in the middle of a party to have an intimate chat with some girl you barely know?” She punctuated the accusation with another poke. “Do you have any idea what kind of an idiot I felt like, standing there while Miranda McQueen went on about what a lovely couple you two make? I—I don’t need this. And based on what everybody saw tonight, neither do you.” Another poke. “The deal’s off.”

  His patience ran out. He grabbed her wrist and stepped forward, forcing her to step back.

  “Hey…” She tugged her wrist but he didn’t let go.

  “This isn’t about our deal.”

  Her laugh held no humor. “Only someone with money would say that.”

  “Bullshit.” He took another step forward. “It’s never been about the money, and we both know it. Let’s move that out of our way right now.” He let go of her and dug a check out of his wallet. A rummage through her junk drawer yielded a pen. He scrawled out a check for three grand and held it out to her. “Invest it in your business, spend it on therapy, or bury it in the sand, right next to your head. I don’t care what you do with it, but money’s not between us anymore.”

  She backed up a step and glared at him. “I don’t need therapy—”

  “You do, if you honestly think there’s room in my head for anyone but you.” He cornered her between his body and the kitchen island, and shoved the check into the pocket of her apron. “Do you?” He flattened his palms on the butcher block on either side of her and waited for an answer.

  She tossed her head back, but kept her lips stubbornly closed.

  “You think when I’m here”—he reached under the apron, under her slip, and cupped her—“I’m fantasizing about anyone else?”

  Her eyelids lowered a notch and color whipped into her cheeks. “I don’t care.”

  He curled his other arm around her waist and lifted her onto the island. The landing sent up a cloud of flour. The rolling pin she’d left there tumbled to the floor with a solid thud. “You’re so jealous, you can’t think straight—”

  “I’m not jealous.” She stressed this with a roll of her hips. “I never get jealous.”

  She did get turned on, though. Her warm, soft flesh kissed his palm. He eased his fingers inside her. Slim thighs clamped his hips. “You are. You know why?”

  “Stop talking.” She tore at his fly. He kept up the slow, shallow strokes while she freed him from his pants. A second later he nudged the head of his cock down her center. She fell back onto her elbows.

  “Do you know why?” he repeated, and retraced the path. She refused to answer, but her legs fluttered impatiently.

  He surged into her, deep enough to bow her spine and send her head tipping back. Her knees lifted. He hitched them into the crooks of his arms and pulled her toward him. More flour filled the air. “Because you’re not pretending anymore. This is real.”

  She whipped her head back and forth. “No.”

  He withdrew and thrust again. “This thing between us is real.”

  Her fingers dug into his scalp and she drew his head down to hers. “I don’t get involved…”

  “Until me.” He drove into her again.

  She gasped. Inner muscles fluttered around him. “No.”

  Flour stung his eyes. He ran his mouth along the side of her throat and tasted it on her skin. “You want this to be real.” He risked another thrust, even as he felt his balls draw up and a familiar heat flow down his spine.

  “You’re wrong.” The words were a desperate whisper. She reared up, so suddenly their foreheads would have collided if he hadn’t straightened. White flecks danced in the air between them. “Right here, right now. This is as real as it gets.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered.

  One semi-sane part of his mind told him to stop trying to bully her into adm
itting her feelings. It wasn’t the right approach. But he couldn’t stop. Screw patience. Screw fairness. He was in love with her, dammit, and he needed at least this much in return or he was letting her limit them to sex. This was going to hurt like a motherfucker, but he couldn’t settle for just sex. He pulled out.

  “Booker!” Her eyes flew open, and she grabbed onto his shoulders. “Don’t.”

  He shook his head. “Right here, right now, isn’t enough. Not anymore. You have to do better.” Need closed in on him like a predator, mocking his threat.

  “I can’t. I—” Her voice cracked, and then, thank Christ, her resolve. “Oh, God. I want this to be real.” A tear leaked from the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek, leaving a wet trail in the flour dusting her skin.

  He caught it with his lips. “I know. I know. Don’t cry.”

  “I can’t help it.” She pressed her face against his neck. “I’m terrified.”

  “You don’t have anything to be afraid of. I’m going to make you feel so good.” He pushed back inside her and they both groaned. “So fucking good.”

  Burying his fingers in her hair, he drew her head back until her watery gaze met his. Then he plunged deep.

  She cried out at the impact. More tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Is that good, Lauralie?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. Wide, dark pupils focused on him.

  He rocked into her again, and again. She matched the pace, bracing her weight on her hands and surging to meet him. Holding there longer as the intensity mounted. “You know why it’s so good?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t…know.” On the last, gasping word her body pulled tight. She threw back her head and cried out as the tension dissolved into long, helpless shudders.

  Before the sheer power of it sucked him in, too, he managed to say, “Because this is real.”