by Maggie Wells
She was going to eat some penis in her kitchen, and, this time, it damn well wouldn’t be made out of shortbread.
Chapter 11
“So…” James propped a shoulder against the doorframe, coffee cup in hand. “Georgianna Carson?”
Mike looked up from the complicated schematics filling his dual computer screens. Most of the time, the other guys ran screaming when they saw line after line of technical jargon, but his trusty force field didn’t seem to be working today. “Georgie Walters,” he corrected, keeping his tone mild as he tapped a couple random commands into the program. In tandem, the screens flashed and reloaded. He looked up. The merest possibility of computer-related meltdown was usually enough to scare James witless, but the guy stayed put. “She changed her name legally when she moved home to Chicago.”
James slid into Mike’s office wearing the sly smile of a guy who has caught someone doing something naughty. Mike called on every ounce of willpower not to squirm under the scrutiny.
“Huh. Interesting.”
“Not really,” Mike grumbled, clicking his mouse.
For the thousandth time, he told himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Their work with Getta Piece was nearly completed. The contract with the Carson campaign was new. Despite her unconventional looks and career choices, Georgie and her brother seemed to have a solid relationship. As long as they came clean with the Carson campaign, there should be no issue.
In theory.
When he’d mentioned something along the same lines to Georgie the other night, he caught a glimpse of worry. Mike spent a full day trying to figure out exactly why the pucker between her brows bothered him so much. The answer struck him as he was lying all alone in his big, empty bed. He’d never seen her look unsure of herself until he’d implied he might be forced to choose between her and her family.
“Why?”
Lost in his own thoughts, Mike groped for the thread of the conversation, but came up empty on an appropriate response, so he whipped out an old parental standard. “Why what?”
“Why’d she change her name?”
Mike clamped his mouth shut. She’d given him all the obvious reasons. Eyebrow piercings. Tattoos. Purple hair and penis cakes. None of those things meshed well with public life. Particularly in a family as notable and notorious as the Carsons. Name change notwithstanding, they had a hold on her. Money was at the root, of course. She’d told him a twisting tale about trust funds, legacies, and financial contortions left even his logical mind reeling. But there was more. Guilt. Love. The two crucial ingredients mixed into most family relationships.
She loved her brother. From what Mike could see, Gerry loved her, too, and didn’t give a damn about the way she styled her hair or the jewelry she wore. But her parents were a different story. Gerald was exactly what one would expect, but his wife, Georgie’s mother, well, she was a piece of work all on her own.
“I think she wanted some distance from the Carson family legacy,” he told James at last.
“She did, or they did?” the other man persisted.
Mike shrugged, not wanting to dissect Georgie’s family life for his friend’s entertainment. “Probably both, I’d guess.”
“You’d guess,” James repeated as if he’d uttered the words in a foreign language. “Seems to me you would have a handle on the answer, seeing as how you’re sleeping with a woman who is not only one of our clients, but is intimately connected to our biggest client to date.”
“How are things going, by the way?” Colm said, striding into the room with his travel mug and a familiar-looking bakery box.
Mike narrowed his eyes at the gold foil sticker with the Getta Piece logo stamped affixed to the lid. “Why are you asking me? Looks like you’ve gone right to the source.”
“I did, but I want your take,” he said as he slid the box onto the desk. “Your girlfriend sent these for you special. Says you have a thing for inverted nipples.”
Sliding a finger under the tab, Mike popped the lid on the box. “I do not. I simply said all nipples are good nipples.”
James raised his mug in salute. “Amen.”
Colm peered into the box with interest.
Mike had to laugh when he saw his friend’s face fall with disappointment. She’d sent a half-dozen fruit tarts, each one a beautifully glazed work of art instead of the expected boobs. A scrap of baking parchment with writing was tucked into the corner. Mike reached for the note, but Colm was faster.
“I hear you like fruity and tarty things. Must mean you like me,” Colm read with a smirk.
Mike snatched the note away.
Cradling his travel mug in both hands, Colm leveled him with a steady stare. “So, I guess we need to talk about the family connection. Georgie says the campaign job shouldn’t be a problem, but we should talk to Gerry Carson, not the parents.”
Mike felt his hackles rise. “You went there to ask her what we should do?”
Colm raised an eyebrow. “You’re invested. So is she, apparently.” He shot James a look of confirmation. “We thought one of us should feel the situation out.”
“I felt the situation out,” Mike retorted.
“While feeling her up?” James asked laconically.
Mike stiffened, offended his friends felt the need to go around him. “We talked. I was prepared to talk to you two this morning, but you don’t really need my input on this, I guess.”
“We want your input, Mike,” Colm said quietly. “We just didn’t want you to have to give it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Colm glanced at James and the lanky redhead sighed as he slid to the edge of the seat and fixed him with his best “I’m gonna level with you” stare. “Colm and I talked after you left the other night. We want to remove you from the equation on both accounts.”
Mike shot to his feet. “What? What the fuck?” He slapped the side of the bakery box and would have sent Georgie’s gorgeous pastries flying if Colm didn’t still have his cop reflexes. “You can’t… I’m a partner here. You can’t just—”
“Actually, we can.” Colm placed the box on the opposite corner of the desk and kept his voice low and calm, though his color was high. “We agreed to majority rules in matters impacting the company’s bottom line. If this goes sideways on us, the loss will most definitely hit the bottom line.”
Mike opened and closed his mouth, trying to gather the blown fragments of his mind and form a coherent argument. Trident was his idea. He was the one who pulled the business together. Put them all together. They couldn’t shove him out.
“Mostly, we want you to keep getting laid,” James said quietly.
Mike turned his glare on him, incredulous. “You want me to—”
“Keep being happy,” Colm interjected.
“Keep being happy?” he mocked, his head swiveling from one partner to the other. “Are you shitting me?”
“Not in the least.” James peered into the box, then selected a raspberry-dotted custard tart with broken crust. “You hurt this one. You don’t deserve it,” he announced, peeling the foil wrapper enough to expose the battered crust.
“I…” At a complete loss for how to respond to any of this, he dropped into his chair. “Christ.”
James took a wolfish bite of the delicate treat. Mike winced, knowing exactly how much care Georgie baked into her tarts. James’s ferocious chomping slowed and his eyes grew wide and round. He pulled the remaining tart away from his mouth and eyed the pastry in amazement.
“Holy fuck.” James wiped custard from the corner of his mouth and licked it off his finger. “Is that lemon in there?”
Mike shrugged. “Possibly.”
James sniffed the tart before attacking again. “Tastes almond-y too,” he said as he chewed. “Amazing.”
Intrigued, Colm flipped the top of the box open and pok
ed a finger at another one. “Think those are peaches?”
Raising a brow, Mike inspected the pastry. “Apricot would be my guess.”
“Those look like figs.” James gestured to another one of the selection with the remainder of his tart. He popped the last piece into his mouth and hummed with satisfaction. “She’s a fucking genius.”
“Cordon Bleu trained,” Mike said with pride. “Pâtissière in a couple Michelin-starred restaurants.”
“Fucking genius,” James repeated, eying the box covetously.
Colm chewed the pastry topped with perfectly uniform slices of juicy apricot with more respect and restraint. “Delicious. I think this has honey, too.” He craned his neck to call out the open door. “Hey, Rosie, come get one of these tart things Mikey’s girlfriend sent over. They’re amazing.”
Seconds later, Rosie appeared in the doorway, her skirt and blouse perfectly pressed, her dark hair tamed into waves she wore flowing past her shoulders. “Do not call me a tart.” The lilt of feigned Puerto Rican accent gave her words a touch of sass that clashed with her conservative appearance.
“Oh, those are lovely,” she said, gazing into the box as if the tarts were precious works of art. Clasping her hands under her chin, she fixed her dark gaze on Mike. “May I? Really?”
“Of course,” he answered without hesitation.
She gave him a small, pleased smile as she reached for a tart decorated with concentric circles of strawberries and blueberries. “Well, unlike some people around here, I realize your lady friend most likely made these for your enjoyment. Possibly for the children. Certainly not for the staff.” Rosie divided a pointed glare between his partners.
“Georgie bakes things to make people happy,” Mike explained. “She’s not particular about who enjoys them.”
“I bet she’s more particular than you think,” Rosie said sagely. “They are beautiful, though. Tell Ms. Walters thank you for me.”
They all watched as she walked away. Her hips swayed under the slim, dark skirt, but the wiggle in her walk wasn’t exaggerated. Rosie was too ladylike for those tricks. She simply had natural assets that defied any artificial augmentation. The second she slid behind her desk, they averted their gazes.
“Man, she can be a hard-ass,” James muttered under his breath.
“So not the adjective that comes to mind,” Colm said.
“Nothing hard about our Rosie. She’s a gem.” Mike turned to James. “You antagonize her.”
“By breathing?” he asked defensively.
“Pretty much.” Colm focused his attention on Mike. “Man, all we’re saying is we’ll sort any conflict with the family out. You work your stuff out with Georgie. We don’t want any trouble for anyone. Least of all, you,” he added gruffly.
“I can handle my own love life.”
James slapped the edge of the desk and started to rise. “We know. We’re trying to help you not blow it.”
“Not blow it,” he repeated dumbly.
“You seem to like her, she seems to like you,” Colm said simply. “Let us handle the complications with the business. We’re not doing you any favors. The complications with the females are a helluva lot harder.”
“Amen,” James muttered darkly.
Mike stared at them, nonplussed. “So my only job is not to blow it?”
“And handle all our other customers while we clean up after you,” James added with a dismissive wave. “No problem, right?”
“Okay,” he said slowly. He rocked in his chair as the two men made to leave. “By the way, I invited Georgie to come to Aiden’s birthday party at Trampland. Where do kid parties fall in the not-blowing-it scale?”
Colm gaped at him, surprise and pleasure lighting his features. “You invited her to my kid’s birthday party?”
Mike nodded. “Hope you don’t mind. When I told her the name of the place, she was disappointed to learn Trampland wasn’t some kind of kinky sex bar, but seemed okay with the idea of pizza and trampolines.”
“Pizza and puking, you mean,” James said gruffly. “Who came up with the bright idea of stuffing kids silly and letting them bounce for hours?”
“You can’t think of anyplace better to take a woman on a date?” Colm asked.
“We’re going to some place one of her culinary school friends opened tomorrow, but she wants to get to know the kids, so I thought Aiden’s party…”
Colm’s jaw dropped, but he quickly regained control. “Is hanging with the kids a good idea at this point?”
“I think if there’s going to be anything more between us, she has to interact with them sometime.”
“Let her know what she’s in for upfront? Great tactic, if you don’t want to keep her,” James said snidely.
Mike ignored the tone, but he had to admit he was on board with the logic. “She offered to bake a cake.” He watched Colm wrestle with a moment of hesitation, then let him off the hook. “Of the non-anatomically correct variety. I told her he likes the Ninja Turtles.”
“A cake would be awesome, but she doesn’t need to go to a lot of trouble. We were going to grab one at the store, because you know the kids couldn’t care less about the food thing,” Colm said with a grimace.
“She says she wants to.”
“I hate those friggin’ turtles.” Colm rolled his eyes. “A day of pizza, puking, and possible nightmares.”
“I told her to make them cartoonish, not dark,” Mike was quick to assure him.
For a moment, James looked uncharacteristically worried. “Hey, you really think Georgianna Carson will be okay with coming to a kid’s birthday party?”
“I have no idea about Georgianna Carson, but Georgie Walters is excited to be coming to a kid’s birthday party.” He shot Colm a glance, looking for backup. His friend looked uncomfortable. “You’ll see,” he said, trying to cover the niggle of worry creeping into his own thoughts on the subject. “When she’s not playing the dutiful daughter, the woman is practically a cartoon character herself.”
The moment the words were out, he knew he was damn lucky Georgie hadn’t heard them. James, ever-oblivious to the ins and outs of a long-term relationship, laughed and strolled toward his office. Colm, on the other hand, pierced him with a look. “I hope you wouldn’t be stupid enough to say stuff like that to her.”
Dragging his hand over his mouth, Mike shook his head. “No. No. Of course not.”
Colm nodded and started toward the door. “Good, because saying she’s a cartoon character could be one of those innocent-but-stupid comments that lead to a freeze-out.”
Annoyed by his friend’s preachy tone, Mike gave voice to one last stupid thought. “I guess you’d know all about what to do when you figure out you’re involved with someone who isn’t quite who you think she is.”
His friend froze for a second. When he looked over his shoulder, Colm’s eyes were cool and hard. “I can tell you what not to do,” he said in a dangerously quiet tone.
Feeling like an ass, but desperate for feedback, Mike leapt on the offer. “What?”
“Don’t judge. Don’t push. Don’t assume you know whatever you think you know.” Colm broke long enough to draw a deep breath. His voice softened as he went on. “Keep your mouth shut, let things develop as they should, and for God’s sake, don’t fuck things up. This could be something really good.”
“Could be a disaster,” Mike parried.
Colm’s head bobbed in acknowledgement. “Right. But you don’t have to be the idiot who snatches defeat from the jaws of victory. Go for the win.”
* * * *
Georgie smiled as she watched Mike take in the subtly seductive atmosphere of the restaurant. Truthfully, she couldn’t blame him for taking time to absorb the atmosphere. Her friend Charlie pulled out all the stops. Somehow, he’d made the tiny space he’d leased feel as cozy, but decadent
as a sultan’s palace. Shifting on her lushly padded floor cushion, she reached for the glass of perfectly chilled champagne the owner had poured himself and took a sip of the effervescent liquid. If he didn’t stop craning his neck to peek into the next dining area, her date would topple right off his pillow.
“This was once a Japanese restaurant,” she said, drawing Mike’s attention to her. He jerked upright and floated a sheepish smile in her direction. She gestured to the shoji screen partitions. “The reason there are all these separate rooms.”
“And no chairs,” he said gruffly.
She lowered her lashes and sent him a flirty smile. “Only these nice, cushy pillows.”
“Stop.”
The command was husky enough to make her want to press his buttons, but she’d been the one to push for a more visible relationship, so she resisted. “He’s really done an amazing job. And wait until you taste the fondue. Incredible. I hope he brings us the one with caramelized shallots in gruyere. Simply delectable. He serves it with roasted new potatoes, sautéed mushrooms, and this spicy sausage he makes himself.” She kissed the tips of her fingers in a very Gallic, if exaggerated, show of approval. Catching Mike’s slightly skeptical frown, she rushed to reassure him. “And bread, of course.” She caught his wide-eyed stare and blushed. “Sorry. I tend to get a tad foodie sometimes.”
“Occupational hazard. You look sexy when you talk food. Aroused.”
The blush intensified, but she smiled, pleased by the astute assessment. “Food turns me on.”
Mike reached across the low table and took her hand. “I have to confess something.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve never had fondue.”
She gasped softly. “A virgin.”
“Be gentle with me.”
“If gentle is what you really want,” she retorted, adding a hefty dollop of doubt to her tone. “As long as you don’t double-dip, you’ll be fine.”