Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

  Chapter Fourteen

  Laurie let her arms flop to either side of her head, and opened one eye. Her view consisted of the old, fluorescent tube lights in her ceiling. She stared at them through a fog of sweat, tears, and flour. Her words, Booker’s words—the whole tangled mess—echoed around her in her head. Which scared her more, the words or the man who wrung them out of her?

  Hard to say. The man had her pinned under him, his heart asserting its slow, steady rhythm on hers. Big hands cupped her ass and her legs dangled over his arms.

  This is bad. The thought rushed into her mind, triggered a surge of adrenalin that made her muscles jump. A flight instinct. You’re in over your head.

  “Stop panicking, Jailbait.” Booker straightened and looked down at her. Flour lightened his eyelashes and brows. For some crazy reason she found it endearing. “You’re fine. We were overdue for this conversation. Now that we’ve had it, you can calm down.”

  She propped herself up on one arm. Panic gave way to something else. He’d manipulated her. “Don’t tell me to calm down. You deliberately made me jealous—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You did that all on your own.”

  “Really? You wouldn’t have thought anything of it if I’d been the one snuggled into a corner tonight, whispering in someone else’s ear.”

  He chewed on that for a moment, and then inclined his head. “Arden’s dealing with unwanted attention from an as yet unidentified person, or persons. She asked me about our progress with the investigation. That’s what we discussed.”

  Shit. The scene replayed in her mind, with the distortion of her overheated emotions removed. Details took on a new cast. Arden’s unsmiling expression hadn’t been seductive, but anxious. She’d held onto to his arm out of a need for reassurance. “I didn’t realize…” She felt like an ass.

  “It’s not public information.” He smoothed his thumb over her cheekbone. “For various reasons, we want to keep it that way. Tonight’s party wasn’t the right time or place to discuss the matter. I hadn’t planned to. I’m sure she didn’t either, because generally, she views the whole thing as a nuisance, but I think the crowd made her uneasy.”

  “Understandable.” But dammit, a lack of justifiable outrage left her defenseless. “Forget I said anything. In fact”—she tried to slide away and get to her feet—“forget everything I said.”

  He didn’t move. “Not a chance. You said it. I heard it. We move forward from here. Try to be a little brave.”

  She shoved at him, harder, because the walls were closing in. The air itself threatened to crush her. She could stuff her own feelings into a box and lock them away where they couldn’t do any damage—hardly any. She’d practiced the skill her entire life. But this? Nothing had prepared her for this.

  “Booker”—she gestured between them—“this is a bad bet. I’m a bad bet.” The words spilled out fast, with a manic edge that was pure Denise. The risks felt too close. He felt too close, but for whatever reason, her hands didn’t get the memo she was pushing him away. Her fingers curled around the lapels of his tux and held on. “My life is completely fucked up. Every part of it—you don’t even know—and, yes, I’m scared the mess will splatter onto you, and I’m going to fuck you up, too…”

  His mouth closed over hers. His tongue swept aside the warnings she wanted to give him. When he drew back, he framed her face in his hands and waited until she looked him square in the eye. “I’m not so easy to fuck up. Trust me.”

  He didn’t pose it as a question. He expected her trust, end of story. And she did trust him. But there are things you haven’t told him, and the moment to speak up came and went a long time ago. If he ever finds out, he’ll see it as a betrayal. She let out a breath and sagged against him. “Booker, it’s not you. It’s me I don’t trust.”

  “Work on that.” He lifted her off the island. “This is real, and I’m not going to let you fuck it up.”

  …

  “Hey, Babycakes, my bonus is back on track.”

  “Woo-hoo!” For once, Laurie didn’t try to temper her enthusiasm. She switched her phone to her other ear and took the withdrawal receipt the ATM spit at her, ignoring the anemic account balance listed there. The bonus was good news. Why not have a little faith in the powers of good, and embrace it?

  “Better still, I’ll be in Montenido day after tomorrow,” Chelsea added.

  “You’re right. That is even better.” She walked down Ocean Avenue, away from the bank, slowing her steps as she passed an empty storefront with a For Lease sign in the window. “When do you arrive? We need to celebrate.”

  High rent district, she warned herself, but still ended up peering through the glass. It couldn’t hurt to look. If her insurance company paid out, plus Chelsea’s bonus…

  Her imagination immediately filled the shop with an order counter and a couple display cases while her best friend ran through her itinerary. Chelsea’s flight arrived tomorrow night, but she had work-related plans that evening. Not a problem, because Laurie had Kate and Aaron’s rehearsal dinner. As they talked through the logistics, it hit her how much their lives had changed since they’d last seen each other. Chelsea Wayne, people-pleaser and queen of leading with her heart, was neck deep in a no-strings fling with Rafe St. Sebastian, while Laurie Peterson, the queen of guarding her heart, was in an honest-to-god relationship. Granted, the more she listened, the more Chelsea and Rafe’s no-strings arrangement showed signs of at least a few tethers, but Chelsea wasn’t ready to hear it.

  Laurie sympathized. Chelsea’s ex had bruised her heart, and protecting herself from another battering was a normal response. Laurie’s heart had been bruised at birth—probably earlier—which might explain why it had taken losing the thing she cherished most to finally force her to lower the shields and reach out. Maybe the universe had been trying to teach her an important lesson? Namely, she wasn’t alone. When she’d needed help, people had come forward. Chelsea, with the bonus. Her friends at Las Ventanas, with the extra work.

  Booker.

  She’d definitely lowered her shields where he was concerned, let her heart lead, and inconceivably, she hadn’t fucked things up.

  Yet, the voice in her head—the one that sounded like Denise—insisted on adding.

  She shushed it. Yes, there were things she hadn’t told him, but she was starting to believe that everything would work out, even if she kept a few sketchy details to herself. According to the insurance adjuster, the check was all but in the mail. They only awaited the investigator’s final report in order to pay her claim.

  Chelsea signed off with a promise to meet up the day after tomorrow—Valentine’s Day—and check out the potential new location for Babycakes.

  Babycakes by the Beach. She liked the sound of that.

  So stop expecting everything to turn to shit.

  Determined to follow her own advice, she took down the realtor’s name and number from the For Lease sign. Her phone rang as she was inputting the contact information. She hit connect and brought it to her ear. Either her scrupulously organized friend had forgotten some detail, or she was ready to talk about the situation with Rafe. “Miss me already?”

  “I always miss my baby girl.”

  Denise’s voice sent an invisible army of ants over her skin. “What do you want?” She glanced around, half expecting to see her mother standing across the street, watching her. The empty sidewalk did nothing to alleviate her dread.

  “I want to talk to you, sweetheart. I heard about your poor little bakery. I want to help.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need your help.” She turned on her heel and walked fast toward her car.

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  The snide note stopped Laurie in her tracks. “Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong.”

  “I know I got a message from an insurance investigator, who has some questions for me. I’m wondering if he’s aware you were in the bakery the morning of the fire, or that you emptied the safe
.”

  The ants swarmed up her neck, leaving the rest of her icy cold. “It’s irrelevant.” She spoke slowly, calmly. “I didn’t set the fire.”

  “Of course you didn’t. But those pieces of information…they complicate things, don’t they? I bet your insurance company would find those facts very problematic.”

  A coppery taste in her mouth made her realize she’d bitten her cuticle. She made herself stop and take a deep breath. “I have absolutely no motive for torching my business. Anyone investigating me will see that. I wasn’t losing money and I didn’t have a need for fast cash—”

  “Your dear mother’s got a great deal of need. Medical expenses, and whatnot. My situation’s desperate and a devoted daughter might do something drastic to help.”

  “I’m not a devoted daughter, and anyone who knows me will testify to that.”

  “Testify? Sweet, naive Lauralie, they don’t need to accuse you of arson. A friend of mine told me there’s a tiny little clause in most insurance contracts that says you’ll give them complete cooperation when they investigate your claim. If you don’t, they can deny it. Now, I’m no lawyer, but lying doesn’t sound very cooperative to me. How will it sound to them, do you think?”

  Not good. “I didn’t lie.” She hurried to her car, got in, and slammed the door. “I answered all their questions.”

  “You left something out.”

  Her conscience said the same thing. A lie by omission still amounted to a lie. But she refused to admit as much to Denise. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what you want or I’m hanging up.” A fist squeezed her middle, causing waves of nausea.

  “Half.”

  The fist closed tighter, making it hard to breathe. “Half of what?”

  “Half the money, baby girl. You pay me my half and I’ll keep those little details to myself. Otherwise, I have to pick up the phone and tell that nice man from the insurance company the whole truth.”

  “Truth…” The single word practically strangled her. Truth? She never should have given in to her mother’s threats in the first place. Another truth? If she caved again now she’d always be hostage to Denise’s demands. She’d pay, and pay, and pay, both in the form of money and self-respect.

  More truth? She had been in the bakery that morning, she had emptied the safe, and those messy facts didn’t change the essential truth—she didn’t have a freaking clue how the fire started. It was exactly the kind of random disaster for which she carried insurance. But in a moment of weakness, she’d screwed herself, and if she ever wanted to face her reflection again without flinching, she had to draw the line. Yes, she risked having her claim denied, and the domino effect looked a lot like defaulting on her loan, declaring bankruptcy, and spending years wage-slaving her ass off to get her head above water again.

  Demoralizing as those realizations were, they didn’t account for the sour panic rising in the back of her throat. No matter what move she made at this point, she risked losing Booker’s trust. She’d kept secrets from him, and if he found out, he might never forgive her. He’d sworn he wouldn’t let her fuck them up, but she’d fucked them up before they’d gotten started…

  “Do we have a deal?” The impatience in Denise’s voice sounded like fingernails tapping a table.

  Jesus, she was going to be sick. “No.”

  “Don’t tell me no. You think I won’t—”

  She disconnected the call, and then fumbled to block the number. Once she accomplished that, she rested her forehead against the steering wheel and closed her eyes. Rapid, unsteady breaths filled the car. Hers. When they leveled off a little, she lifted her head, and tapped her phone to bring up her call log. The insurance adjuster’s number sat near the top of the list. She hit it, and waited as the line rang.

  Things had officially turned to shit.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Laurie finished blow-drying her hair into loose waves, and stared at her reflection. Two days of hearing nothing from the insurance adjuster after sending him her updated statement had left shadows under her eyes, but makeup masked the worst of it. Resolving to come clean to Booker might have helped, too, although her stomach twisted just thinking about the conversation. She expected him any minute, and promised herself she’d tell him as soon as he walked in the door.

  Lipstick in hand, she strode from the bathroom to the bedroom. The small, silk purse she’d chosen for tonight sat on her dresser. Hopefully Best Life had no issues with the silkworm. She opened the bag and tucked the lipstick in the inside pocket, next to her phone, noticing a waiting message in the process. A screen swipe later Booker’s voice came over the line.

  I’m leaving the station now. Going to be about ten minutes late, but I’ll make it up to you. I’ve got some news you’ll appreciate.

  Yeah, she had some news for him, too, but nothing he’d appreciate. And nothing she wanted to bring up over the phone or in a rushed conversation on the way to a family event. Maybe him running late worked out for the best? She’d wait until after the rehearsal dinner to tell him about…everything.

  She texted him a reply.

  Save yourself ten minutes. I’ll meet you there. I have something to tell you, too. Can we talk after dinner?

  A moment later an income text arrived.

  I have plans for your mouth tonight, but I’m sure we can squeeze in a conversation.

  The only thing she envisioned him doing after their conversation was washing his hands of her, and she vowed she’d make it easy for him—he was entitled to take the high road right out of her life, and no matter how much it hurt to let him go, she would. Strong, trustworthy, intrinsically good Booker deserved someone equally strong. Equally trustworthy.

  Since the night of the Las Ventanas party, she’d fooled herself into thinking she could be that woman, but true to the woman she actually was, she’d gambled with fate rather than face the consequences of her bad decisions.

  Taking the gamble only underscored her lack of strength and integrity, and losing promised to cost more than she’d realized she’d put at risk, but if she truly cared about Booker the one thing she could do at this point was help cut his losses.

  Start by being on time tonight. She dropped her phone into her purse, grabbed her keys, and headed out, only to skid to a halt as she approached her carport. The back end of the Expedition tilted noticeably to the right, thanks to a tire flat.

  Shit. She kicked off her heels, and stowed them, plus her purse, in the car. Twenty minutes and several curse words later she raced back inside her apartment to clean up, and then rushed back to the car. She was going to be late.

  One the way to Las Ventanas she considered and rejected ways to explain things to Booker. Should she start with her mother’s call and the demand for half the insurance payout in exchange for silence? No, that would mean backtracking to the real issue—the one she felt most guilty about—not admitting up front she’d been in the bakery the morning of the fire, paying her mother to leave her alone.

  This isn’t a donut, Peterson. You can’t sugarcoat it.

  Lead with the first bad decision and go from there, she decided as she weaved her way through Las Ventanas’ lobby to Ventanas del Mar, the five-star restaurant where Booker, his family, and the other members of the wedding party occupied a private table on the terrace.

  Booker spotted her first and stood. His dark eyes scanned her face as she neared, and she did her best to look normal. He stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m fine.” To the table, she added, “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re just in time,” Kate called from her spot mid-table as a waiter arrived with a tray of glasses. “We ordered champagne.”

  Booker guided her to the empty chair next to his and held it for her. Before he stepped away, he paused and leaned close to her ear. “What’s wrong?”

  “I had a flat,” she said, and offered him what she hoped passed for a smile while he took his seat. Aaron passed her a flute o
f champagne, and she transferred the smile to him, but it died on her lips when a skinny, red-haired woman in tight jeans and an even tighter sweater staggered through the French doors, with the silver-haired maître d’ in hot pursuit.

  Fuck, no. She wanted to stand, but her body refused to move.

  “Madam, please.” The maître d’ made a grab for Denise’s arm.

  “Get the hell away from me,” she slurred, and shoved the dark-suited man in the shoulder with one hand. The other clutched a half-empty liter of gin.

  “Security is on the way,” he murmured.

  The discretion was wasted. Everyone in the vicinity turned to stare. Everyone. Belligerent drunk women cursing out the staff weren’t the norm at Las Ventanas.

  “There she is.” Denise elbowed the maître d’ away from her. “I told you my daughter’s here. And there she is.” She pointed at Laurie and grinned.

  Booker got to his feet. His movement freed her from the paralysis of mortification. Her legs finally responded to the urgent signals her brain sent and she surged out of her chair. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, Lauralie. Our last conversation ended so abruptly, and then you didn’t return my calls, so you left me no choice. I drove all the way to this Godforsaken town to talk some sense into you. I turned onto your street in time to see that big, shiny SUV of yours pull out. It’s so easy to follow, I just tagged along.” She stopped, tipped the bottle, and took a long drink. “And now it all makes sense.”

  “Let’s take this outside, Mom.” Funny, how calm she sounded. Nobody would guess her pulse raced so fast her head felt light.

  “Sit,” Booker said to her. “I’ll handle this.”

  Okay, maybe someone might guess, but she couldn’t sit, because this was beyond handling. She took a step toward her mother. Denise circled to the other side of the table and kept on talking.

  “Now I know why you don’t give a shit about the insurance money. Who cares if they know you were in the bakery that morning, emptying your safe? Who cares if they deny your claim? You’ve got a bigger payday lined up.”