by Cat Carmine
I scrub my face with my hands. Second to sex, the thing I most want right now is coffee. I gaze down once more at her sleeping form and then head to the kitchen to put on a pot.
As I stand naked in the kitchen, I poke my head into the fridge to see if I actually have anything to feed her. Should I offer to take her to brunch? Go get pastries?
To be honest, I have no idea of the etiquette here, because I’ve never stuck around this long the morning after. Either I’m out the door right after sex, or I’m putting them into a cab and sending them on their merry way with a kiss and a smile. Letting Bree spend the night went against everything I normally feel so adamantly about.
I chew my bottom lip thoughtfully as the coffee maker gurgles. Trent’s got one of those fancy espresso machines, and he insisted on leaving it here for me, but I’m more of a regular coffee kind of guy. I brought my own coffee pot from home, the same one I’ve had for the last seven or eight years. It still makes a mean cup of coffee and right now, the aroma drifting through the kitchen is making my mouth water.
That’s not the only thing making my mouth water though. The thought of Bree sleeping naked, just a few rooms away, is enough to make me salivate even more. Damn, that woman. I can still taste her on my tongue, on my lips. Her scent is all over me, and I fucking love it.
So, yeah, I had let her stay over. That doesn’t mean anything, of course. Except maybe that I wanted the chance to fuck her again. And okay, the thought of having coffee and pastries with her isn’t bad either — she’s smart, she’s funny, she’s beautiful, she’s talented. Hell, the girl made her own damn dress. That’s … well, let’s just say I’ve never met a woman who could make her own dress before, let alone look that fucking sexy in it.
The coffee maker is just giving off its final sputtering hiss when I hear her stirring in the bedroom. I pour two cups, intending to take her one, but when I turn around, she standing in the kitchen with me.
“Hi,” she says softly.
A slow grin builds on my face. She’s dug up one of my plaid shirts and is wearing that — and, I’m pretty sure, nothing else. Her red hair against the red and black check is stunning, but my eyes go straight to the swell of her chest where she’s left the top few buttons undone, and then her creamy white thighs down below.
“Hi.” I can’t stop smiling at her. I’m starting to feel like an idiot, but damn, I never knew how sexy it could be to see a woman wearing one of my shirts. Or maybe just this woman.
“I found this shirt on the back of your chair — I hope it’s okay.”
“It’s perfect,” I tell her. “You’re perfect.”
She blushes and it’s fucking adorable. I pass her a mug and then use my free hand to pull her close to me. I let my hand drop low, cupping her naked ass and drawing her to me. My cock is already nuzzling in between her legs, seeking out her heat. I was right that she isn’t wearing anything under the shirt, and I can feel her slickness coating me already. I groan into her hair.
“I hope you don’t have any plans today,” I tell her. “Because there are still so many ways I want to fuck you.”
She giggles, winding one arm up around my neck. “Really? Because I think we covered most of them last night.”
“Oh, we covered a lot for sure, but there are so many more.”
“Well, in that case, I’m going to need this caffeine.” She brings her mug to her lips.
“There’s a whole pot,” I say, gesturing to the counter. “I planned ahead.”
“Smart,” she says nodding. She takes another swallow of her coffee and then, to my eternal disappointment, takes a step backwards and away from me, turning to face the rest of the penthouse.
“This is a nice place,” she says. “I barely even looked at it last night.”
“Well, we were quite busy, as you might recall.”
“Yes, I do recall.” She takes another couple of steps forward, surveying the living room.
“God, Luke,” she laughs. “What did you do, raid the Loft & Barn warehouse?”
I chuckle. “Something like that,” I say. I’m impressed that she recognized our stuff, but I really don’t care to get into any chitchat about work right now. Not when this gorgeous creature is standing in front of me. In fact, all I want to do right now is bend her over the kitchen island and take her from behind. In fact, I think I might do just that.
I set my coffee down on the counter and take another step towards her.
“How come you don’t own anything from Bailey Living?” she asks, turning around.
I laugh. “Why would I?”
Her forehead creases a little. “I don’t know — because they have nice stuff?”
“Uh, yeah, if you’re eighty years old.”
Her brow furrows further, her mouth tightening into a straight line. “What does that mean?”
I’m sensing a distinct change in the atmosphere, so I try to keep it light. “Come on, Bree — Barely Living?”
She sets her mug down on the island, so hard it sounds like a gunshot.
“Now you’re just being rude,” she says. There’s a genuine bitterness in her voice and I’m confused beyond belief.
“Hey, I was just kidding,” I say, putting my hands up in mock surrender.
Bree is still glaring at me, and even though it’s maddeningly cute the way her brow furrows and her nostrils flare, I’m more confused than anything else. Just as I’m about to say something, a ringing comes from the hallway.
No, not a ringing. A trilling digital version of …
“Baby Got Back?” I say, raising my eyebrows.
Bree turns on her heel and stalks to the hallway, where she dropped her purse last night. I take the opportunity to check out her very fine ass as she goes.
She answers the phone and ducks into the alcove near the front door while she talks. I sip my coffee while I wait, and I’m almost finished my cup by the time she returns.
When she rounds the corner, her irritation is gone, but in its place is something more … conflicted. She bites her lip, that same red lip that I bit down on last night.
“I have to go,” she says. Even from here I can see the way her green eyes are etched with indecision.
“Are you sure?” I take a couple of steps towards her, coming out from behind the island, and I can feel her eyes drifting down my naked chest, all the way to my cock. It hasn’t lost any of its stiffness, and my erection is pointing straight at her. She licks her lips, making my dick twitch even more, but then she sighs.
“I’m sure,” she says. “I have to go to work.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“I know, but we’ve had an emergency, and they need me.”
“I hope everything is okay?” I still have no idea what she does, so I don’t know if emergency means four-alarm house fire kind of emergency, or someone called in sick to their shift at the Gap kind of emergency.
She waves off my concern. “Just PR stuff. But they need me to sign off on some decisions and I like to make them look me in the eye when they give me bad news.” She says this last part with a grin, and my respect for her grows even further. Okay, so she’s got some kind of important job, and she knows how to handle herself in it.
I like her even more.
Damn. The thought comes to me unbidden, but as soon as it does, I realize how much truth there is to it. I like this girl. I barely know her and I’m already thinking about when I can see her again.
“I guess I’ll go get dressed,” she says, fingering the plaid shirt of mine she’s wearing.
“Sure. Do you need anything?”
She shakes her head, then pauses. “Actually, could you call me a cab?”
I smile. “Of course.”
“Thanks. I hate to bother my driver on a Saturday morning.”
Her driver? I shake my head. This girl just gets more and more intriguing.
I call her a cab while she heads back into my bedroom to change. When she emerges, she’s wearing the green dre
ss again, though it looks out of place at this hour. Especially with her hair pulled back into a messy kind of ponytail, and her face scrubbed free of make-up.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, she’s still a knock-out, but …
“I guess this is what they call the walk of shame, huh?” she says, as if reading my thoughts.
I shake my head. “Nah. I think they call it the cab ride of satisfaction.”
She smiles. “I like that better.” She grabs her purse and glances down at her phone. “Did they say what time the cab would be here?”
I glance over at the clock on the microwave. “Probably … about now.”
“Right. I should go then. Thank you … for a nice evening.”
“Right.” I cross the room towards her, suddenly feeling more than a bit stupid about the fact that I’m still naked. “I had a great time. We should do this again some time.”
“Yeah,” she says, though I can sense the hesitation in her voice. She doesn’t say anything else.
“So … you should give me your number then,” I prod. I feel even stupider still. Why am I suddenly the one lusting for someone after one night of sex? I’m supposed to be the one leaving, the one walking out the door, the one you know is never going to call. I almost reach down to touch my balls, just to make sure they’re still there.
Bree clutches her little black purse — it’s one of those tiny ones that doesn’t seem capable of holding anything more than a couple of Advil and a stick of gum, and right now she’s squeezing it so tight that I’m surprised she doesn’t twist the damn thing in half.
“Luke, this has been really nice but …let’s just let this be what it is.”
My heart gives a small lurch.
“And what would that be?” I try to keep my voice level.
“One perfect night,” she says softly. Her green eyes shine. “Let’s just let it be one perfect night. Something to remember… but not to repeat.”
“Sure.” I force the word out of my mouth, though it feels as unnatural as the one time Trent tried to get me to try eating escargot. “Sure, yeah, that’s cool.”
That’s cool. Typical guy, right?
She leans in to kiss me, catching me right on the corner of my mouth. Her lips are soft and taste faintly of coffee and something cinnamon-y.
“Bye Luke.”
“Bye Bree.”
And just like that, she’s gone. And I want to punch something.
I don’t know if I’m mad at her for leaving … or at myself for caring.
This isn’t who I am. I’m not the guy who gets attached — especially not after one night.
I stare at the back of the door and sigh. I can still smell her perfume lingering in the penthouse — fuck, I can still smell her. Her scent is all over me.
I shake my head. Enough. I need a shower, and I need another coffee, and then I need to get the fuck out of the house for a while. Because as much as it stings, Bree walking out this morning is the best thing that could have happened.
She doesn’t know it, but she saved me from some dopey, misguided crush. I don’t do girlfriends, and right now, running the business in Trent’s stead, I definitely don’t have time for a relationship.
Deciding that should make me feel better, but I still feel strangely glum as I hop in the shower.
I’m just finishing up when I hear my phone ringing. I throw a towel around my waist, shake my hair out, and stride out of the bathroom to the bedroom. I glance at the phone — Trent. I jam the answer button.
“Yeah?”
“Well, good morning, sunshine,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “What’s up?”
“How is it that I’m the one with the newborn, and I’m still more chipper than you in the morning?”
“I … had a busy night.”
“You … oh. Say no more.” I can hear Trent chuckling on the other end of the line. “I take it that means the Design Times fundraiser wasn’t a total bust?”
“No, I guess it wasn’t a total bust,” I admit.
“So who was she? Oh God, not someone from the industry, right? Luke…”
“Not someone from the industry,” I assure him, cutting him off before he can lecture me. I mean, come on. I know better than to shit where I eat. Of course, it’s a bit rich coming from Trent, who married a girl from our own marketing department.
“So who is she?” he prods.
“You wouldn’t know her,” I say. “She … she works in fashion.” I mean, I’m guessing. Since she said she made her own dress and all.
“Huh. Interesting.”
I sigh, tightening the towel around my waist. “Is there something you wanted?”
“Right!” Trent seems to collect himself. “Sorry. I just wanted to see how it went last night, but I guess I’ve gotten my answer already.”
I grin. “Yeah. Yeah, it was fine. Decent scotch. No mimes.”
“No… mimes?” Trent sounds confused. “That’s good, I guess?”
“Yeah, trust me, it’s good.”
I hear Libby start to cry in the background. “Do you need to go?”
“I don’t know, hang on.” I hear him shuffle the phone, and then his muffled voice calling out to his wife. Then he finally comes back on the line. “Yeah, I think I should probably go.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Right. Oh, one more thing — remember you’ve got that Trinity Central Hospital thing this week, right?”
“On it, boss. Now go tend to your wife and child.”
“Right. I’ll talk to you later. Oh, wait, one more thing.”
“Another thing?”
“Yeah, sorry, I just remembered — Hannah showed me that Bailey Living is on Instagram now.”
“So?”
“So I thought it was interesting, is all. Lyle Bailey is the kind of guy who still uses a Rolodex instead of a smartphone, and his marketing guy is about as old and out of touch as he is.”
“Huh.” I think about Trent telling me that they’d taken out a bunch of advertising spots recently too. “I guess they must have someone new in marketing.”
“Yeah,” Trent says thoughtfully. “Someone young and keen, probably. They must be pretty savvy too, if they can get old Lyle to roll over on this stuff.”
“Instagram, Trent? Honestly, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”
“I don’t know,” Trent says. “I wouldn’t count them out completely. Just keep an eye on it, okay?”
“I will,” I promise him. “Now don’t you have a crying baby to tend to?”
“Yes. And a wife who seriously deserves a break. Keep me posted, okay?”
“Will do.”
6
Bree
Looking at Rich’s face, and the other department heads sitting around at the table at the Bailey Living offices, I can already tell this is going to be a long day. Thank God I went home and changed first.
I look down at my red pencil skirt, the one that hugs my curves, and the flowy yellow blouse that skims over my chest.
I wonder what Luke would think of this outfit?
The thought comes to me out of nowhere, and I try to push it aside and focus on what Rich is saying. Luke is history — I nipped that in the bud. I don’t have time for … whatever that was.
Even if it was amazing.
Even if he made me feel something I didn’t even think was possible.
I stare at Rich’s mouth, hidden under his bushy grey mustache, and try to focus on the words coming out of it.
“It has to be now, Bree.”
I sigh. “Why?”
He shakes his head. “Too many people know. The risk is getting too high.”
“The risk has always been high,” I point out. I hated the idea of lying to everyone about my father’s death, but I’d agreed to go along with it because Rich insisted it was what was best for the business, and I would do anything for the company my father devoted his life to. Rich had been his Vice President for yea
rs, so I had to assume he also had the company’s best interests at heart.
“Yes, but … Sasha, can you hand me that folder please?”
Sasha, Rich’s assistant, pushes a manilla file folder across the table. She looks as bored as always, though I can’t believe Rich would drag her in on a Saturday. I had inherited Dad’s secretary-slash-assistant, Geetika, but I couldn’t imagine subjecting her to having to come in on the weekend.
Rich flips open the folder and starts shuffling through the pages inside.
“One, two, three …. Seven. That’s seven emails we’ve received from The Post now, requesting interviews with Lyle. Do you know how often he got interview requests? I don’t think he’s had seven in the last ten years, Bree.”
“So?” I fold my arms.
He sighs. “So…” he says, speaking slowly as if I were a child. “They know.”
“No, they don’t.”
“They do. Seven interview requests? They may not know exactly, but they know something’s going on.”
Great.
“I knew this was going to happen,” I say pointedly. “You can’t keep this kind of thing quiet for long. Not with social media and twenty-four news cycles.” I don’t mention the fact that the only reason we’ve probably been able to keep it a secret for this long is because Dad wasn’t really a very public-facing part of Bailey Living. He was a behind-the-scenes kind of guy, the type who preferred to delve into the nitty-gritty of business strategy rather than be in front of the camera. Even most of the people working here don’t know yet — only the executives and a few of their assistants.
Rich clears his throat. “We think the best way to mitigate the situation is to get out in front of it. Sasha’s lined up interviews with The Post, and the Wall Street Journal. We’re going to show them you’re just as competent of a CEO as your father was — and your record over the last month will speak to that, which was exactly our point.” He sits back, smiling smugly.
I shake my head though. “What if we tried something different?”