by Marie Harte
“Aimee ‘Nag’ Lawe. Hmmm. Run it together really fast and I’m a bad-ass rapper girl. Or a new drink at Starbuck’s.”
Normally, she’d at least credit Aims for that with a good-natured laugh. Not today. It had been almost forty-eight hours since she’d been back to the villa, with her skin pulling the major shrink wrap of reminder. As for the exigency in her pussy? There was a sign for that, too. Get Me the Hell Out of Here and Back to the Villa.
She needed Kade—about ten hours ago. Not that he hadn’t volunteered, in every desperate sense of the word, to drive here and douse their mutual misery with a passionate encore of her homecoming party from Tahiti. She’d forced herself to be strong, insisting she’d stumbled onto a breakthrough in what he and Wick had affectionately titled “Doc Sinclare and the great fish fuck mystery.” The sacrifice had been worth it. She had significant news to share with him, and couldn’t wait to see the joy crash over his handsome face when she did.
If she could only get the hell out of the lab now.
Aimee wasn’t making her progress any easier. Instead of pulling her notes together into a stack as Charlotte had asked, the woman gaped at them like Gwen Stacy just after learning her boyfriend was really Spiderman. “Holy shit, C. Is this…all for real? Did you run confirmation tests?”
“In the middle of it now.” She snatched up the sheaf, semi-grateful for the chance to grab at something instead of her clothes. Sounding more churlish than she intended, she snapped, “Which is why I’m not ready for any eyes on this yet.”
“Any eyes on what?”
The question came from the doorway, through which Sam had just emerged after donning a lab coat and sterile gloves. Though Sam was a “mutt” of Caucasian and Korean, his boyish haircut and open smile never failed to evoke the All-American boy vibe. With his hands on his hips and a puppy-bright grin, Charlotte wondered if he was about to ask her to a Frisbee match in the park instead of inquiring her progress on the craziest—and probably most significant—project of her career.
Despite the guy’s Fido act, she was damn glad she’d come clean with Sam about all this. Badgered by Aimee, she’d finally, nervously spilled all to the guy about ten days after Kade had resurfaced here. To her shock, Sam had not only believed her wild tale but insisted she hand off her other projects to Aims and the team in order to front burner the “great fish fuck mystery.” His support extended even farther. He never questioned her strange office hours or erratic behavior—well, more erratic than usual—and also checked in regularly via text, as well as ensuring the cafeteria was stocked on her favorite pasta, compensating for the calories she burned off on a daily basis with Kaden.
Hell. Oftentimes, it was a three or four times-a-day basis.
She almost laughed aloud. She was having the sex life of every woman’s wildest dreams, and being ordered to consume more calories while she was at it—and trying to find a cure for the “dilemma” at the same time? Wasn’t there a part of this equation that didn’t fit?
Her heart sank. The answer to that was yes. Two things, actually. She and Kaden. Oil and water. Bleach and ammonia. The geek and the hunk. Some things just weren’t meant to be mixed. Not permanently, anyway. It was beyond crucial that she remember that.
She looked up, already feeling crappy about her next words—and what they’d do to Sam’s grin. Damn, he was handsome. Too bad the guy played for the other team. Gazing at him next to Aimee made her think even the two of them might be a cute couple, given different circumstances. Much different. Everyone in the place knew where Sam’s affections lay, and not a day went by that Aims didn’t ask about Trig’s progress. It broke Charlotte’s heart to keep relaying that nothing had changed for Trig, a situation Aimee volunteered to assist with at least twenty times a day—but to date, her friend hadn’t exhibited a single symptom of “fish fuck fever.” Exposing her to Trig without that element would be dangerous, maybe even lethal, for them both.
The thought brought on a wave of frustration. Charlotte quickly battled to quell it. Damn, damn. damn.
But the situation wasn’t without hope. This latest breakthrough was their best hope for some logic to this mess so far. To date, there wasn’t a single, sensible theory connecting who the frenzy targeted or not.
She hoped to change that…very soon.
But first, Sam.
Honesty had been the best policy between them so far. She prayed the tenet proved true now.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Sam…I really am. You’ve been so patient about waiting for news, and I think I’ll have a big piece of it for you soon. I just have to corroborate a few things with Kaden first.” Her gut twisted when disappointment darkened Sam’s face. “There’s a piece to all this that I need from his side,” she added in a hurry. “I don’t want to speak up, only to have everyone’s hopes crushed if the facts don’t back me up.”
His expression gentled, thank God. An encouraging nod preceded his response. “I understand, of course. You’re thorough, Charlotte, and it’s always appreciated.” The keen puppy gleam returned to his youthful features. “It’s just been so damn hard to be quiet with Trystan about this. Single receptor pheromone bonds. Incredible.” As always, his gaze brightened while mentioning Trystan Brown, Spectrum’s co-owner—and the sole object of Sam’s desire for years now. The wistful note in Sam’s voice couldn’t be missed, either. Charlotte suspected Sam had started to spin a little fantasy of telling Trystan about their breakthrough, then being thanked in ways he’d only been dreaming about until now.
Charlotte couldn’t help but join her smile to Sam’s. “You know how badly I want to nominate you for Boss of the Year right here and now?”
He held up a protesting hand. “Enough. I don’t blush pretty and you know it.”
“Bullshit. You’re gorgeous, Mr. Khan.”
“Not in this.” He swept the front of the coat. “Is it my imagination or do these things turn me into the size of a house?”
“They turn everyone into the size of a house.” Aims rolled her eyes then grinned. “I’m just not stressed about it because the man of my dreams is locked down at Fallbrook Psych. And C’s not stressed because the man of her,”—she clamped her mouth shut at realizing she’d almost jammed her whole foot inside—“uhhh, the man who’s presently smitten with her—”
“Smitten?” Charlotte snapped.
Aims held up surrendering hands. “All right, all right. I’ll negotiate down to the guy who thinks she’s ‘fucking hot’ in her lab coat.”
Sam sputtered a laugh at Aimee’s air-quoted words. “You’re shooting true on that, aren’t you?”
“As a well-oiled pistol on a windless day.” Aimee smirked as Charlotte glowered. “Watched the words come out of Ensign Studcookie’s mouth myself when he brought her lunch last week.”
Charlotte dropped her head into her hands. “Ensign what?”
“Don’t even try to get out of it, chica.” Aims pulled out a take-no-crap Cheshire Cat grin for emphasis. “It’s perfect and it sticks.”
Sam tossed a mock glare. “So why didn’t I hear about the lunch?”
Charlotte huffed, turned, and jabbed at the proper keys to shut her laptop down. “Because there was nothing to ‘the lunch.’ He just brought some takeout and we talked for a while in my office.” She glanced sharply at Aims. “We just talked.”
“Right.” Aimee snorted. “Just some takeout. From freakin’ Las Milpas.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “The guy brought you Las Milpas? As in, went all the way to Barrio Logan to bring you Las Milpas?”
Aimee nodded. “And she still thinks he isn’t smitten. And she still refuses to move in with him, too.”
Sam pivoted back, balancing one foot on its heel. “You sure the team at Fallbrook Psych doesn’t have time to evaluate you, sweetie?”
Charlotte slammed her computer shut. “Oh, God. Not you, too.”
Aims started a taunting tap with her trendy-shoed toe. “If Trig asked me to move in with him
, I would.”
“Aimee!”
“What? You’re being a stubborn little shit. Even you know it. If your brain isn’t on board with the message, your body sure as hell is. Pssshh. I mean, look at her, Sam.”
“Sam has better things to do with his time than—”
“Char.” Sam spread his hands while stepping closer. “I have to agree with her.” He planted his feet, transforming his poky little puppy into a semi-daunting ninja. “You know my support for you is beyond doubt, but this project isn’t like anything you’ve had to tackle before. You’ve been working like a damn machine—”
“You want me to go back to Tahiti?” She cocked a sarcastic glare. “Because that turned out so well, right?”
“I’m not pissed. Just worried.”
While Sam’s version of the guilt trip was restrained, Aimee continued with her full-frontal assault, slamming hands to her hips. “And your condo looks bleak. All your plants are dying. You know this. I suck at the green thumb thing.”
Charlotte closed her eyes. Let her head sag between her shoulders. Why were they having this conversation now? In here? All voices were amplified in the lab due to the glass walls and sterile environment. While she kept Aims close each day, watching her friend for any symptoms of the virus and relying on her status reports of everyone else they could locate from the Sparta’s research team, it was hard to listen to her right now. Between the room’s acoustics and her body’s screams for a hit of “Ensign Studcookie,” Aimee’s tone was more like a marble in a steel pipe by the second.
“Then just toss them out,” she managed to say. “I’ll get new plants when I’m back there more.” When her statement was greeted by a telling silence from both Aims and Sam, she finally looked up. Their baffled stares were like kerosene on her agitation. “Oh, come on. Is the girl in the room with the cooties really the one who understands it most clearly?”
Aims pulled up her arms and folded them. “Enlighten us.”
She pushed out a thin laugh. Thinking about her condo hadn’t been on her agenda for today. For any day. It pulled out spike strips of feeling that she didn’t want to drive over right now. Of course she missed the place. She’d worked hard to make her home into a home, the refuge where everything was hers and she could escape the world with peaceful solace. But when she thought of the place now, she didn’t think of solace.
She thought of loneliness.
This was ridiculous.
She was experiencing normal detachment grief—which wasn’t going to be an issue once she figured this shit out and the pheromone bond with Kade was snapped. As for right now, it made perfect psychological sense for her to feel a little something for the man. They’d seen each other nearly every day for the last three months. And yes, had a lot of amazing orgasms together. But there’d been more. And it had been…
Good.
Really good.
The day she’d help him with the finishing touches on a custom dollhouse for his niece’s birthday. The morning they’d both weirdly woken up at four and he’d driven her to the beach to watch the sun rise. The night they’d made their own pizza from scratch. The night he’d surprised her with tickets to a “sleep over” at the San Diego Zoo then made her giggle for hours with “spooky jungle stories” in a variety of funny voices.
She turned to stuff her notebook into its slot, swallowing on a tight throat and stinging eyes. Again, so damn absurd. Logic would tell her that—in a moment. She just had to hang on…
Logic had picked today to become a sadistic bitch. The best it gave her was a façade of a grin as she pivoted to finally fulfill Aimee’s ultimatum.
“Because, my friend, once we make this puzzle a straight line again, we’ll also be able to reverse the pheromone effects. Ensign Studcookie will be back to despising the very air I breathe, and I’ll be back to making my houseplants happy, instead.”
Once again, Sam and Aimee shared the same perplexed stare—almost making Charlotte chuckle again. They really didn’t get it, did they? Even if it took them years to crack the secret of this virus, it changed nothing between her and Kade as soon as that reset button was pushed. A pheromone bond had changed how the man’s body perceived her. It would never alter how his heart felt, or the neat little labels his mind had already slapped on her. She couldn’t ever forget that; not if she wanted the end of all this to be a little less painful. Perhaps a lot less…
A tiny voice in the center of her chest lifted a mournful whisper to that.
Too late.
*
EVEN FROM A half-mile away, Charlotte knew the music emanating from the villa. When she turned down her car radio to listen better, she recognized the tune as a Wick Davis original. The man mastered his guitar like Kade commanded wood beneath a jig saw, and this time had worked his magic on a mash-up of The Battle Hymn of the Republic and Muse’s Resistance. By the time she got to the villa, she kept time to the music with rousing pounds to the steering wheel, wishing she was in a jeans and a tee along with her boots instead of the foofy skirt and top she’d worn to work.
After parking the Audi, the rock concert vibe in the air intensified. Her ears, even more sensitive because of the absence from Kade, picked up on a collection of sounds beyond the music. Shouts. Laughter. Bellows.
And splats?
She made short work of letting herself inside the main house, using the key Kaden had forced onto her key ring despite the agreement she was not living here, and let surprise jump her brows. The living room was empty. There wasn’t a soul in the kitchen, where everyone usually congregated. On the other side of the kitchen lay the almost-finished entertainment room, both its frosted glass sliders pushed open. No Kaden there, puttering with final details on the cabinets he’d designed for the space. Shark Fenton, a mocha-skinned warrior of a man who’d always been a little intense, had been helping Kade on the room. He wasn’t around, either.
She listened closely again.
The backyard.
“Aha,” she murmured with a soft smile. The fit made sense. It was going to be a beautiful June twilight. A warm breeze sifted through the trees, and the beginnings of a brilliant sunset peeked over the foothills. She didn’t blame everyone for wanting to be outside, with the weather heralding such peaceful promise.
She stepped onto the back deck. And instantly took back the whole “peaceful” thing.
“War zone” was definitely more accurate.
Giselle’s scream confirmed that fast enough. The woman had every right to the outburst. She’d been smacked in the face with a huge water balloon, leaving shreds of lime green latex through her hair. Charlotte observed that the woman was camped out behind a picnic table tilted on its side, along with Wick and Dreah. Behind the trio were two gigantic tubs that brimmed with more of the water bombs.
Though that was a fun sight, Charlotte had to slam a hand over her mouth when she looked to the opposite side of the lawn. God forbid that Kaden hear her loud giggle.
Behind another upturned table, Ensign Tiernan was camped out with Shark Fenton. They both wore black bike helmets, matching their “stylish” black plastic garbage bag ponchos. They’d also striped their cheeks with black war paint, making it impossible for Charlotte to decide whether to laugh or sigh at them. For all their silliness, they were pretty damn hunky.
In true Kaden fashion, their set-up was the Cadillac of water balloon forts. He’d laid a spare strip of wood between the table’s upturned legs to create a shelf for their “ammunition.” On either side, there was a lawn chair supporting an ingenious catapult, also fashioned out of spare wood pieces, activated by exercise bands that the guys looped around stakes in the ground.
She’d arrived in time to watch Kade and Shark load up both catapults. The units held three balloons apiece, arranged in a little triangle on the launch pad. When that was done, the guys high-fived, bellowed something about Sparta, glory, bacon, and snakes on planes in one long battle cry, then released the swing arms. Six balloons sailed free.
Arced perfectly. Smashed in direct hits on Dreah, Wick, and Giselle.
“Ass. Hats!” Wick shouted.
Shark circled a fist in the air. “Yo, broheim; you know how this works. Adapt and overcome—even when your opponent is superior in every way.”
“Word.” Kaden punctuated it with a wicked chortle. Though Charlotte loved what the sound did to every intimate tissue south of her waistline, she was worried about the karma he severely tested. If she’d learned anything about Dreah in the last few months, besides how the woman was nicknamed Human Gumby and loved everything British, it was how Dreah loved taking Kade down when arrogance got the better of him.
Sure enough, Dreah straightened, braced both feet and shoved at her white-blonde spikes with resolve that was a little scary. “Adapt and overcome?” she drawled. “Well, if you insist.”
She didn’t elaborate more. She didn’t need to, as they all learned while she reached under her shirt, snapped her bra open then deftly unhooked her arms from it. The garment—stunning them all again in with its cream lace and fuchsia cups—easily came free from beneath the T-shirt, into Dreah’s determined fist.
“What…the…”
Shark didn’t finish. Instead, he joined Kade on skittering back as Dreah loaded a pair of balloons into the cups then stomped their way, whirling the bra like she’d morphed into Xena the Warrior Princess. Though both men tried to lob some panicky warning shots, Dreah was a woman with a purpose. She easily dodged the balloons. And kept walking.
“Aw, hell,” Shark shouted.
“Goooo, Dreah!” Giselle exclaimed.
“Get ’em, girl.” Wick’s Atlanta drawl coasted on the air.
Kaden didn’t say a thing. Charlotte watched a sword of determination stab its way across his jaw. And watched. And watched. Ohhh, damn. She was already ten kinds of wet for the man but watching the Conan side of him come to life was like injecting lust straight into her brain.
“Adapt and overcome.” His gut-deep version of the line went unnoticed by everyone else. By only seconds, it preceded the bold jump he took over the front of their table, lunging himself into Dreah’s path.