Enflame

by S. Layne

  I came home with no hope of the center remaining open after next month.

  I’d almost drowned my sorrows and self-pity in a vat of wine, but thankfully I had held off.

  If I was drunk right now, I’d be certain I was hallucinating Marisa’s visit. As it is, I want to pinch myself to see if I’m still awake.

  “Wow.” I shake my head, completely stunned. “Did you call the bank?”

  “It was an anonymous wire transfer.”

  It doesn’t make sense. I arch a brow in question. “Can people really do that?”

  “I guess.” Her slow shoulder shrug speaks volumes.

  Neither of us know what in the hell is going on, but I can’t take the money without knowing who it’s from.

  It’s my experience that nothing comes without a price.

  “Hmm.” I run my finger along the large sum in the deposit column.

  This potentially changes everything for me. For my dad. For the kids.

  Accepting it’s Friday night and I won’t find answers anytime soon, I set the statement on the counter, smoothing out the wrinkles.

  “We’ll figure this out next week,” I say, looking at Marisa. Her eyes dart from the paper to meet my gaze, my lips slowly stretching into a small grin. “Until then, I say we celebrate.”

  I sway slightly on my feet and wave goodbye to Mrs. Bartol. I can’t help but grin as I watch her slowly shuffle down my driveway. My smile is slow and I’m a little bit drunk.

  We spent the morning gorging ourselves on mimosas and a breakfast that tasted like heaven. Or bacon-wrapped tater tots.

  Amazing.

  My stomach is full and warm and slightly bloated, but I don’t care.

  Between Marisa’s visit Friday night, nursing my hangover yesterday, and my morning today spent with Mrs. Bartol discussing the benefits of penile implants, I have heard more than I needed to, and drunk way more than my limit.

  I also feel more relaxed than I have in months—the bank statement that’s now posted on my fridge helps ease the burden and weight I’ve been carrying on my shoulders.

  “Don’t forget!” Mrs. Bartol turns around and shouts as she reaches the end of my driveway, her finger waggling in my direction. “You need to use what the Good Lord gave ya before you get all rusted and forget how everything works. No man likes a woman’s girly parts to be filled with cobwebs.”

  “Right.” I nod, equally mortified and amused that she’s shouting this while Mr. Enoch next door is pulling weeds from a flower bed. He raises his bald head in my direction, looks at Mrs. Bartol over his shoulder, and then shakes his head, returning to the task at hand. Apparently everyone in the neighborhood is accustomed to Mrs. Bartol and her sex talks.

  I smile, because the woman can talk about Viagra, blowjobs, and penile implants, but she can’t say “vagina” or “pussy.”

  I wave her off, ensuring her I’ll go out and practice soon, when my eyebrows dart up my forehead.

  A black car with the telltale Bentley insignia slows down and waits for Mrs. Bartol to cross the street. As soon as she does, and I’m about to shut the door, I pause as it slowly pulls into my driveway.

  My heart stutters in my chest as the car stops. I take in the darkened windows that don’t allow me to see anything except a glimpse of the driver.

  My brow knits together and a feeling of unease rolls through me when the car turns off and the back door opens.

  My fingers dig into the wood door and I fling my other hand to the doorframe, bracing myself.

  I watch as Donovan Lore steps out of the backseat.

  I have a split second to realize I’m slightly drunk at eleven o’clock in the morning. My hair is pulled into a messy, knotted bun on the top of my head. I have no makeup on, and my clothes—which are completely not presentable for public viewing—are in direct contrast to the suit Donovan is wearing.

  He saunters up to me, his lips pulling to the side, and I watch as his eyes drop to my pink-painted toes and then slowly rise, taking in every inch of me.

  Nervous bumps flare all over my skin as his eyes rake up my body, and when he meets my own eyes, which are narrowed on him, he gives a slight nod, seemingly enjoying what he sees.

  “Good morning, Talia.”

  His voice. It instantly reminds me of my fantasies I’ve had of him—the way I pleasured myself, thinking of my name rolling off his luscious pink lips. My cheeks warm, the light fall breeze unable to soothe my rapidly heating skin.

  Damn it.

  Barely finding my voice, I ask, “What the hell are you doing here? And how in the hell do you know where I live?”

  He smirks, his lips twisting, and oh, my God…

  As he stares at me, taking in my flushed cheeks, all I can think of is… Can he tell what I’m remembering?

  No.

  There’s no way.

  His eyes narrow and his lips spread into an arrogant smile.

  Asshole.

  “Google.”

  “What?” My hand tightens on my door. I lean against it slowly, needing it to help hold me up. My legs are suddenly trembling and my heart begins a staccato beat against my ribs.

  “I looked you up online,” he says.

  Oh. He’s answering my question.

  What question was that? I must be drunker than I thought or…shit. The man is making me stupid.

  “Can I come in?”

  He’s already taken over my office, because I haven’t been able to work or think clearly all week long while I was at the center.

  No way in hell am I letting him in here.

  “No,” I snap, knowing I sound pissy. I don’t care. “I want you to go.”

  His expression doesn’t change. There’s still a cocky grin on his face and his eyes sparkle with interest.

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  My stomach flips, butterflies taking root. A throb starts pulsing at the apex of my thighs.

  “What?” I ask, and my voice breaks. My knuckles ache from clenching the door so tightly.

  He swallows and I watch the slow, delicious journey of his Adam’s apple. God, he’s so damn sexy.

  Sexier than he was in college, for sure.

  I’ve never met a man I could compare to the asshole in front of me.

  Yet he’s different now, too—harder, maybe. More serious. The Donovan I remember used to laugh frequently and smile easily. This version of him seems way too uptight.

  “Let me in, Talia. And I’ll tell you how I plan on saving your business.”

  “What?” My head snaps back. “How did you…what are you…?”

  I’m saved from my stuttering when he simply smirks.

  I want to slap his cocky expression off his face. But then his gaze drops, his eyes narrow, and any appreciation he might have had toward me disappears.

  Just like my resolve when he mentions saving my business.

  Because I suddenly know, without him having to say it, that he’s the one who deposited that asinine amount of money into my bank account.

  And I know, as I pull the door open, lifting my hand and allowing him to enter…

  I was right.

  Nothing is given for free.

  Trailing behind Donovan as he enters my house, I watch him out of the corner my eye as he silently peruses the small space. At the same time, his presence seems to suck all the oxygen out of the room and replace it with strong pheromones that seem to scream sex. I can suddenly taste it in the air. Feel it against my skin.

  Hear it thrum in my ears.

  Sex. Sex. Sex. Naughty, angry, passionate sex. Revenge sex. Hot sex.

  It’s all I can think about as I leave Donovan in the living room where his gaze roams over every surface, seeming to take in my old furniture, shelves of books, paintings and decorations that line the space.

  I like clutter.

  It makes me feel like I have company.

  I’ve always loved my house, but seeing Donovan in it makes me feel something different—defensive,
maybe. Or protective.

  I grew up with a mom and dad who lived paycheck to paycheck my entire life. When my mom died when I was only twelve, it was just my dad, and he somehow made those paychecks continue to stretch even without my mom’s nursing income.

  Donovan grew up in the land of nannies, housekeepers, chauffeurs, and trust funds.

  He’s never had to worry about money a day in his life, where I’ve never gone a day without.

  “Want anything to drink?” I call from the kitchen. I can no longer see him, but I can still feel his presence hanging in my house like a thick, lust-filled cloud. “I’ve got whiskey, beer, water—”

  “Water,” he says, appearing in the doorway to my small galley kitchen and cutting me off. “Just water.”

  I notice my fingers trembling while I grab two glasses, fill them with ice cubes, and pour water from the filtered pitcher in my refrigerator.

  He takes the glass I hand him, and my breath hitches as his fingers dance over mine—just a whisper of a touch—and my lips part. The zing of electricity spreads up my arm and slams into my chest.

  Damn it. He still affects me just as much as he did when I was twenty.

  “Living room?” I ask, pressing the cooling glass to my lips. Hopefully the cold water will calm my racing heart.

  “After you,” he says. With a lift of his arm, he gestures for me to take the lead and I do, walking down the small hall into the living room. I stare at the couch, the place where just the other night, I got off thinking about him. I quickly slide into an oversized chair that faces the couch.

  No way can I sit there.

  Setting down his glass on a coaster on my coffee table, I see one side of his lips twitch, like he knows what I’ve done.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  He leans back on the couch, casually drapes one foot over his other knee, and spreads his arms wide on the back of my couch.

  I arch a brow. “Settling in for the day?”

  “I think this conversation might take a while. Might as well make myself comfortable.”

  I take another gulp from my water. The ice isn’t helping. The fact that he’s wearing an obviously tailor-made suit, and then runs his hand through his wheat-colored hair before dropping it back to the couch, makes everything worse.

  Spread out on my furniture, he looks like a formidable opponent. A god.

  Trouble.

  “Suit yourself. Want to start talking so we can get this over with?”

  He ignores me, his gaze roaming the knick-knacks that cover my fireplace mantle. They’re nothing special, most of them artwork and silly creations some of my kids have made for me at the center during arts-and-crafts time. Some of them are brought from school projects.

  I love them.

  “This is a nice place you have here.”

  I scoff and roll my eyes. “Please. Your guesthouse is probably bigger than my house.”

  My sarcastic comment earns me a wicked smile. “Doing drive-bys on my house?”

  “You wish,” I mutter, and clamp my lips shut.

  I don’t want flirty, sassy banter with Donovan. I want him to tell me why he’s here so he can get the hell out.

  We’re silent for several moments, him staring at me, daring me to ask…when I finally cave.

  With a frustrated sigh, I lean back in the chair. “How did you know about my business?”

  One side of his nose twitches and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped casually together. “I told you: Google.”

  “Google knows the financial status of my nonprofit organization?”

  His lips press into a line, and he shoots me a look that tells me precisely what he thinks of my sarcasm. “Google told me that you own the center and I looked into it, for Jeremiah’s sake.”

  Hearing the boy’s name causes my heart to stir. I shouldn’t have favorites, but damn it, I do. And he’s one of them.

  I arch a brow. “What difference does it make? Didn’t you tell him he can’t come back?”

  With one hand, he scrubs his chin and his cheek. I hear the quiet scratch of his stubble against his skin and my body tingles. I wonder if his scruff would be scratchy or erotic if he were to run his jaw along my inner thighs.

  Stupid body.

  “I want to save your center,” he says, his green eyes on me once again.

  “Why?”

  “Because I looked into your history and you do good work. And apparently Jeremiah feels safe going there, talking to you. Not that I’m surprised,” he says, his eyes softening and his smile turning wistful. “You were always a pleasure to be around.”

  I focus on keeping my breathing calm, collected.

  The man undoes me. Reminders of our past aren’t helping.

  Donovan used to say that I was the only person who got him—truly understood him. With me, he was free to be himself instead of living up to the expectations his parents—mostly his mother—placed on him.

  His father may have been CEO, but his mother was the boss.

  “Don’t do that,” I whisper harshly. Embarrassment floods my blood that I’m becoming emotional, but I look away from him.

  “Don’t do what, T? Remind you of how good we were? I miss you.”

  I flinch at the nickname he used to call me. His admission shocks me to my core. Heat bursts on my skin, and I close my eyes before opening them slowly, erasing any emotion, any painful memory his words incite.

  With my heartbeat thundering against my ribcage, I hope my words are professional and cool when I turn back to him. “What do you want in exchange for saving my center?”

  Because nothing is free. Not in the Lores’ world.

  I prepare myself for the answer, my fingers gripping my glass until my knuckles ache.

  “You,” he says, and even though it was what I assumed he would say, I’m still shocked. “For thirty days.”

  Disgust at his words makes my lip curl.

  “I may be the poor girl you went slumming with,” I say, leaning forward. Screw professional and calm: this man hurt me more than anyone else in my life. “But I am not, and have never been, a whore.”

  “You weren’t someone I went slumming with.” The words roll off his tongue as if he’s enraged. His jaw is tight and his teeth clench together. His hands ball into fists. “And while I plan to have you again, and I don’t plan on waiting long for that to happen, I need help with Jeremiah, and you seem to be the only person he trusts.”

  My mind swirls, and the room shifts and spins.

  I push to my feet quickly, intent on getting some space. Getting away from him.

  I can help Jeremiah. I can’t even begin to fathom the rest of what Donovan just spoke so confidently.

  “No,” I say, raising a hand to stop him from moving when he stands from the couch and matches my stance. “Just…give me a minute.”

  My voice drops and shakes. I hate it.

  I hate that even though what he’s said should repulse me, I know if I were to close my eyes and imagine…I want that, too.

  Maybe what he’s offering isn’t such a bad thing.

  I can take thirty days. Save my company. Help Jeremiah. And screw Donovan out of my system.

  This time for good.

  As the thoughts roll through my mind, I quickly weigh the pros and cons.

  The con being my heart will most likely end up shattered at the end, despite my barely there confidence that I can do this. My body shouts Yes! Heavens to Betsy! Sleep with this man again!

  And just like that…my pulse speeds. My nipples harden and tingle with anticipation.

  I walk toward my fireplace, needing space from Donovan although I can feel his stare at my back.

  Running my fingers over ugly ceramic bowls that were carved by small hands and aren’t large enough to hold anything other than a few pennies, I think of the smiles on my kids’ faces when they bring me a gift. When they ace a test I helped them study for. When they come in, tears in their eyes,
and just need a hug and some quiet time. I think of the kids who we’ve gotten off the streets, into loving foster homes, and away from homes filled with physical and emotional abuse—not to mention drugs and alcohol.

  I can’t lose what I’ve worked so hard for.

  And with my father’s health, the cost of his nursing facility, and a large bill looming, weighing down my shoulders—

  I have no choice but to accept his offer.

  “What did you have in mind?” I ask, turning to him and crossing my arms over my chest.

  Tears burn in the backs of my eyes because even though I haven’t admitted it, I’ve just essentially agreed to sell my body.

  And yet there’s no other choice.

  I’m also not nearly as disgusted with the idea as I let on.

  I want him—at least for sex.

  Donovan licks his lips and his shoulders drop marginally, relaxing. As if maybe he thought I’d say no. “Do you remember my sister?”

  I shake my head. “No, I never had the pleasure.”

  My words are clipped and I don’t feel guilty. Donovan never took me home to meet his family, always saying he was protecting me from them, not the other way around. But I felt hidden and I hated it. At least until the day his mom walked in on us at his off-campus apartment early one Sunday morning.

  We hadn’t even had sex yet, but the assumption on her face was clear.

  I can still vividly remember the proverbial steam flying from her ears when she caught sight of him with someone “like me.”

  He slowly pushes his hands onto his hips, rocks on his heels. He looks away from me for a moment before meeting my gaze again. “She died three years ago. Car accident. Took her, her husband, and their youngest child. Jeremiah was the only one to survive.”

  My fingers fly to my mouth and I gasp. “That’s…I’m sorry. I never heard.”

  “You wouldn’t. Emily’s husband was drunk as a skunk, two times over the legal limit, and it happened near Lansing. My mother paid a hefty penny to keep that suppressed from local news.”

  It doesn’t surprise me. But still…Jeremiah. “Was he in the car?”

  Donovan nods slowly. “He suffered a concussion, but the rest weren’t so fortunate.”