Red Hot Rival

by Cat Carmine

  “Sure. It’s the least I can do after you came out all this way.”

  She smiles again, but now she’s reaching into her purse. “I’m just going to text Clifford and tell him not to bother waiting for me.”

  “Clifford?” I try to keep my tone light but my stomach gives a clench. Who the fuck is Clifford?

  “My driver,” she says, with an embarrassed shrug. “Well, he was Dad’s driver. I’m still trying to get used to the whole idea but I couldn’t really bring myself to fire him. He’s the sweetest old man.”

  “Ah.” The clench in my stomach releases as soon as she says that last part. I suppose I don’t have any reason to be jealous of someone she would describe as a sweet old man.

  Not that you have any right to be getting jealous either way, I remind myself. Because Bree and I aren’t ... well, I don’t know what we are, but we’re not that.

  “Come on in to the kitchen,” I say, heading towards the house. “I’ll start prepping the steaks and you can have a glass of wine. Sorry, I should have asked — do you eat meat?”

  Bree tosses her phone back in her purse, having finished her text, and now looks back up at me. “Why, Luke — is that a line?” Her eyebrows are raised and her smile has turned sly.

  I actually feel my cheeks start to color. Damn, she’s sexy.

  “It could be,” I say, taking a step towards her. “Depends what your answer is.”

  “Why don’t you try that line on me again after I’ve had a glass of wine?” she teases. Then she turns towards the house and heads up the porch steps. “Coming?”

  I take a second to admire the view of her retreating backside — even in the flowy fabric of the dress she’s wearing, those round globes are breathtaking — and then I bound up the stairs behind her.

  Once we’re inside, I take the lead and she follows me towards the kitchen. I can feel her slowing behind me and when I turn I see her swiveling her head around wildly, checking out the house.

  “Luke, this place is ... wow.” Her voice sounds a bit breathless, and even though I’m flattered that she likes my home, I’d prefer to be taking her breath away in other ways.

  “Thanks. It’s been a few years of renovations but it’s finally pretty much done.”

  “Did you do all this work yourself?” she asks, running her fingers lightly over the wainscoting that I spent a weekend meticulously cutting and installing.

  “A lot of it, yeah. I had a couple pros in to do some of the plumbing and electrical, but if it involves power tools and elbow grease, I’m all over it.”

  “Well, you did a beautiful job.”

  “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll give you the full tour later,” I tease, as we step into the kitchen. To be honest, the only room I care about getting Bree into right now is my bedroom, but I decide to be a gentleman and at least feed the girl some dinner first.

  “Red or white?” I ask, taking two wine glasses out of the cupboard. “Or would you like something else? Beer? Gin and tonic?”

  She shakes her head. “Red wine would be great.”

  I pull a bottle of cabernet sauvignon off the wine rack that I custom built into my island, and hold it up to Bree. “This okay?” She nods and I grab the corkscrew and twist it open. After I’ve poured out two glasses, I hand her one and hold the other up.

  “To the Homes For Hearts Lottery,” I say. “For bringing us together.”

  Her cheeks flush but she clinks her glass against mine. “And for, you know, raising all that money to help find a cure for childhood cancers.”

  “Right, right, that too,” I say with a grin. I watch the flush creep down her neck and spread across her chest, and I can only imagine the way her perfect tits are probably pinking up too, her nipples pert and hard ...

  “Should we start dinner?” she says, shifting under my gaze.

  “Sure. We can do that.” I still don’t take my eyes off her. I’m starting to rethink my plan to feed her before I fuck her.

  “Then let’s do it.” She squeezes past me and opens the fridge, rummaging around until she pulls out a plastic bag of spinach. I had picked up a few groceries before I came out here, since I’d planned on staying the weekend and actually getting some work done while I was here. “I’ll make the salad, while you do the steak?”

  I shake my head, chuckling to myself. “Yes, boss.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me and I snake my arm around her waist suddenly, pulling her to me.

  “Don’t stick that tongue out unless you’re prepared to use it,” I say, my voice a husky growl.

  I watch her throat bob as she swallows hard. Her breasts are pressed against my chest and I drop my hands down to cup her ass. God, she has a magnificent ass.

  “Luke,” she breathes. I can feel her breath against my lips as I tilt my face down. Another inch and I’d be kissing her. In a moment, she’ll melt against me and her lips will part and her eyes will start to close ...

  I let her go.

  “I hope you like it naked,” I say, turning to pick my wine glass off the marble island top and hoping she won’t notice just what kind of effect she has on me.

  “Um... what?”

  “Your steak,” I say. I watch her flustered reaction over the rim of the glass as I take a sip. “I’m a bit of a purist — I like it naked. Nothing but salt and pepper.”

  She grins then, smoothing her skirt down. “That’s fine, but you should know that the salad is going to be … fully dressed.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “I bet it is.” She laughs as she takes a sip of her wine and then turns back to the fridge.

  “You want to pass me the steaks, while you’re in there?” I ask stepping back to admire the view as her dress rides up. “They’re on the bottom shelf. Wrapped in brown paper.”

  The steaks, of course, are on the top shelf, and though they’re wrapped in brown paper, they’re also tucked inside a white plastic bag, but the longer she hunts, the longer I get to stare. I climb on one of the stools and get comfortable.

  Except of course, Bree is too clever for my little game, and a minute later she smacks the steaks down on the island. She raises one eyebrow at me and laughs.

  “Here. Go ahead and do your naked thing.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” I say, as I pretend to unbutton my shirt.

  Bree giggles but turns back to the fridge, pulling out a jar of roasted red peppers and goat cheese and a cucumber to go with the spinach she’s already put on the island. She spins around to face me again.

  “Do you have any nuts?”

  I snort. “Did you really just ask me that?”

  She puts her hands on her hips, but she’s laughing. “For the salad. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  I grin. “I think there are some walnuts in that cupboard over there.”

  We work side by side for awhile, me seasoning the steaks and her chopping veggies for the salad, and then when we’re done, I refill our wine glasses and we head back out to the back patio area, where the barbecue is.

  I fire up the grill as Bree gets comfortable on the outdoor sectional. She kicks off her shoes and tucks her feet up underneath her, then turns her face up to the sun, closing her eyes and smiling. I watch her as I wait for the grill to heat up. I hate how much I like looking at her, and I hate how much I love the fact that she looks comfortable here. Like she belongs.

  I very rarely entertain women out here — it’s too far from the city, and I like my space to be my space. I’ve had parties here — work events, Trent and Hannah’s wedding — so I’m used to having people flitting around. But having Bree here feels different, somehow. I think about what it would be like to have her here more often, to wake up next to her in the morning, to make breakfast beside her the way we just made dinner. To do totally boring stuff with her, like watch Netflix and argue about paint colors and make grocery lists.

  Except somehow, I don’t think any of that would be boring with Bree.

  As if she ca
n read my thoughts, Bree tilts her head back down and opens her eyes. She still has a soft smile on her face, and her green eyes look happy.

  “This is nice,” she says.

  “Yeah.” I don’t know what else to say so I turn to the grill and open it up. I decide it’s hot enough so I throw the steaks down.

  “Have you lived here long?” Bree asks.

  I close the lid again and then cross the patio, grabbing my wine in the process.

  “About seven years now, I think? I lived downtown when Trent and I first started Loft & Barn, but I was never really happy down there. And once I started doing more of the hands-on stuff, I realized I was going to need more space, so I bought this place. My whole family thought I was crazy because it was in terrible shape, but I could see the potential in it.”

  “Well, you were definitely right.”

  “Ah, my favorite words.” I grin. “What about you? I don’t even think I know where you live — downtown?”

  “Yeah, Oak Park. My father owned a brownstone there so I’m staying there until I figure out ... I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “Until I figure out what’s next.”

  “What do you mean, what’s next?”

  She sips her wine. “I’m thinking of selling it but I don’t know. It’s hard because it’s ...”

  “Home?” I offer.

  She smiles. “Actually, that’s the funny thing. It’s not home. I never lived there, and I only visited a couple of times. But I feel like, because it was Dad’s, I should hang on to it. It seems like the least I can do.”

  She says that last part bitterly.

  “I know it might not feel like this, but I’m sure he wouldn’t care if you sold it.”

  She shakes her head again. “I just feel so guilty, you know?” Her words seem to take her by surprise but she presses on. “After I finished school, I went to Europe. It was just supposed to be for a few months — one of those ‘find yourself’ trips. But instead I met Margaux — that’s my best friend — and we decided to open Bounce together. You know what starting a business is like ... it’s all consuming. You put everything into it. I think I came home twice, maybe three times in those six years — I barely saw him. And then two months ago, he finally tells me that he has cancer. He was so sick by then that, even though I flew home right away, I only got two weeks with him before he ...”

  She trails off but she doesn’t need to finish for me to know what she’s talking about.

  I cross the patio and sit down next to her on the sectional. I wrap my arm around her and for a second she freezes. Then she softens and lets herself lean against me.

  “I know it’s hard,” I say. “And it sucks that he didn’t tell you earlier. I’m sure he was just trying to protect you. And I’ll tell you this — it’s hard either way. My dad died of cancer too — about twelve years ago now. It was a long and painful process, and watching him slowly turn from the man who could do everything to the man who couldn’t do anything was one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced.”

  Bree snuggles up closer to me and slips her hand through mine. “How’d you get over it?” she asks. Her voice is soft.

  I shake my head. “You never really do. It gets a little easier with time, but I still think of my dad every single day. Wondering what he’d be like now, what he’d think of his sons, if he’d be proud of the business that Trent and I built.”

  “I think he’d be very proud of you,” she says, looking up at me.

  Her words send a ripple of goosebumps over my skin. I’m suddenly intensely aware of her curvy warm body pressed against mine. I clear my throat and take a swallow of wine, though that does nothing to clear the thoughts swirling around my head.

  “I’m sure your dad was proud of you too,” I say, instead of what I really want to say, which is God, I want to fuck you.

  “I hope so,” she says, but her voice sounds skeptical. “He was always supportive, but he never really got the whole fashion thing.”

  “Yeah, but he understood what it takes to pursue your passion. Your dad was a legend back in the day — Trent and I studied his business model quite a bit when we were getting started. No one has ever grown a home furnishings company as fast and efficiently as Lyle Bailey — not even us.”

  That makes her smile, and I feel a rush of pride at being able to lift her spirits a bit.

  “I guess he was pretty passionate about his business,” she admits. “Which is why I really can’t fuck this up for him.”

  She looks pointedly at me when she says it.

  “What?”

  She sits up, disentangling herself from me. “I mean this, Luke. Whatever this is. It’s bad for business — mine and yours.”

  I don’t like where this conversation is going, so I take my time replying. She’s not wrong ... but I still don’t have to like it.

  “I think that ... that’s something we don’t have to worry about right this minute,” I say finally. “We’re at my house. We’re having dinner. And it’s nobody’s business but ours. Right?”

  She smiles reluctantly. “Right.”

  I’m just about to put my arm around her, when she wrinkles her nose.

  “Do you smell something?” she asks, and I frantically wrack my brain trying to remember if I put on deodorant this morning.

  “Something burning?” she clarifies.

  “Shit! The steaks!” I leap up off the sectional and open the grill. Flames lick out and I jump back three feet while Bree dissolves into giggles. I turn the temperature down and use the barbecue fork to move the steaks to the edges of the grill where it isn’t so hot. The flames die down and I turn to face Bree.

  “Well, that didn’t go as planned.”

  “I hope you’re right that it’s nobody’s business what happens out here,” she says between giggles. “Because otherwise everyone is going to know that Luke Whittaker can’t use a barbecue without losing his eyebrows.”

  I should be embarrassed but instead I find myself laughing with her. “Yeah, and everyone would know that Bree Bailey is a life-threatening distraction and that her body should come with a warning label.”

  That shuts her up quick, and that same old flame covers her skin again. She clears her throat.

  “Do you think the steak can be salvaged?”

  I turn back to the grill, poking the meat with a fork. “I think so. We’ll just call them flame-grilled, how’s that?”

  She laughs again. “I think that’s my new favorite way to eat steak. I’ll go get the salad.”

  She disappears back into the house while I flip the steaks. They’re a little black on one side, but they’ll be edible. I join Bree inside and get plates and utensils, as well as another bottle of wine, and then we meet back on the patio, where I set everything on the table.

  We talk as we eat, covering everything from our childhoods growing up in different Chicago suburbs, to our bucket list vacation spots, to our shared love of cheesy eighties music and our mutual hatred of celery. We take so long eating that the sun has gone down and the little cafe lights that line the stone patio have switched on. The soft lighting somehow makes the meal seem even more perfect.

  When we’re done with dinner, I head into the kitchen and root around in the freezer and find a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream and bring it and two spoons outside. We’ve finished almost all the wine by then, and the conversation devolves into the silly— in particular, sexy ice cream flavors.

  “Pearls and Pistachio,” Bree says, licking off her spoon as I stare helplessly at her lips.

  “Too classy,” I tell her. “How about Brownies and Blowjobs?”

  Even in the dark, I can see her cheeks flush as she laughs.

  “Okay, fine,” she says devilishly. “You want dirty? How about … Up The Butt-er Pecan?”

  I snort so hard I almost choke on my ice cream.

  “Ding, ding, ding! I think we have a winner.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” She pretends to bow and then dissolves into
a fit of giggles. “Okay, I think I’m cut off from the wine.”

  She sits back contentedly and looks around. It’s late now, and the fireflies have come out. They flit around the yard like tiny little stars and I watch Bree watching them.

  “It’s really beautiful out here,” she says quietly.

  “Yeah, it is.” I’m not looking at the yard though.

  She leans back in her chair. “God, what time is it?”

  I glance down at my watch. “Just past ten.”

  “What?” She sits up straight, looking disoriented. “Wow, I didn’t realize it was so late. I should probably get home. Now where did I put my phone ...”

  She stands up and starts looking around for her phone and I start picturing her pulling away in a car, disappearing down the driveway and out of my life. The thought makes me feel more than a little nauseated. Without thinking, I grab her wrist again.

  She pauses, looking down at me.

  “Luke?” She says, after a minute. Her voice is soft, puzzled.

  “Don’t go.” My own voice is so hoarse that I barely recognize it, but the words had to come out.

  “Luke...” she says again, but the inflection is totally different this time. Conflicted.

  I shake my head. “I know. I know we shouldn’t. But I want you, Bree. I want you tonight, and I want to wake up next to you tomorrow.”

  She bites her lip. The silence stretches between us, as taut as a rubber band.

  20

  Bree

  Luke’s words make my heart still and almost stop. Stay the night? I look down at him, so handsome in his tight navy t-shirt. His dark eyes are shining up at me, almost pleading, and I have never in my life wanted to say yes to something so badly.

  But it’s a terrible idea, isn’t it? We both know that being together is impossible, and this night has made it perfectly clear that our attraction is more than physical. I like him. He should be my rival, but instead he makes me feel good. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel smart and sexy and funny. He makes me feel desired.

  His hand is still wrapped around my wrist and now he uses his thumb to stroke the sensitive skin on the underside. My pulse thuds so hard that I’m sure he can feel my veins throbbing.