Just like I’m starting to feel?
“Yeah. I think I’d like that.”
Only tomorrow would tell if Morgan felt the same way…or if she was getting ready to put up a fight.
Chapter Nine
THE NEXT MORNING, Morgan had a slight headache—but nothing a couple of ibuprofen tablets wouldn’t take care of. Except she remembered something…something she needed to let Conor know about.
He was working out, so she just had to wait for him to get back. She should be exercising, too, but that wasn’t happening. This damned reunion had completely messed up her entire routine. She hadn’t made a to-do list this morning, nor had she been working out like she would have been back at home. Reminding herself that she’d get back on track once she returned, she decided to jump in the shower to get a start on the day.
Her makeup was on and she was dressed and blow drying her hair in the main area when Conor got back. And she felt even more like a heel, because he had two cups of Starbucks in hand.
“Mocha latte,” he said, setting it on the table after she’d shut off the dryer.
“Thanks so much, Conor.” She lifted the cup to her lips. “How’s your morning?”
“Great. But I think I should ask you how you’re feeling. You had quite a bit to drink last night.”
“I’m okay.” It was true since the pain reliever had kicked in.
“Brunch starts in half an hour, so I’m going to shower and then we can head down.” Conor started walking toward the bathroom.
“Uh…just a second, Conor.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you mind sitting down for a minute?”
He had a slight frown on his lips but he nodded his head before joining her at the table. “What’s up?”
“Um…you know that Amber woman?”
“Yeah—probably better than you do.”
“Very funny. Well…last night, when I was talking to her, I might have accidentally blown your cover.”
He drew in a slow breath through his nostrils before saying, “What happened?”
“I can’t remember exactly—and I think I recovered okay—but I mentioned something about breaking up with my boyfriend.”
The frown made its way to Conor’s brow. “How did you recover?”
“I just told her that happened a long time ago before you and I got together…and I think she bought it.”
Shaking his head, he asked, “What am I gonna do with you?”
“Marry me for real. That’ll throw them off the scent.”
“A little extreme, don’t you think?” Conor stood and headed back toward the bathroom. “I’ll be ready in a bit.”
Whew.
* * *
As if on death row, Conor and Morgan walked down the hall toward the elevator. He’d been a little pissed at first when Morgan had told him she’d already blabbed to Amber about their little charade, but he blamed himself for not cutting Morgan off the alcohol.
But he’d sensed her boredom and she was being a hell of a good sport, all things considered.
Something else niggled at his brain, though. Morgan, in her usual flippant style of retorting, told him to marry her “for real.” Why the hell had he been dwelling on that notion ever since she’d said that?
First of all, Conor didn’t plan to marry till he was in his forties—if ever. Second of all, Morgan was his friend—and his assistant, which would make even thinking about crossing that line highly appropriate.
But his brain was mulling the thought anyway.
Stupid.
By the time they got to the first floor, Conor had pressed those ideas to the back of his brain and held the elevator door for Morgan once it slid open. Now he was once again consumed with the reunion and looked down at his shirt, second guessing himself. He had no issues with navy blue, but…
“Conor, would you quit worrying?” Morgan asked, running her hand over his chest and stomach, smoothing the shirt—not that it needed it. He was wearing the damn thing like a woman would pour herself into skin-tight jeans. “You look fucking hot—like let’s-serve-you-up-on-a-platter-with-nothing-but-a-fig-leaf-over-your-manhood hot.” Conor raised his eyebrows as she squinted her eyes. “This will get their attention.”
But he was wearing a workout shirt. How unprofessional would that look?
As if she could hear his thoughts, Morgan said, “It’s brunch, Conor. And half of these motherfuckers are going to have hangovers the size of Texas, okay?”
Glancing at his pretend betrothed, he noted that she looked gorgeous, and the sunglasses made her look almost like a celebrity as they made their way out of the elevator. She had the air of someone entitled, at any rate—not that Morgan had ever acted that way. Right now, though, she was playing the part of a girlfriend claiming stakes to her man.
He had to admit, even if only to himself, that he totally loved it. As much as he’d loved Raquel’s attention in high school English class, he even more loved how Morgan acted possessive now.
He could get used to this.
And why the hell was he starting to think of her as a real girlfriend and not just his faithful employee doing his bidding?
“If you say so.”
“This is more real,” Morgan said, grabbing his hand in hers. “Engaged couples touch each other.”
He couldn’t argue with her.
“And if you want those bitches eating out of the palm of your hand, you need them to see you’re desirable and unavailable.”
Without another word, they walked down the cool interior of the looming hotel and followed the signs—back to the ballroom where they’d been the evening before, but this time there was a steamtable full of hot breakfast food and the smell of bacon was heavy.
It looked like the trays of eggs had been untouched. Not shocking, considering all the alcohol that had been guzzled last night. What was a bit of a surprise, though, was how many of his former classmates were sipping on mimosas.
Maybe it made them feel better about who they were now.
“Where do you want to sit, Morgan?”
Her voice was low, so he leaned over to hear her better—and he realized it instantly made them appear to be more intimate. “Not like there’s a lot of choice, but if you want bitches to be jealous, we need to be near the center. And I can put on a great show. I say we sit right there.” His eyes followed her finger to a large round table in the middle of the room, not too far from the large buffet.
There were already two couples there and two men alone, but Conor wasn’t about to argue with his right-hand woman. “Lead the way, my dear.”
Where the hell had that come from?
The grimace on her face told him she was wondering the same damn thing.
Once they got to the table, Morgan grabbed the pitcher of water and poured some into the glasses in front of their seats. The condensation told him the pitchers had been there a while—but the plates in front of their table mates made it look like they’d just barely sat down. “Are these seats taken?”
Morgan had already staked their claim, so heaven help them if one of these folks said they had to go elsewhere.
“No, go for it,” said one of the single men.
The other guy without a date said, “You look familiar.”
“Crap. I forgot my nametag. Sorry.”
“Guess no breakfast for you!” The large woman to the right started snorting and laughing raucously, making Conor fear she would explode with a heart attack if she didn’t chill.
“I’m Conor Hammond. This is my fiancée, Morgan Tredway.”
Unusually subdued, Morgan nodded and smiled. How odd.
After the whole table went through polite introductions, he said, “What can I get you to drink, darling?”
Where the hell were these crazy terms of endearment coming from? It was so not like him, and he expected Morgan to give him hell later. “These mimosas look amazing—but I’m craving coffee. Could you bring me a cup, please?”
“How about both?”
This was the woman who made and fetched him coffee every morning, even though it was completely out of character for her—and now he was waiting on her hand and foot…as if he were truly a doting fiancé.
He scoped out the room and decided to focus on coffee first. There were two huge urns on a table against the wall behind the steamy buffet, along with pitchers of juice and water. After he’d grabbed two coffee cups and cozied up to the caffeinated urn, he sensed a warm body to his right.
Lovely Raquel with her long blonde hair and a short pink dress put him in the mind of a mermaid. There was no particular reason why he thought that, except that maybe her flowing hair looked somewhat like the lady on the Starbucks cups Morgan fetched every so often, like the one he’d brought to her earlier that morning. “Fancy meeting you here,” Raquel all but whispered, cocking her head in a way that seemed to make her eyes sparkle.
Conor was certain Morgan’s plan was already working. Raquel had never seemed so interested in him. “How did you sleep last night?”
“Not too bad. But I had the naughtiest dreams.”
“Oh, really?” Did Conor hear her right?
Raquel giggled and touched his arm, reminding him of the way she’d flirted with her football player boyfriends back in high school. “I’ll have to tell you about them later.” Winking, she breezed off, leaving behind the scent of feminine musk.
Conor felt his brow furrow as he pulled on the tab of the coffee urn, filling the white ceramic mug with the steamy, earthy liquid. Over the past ten-plus years, he’d slowly built up his company and the past five had shown amazing growth. That hadn’t happened because he’d been a boy on the verge of popping a hard-on just because a sexy woman had smirked and batted her eyelashes his way. It had been because he’d become a take-control man. He’d had a vision and been able to see his way clearly through the forest to the finish line. He hadn’t had women distracting the shit out of him—and it was that take-charge attitude that would carry him through. If he allowed himself to once more be the nerdy high school version of himself, not only would he have no chance to win the woman, but he’d have to struggle to get back on top.
He’d become that confident, in-control man before Morgan had come along. He could do it again and conquer she who’d previously been unobtainable. He had to admit that Morgan’s help was nice, though. Playing the jealous girlfriend could only help things along, but he had to don an asshole persona, much like the alpha male football players had done back in the day.
Why did women like assholes?
It didn’t matter, but he could enjoy the benefits of playing one. He vowed at that moment that he would have Raquel Bettis before the weekend was over. The former cheerleader sat at a table with the woman he remembered as Brenda Sterling before she looked his way again and smiled before blowing him a kiss.
Yeah…this might actually be easy.
* * *
The reunion committee, partly led by overly perky Kendra King, had a Memories segment slide show that morning. Perhaps they’d sensed the hangovers that would ensue after the cocktail event from the previous evening, or maybe they’d expected there would be low attendance that morning, so why not do something low key? Whatever the case, the diners got to enjoy a PowerPoint version of their freshman yearbook, along with Kendra’s nonstop commentary. It had been amusing at first but Morgan was just about ready to go back to bed. There was no way in hell she’d be able to keep her eyes open during the golfing event of the afternoon.
What made it all the more unbearable was that Conor was acting strangely. It was as if a pod person had stolen his body the night before, but she suspected Conor had donned a persona that would make him feel more comfortable around his old classmates. As she observed him that morning, though, she began to think it was a move to impress the ladies…and that was fine. That was the whole point, right? Keep away the ones he didn’t want so the more desirable ones could approach. But that didn’t change the fact that her old boss and friend was nowhere to be found. She didn’t care much for this shallow version of Conor, so more than once, she asked if he was okay. He tried to assure her by saying, “Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
But his words didn’t assure her at all.
Near the end of the dreadful slideshow, Morgan noticed that Conor was watching another table across the way—and wouldn’t you know? The table held the equally dreadful bleach blonde bimbo Raquel, a mean girl if Morgan had ever known one. Somehow, Conor couldn’t see it at all, instead enamored with the woman’s enormous flirting powers that were proving to be his Kryptonite. He had no defense against her.
It was so strange. Her Conor—suave, smooth, confident Conor—would have been impervious to her charms. But, of course, they’d gone back in time.
Maybe Morgan would have to say something about it later—but she’d have to tread lightly. She didn’t want to bruise his ego, especially right now when it might be particularly fragile.
At least the banal slideshow meant she hadn’t had to engage in painfully dull conversation with the folks around her table. Some of these guys felt old—not like they were approaching middle age but instead like they were feebly racing toward the nursing home. It made her grateful that her boss seemed so much younger than a lot of them. And how had he escaped that mentality?
Grinning, she gave herself a little credit for that…for keeping him on his toes.
But his preoccupation with that old hag Raquel was becoming disconcerting.
Suddenly, Conor turned toward her. Yeah, he could’ve blamed it on the end of the presentation, but she’d seen where his eyes had truly been. She doubted he’d absorbed anything on the screen. Rather than say a word, Morgan raised her eyebrows in anticipation of what he planned to say.
Conor leaned over the table and Morgan responded. Why had she never noticed the spicy, delicious cologne he wore before this weekend? She caught notes of sandalwood and citrus, making her mouth water more than the strawberries she’d consumed minutes earlier.
What the fuck was wrong with her?
“Have you been paying attention?”
“To what?” she asked, wondering what the hell was irritating him now.
Leaning farther forward, Conor pressed his lips into her hair. She could feel his warm breath on her ear, causing a shiver to dart down her spine, reminding her that she was, in fact, susceptible to masculine charms, even if they were from her boss and not her usual flavor of man. His voice reverberated against her eardrum, its low tone touching multiple nerves throughout her body. “That guy sitting with Raquel? That’s Jacob Martin, our star quarterback two years in a row. Helped us win state our senior year. He dated a string of cheerleaders but never her—and now he’s apparently going to win in that department, too.”
Morgan pulled back enough to look in his face and, oh, his brown eyes. So beautiful. Why had she never noticed how gorgeous his eyes were before? But they were less attractive with him seeing green. “Why are you letting it bother you, Conor?”
Several beats passed before he blinked and swallowed. “Because this was supposed to be my time. Jacob’s washed up. I’m only just now coming in to my stride.”
“That’s true,” she agreed. But why the fuck would he want to take a woman like Raquel, likely infected with chlamydia and syphilis, along for the ride? “So what the fuck are you gonna do, boss?”
The way he masked his sigh like he often did back at the office reminded Morgan how much he hated her casual way of dropping the F-bomb whenever it suited her. But she didn’t intend to apologize at this moment, because there were far more pressing matters at hand. Conor evidently wasn’t going to answer, because he raised his eyebrows before picking up his glass and downing half the mimosa in one straight shot.
“I’m going to go over there and talk to them both.”
Suddenly, the thought of Conor with Raquel raced through her mind. No. It wasn’t because she’d discovered a newfound (and unusual) appreciation o
f her boss of late—it was because Raquel was a man-eater, and the woman was on the prowl for a new guy. Morgan didn’t want her friend to be the victim of Raquel’s self-absorbed obsession. She’d known far too many women just like her—the love ‘em and leave ‘em type. Sure, they might play around with a guy like Conor, making him feel great while she used him for his money or his power, but she wouldn’t stick around long if he hid the wallet.
But there was also another problem. A mean Raquel type, if she had no interest in a guy like Conor, would have no issues shaming him, either—so, for example, if he did try to insert himself between the flirting conversation of Raquel and Jacob, Conor might get told off and be left humiliated, even if he had no emotional stake in it.
Morgan would have none of that. She’d been protecting her boss’s reputation since she’d begun working for him, and he was paying her overtime right now.
“Wait, Conor,” she said, her eyes laser-focused on his. “That won’t work with a woman like Raquel.”
“What won’t work?”
Morgan drew in a slow breath, wondering how the hell Conor had ever made it this far in life with such sucky social skills. Of course, he hadn’t. This wasn’t the real Conor here—this was his kid self, and he was in a weird position at the moment, having forgotten how to use the adaptive abilities he’d learned as an adult. It was like he was a dumb geeky teenager again, drooling after the girl he could never have.
But Conor could have her—he was good enough.
“The direct approach.” Lowering her voice again, she got close to his ear. “That won’t work with a woman like Raquel. She expects all men to worship her and do whatever she bids.”
“Come on, Morgan. We’re adults now.”
“Yeah, but look at her, Conor. Do you think she’s ever been told no a day in her life?” Morgan would bet her bottom fucking dollar that the woman didn’t even know the meaning of that word—it would be like a foreign language. She was used to receiving what she wanted—on a silver platter and ASAP. Conor got ready to answer Morgan and she said, “Trust me. She hasn’t. And if you go over there and tell her you’re a better choice than that washed up football player, she’ll grind you like a bug under that ridiculous silver stiletto she’s wearing.”
Shenanigans (Pretense and Promises Book 2) Page 9