by Maggie Wells
Mike watched as his two friends strolled out of his office, bickering and baiting one another as they went. Tossing the folder he’d barely skimmed onto his desk, he planted a foot and swiveled his chair away from the door. He wasn’t usually this distracted. He wasn’t the type to get so hyped over a woman he couldn’t focus on business.
Keeping his eye on the ball had never been a problem with Laurel. She’d been as ambitious as he was when they first met. He’d been a hotshot with recruiting offers from some of the city’s most prestigious and influential consulting firms. Straight out of school, he’d taken a job in mergers and acquisitions and quickly proved himself to be the go-to guy for numbers and no-fail processes. Within a week of walking into a newly acquired company, Mike had a good sense of whether the business could or should be saved. At first, he found the power quite a trip. He could create or destroy on his whim.
The best part was, he never even had to get his hands dirty. All he had to do was deliver a report. Other people handled the aftermath. Then, one day not long after Tyler was born, he ran headlong into the ramifications of what he did day in and day out.
Laurel had been sick with the flu, and Mike had left work early to collect his kid from daycare. While waiting for the teachers to gather Ty’s stuff, he started a conversation with the only other dad in the room. When the man told Mike he was a stay-at-home dad, Mike expressed all the usual fake envy a working stiff reserves for the unemployed.
But the other guy wasn’t buying his BS. He scoffed at Mike’s upbeat observations at how lucky he was to spend more time with his kids, and said something about going from being a corporate buyer with a seven-digit budget, to clipping coupons for macaroni and cheese dinners. Apparently, some grocery stores doubled their value on Tuesdays. Did Mike know about double coupons? No. The guy went on to tell him his wife was still working full time as a bank teller, so they had health insurance, thank God. Good old double coupon Tuesday was the only day of the week they could afford daycare. The man’s one day of freedom, and he spent hours at his kid’s beck and call, grocery shopping, and running other errands.
He’d mumbled something about a sing-along CD trapped in his car’s player and herded a blond cherub with a backpack as big as she was out the door. Like a stay-at-home mom. At the time, Mike hadn’t appreciated the scope of those responsibilities.
Now he did.
Grabbing his phone, he dialed Melanie Rogers, the woman who spawned the twin extortionists who called themselves babysitters, and put in the request for the girls’ time. The dreaded chore done, he pushed away from his desk. If he left now, he might be able to get a few minutes of alone time with Georgie before the crew from the alarm company showed for their walk-through.
He gathered his wallet and keys from the center drawer and shoved them into his pockets. Regardless of the high priority they’d assigned to the Carson jobs, there was no way he was diverting the Four Star guys from Getta Piece. Georgie’s job was a relatively simple one, but he wanted the best for her. He’d tell Ben to finish Georgie’s place prior to starting on the Carson campaign headquarters.
“Rosie, I’m out,” he called as he breezed past the L-shaped desk in the center of the outer room. “I’ll probably head over to get the kids when I’m done.”
It was the third time he’d said the exact same thing to her that week. A phrase he’d maybe used less than five times in all the years since they started Trident Security. But Rosie didn’t say a word. She simply looked up from her computer and raised a hand. Whether or not there might have been a twinkle in her eyes was a matter of pure conjecture.
His stomach sank when he slipped into a parking space two cars behind the Four Star Alarm Systems van. He sighed as he slipped the key from the ignition. Any alone time he might get this afternoon would have to come after the walk-through. Checking his watch, he hurried toward the door. If he got them out in the next forty minutes, he and Georgie could steal a good hour and a half before he had to leave to get the kids.
The bell over the door tinkled when he entered. Georgie smiled. Ben’s head jerked, too, and a wave of pinky-red crept up his neck as he averted his gaze from a case loaded with pastry pussies and bonbons frosted like pink-tipped tits. Two more guys wearing polo shirts emblazoned with the Four Star logo hovered behind Georgie.
“Hey, Mike.”
Georgie beamed at him, oblivious to the young technician who was drooling over the baker and not the baked goods. Mike wanted to jam a fistful of shortbread cocks in the guy’s mouth. But he didn’t. That would be immature.
“Hello,” he replied, nodding coolly at the other men. “Everything going okay?”
Her answering smile was so warm and welcoming, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. She was well aware of the effect she was having on the men. And on him. She liked wielding her weapons.
“We were, uh…” Ben stammered.
“She donates a bunch of boobie doughnuts to the cops every night,” one of the younger guys said, his forehead puckered. “Seems like they’d get in trouble for having those. Like sexual harassment or something.”
Georgie smiled her you-ain’t-seen-nothin’-yet smile and pulled a tray of the double-D doughnuts from a rack. He tucked his smile into one corner of his mouth and gave her points for a dozen unspoken rack jokes as she slid the tray onto the counter and pulled a container of chocolate buttons from a shelf. She popped the top, and placed one quarter-sized candy atop the raspberry jam nipple.
“Voilà! Instant pasties!”
“Genius,” one guy hissed.
“You aren’t serious,” the other scoffed.
Ben shook his head, a smile spreading across his face and his ears flaming bright red. “Okay, you schmoes. Let’s get to work. We’ll start at the rear entrance and work our way to the top floor.”
Georgie waited until they shuffled past, then looked over at Mike. Her smile softened, and her gray eyes darkened a shade or two. God, he loved her eyes. They were truly the windows to her soul. One minute, warm as melted gunmetal, the next, as cool and sooty as a snowbank in March. They shone and flashed like polished chrome when she laughed. Darkened like storm clouds when she was aroused.
Was she turned on now? Had she been thinking about him all day? He’d certainly been fixated on her.
She braced her hands on the counter behind her and thrust her own very sweet rack at him, shooting him a flirty look from under her lashes. “How long will this take?”
He took a step closer, then stopped, rocking on his heels until his momentum balanced out. Not quite touching her, but within touching distance. “I can make the walk-through go pretty quickly. Did you have something in mind?”
She ran the tip of her tongue along the inside of her upper lip as if she needed time to concoct an adequate plan. “Well, I made a batch of buttercream frosting this morning and it came out runny. I was going to toss it, but…”
The possibilities stretched between them, unuttered, yet as random and vivid as a Jackson Pollack painting.
A pink blush stained her cheeks, and he couldn’t help wondering if she could match the exact shade in buttercream. “What color?” He sounded like he was being choked, but he didn’t care.
“Green.”
His eyes narrowed, all the erotic images he’d conjured taking on an odd sci-fi twist. He could also imagine a pretty decent Adam and Eve thing. “Green? What kind of green?”
“Neon,” she replied, eyes twinkling.
Pursing his lips, he frowned as he glanced at the cases of flesh-toned treats surrounding them. “Why would you need neon green?”
“Four dozen alien cupcakes for Jacob Wiseman’s ninth birthday party.”
“I see.” He leaned in and brushed a kiss across her lips. “Am I a pervert for being turned on?”
She tilted her head inquisitively. “By alien cupcakes?”
“By the thought of covering you in
neon green icing.”
Her smile was feline. “Not at all.”
“Hey, Mike?” a gruff, masculine voice called from the hall. “You want visible cameras in the alley, right?”
Sighing, he said, “Duty calls.”
“Go earn your exorbitant fees,” she said, twirling out of his grasp. “I have a bridal shower cake to O’Keefe.”
“O’Keefe?” he asked, moving toward the back door. “Do I want to know?”
“Flower or vulva? Always best to keep ’em guessing.”
* * * *
Georgie threw the bolt on the front door and flipped the sign, figuring the walk-through would take some time. She spent a few minutes de-stocking—packing boxes of goodies for the alarm guys and the folks at the local precinct. The penis cookies would go to the local women’s shelter. The director once told her the ladies enjoyed chomping on a few after the kids were put to bed.
She liked hearing the sound of low masculine murmurs as she cleaned and disinfected the stainless steel work surfaces. Liked seeing Mike comfortable enough in her place to show the alarm guys around without her input. Still, she felt restless as she flipped through her planner to review the next day’s orders.
They hadn’t done anything more than steal a few hours in the sack. She wasn’t complaining. Once he got in his groove, Mike Simmons had proved to be an enthusiastic lover. But while the sex was great, she wanted to get better acquainted. Maybe spend some time together clothed. His kids seemed nice. She’d loved the hand-drawn thank-you cards he’d delivered after she’d sent the chocolate chip cookies home with him. She liked kids. In general, kids seemed to like her.
Gerry and Cara had a sweet little boy. Gerald Carson III. Trey. They called him Trey, which made Georgie shudder. Being a third was bad enough. The nickname sounded belittling. She didn’t see her brother much. She kept early hours, and, as a professional politician, Gerry’s ran late. They usually only saw one another at holidays and Carson command performances. Like the one next weekend.
Georgie’s head lifted as a thought took hold. Maybe she’d ask Mike if he wanted to go to Gerry’s thing with her. He’d have to get a babysitter and all, and she’d have to subject him to a whole lot of family blah-blah-blah, but Gerry’s launch should be a nice enough party. If there was one thing the Carson family excelled at, it was throwing class-A wingdings. No cheesy DJs or campaign logo cookies for the Carson clan. There’d be fantastic food, flowing booze, and a swinging band.
Yes. She’d ask him if he wanted to go out with her. Decision made, she scratched a niggling itch at the base of her skull and glanced at her planner. The weekend was coming fast. Even without the storefront business, she had enough orders to keep her on her feet for the next two days straight. Biting her lip, she made a mental note to call the culinary institute to see if she could score some free labor in the form of an internship.
By the time she finished her prep, the men were done with their walk-through. Tugging at the strings of her stained and splattered apron, Georgie moved to meet them at the door to her kitchen. She didn’t care how handy they were with their wires and sensors, no one came in her kitchen unless they were prepared to bake.
“All set?” she asked, pulling the apron over her head.
The team leader from the alarm company—Ben, according to his polo shirt—ducked his head. “Yes, ma’am. Looks to be pretty straightforward. Probably only take a day to get you lined out.” He glanced at his clipboard, then at Mike. “You want me to call you to see about scheduling, or work directly with Ms. Walters?”
Mike said, “Call me,” cutting off Georgie’s reply.
She must have looked as miffed as she felt about his high-handed tactics, because he faced her head-on, his expression earnest, and, frankly, too damn appealing.
“I usually have the systems guys coordinate with me so I can handle a lot of the tech specs and logistics without disturbing you with multiple phone calls. I run through the full checklist, then work with the client, you, on the best dates, times, etcetera.”
Mollified by his quick explanation, she let him off the hook. “Oh. Okay, fine.”
“Great.” Ben smiled and extended his hand to her. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Walters. This sure is an…interesting business you have here.”
Georgie chuckled, watching as a dull flush colored the man’s cheeks again. “Pays the bills.” She smiled at the other crew members. “I packed some goodies if you want to take them with you. You have to promise to share responsibly. My inbox is already packed full of dire predictions for the fate of my eternal soul.”
“Awesome,” the pimple-faced blond said with a wide smile.
The dark-haired man beside him eyed her warily. “There aren’t any…” He waved a vague hand in the direction of his crotch. “…you know, in there, are there?”
Tipping her head to the side, she gave him a pitying stare. “Are you telling me you’ve had one all these years and you can’t even call it by name?”
“Mine’s the Big Lebowski,” the young one supplied cheerfully. “Named for The Dude.”
Georgie’s eyebrows rose, and she wondered if Jeff Bridges and the Coen brothers ought to be made aware of the homage. Leading them out into the storefront, she snagged the pink bakery boxes and distributed them to the men from Four Star Alarm, saving Junior’s for last. “I meant ‘penis,’ but I hope your ‘Dude’ abides in health and happiness for many years to come.”
In a scuffle of shuffling work boots and good-natured chuckles, her guests followed her to the door. Flipping the lock, she opened the door with a flourish. “Thanks for coming to Getta Piece, where we serve our goodies fresh and moist every day.”
She locked the door behind them and spun to face Mike. “Everything look about as you expected?” He was looking straight at her. Staring, as a matter of fact. Not the good kind of stare. She’d place this one more in the puzzled-slash-pissy end of the spectrum. “What?”
“It’s cold out,” he said at last, gestured to her bare legs. “Winter.”
“Pretty sure I heard the news somewhere,” she said, lifting a brow as she sauntered across the retail space. “They write stuff in red on the calendar. Of course, no one uses calendars anymore,” she added with a shrug. “Your point?”
He had the good grace to blush, but couldn’t stop himself from trying to talk his way out of the corner he’d boxed himself in. “I’m saying, maybe you’d be warmer in some jeans or something.”
Georgie took her time lowering her gaze, and wondering why Mr. Armani suit cared what she covered with an apron all day. “Well,” she drawled the word as she ran a finger under the frayed hem of her cutoff shorts, “technically, these were jeans once.” She pivoted and stuck her ass out in his direction. “See? I believe Levi Strauss has stamped his name on this particular pair.”
“I’m just—”
“Of course, I prefer the Daisy Fuentes ones. I cut those off super-short so they’d be real Daisy Dukes.”
Mike didn’t look amused by the correlation, so, of course, she did what she always did when running into a wall of disapproval. She rammed harder.
“They have rhinestones,” she added with a smile as bright as faux trim. As if she truly believed the added embellishment would be the ticket to appease his fashion sensibilities. “Unfortunately, I had a wrestling match with one of the mixers, and my poor Daisies were doused. Laundry day is Sunday.”
He gave her a bland stare. “Shorter than those?”
Tiring of this roundabout interrogation, she propped a hand on her hip and thrust her chest out. The belligerent stance strained the already thin fabric of the concert T-shirt she’d sliced the sleeves off years ago. If he wanted to criticize her work uniform, he could argue fashion with Kurt Cobain.
“I’m a baker, Mike. I fire my ovens at four thirty, and sometimes I don’t stop baking for twelve hours,” she said
, gesturing in the direction of the kitchen. “When I’m not shoving things into the oven, I’m taking them out. Between those times, I mix, knead, pound, punch, and pipe dozens of meatuses on dicks of every size, shape, and flavor.”
“Meatuses?”
“Dick slits,” she clarified, smirking as she delivered the information.
“Oh.”
“My job is hot, Mike, and not because I’m pretty.” She pulled the elastic from the bun atop her head. “Even at ten below out there, I’m toasty warm in here.” Fluffing her hair, she let messy waves tumble around her face. He liked to touch her hair, and she wasn’t above throwing some temptation in his path. “My job is also messy. And sticky. Food coloring doesn’t always come out in the wash.”
“I, uh, I just—”
“Figure I dress like a wanton woman to help sell my wares?” She flashed a grin. “You betcha I do.”
“I wasn’t going to say—”
“No, but you were thinking it. And yes, I admit I maintain a certain offbeat style to fit the neighborhood and the demographic I serve,” she said. “But I also dress for comfort, convenience, and to suit myself. If you don’t like my wardrobe choices, I suggest you stop judging me and start working toward getting me naked.”
He let his hand fall helpless at his side, closed his eyes, and gave his head a shake. “Sorry.”
She rewarded him with a smile and a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. Man, she loved his mouth. Loved the way his scratchy beard encroached on his lip line. Reveled in the contrast with the plush softness of his lips. He always tasted of mint, but not too strongly. Like he ate exactly one on the way over, but didn’t want to come across as too eager to please.
Tickled by his obvious desire to keep kissing and stop talking, she whirled away from his grasping hands. “Apology accepted.”
Taking his hand, she pulled him behind her as she walked toward the stairs. She added extra sway to her step. The man couldn’t get off completely scot-free, after all. Who did he think he was, Tim Gunn?
“I was hoping we could take this relationship of ours out for a ride sometime. I’d wear actual pants, or maybe a skirt. A top with sleeves,” she added as if throwing in the most desirable option any man could ask. “We could eat something other than cookies. You could wonder what I had on under those boring old clothes.”