Fool For You (Made for Love Book 4)

by R. C. Martin

  I’ve learned she likes to live a little on the wild side, pushing her limits—and sometimes mine.

  Some days, I swear she makes me want to bend her over my desk and fuck her until she can hardly breathe. I know it’s what she wants. She’s been flaunting that ass of hers like a goddamn invitation with neon lights since the moment I transferred here. If I wasn’t afraid she’d get attached, jeopardizing our professional relationship, I’d indulge her. But I don’t trust her.

  I’m pulled from my thoughts when a familiar, decadent scent wafts into my office. I look up just as Logan sits herself in the seat in front of my desk with a huff. She’s irritated about something; I can tell by the little wrinkle in her brow. For a second, I don’t speak. I just stare. I still find her incredibly beautiful, even when she’s upset.

  Logan is a lot of things. She’s intelligent, well-spoken, talented, and driven. She’s got an eye for detail, a mind that’s always anxious to acquire more knowledge, and a small obsession with decorative light fixtures. She’s one of my best associates and, admittedly, my star pupil. But she’s also one of the only women who has ever told me no.

  By rule, not by chance or circumstance, but by rule, I don’t allow women to tell me no. If I want her, I shall have her. Often times, the chase is just as rewarding as the catch. I am not a manipulator or a liar, and neither will I be manipulated or lied to. I’m fully aware of what I can offer a woman, and I am the master of my fate. When a woman tries to tell me no, I simply play the hand I’ve been dealt, knowing my victory is forthcoming.

  Seduction is not a feat, but a byproduct of being in my presence. I’m not an arrogant man; neither am I a fool. My awareness of the effect I have on the female population is simply a fact proven by the countless number of conquests I’ve managed to seduce. I fail very infrequently. When I do, it is not something I forget easily.

  Logan is my failure.

  When I first met her, she was a challenge, devoted to another. I remembered her rejection often and looked forward to a rematch when I relocated to this office, over a year after I had seen her last. Only, when I returned, she was no longer the Logan Schwartz of old; rather, she had become Logan Holloway—a forbidden temptation.

  For reasons I still can’t explain, something about her made me want to break the one rule that makes a woman off limits. Matrimony. I don’t fuck with other men’s wives. I’ve experienced the repercussions of playing out of bounds. I’ve taken the matrimonial whore before, and that bitch fucked me over. The fact that I was willing to cross that line with Logan should have been enough warning for me to stay away. Though, she took care of that on my behalf—when she proposed that we be friends.

  It’s been months since she made the suggestion. I’m still mulling it over.

  “Logan,” I mutter when she doesn’t speak. “Were you planning on saying something, or are you just here to tease me?”

  “Sorry,” she says with a sigh, resting her hand over her stomach. “I did come in here to tell you something, and then my stomach suddenly felt funny. I just needed to breathe for a moment.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “No, no. I’m fine. Maybe I got dizzy or something. The nausea has passed.” She waves her hands at me, as if begging me to not be concerned. “What I wanted to tell you is that our client, dear Mr. Dixon, has been bugging the shit out of me all weekend. He would not stop emailing me!”

  “Right,” I reply, furrowing my brow, now just as irritated as she. “I put in a few hours working on the design for his new office space over the weekend. Hopefully, he’ll be satisfied with my changes.”

  “Oh, perfect. I did a little work, too. Remember how we were having a small issue with making his ridiculous budget work with some wall pieces?” I nod once, giving her the go-ahead to continue. “I completely forgot that I know the perfect place for us to look. Earlier this summer, a friend of a friend told me I should check out this gallery on Mountain Avenue. I guess you got me so hooked on Frederick’s place in Denver, I often times forget to look locally. Anyway—I thought we could go scout it out this afternoon? I did a little digging online, and a lot of their stuff is still pretty pricey, but it’s more within Mr. Dixon’s range.”

  “Okay. We’ll head over after lunch. Does that work for you?”

  “Perfect,” she assures me as she stands. “I’ll let you get back to it. I should probably respond to some of the man’s emails.” She rolls her eyes, causing me to smile slightly before I watch her leave my office.

  She’s most certainly out of bounds, but that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy the view.

  When my alarm clock sounds on Monday morning, I’m quick to silence it. While I understand and appreciate the purpose of that incessant beeping tone, I can’t stand to listen to it a moment longer than I have to. As soon as it’s off, I turn over, surprised to find that I’m in bed alone. I’m usually not a horribly deep sleeper, but I didn’t hear Geoff get up and leave. As I sit up, I spot the note that he left me on top of his pillow.

  I draw in a deep breath and blow it out in a big sigh. Yesterday had ended up being a pretty good day for both of us. Monday usually comes with its own set of challenges, but I hope that being at work and having the opportunity to do what he loves all day simply serves as a reminder that life goes on. It must. Granted, I certainly don’t expect his pain will go away any time soon. It’s only been five days since the breakup, but he’s stronger than he knows. I think we all are. It’s like God made us capable of withstanding just a little bit more than we think we can.

  It isn’t until I climb out of bed that I smell it. Coffee. For just a second, I breathe in the evidence of a full pot waiting for me. Then, as I make my way to the kitchen, I curse Reeve under my breath for breaking my best friend’s heart.

  After I pour myself a cup, doctoring it the way I like it best, I sip slowly while I scroll through Instagram on my phone. I’m not really a big fan of social media. On the wrong platform, in the hands of the wrong people, who feel like they can say whatever the hell they want to whoever cares to listen—yeah, it’s a breeding ground for gossip and lies, which can lead to broken friendships and hurt feelings. In my experience, it’s like the digital version of high school, only worse…with grown-ups. Drama gone viral.

  No, thanks.

  However, the photographer in me could spend hours scrolling through Instagram. Most of the people I follow have no idea who I am, and I prefer it that way. Sometimes it’s nice not to know, but to simply see. I’ve come across some really amazing images in this app. Of course it’s not all art, but that’s what my eyes seek out the most. I make myself stop when my mug is empty, then I pour myself another and head back to my room to get ready for the day.

  I shower quickly, hoping I’ve left myself plenty of time to dry my hair. Before I get dressed, I apply a bit of leave-in conditioner and let it sit while I drink more coffee and pick out my attire for the day. I decide to wear my floral print, high-waisted, pencil skirt, a sleeveless, white top, with a pretty gathered neckline, and a pair of teal heels. I put on everything but my shoes before heading back to the bathroom. My hair has a date with my diffuser.

  I last all of twenty minutes before I give up, which isn’t bad. My record is thirty. In any case, the top half of my hair is dry and presentably wavy, so I move onto my makeup. It takes me all of five minutes to apply a bit of eyeliner, mascara, and a hint of blush. With one last cursory look in the mirror, I dub myself work-ready. I then slip into my shoes, grab my purse and my phone, and I’m out.

  My ‘98, red, hatchback Civic is already hot when I climb inside at eight-thirty. I roll the driver’s side window down, hoping that I’ll be able to get it back up when I reach my destination. Agatha, the name I gave my ride when I inherited it from my parents after graduating high school, is definitely nearing her last days. I refuse to give up on her, though. I’ve made some good memories with this car. Also—I can’t afford a new one right now, so I need her to hold on, at least for another year or
two.

  It only takes me ten minutes to drive to work; but by the time I find a parking space and walk the distance to our front entrance, it’s ten ‘til nine. The doors are still locked, so I knock, hoping that either Andrew or Geoffrey will hear me. One of these days, they’ll make me a copy of the key. Andy said he would at the beginning of the summer, when I got hired on as a full-time employee, he just hasn’t gotten around to it yet. It’s not a huge inconvenience, me not having one, and the last thing I want to do is badger him about it. I’m so incredibly thankful that he gave me this job, I almost hate to ask him for anything.

  My friendship with Geoff definitely made it easy to convince them to take me on as an intern spring semester of my junior year. I worked for free the first few months, and then Andy offered me a paid internship that summer. These men have always been so good to me. I hoped and prayed that when I graduated, I wouldn’t have to say goodbye. MTA’s two-year anniversary is just right around the corner, and they’ve done really well for themselves. In light of their success, they could afford to keep me around.

  Though, something tells me they would have made it work for me to stay, no matter what.

  I smile when Andy makes his way to the door, twisting the deadbolt to grant me entrance.

  “Morning, Teddy.”

  “Good morning. How are you?”

  “Good,” he replies with his usual smile. “You?”

  “I’m good, too. And Mr. Fink?”

  His smile grows brighter before he answers. “Cameron just got here with the new shipment.”

  “Ah,” I say with a small laugh, understanding the significance of Cameron’s presence. “He’s being bossy, isn’t he?”

  “You could say that.” As we make our way further into the gallery, I hear Geoff giving orders—asking Cam to move whatever piece he must be hanging a quarter of an inch to the right. Andy and I share an amused look. “Don’t worry. Cam knows about Reeve, so he’s taking it in stride.”

  “Good.”

  “All right, I have a few phone calls to make and a little paperwork I need to attend to. I have an appointment with a new artist later this morning, and I was thinking of taking Geoff with me if you think you can manage.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ll be fine. Please, take him.”

  “We should be back by lunch,” he says with a nod before glancing at his watch.

  “Okay. Sounds good. Go do your boss thing. I’ve got the floor.”

  “Thanks, Teddy,” he says with a wink.

  As he heads toward his office, I make my way to the reception desk to stow away my purse and check the main line for messages. When I hear Geoffrey tell Cameron that the piece he’s hung is perfect, I make a mental note to venture around the corner a little later to check out the new collection.

  The gallery is pretty quiet through the morning, but time still seems to slip away from me. I complete a few tasks at Andy’s request while he and Geoff are out on their appointment. After I’m finished, a couple people come in to do a little browsing. I chat with them for only a moment and then give them their space to look around, staying close by in case they need me. It’s a quarter after noon when I receive a text from Geoff, asking me what I’d like for lunch. I don’t bother telling him I can grab my own, knowing that he’ll ignore me and bring me whatever he pleases if I don’t just give him an answer. I opt for a salad, sure that I didn’t eat a single nutritious thing all weekend, and then wander around the gallery for a while.

  I never get tired of looking at our ever changing collection. Even when some canvases hang here for months at a time, I still like to make my way around, paying homage to the heart and the talent that was put into each piece. There is beauty that can be found even in the displays that I don’t particularly like.

  I’m standing in front of this morning’s delivery, around the corner from the reception desk, when I hear footsteps enter the building. I don’t listen to the voices, lost in the colors in front of me, assuming that it’s just Andrew and Geoffrey back with lunch. Needing just another moment, I don’t move.

  When we walk into Mountain Time Art Gallery, there’s a stillness—the kind that only exists in a place like this—and it appears as though no one is here. The reception desk is empty, and no one comes out to greet us right away.

  “Hmm,” Logan hums, looking to her left and to her right. “I’m sure someone is here. Maybe they’re upstairs and didn’t hear us come in. Should we just look around for a minute?”

  I offer her a nod, and without another word, we begin to make our way through the quiet space. Nothing catches my eye at first, but Logan stops. I let her look, moving on without her. When I round the corner, what I find captures my attention immediately.

  She’s standing perfectly still, her hands clasped together in front of her. She’s tiny. Not in stature—though, I tower over most women. Without those shoes, I’d guess she’s at least five-six. But that waist, those hips, in that skirt, which sculpts her ass just right—the floral pattern a brilliant choice only a woman as delicate as she could pull off—I feel obligated to take her all in. She looks exceptionally breakable. I force in a deep breath, the thought of pummeling into that petite body turning me on.

  Her long, vibrant red hair hangs in waves down to the middle of her back—a beautiful contrast to her porcelain white skin. I imagine wrapping my fingers in it and tugging on the thick strands, arching her neck until the only place she has to look is up at me.

  “Jude, I—”

  “Shhh,” I insist, holding up a finger, my eyes still trained on the vision before me.

  The way she’s angled in front of that painting, I can’t make out her face. I’d like to imagine a woman with those fine legs and that appropriate level of fashion sense has a face to complete the package—but I’ve been wrong before, and just now, I don’t want to break the illusion.

  “Did you just shush me because you’re checking her out?” Logan hisses.

  I hold up my finger once more, not bothering with an answer. Whoever this woman is, she’s transfixed. I can appreciate her appreciation for whatever it is she sees, and I intend to respect her while my eyes roam over her body.

  “Excuse me, can I help you?”

  At the sound of another man’s voice, the redhead gasps in surprise and turns to face us. Her big, round, bright brown eyes grow wide at the sight of me, her full, sweetheart lips parted open. Her face is covered in the lightest brown freckles—but it’s not unattractive in the slightest. In fact, she’s stunning. Absolutely, fucking stunning. She looks elegant, as if her face was meant to exude grace. And as my eyes lock in on her pink lips, my dick begins to harden.

  “Logan,” I start to say, still not even bothering to look beside me, “tell the man what we’re looking for.”

  It isn’t until I hear Geoff’s voice that I realize there are customers in the gallery. When I turn away from the wall, I freeze at the sight of the most gorgeous man I have ever seen in my entire life. It’s actually quite unfair, his level of attractiveness. No one should be allotted that much of an advantage. It’s practically a weapon. It might even be borderline illegal. I mean, it’s got to be.

  He’s at least six-three or six-four—he’s tall. He’s tall and he’s broad—but not in a bulky sort of way. The suit he wears—it hugs him in all the right places, leaving no doubt in my mind that he is a healthy, active, deliciously fit man. And—good God—he’s handsome. His hair is a deep, dark brown and he wears it parted down the side and slicked back. It’s classy. It’s sexy. It’s distracting. But what steals my breath are his eyes. They’re grey. Not blue, or black, but this beautiful, dark grey.

  “Logan,” he speaks.

  Oh, my god. My heart races at the sound of his rich, baritone voice. I don’t even comprehend the words that he’s saying. It isn’t until he starts walking toward me that I begin to panic. I look to Geoff, but all he does is smirk at me, wiggling his eyebrows once before he directs his attention to the blonde I assume is Logan.


  I force in a deep breath, turning my back to the beautiful stranger as he approaches. I can’t even begin to imagine why, after Geoff offered his help, why this man feels inclined to approach me.

  “It’s exquisite,” he says, stopping just beside me.

  Feeling unbelievably shy, I can’t bring myself to look into his eyes—so I do the next best thing. I look at his shoes.

  “Wh-what is?” I barely manage, my voice pathetically squeaky.

  “The painting. I assume you agree. You were quite captivated upon our entrance.”

  “Oh,” I say with a sigh, bringing my eyes back up to the canvas. I will myself to calm down. The fine man appreciates fine art. I can work with that. “It just arrived today. This particular artist is one we work with frequently. I think he’s quite good.”

  “I’m quite good, as well,” he murmurs.

  My eyes travel back down to his shoes, my brow furrowing in confusion. “Good at what, exactly?”

  “Lots of things.” I suck in a breath when I feel his finger trace along the the underside of my jaw. When he reaches my chin, he tips my head up, forcing me to look into his eyes. “You’re quite exquisite, yourself. But I assure you, my shoes are not that interesting.”

  I feel it as a blush heats my cheeks. For a moment, I wonder where the hell Geoffrey went.

  “What’s your name?” he asks me, his fingers still holding my chin.

  “Teddy. A-and yours?”