by Piper Lawson
"Technically, I can. Up to forty-nine percent can be reassigned without the approval of the other private shareholders. I’ve read the shareholder documents."
"Forgive my lack of gratitude."
“I'm not going to lose."
“You better not fucking lose,” my best friend says.
I cut a look over to see him staring out the front of the boat.
My phone buzzes with a message.
Kendall: You have a lot of vibrators.
The knot in my chest eases a degree, both at her message and the fact that she texted me.
“Trade you,” I say to Monty, getting up without waiting for him to agree.
I shift into the next seat over as I type back.
Hunter: GET OUT OF MY NIGHTSTAND, WOMAN.
I’m glad I got her actual phone number from her colleague Rena. I had the impression she might be on my side, and I turned out to be right.
Yesterday, watching Kendall present, I was torn between concern over this bet and attraction to her.
The more I learn about Kendall, the more I know she’s not my type. She’s competent, serious, careful. But there are moments she lets her guard down. When those lips curve or when her eyes widen on mine.
In those moments, all I can think about is shifting her up on that wood table, kicking everyone out—or not—while I suck on her pale neck and work one of those toys inside her.
Then showing her that nothing with batteries could do what I can.
Because let’s be honest—there’s no way she’s dreaming about the coffee guy. Finding that sheet of paper in the elevator sent my libido into overdrive. Having a drink with Maria ended with nothing because all I could think about was this damned girl with her notebook and stranger fantasies and flats.
Kendall: Not what I meant.
Hunter: Uh-huh. You need help picking one, we could try them together.
Not sure why I said that. Maybe a need to break the tension of my reality. To escape the stony coolness emanating from Monty, who’s silently and capably steering the boat back to shore.
When the dots appear, then disappear, then appear again, I decide that’s not the only reason. I also needed to watch the cutest woman I shouldn’t want do the spastic-finger text dance as she decides what to do with me.
Kendall: I don’t think so.
Hunter: You’d rather try them yourself. I can picture that.
After that, the responses come in quick succession. I devote an obsessive amount of attention to black marks on a white screen as we fire texts back and forth, my chest thrumming with anticipation.
Kendall: Are you capable of saying anything that’s not innuendo?
Hunter: But I’m so fluent. Besides, you texted me.
Hunter: I’m just giving you something to add to your spank bank. We both know you’re into fantasizing.
Kendall: You’re never going to let me forget that.
Hunter: Never. Ever.
Hunter: Since you’re clearly already thinking about me, why don’t we meet and talk about it?
Kendall: I’m working from home today.
Women are subtle. They rarely say exactly what they mean.
Which is why I’m parsing Kendall’s non-answer for the truth.
Kendall wants me, but she doesn't want to want me. And every second since I figured that out has been making me hard.
"Your fan club?” Monty’s tight voice breaks into my thoughts.
I shove the phone away because jerking off in front of my best friend seems like a bad idea. Plus, I had the seats on the boat reupholstered last year.
"Nope. The woman who's ensuring I don’t lose that bet. And there’s no risk she’s going to head up my fan club anytime soon.” I frown. “In fact, she’d probably burn the club headquarters.”
"Really? Give me her address. I'll send her flowers."
When we pull up to the private dock by my parents' place, I tie up the boat and kick a shoe against one of the mooring posts.
I check my phone on the way back to the car. Instagram is blowing up with reaction to my pic, but there's nothing more from Kendall, and I turn over her message again.
We’ll be working together for the next two and a half months, and if she’s owed a decent slice of what I’m paying Daisy, she’ll get a fat check at the end.
Most women would be thrilled to spend time with me and get paid for it.
I stare at my best friend who is, objectively speaking, one of the most decent humans on the planet. We don’t fuck, and he still chooses to spend time with me.
If Kendall’s going to help me win this bet, we’ll need to work closely together. Which means she needs to be able to stand my presence. And I’m not talking about our off-the-charts chemistry.
My brain lights up like a flashbulb. I know what I need to do.
"You have an idea," Monty says as he slides into the passenger side and I get comfortable in the driver’s seat.
"Don't look so worried. My ideas are awesome."
8
This morning, I dropped Rory at Bumblebee Childcare, his before- and after-school care, after enjoying breakfast with my son and listening to him debate the merits of the baked versus fried egg the way another kid might talk about their favorite cartoons.
My meeting schedule today is light—just a couple of phone calls—which lets me indulge in a rare and beautiful ritual…
Working from home.
No tailored clothes.
Yoga pants and a vintage Heart T-shirt I found at Goodwill years ago and am more obsessed with than anything from Banana Republic.
I even took three minutes to French braid my hair down each side, something I used to do in school that gives the tactile part of my brain a little thrill.
I have nothing against dressing like a professional, but once in a while, it feels downright luxurious to wear fabrics that stretch on a weekday.
By the end of the day, I get through almost all of my scheduled client work. I feel capable. As if, for once, I’m checking all the boxes, not racing through life with the feeling I’ve missed something.
Of course, that’s when an email pops up.
Nadine.
I click open the list of jobs for the talent show. Each bulleted line has my stomach sinking.
I legitimately want to contribute to this committee. But now that I’ve taken on the new gig, I'm slammed.
I was really hoping to pick something straightforward, like posters. One of the women I work with at a nearby creative agency would probably mock something up as a personal favor.
But guilt streaks through me as I play with the hem of my T-shirt.
This is important to the kids. Maybe not enough to warrant the “Leaders of Tomorrow” theme that’s apparently been voted in. But these moments do matter in our kids’ lives.
With that thought, I put my name next to the most substantive thing I can find—ticket sales.
Then I hit Reply with a flourish.
There. I’m a badass. Nadine, eat your heart out.
Besides, selling things is what I do. How hard will it be to fill an auditorium with parents of kids who’re on stage anyway?
I shut the laptop, knowing I’ll log on again later. I'm waiting to hear back from some contacts so I can do more work tonight.
Because I, Kendall Sullivan, spent hours of my day looking at sex toys.
There are tons on the company website, and after looking at just a few, I was blushing so hard I had to talk myself down.
“You’re a grown woman, Kendall. Just because you’ve never stopped to think about how to elevate your sex life with motors and silicone doesn’t mean you aren’t completely capable of this.”
Daisy is right. It’s only business. I can impersonalize this.
Now, I’ve looked at the dimensions, materials, and reviews of toys of every color and size. I’ve soaked in the curvy contours of a dozen styles.
And I’m still here. Still me.
I feel like a rebel. A
badass.
On impulse, I turn on music.
Do a little spin.
I moonwalk across the carpet to move my work files off the kitchen table.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and flick the end of one of my braided pigtails.
Crap. Me rebelling looks like a teenager at a Christian concert. I snort.
When Rena tells me stories about college, I wonder what it was like. Going out at night, getting dressed up, flirting. Feeling the attraction, giving in to it.
I don't regret choosing a life where I can count my number of partners on one hand.
I don’t think sex is evil, but it’s a shiny distraction that can make you forget the things you really want.
That happened to me once with Blake, and it changed the course of my life forever. Since then, I’ve become older. Wiser.
What’s left of Bad Kendall is in the tightly lidded box in the back of my brain. Under a stack of reality and responsibility.
But as I wipe a bead of sweat off my forehead with my shirt sleeve, I admit that I’ve found myself questioning that more and more.
You’d rather try them yourself. I can picture that.
Hunter's words should be eye-roll-inducing.
But the idea of Hunter watching me get off…
Well, that’s outrageous.
His eyes darkening like they did in the conference room, when the friction from our brushing knees was enough to make me want to grab his collar and crush his mouth to mine.
A shiver runs through my entire body despite the heat from dancing as I force my way across the carpet.
The banker's box on the chair is the last thing to get put away. I can't resist lifting the lid. My gaze lands on the Red Rocket II. I stare at it as if I'm waiting for it to introduce itself.
The tugging low in my stomach grows.
The way Hunter looked at me was hungry. Starved.
Half of me wants to put an entire city between us because there’s no way that look will lead to something good.
The other half wants to find another elevator to fall out of so I can feel that hard body against mine again.
We’ll make them all want what we have.
I want it, and that’s enough of a distraction.
The tingle starts up between my thighs, and I’m well aware I haven’t gotten myself off in days.
I stare at the vibe as if it has the answers. Maybe it does.
For research purposes, I decide.
I grab the vibe and start toward my bedroom. I can take care of this ache I've been ignoring.
Feeling the hairs lift on every inch of my skin, I work my yoga pants down, my simple black panties too.
Then I pull back the bedspread and shift back on the cool sheets, spreading my legs.
I switch on the vibrator, swallowing.
Here we go.
An even louder buzzing sounds, and I leap off the bed.
Front door.
I should let it go. But after growing up in a service household, I can't. I'm always afraid it might be someone in need.
Vibe in one hand, I yank up my pants and stumble out to the living room.
I reach for my phone on the counter and hit the button. "Hello?"
"It's Logan Hunter." The low rumble is unmistakeable. "I have something for you."
There's no way he's here, outside my apartment.
But I drop the vibe on the counter as if it’s scalding hot and run to the window, peering down at his messy brown hair shining gold in the sun two floors down. "How did you get my address?"
He glances up as if sensing me, flashes me a devastating grin before leaning back toward the mic. "You sound impressed."
"Your stalker imitation is uncanny," I say before reminding myself he's still a client.
I hit myself in the head with my phone three times, and the sound of the line going dead has me blinking. Apparently, I let him up.
Shit. Shit!
I rush to the hallway and stand in front of my door as the stairwell door clicks.
His hair's damp again. He's wearing a tight, black T-shirt and jeans that make him look as if he got off a motorcycle. When he flashes a grin, there’s a tug low in my stomach. Like he grabbed the front of my yoga pants with those perfect teeth and pulled.
"I like the work-from-home look." Hunter's voice rumbles as he gives me a slow once-over.
That's when I remember I didn’t have time to change into something appropriate. I'm still wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt. I probably look like a junior high student, I realize as I resist the impulse to feel my hair.
He steps closer, bringing with him a masculine scent that’s warm and spicy and entirely unique. The guy doesn't need cologne; he's walking sensory overload.
He lifts something between us, and for the first time, my gaze drops. "For you."
I study the box in his hand. "Is this a peace offering?"
"My grandma's beer. We're working together, and you know nothing about me."
I'm caught off guard. "Huh?"
"My grandmother started Hunter’s Cross. She's one hell of a lady."
His mouth is too close, in that perilous zone where I’m trapped between wanting to keep staring at his tongue ring and wanting to close the distance so I can feel it.
He smells like a holiday I didn’t know existed. And him talking reverently about his grandmother shouldn't be sexy, but it is.
He looks past me at my door, and it takes my brain a second to catch up.
Oh no.
“You gonna let me in?” Hunter's brow lifts. "I used to play poker in Nellie's dorm room. Dishes, pizza boxes, a few rats… I can take whatever you got. Besides, I came all the way here to see you."
I can't let him in. My son will be coming home in the next hour, for starters. But the puppy-dog expression wears me down.
Ten minutes. Then he's gone.
"Give me one minute."
I slip inside and scan the apartment. It's clean, but it still looks like a mom-and-kid place.
I’m not telling Hunter I’m a mom. Because it’d invite all kinds of questions I don’t want to answer, not because I want to soak in more of the borderline-dangerous flirtation that builds every time we meet.
In twenty seconds flat, I banish any remaining mom stuff. I don't want Hunter knowing I spend my spare time signing permission forms for hot dog lunches.
I'm ready to let him in when I spot the Rocket on the counter. Shit.
I stick the thing in the dishwasher, then return to open the door a crack. "Come in."
Hunter takes off his shoes without me asking, which surprises me. I reach for the beer, but he keeps it, passing me and going into the kitchen.
"Your grandmother must be quite the pioneer," I say for something to distract myself from the fact that he’s in my apartment.
He nods. "She started the company after being widowed with three young children. She had a modest start-up fund thanks to my grandfather, but she built everything herself. Forty-five years later, she still runs the board and makes big decisions."
I'm so interested in his words that he’s reached into the cupboards and grabbed cups before I can stop him.
"Your parents never got involved?" I ask because I'm curious what this woman's kids did. Not how Hunter came to be who and how he is.
"My dad has his own company. Venture funding. My mom runs a nonprofit. Nice cups." He brings down five rainbow-striped ones.
"There are two of us," I protest.
"And five beers."
He brings the case and cups over to my kitchenette table and sets them on top, then drops into the seat as if he's heavy. "What about your parents? You grow up here?"
I try not to inhale his scent. I hereby name this new holiday Fantasy Day. "Little town in Connecticut."
"Your folks?"
I hesitate because I don't want to tell Hunter. He'll make a big deal out of it. "My mom's a teacher. My father's a pastor."
His eyes turn knowing, and I w
ait for the questions or the jokes.
Instead, all he says is, "You're a PK?"
I blink in surprise, both that he uses the nickname and that he dodges the obvious remarks. "Yeah."
"One of my best friends growing up was a pastor's kid. Your dad the fire-and-brimstone type?"
My lips twitch. "More fire than brimstone."
"Why’d you leave home for the big city? Woulda figured kids in your situation would stick close to their family."
I lift my chin, thinking of my son. “I did stick close to my family. But I also wanted a career. I never wanted to depend on someone to provide for me." That part's true.
Hunter nods. "Well, if that’s what brought you here, then lucky me.” He clears his throat as if he found himself lost for a moment, looking around. “So. You wanna look at vibes?”
“Yes. Sure.” I pull open my computer and pop up the open tabs. “I’ve narrowed it down to a few.”
I show him the top three, and he looks over my shoulder. I try to keep breathing despite the warmth of his body, as if sporting pigtails while analyzing sex toys in my apartment with a man who’s so hot he should be illegal is my normal routine.
“What makes these appealing?”
“Judging from the reviews, reviewers like the range of settings. They can change them to suit their preferences.”
“For?”
I swallow. “Intensity. Vibration.”
“I see.”
“This one’s a jack-of-all-trades. It’s most of the size of the Rocket but with a less literal design.” It’s a sleek wand. “The issue is it’s good but not great.” I flip to the last tab. “This one here is an external vibe.”
“Not a cock.”
“Err, right. Not a cock,” I confirm, proud I can say the word without flinching.
“And what did you think? When you tried them.”
My heart stops. “I didn’t. I’m sure it’s not necessary.”
His gaze works over mine. “You’re running this campaign. Hell, you’re the one who said we couldn’t sell ten thousand Rockets, so clearly your opinion matters. And how can you know if you like something if you haven’t tried it?”