Eat Your Heart Out: A Romance Charity Anthology

by Skye MacKinnon

  He nods, looking around.

  “If you keep me in the loop from the start, I’ll make sure all the wiring works with the plans,” says Flynn.

  “Good.”

  I look around, feeling a sense of satisfaction. I wasn’t sure any of these guys would be keen to take on a project in the wilds of Montana, but apparently I underestimated all of them. I turn around to find Hunter watching me closely.

  “What?”

  He frowns. “Since when are you into hospitality? I mean, clothed hospitality.”

  “Looking to branch out, that’s all,” I tell him with a shrug. It’s one truth, just not all of it. “Serve a different slice of the market. There will be some overlap, though. I want a significant number of the suites to have a play room attached.”

  “Sounds good,” says Hunter. “I’ll talk to some architects I know, get some plans drawn up. You can have a look, see which design you like best, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Sounds like you might want panic buttons in those suites,” says Nash, and I nod.

  “Yeah. Multiple locations, and built into the bed frames, too. I’ll make sure every client is fully vetted, but you can’t be too careful.”

  I’ve heard horror stories from dancers who got into situations with clients who decided the boundaries didn’t apply to them. It’s only happened once in a Black Cherry club, and I took care of it. Personally.

  Nash cleaned up after that incident, so he knows how seriously I take this shit.

  “That should be easy enough,” says Flynn, and I feel the sense of deep satisfaction which comes from seeing a new project start to come together.

  “There’s something else,” I tell them. “This is a new venture for me, and I’m happy to fund the whole thing myself. But I want you guys to consider coming in on it with me.”

  Hunter’s eyebrows rise.

  “Why?” asks Flynn, his eyes wide.

  Nash doesn’t even flicker.

  Not for the first time, I wonder what Nash is thinking. The man is as impenetrable as his past.

  I open my mouth, then close it again. I’m closer to these guys than I am to Christian, have known all of them for years, but I don’t know if I want to open myself up to them just yet. How do you explain to three perfectly happy billionaires that your billionaire, knee-deep-in-sexy-willing-women, lifestyle just doesn’t quite cut it for you anymore?

  “Figured it was a way to spread the love,” I say, holding out my hands.

  Flynn grins. Hunter looks like he’s not buying a word of it. Nash is...Nash.

  “Anyway, I’ll be in touch when Hunter’s got some designs for us to look at. Maybe talk to Merryweather’s,” I suggest to Hunter, naming my favorite company of architects. “They’ve done an excellent job on several of my clubs. I don’t want anything cookie cutter.”

  Hunter nods. “They have a resort department, too, so I’ll see what they can do for us.”

  We say our goodbyes, and I climb back into Christian’s truck. The look Flynn gives me as he leaves, however, tells me this isn’t the last we’ve spoken about this.

  Chapter 8

  McKenna, with choices to make…

  “You should ask Gibson to accompany you to the festival,” says Mom the next morning as she hands me a much needed mug of coffee. I stare at her and nearly drop the mug, which irritates me as it’s one of my favorites. It has a cherry with wings and a halo, and the caption says, Cherry Picker Cherries…Just Heavenly.

  “Why on Earth would I want to do that?” I take a sip to hide all the feelings I have about her suggestion, most of which are hideously embarrassing considering my history with Gibson, and the fact I find him heartstoppingly gorgeous. The coffee scalds my throat, making me yelp, breathing in coffee by accident and cauterizing my sinuses in the process.

  Eventually, my eyes stop streaming and I wipe up the mess, and Mom holds out a cherry tart, still warm from the oven. I eye it suspiciously. It’s my favorite, and she knows it.

  “I’m just making a suggestion,” she says, with a nonchalance I know for a fact is a lie. When it comes to my mother making suggestions that involve me spending time with other men, she plans it out like a general about to take the field. “You two seem to be getting on well, and you could use a little R ‘n’ R.”

  “We’re not getting on well,” I grumble. “He’s irritating in the extreme. And his jokes are terrible.”

  Mom just beams at me. “Good! Let him take you out, look after you a little.”

  I glare at her, which is surprisingly hard to do with half a fresh, warm cherry tart in your mouth. “Mmfoorroohuhugh.”

  She raises an eyebrow, and I roll my eyes and swallow. “I don’t need looking after. Least of all by a man.”

  Maybe that’s the real reason I haven’t been on a date since Dad passed. Every time I meet a guy and feel a little tingle, I think of Mom and what happened to her because she let a guy ‘look after her a little’. Dad looked after her so well that she was totally lost when he died.

  I still remember the look on her face at the funeral, as they lowered him into the ground. She looked so alone, just destroyed, like her entire world had tilted sideways and thrown her off into space.

  I never want to feel like that, even if it means never letting myself get close to anyone. If I let myself rely on a man, and then he leaves me…I refuse to give anyone that kind of power over me.

  Not even for love.

  Half an hour later, I’m telling myself that letting someone ride around with you in your truck because they literally have nothing better to do isn’t the same as letting them help you. I’m aware it’s a fine line, though, especially with Gibson, who has a way of making me want things I don’t want with anyone else.

  “You really don’t need to come, you know. It’s just more deliveries,” I tell him as we head out to the truck, even though I know he’ll ignore me. And probably make another terrible cherry pun.

  “Deliveries are the pits. I’m cherry pleased to help.”

  I groan. He’s getting worse and I can’t seem to make him stop.

  More disturbing is the fact I’m not sure I want him to.

  This is a dangerous game, and that knowledge makes me snippy. “Get in the truck.”

  He grins at me and gets in. He’s dressed in more appropriate clothing today, jeans and a dark t-shirt with a deep red logo on the shoulder.

  “McKenna?”

  I shake myself, realizing I’m standing in my front yard, drooling at a guest.

  What? It’s not my fault he has such awesome shoulders.

  I climb into the truck with a lot less grace than I’d like, considering Gibson moves like a hunting cat. Just being around him makes me feel inadequate in some ways, but then he makes a ridiculous cherry joke and looks at me with fire in his eyes, and all of a sudden, I feel beautiful again.

  It’s pathetic, really. My self-worth is not based on what a boy thinks of me.

  Sure is nice to be looked at like that by someone I’m so very attracted to, though. Even if I really can’t do anything about it.

  “So, who’s the cherry lucky deliveree today?”

  I roll my eyes but can’t stop myself from smiling, even if our next stop usually makes me snarl. “Clive Hansen, a good ol’ boy who still hasn’t gotten over my father’s death.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Were they close?”

  I bark a laugh, and it sounds a lot harsher than I intended. “No. He just can't wrap his head around the idea of a woman being in charge of anything, let alone a successful farm.”

  “Oh. Huh.”

  That’s not quite the response I was expecting, and I look over at him. “Do you also find it surprising that Cherry Picker is a lot more successful with me in charge than it was when my Dad was around?”

  He shrugs. “Without seeing the books, I can’t really comment, but I do know women are often pretty damn good at being in charge of things.”

  That sounds like a story just
waiting to be told, but we’re too close to the Hansen place to get into it now. Besides, I need all my focus and self-control for dealing with Hansen.

  It should only be a delivery of produce, plain and simple, and yet somehow, every time I come here, I leave feeling like I’ve been dragged behind a bull at the rodeo.

  The ranch looks deserted when we arrive and Gibson looks around. “People just expect you to dump and run, huh?”

  I snort. “No. Clive’s around, don’t you worry.”

  I feel his questioning look, but there’s no point in trying to explain. It’ll just make me sound whiny. Besides, Clive will show up soon enough, and then Gibson will understand.

  I hope.

  I get out of the truck, and sure enough, the moment the door slams, Clive appears around the side of the building. And oh joy, his son Darrell is with him.

  Darrell has been asking me out for years. I’ve never once said yes, and yet, he keeps expecting a different answer. I don’t think me turning him down has endeared me to his father one little bit, but that’s too bad. I’m running a business, dammit, not looking for a husband, even if Clive doesn’t agree with my priorities.

  I don’t let the opinions of bigoted assholes affect my choices.

  “Morning, Mr. Hansen,” I call out cheerily.

  “Girlie,” he grunts, while his son grins and waves at me.

  The tragedy of Darrell constantly trying to date me is that I think we could have been good friends. He’s not nearly as much like his dad as people think.

  I start unloading crates and meet Gibson’s eyes as he helps.

  ‘Girlie?’ he mouths at me, and I grimace. His eyebrows were already drawn together but now his scowl deepens. I shake my head at him and plaster my most plastic smile on my face. He nods but the scowl remains.

  Smile firmly in place, I turn to Clive, only to find Darrell right behind me, reaching for the crate.

  “Hey, McKenna.”

  “Hi, Darrell.”

  “Got a date for the Festival? I’d love to take you along.”

  The one good thing about Darrell is that he has not, as far as I can tell, ever taken it badly when I turned him down. Thank God.

  “Sorry, Darrell, I—”

  “She already has a date,” says Gibson, his words punctuated by the smooth sound of wood sliding over the truck bed as he pulls out another crate.

  “Oh, okay.” Darrell looks almost as confused as I’m sure I do, and clearly I should have had a second cup of coffee this morning, because it takes me a while to catch on.

  Gibson thinks he’s taking me to the Festival. Which, I’ll admit, isn’t a terrible proposition, but couldn’t he have asked first?

  “If you’re all done fixin’ your social calendar, I want a word with you about my order,” Clive growls.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Hansen.” I put down the crate. This asshole’s about to say something which might sound very reasonable, but is actually very insulting. It’s best if I don’t have anything in my arms when that happens because I’m likely to throw it at him.

  “I only got half my standard order of Morellos in the last batch.”

  “Yes, you did, because you asked me to reduce your order that week. I even brought the email with me, so you could check it over yourself.” As I pull the piece of paper out of my back pocket, Clive flushes red, and I realize I’ve overstepped. In making sure he can’t get around me and force me to reduce his bill, I’ve managed to imply he’s incapable of remembering his own orders.

  Fuck. There really is no way to win with this guy.

  “I know damn well what I ordered, and you should have more respect. I’ve been loyal to your family since your father passed, God rest his soul, even if the quality of what you’re producing isn’t nearly as good as it was then.”

  I grit my teeth. “We pass all quality assurance tests every single year with flying colors, Mr. Hansen,” I tell him.

  “Quality assurance, my ass. Your daddy put his heart and soul into that place and you don’t have the experience to know what you don’t know. Your product isn’t the same as it was when he was in charge, and that’s a fact.”

  The kicker is, he’s right. The cherries I’m producing aren’t the same as the ones Dad produced before he passed away, and the reason for that is, the trees got old. They started producing less fruit. We had to plant new trees anyway, and I persuaded Dad to branch out a little, just to give us some flexibility in terms of what we could produce. He didn’t take much persuading.

  It was just everyone’s bad luck that he passed away just before the new stock matured. Clive Hansen, and others like him, would have understood if it was Dad who told them the reasoning behind the change. Hell, they’d have praised him for thinking ahead, but no matter how many times I try, they just won’t take it from me.

  It makes deliveries a lot more stressful than they have to be.

  “Well,” says Gibson behind me, and I can’t help but tense. He sounds relaxed enough, but I can hear the undercurrent of tension in his voice. “If you don’t want the cherries, we can take them back.”

  I draw breath to tell him to shut up. As much as he pisses me the fuck off, I need Hansen Farm’s business.

  “I don’t want you to take the damn cherries away,” Clive snarls. “I want a reduction on my bill.”

  I turn to see Gibson smile, and I almost take a step back. He looks like a barracuda about to strike, and I see the man he is in the boardroom, striking fear into the hearts of his enemies.

  “I don’t see why you should have to hold on to a product you feel is inferior,” he says. “What do you think, McKenna? You could give Mr. Hansen a refund, and he can find another supplier who can provide him with the quality he’s after. That guy who called this morning wanted to double his order anyway, so we can just go straight there from here. I’ll start loading these back up.”

  “Stop right there,” snaps Clive as Gibson heads for the neatly stacked crates we’ve already unloaded. “Unload the rest of the damn cherries.”

  “But you said—”

  “Unload the damn cherries,” Clive roars.

  “So you’ll pay the full price for them?” asks Gibson, somehow managing to look very intimidating in jeans and a cherry-stained t-shirt.

  Clive’s eyes narrow, but he just grunts, then turns around and stalks away into the barn.

  Darrell helps us unload the rest of the cherries in silence, but just before I get into the truck, I feel a light touch on my arm, and I turn to face him.

  “Good for you, McKenna Brooks,” he murmurs, with a gentle smile, and it’s the most genuine expression I’ve ever seen on his wide, honest face. Then he turns and walks away, and I climb into the truck, trying to figure out what just happened.

  As we head back towards the road, silence fills the cab of the truck, and it’s not entirely comfortable.

  I wrestle with myself for a bit before realizing I need to lady up and accept the inevitable. “Thank you.”

  Gibson’s head whips round. “For what?”

  “For having my back with Clive. He almost always manages to knock me down on the price, and it drives me nuts, but the amount he orders means I can’t really afford to lose him as a customer.”

  He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “It’s been a while since I encountered someone so clearly prejudiced against women. Why don’t you get someone else to make the deliveries?”

  I give him a rueful smile. “Tried that. He still haggled, only instead he called me up and did it over the phone. I figured I’d rather deal with it outside the office, rather than spend my days stressing over when he was next going to call and ruin my day.”

  He turns to look out the window. “What a flaming asshole,” he mutters, and I giggle, then blush furiously.

  I’m horrified. I don’t giggle!

  By the bemused look on his face as he faces me again, he didn’t think I giggled either.

  “Can you really not afford to lose him as a customer?”<
br />
  I sigh. “Yeah. You remember that big new commercial kitchen I told you about?”

  “The one you built for your mom’s baking? Yeah. Sounds like a great idea.”

  “It was. It is. Problem is, I couldn’t afford it. I just didn’t have the capital. But it was clear Mom was cracking under the strain, and it just wasn’t fair on her. Besides which, we need the income from her baked goods. I didn’t feel like there was any other choice but to go out and get a loan.”

  “Businesses need funds to function,” he says. “It’s not the worst thing.”

  I grimace. “Loans also need to be repaid. This contest…it’s all just a little more stressful than I’d like it to be.”

  There’s a moment’s silence as he absorbs that. “How did you come to be running the place, anyway? Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re doing a great job, but I’m surprised your mom isn’t taking more of a managerial role. Seems like you’re running the whole thing, and she’s just helping out in the kitchen.”

  I open my mouth to unleash hellfire, and he immediately holds up his hands. “That came out wrong. Let me try again. Your mom is amazing. I’ve met her, she’s wonderful, and I have no doubt that her baked goods are enough to bring you to Nirvana with just one bite. The fact remains, however, that you’re running the entire business. It’s almost like she’s your employee. I’m just surprised it’s not the other way around.”

  I subside with a grunt, then blow out a breath. “Dad passed away eight years ago, about a month after the Cherry Festival. I was all set to go to college, packed and ready, and he was outside working and just...dropped. The doc said it was a heart attack, almost instant. He said Dad wouldn’t have felt a thing. One minute he was surrounded by cherry trees and fruit, the summer breeze and the insects and the birds, and the next...he was gone. Mom found him and…”

  “Stop the truck, McKenna.”

  I look at him, but I can’t see him properly. My vision’s all blurry, and that’s when I realize I’m crying. I pull over and stop the truck.