Bad Love (Modern Romance Book 2)

by Piper Lawson

  Nellie wears his leisure like a badge of honor. I prefer contributing even if I don’t need the money. Sure, I do it in my own way, but it’s no secret that Hunter’s Cross would be way short of its current success if I didn’t show up every day.

  Okay, most days.

  "Raise." Nellie tosses a stack of chips at me. "Suck it, Hunter."

  Monty folds. "Hurry up. I have to use the bathroom."

  I raise a brow at Monty. "You need a babysitter?"

  "No. I'm never leaving you alone to bet something again.”

  I toss in chips, and two minutes later, I’ve won the hand.

  “Thought you were joking,” I toss over my shoulder as Monty trails me to the bathroom.

  His gaze meets mine in the mirror. "Not so much.”

  On our way back in, we grab a drink.

  Nellie looks at me over his glass as we sit, taking in my pile of chips and chuckling. "Don’t get it in your pretty head you can get enough to buy back the brewery. You might not have lost to me lately, but you’re gonna do it in a big way."

  Fucking Nellie. We’ve been friends since college because we were in the same frat. Tonight, he’s getting on my nerves.

  "No way you can sell ten large of those vibes. The sales were even worse than I hoped."

  I fold my arms. "You’ll be the one sucking it because the battlefield’s changed.”

  He frowns. “Did you forget our normal rules apply?” He ticks off his fingers. “No celebrities. No phoning your mom. And last but not least…”

  “No alligators.”

  Nellie, Monty, and I chorus this at once.

  Tanner looks between us. “The fuck?”

  “One time I bet he couldn’t swim across this lake in Florida,” Nellie says with a fond grin.

  “I had to change course because of the wildlife,” I say, shuddering. “But no, I’m not bending the rules. We’re choosing a different vibe, and by the time we’re done, it'll be the best thing a woman's ever experienced."

  Incredulous laughter explodes from his side of the table.

  "I'm serious,” I say.

  The laughter fades, leaving only uncomfortable silence.

  “Tell me something.” I shift forward, draining the rest of my drink because I'm not quite buzzed enough for this conversation. "If you were a woman, what would you like?"

  Nellie breaks the silence first. "Big. Obviously. Only thing better than twelve inches is twenty-four." He looks between us. “Right?”

  "Nah. Length doesn't matter. It's all about girth." Tanner cups his hands to demonstrate.

  Monty folds his arms. "It's neither. Women don't care about that. If you’re making a dude with a motor, then clearly what matters is the vibration."

  My attention’s tugged away, landing on the poster on the wall. Janie watches us, silent and amused.

  Bet she knows exactly what kind of vibe we should make.

  "I hope you're not relying on us for feedback," Monty mutters.

  "Of course not. I have a secret weapon," I reply, and Tanner leans in. "She knows what she’s doing."

  Nellie scratches his head. "Kendall? Shit." He barks out a laugh as Tanner and Monty look on.

  "You've met her?" Monty asks.

  "The chick's a ballbuster. I dare you to get with that,” he tosses.

  Monty winces. “Let’s not.”

  “Don’t worry. She's not Hunt’s type.”

  I sit up straighter.

  “I mean, she's hot in a don’t-look-at-me way, but he doesn't have a chance," Nellie says.

  I can’t say which part of that rubs me wrong.

  “I always have a chance.” I finish dealing and drop the deck on the table with a flourish. "But it wouldn’t happen. She has a kid."

  They stare at me blankly, then erupt at once. "She's married?"

  "No." I frown though, because we didn’t talk about it.

  "But you fucked her," Nellie declares.

  I shoot him a sharp look, but my gaze drifts past him to Janie in the poster. “I told you. She’s a mom.”

  I don't want to say we were halfway there. I tend toward discretion with the women I’m seeing, and the only reason I blurted this out was because more than twenty-four hours later, it’s still bugging the shit out of me.

  "Moms are awesome," Nellie says a minute later, grabbing a bag of corn chips and ripping into it.

  Tanner nods, snatching the bag from Nellie before he can get his hand in. "Some of my favorite people are moms." He tosses back a handful of chips, then counts on his fingers. "My mom. My grandma. Nellie's mom.” Nellie swats at him, and Tanner ducks, grinning. “What's your problem with moms?"

  I hold up my hands. "Nothing! Moms are incredible." I think of my grandma as I try to put it into words. “But someone like that, who’s serious about her life and has responsibilities… she wants certainty. Reliability.”

  The shock of seeing her kid felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice over my head. Then hit a panic button deep in my chest.

  "She pushed a kid out of her vagina. What else do you think she can do with it?" Nellie raises his brows.

  As we finish the night, I turn that over in my head.

  On the elevator on the way out, Monty curses, looking at his phone. “Why is it that things get worse when they’re bad to begin with?”

  “Things can always get worse,” I say, clapping him on the back. “But it’s good to stay positive.”

  He raises a somber gaze to mine. “How do you want to be positive about the fact that Deacon quit?”

  Cold settles over me despite the buzz. “Impossible.”

  “Just gave notice. Before the board meeting.”

  “I’ll talk him down. Offer him more money.”

  “It’s too late. This is official. He submitted his resignation.”

  I’m usually laidback in the face of challenges, but Monty’s right—this has me reeling.

  The elevator doors open, and I rub my temples as I walk out first. “It’s fine. We’ll hire for it. Know anyone who’d be a good fit?"

  "There's no job to be a fit for.” His voice sounds long-suffering as he follows me through the ornate lobby. “You're in the job. That's what the website says. I don't know how to advertise for a job with no credit."

  "How about 'in it for the money’? Or 'humble beyond belief’?" He narrows his eyes at my quips. "Come on, Monty, take a joke."

  “This isn’t a joke to me. And it shouldn’t be to you.”

  I don’t like seeing my friend weighed down as though he’s thirty going on sixty-five. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll get Deacon to write a job ad. We’ll post it discreetly.” I don’t want my grandmother getting word. But I have enough connections from my work that I should be able to find someone. “All right? Good.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  We’re walking distance from my place and Monty’s, and we exit the front doors held open by the black-clad attendant and set off down the sidewalk together.

  Two women pass us on the street, one of them with a noticeably round belly.

  I pause to look over my shoulder before continuing down the street.

  Kendall’s not married. I can’t picture her seeing anyone and not mentioning it.

  Though she didn’t mention she had a kid either.

  I should drop it. Forget the kiss ever happened.

  I don’t want to drop it.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  Monty’s gruff voice cuts into my thoughts.

  “I doubt it.”

  “You’re thinking perhaps your esteemed former classmates are right and being a mom doesn't preclude Kendall from wanting what anyone wants.”

  I cock my head. “Now that’s just freaky.”

  My friend pulls up at an intersection, his face ruddy in the streetlight. “Don’t get involved with the woman who's helping you win the most important bet of your life because your dick's itchy. Especially when her life’s more complicated than yours.”
<
br />   “First, there’s no ‘getting involved.’ You’re the twenty-four seven meat and potatoes boyfriend. I’m a chocolate fudge cake that shows up after dark when a woman needs it bad and makes her forget her name.”

  I shove my hands in my pockets, frustration coursing through me.

  "Second, you think I don’t know that? It would be easy, except…”

  “Except what.”

  We cross the street together.

  “I like her, Monty.”

  We’re silent for half a block as if he’s processing. Fair enough because I can’t remember the last time I was interested enough in a woman to tell my friend about her, not to mention ask for advice.

  “So, what’re you gonna do?” he asks at last.

  “What I have to,” I decide with a sigh.

  I need to be a grown-up and push this attraction aside.

  Put something else ahead of myself.

  Even if all I can think about is kissing her again.

  “Would be a helluva lot easier if I could go back and unlearn everything I’ve learned about her. She could just help me sell sex toys in peace,” I grunt.

  My best friend shakes his head. “Your life’s not boring, Hunter. I’ll give you that.”

  Saturday morning, I roll up to Sarabeth's on the Upper West Side.

  They seat me overlooking the garden inside.

  Three minutes later, my grandmother arrives. The woman is a force in any room, in any clothes. But she always looks put together—not for the world, for herself. Her short, gray hair is shiny and styled, her lipstick on. Silver jewelry glints from under the collar of her dress shirt.

  I rise to embrace her. "Grams."

  Her gaze rolls down me and back up. I'm in my best—a button-down and chinos, plus soft leather dress shoes. "You look like a banker."

  "Only for you."

  We take a seat, and the waitress brings a basket of muffins. I take two and eat the tops while she breaks one carefully in half.

  “How’s life at the Y?”

  “The pool’s closed for renovations.” Her distaste is palpable.

  “You could go to any one of the private member clubs.” The remark earns me an icy stare.

  “Do I look like I’m going to spend the down payment on a piece of property for the privilege of stripping down next to this city’s most self-important pricks?”

  I swallow the laugh, but barely. My grandmother’s accomplished a tremendous amount in her lifetime, but she’s never used that to get herself into the status circles of Manhattan.

  "Your father's been busy,” she says. “And your mother seems to be enjoying her job."

  "Mom likes taking money from rich guys."

  "She could charm an alcoholic from his whisky. You two have that in common."

  I grin. Being with her, experiencing her dry, easy wit, my chest twinges at the thought of having to tell her about Deacon.

  My grandma has always been involved in my life, despite being so active in her business. As a kid, I saw her at least once a week. No matter what she had going on.

  And though it never felt as though she was scrutinizing me or judging me, like some other kids’ parents and grandparents, she was there when I needed her.

  I remember her advice from when I broke up with my first girlfriend during freshman year of high school. Life is long if you’re lucky. Save some tears for the next one, Logan.

  My grandmother let me hang around the brewery even when I was young enough that my parents warned her I’d be in the way.

  She helped me decide where to go to college and how to pay for it.

  And she was there when I graduated, sitting in the auditorium chair next to one of her girlfriends, taking up the seats Monty’s parents had declined to use and cheering us both.

  I couldn’t be prouder of her and all she’s done. And I want her to be proud of me.

  "I look forward to your update at the shareholder meeting," she says.

  "Monty's been working on it for ages. And of course I have," I add after a beat.

  She makes a noncommittal noise. “I hear there are a lot of changes in the industry. Our margins are tightening.”

  “Yes, but we’re working on some product innovations. We’ll come out stronger.”

  Her eyes narrow, or they would if she didn't have Botox. "I can't be as involved forever. I'm not getting younger."

  "Sure you are. That doctor on Fifth is doing wonderful things with your crow’s feet."

  A throaty laugh escapes. "My body is letting me down. I take naps, Logan.”

  “The horror.”

  She reaches for her coffee. “It’s more than that. As much as it pains me, making decisions is best left to someone who’s not taking a dozen pills a day to be able to breathe and use the bathroom.”

  My chest tightens, and I flex a hand under the table. I hadn’t realized she was going downhill at all. She’ll always be fearless and indomitable.

  “You know Monty will take care of Hunter’s Cross when it comes to that.”

  “And will you?”

  My throat suddenly feels thick. “Of course.”

  She lifts a brow, amused. "Did I ever tell you why I started Hunter’s Cross?"

  "Because Grandpa died and you needed an income."

  "In part. But of all the ways for a widower to make her living in those times, a brewery had to be one of the hardest.” Her eyes twinkle. “But I started it to prove it could be done. A woman didn't do those things in those days, Logan."

  Her faintly lined mouth lifts at the corner, and I can’t help smiling back.

  "You’re the original badass, Grams." I lift my coffee cup in a toast.

  That was why, when I fucked up as a kid, I learned to hide it from her. Not because I thought I’d get in trouble, but because I only ever wanted her to see the best parts of me.

  It’s why I can’t tell her Deacon’s doing half my job, or that he’s leaving.

  Since the other night at poker, it’s been eating at me. I’ve tried discreetly talking to some former classmates about the job but haven’t found someone who’d be the right fit and willing to do the work for virtually no credit.

  Of course, Monty’s prior suggestion—that I could do the job—is even crazier.

  Visions scroll through my head as a cold sweat runs down my back.

  Me up to my neck in paperwork.

  On the phone, negotiating margins for trucking or whatever the fuck the logistics team does.

  But most of all, me driving the company my grandmother cleverly and painstakingly built into the ground with the accuracy of a homing missile.

  I can't tell her about Deacon. It would break her heart. So would the fact that I’ve risked my shares for a stupid bet.

  “Do you take naps too now?”

  I clear my throat as I realize I’ve spaced out. "Sorry, Grams. Are you eating that muffin bottom? It's taunting me, and I don't take sass from baked goods."

  10

  “Which of these is not like the other?” Rory singsongs as we head to Conservatory Water Saturday morning. He points at a duck in the pond. “That one’s a different color!”

  “Yes. That’s a male. The others are female.” I watch the clump of half a dozen ducks leisurely making their way through what must be cold water.

  My son stops a few inches from the edge—our rule—but cranes his neck to see better. “Why is that one pecking at the other one?”

  I watch the male pursue the female, quacking. The female smoothly turns tail, but the male doesn’t give up, snapping at her feathers.

  “He wants to be friends.”

  “That’s not how you’re supposed to make friends.”

  “No,” I say dryly, “it’s not.” I ruffle his hair.

  “Are there lots of ways to make friends?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Because you said you were friends with that man. But that didn’t look like friends.”

  Oh boy. I think back to my conversation wi
th Rory the other afternoon after Hunter left.

  “Honey, that was a friend from work,” I told him after he sat at the table next to me. I’d pulled out a different chair than the one Hunter had occupied.

  “Why were you sitting on him?”

  Million-dollar question.

  “Sometimes friends do that. I didn’t mean to do that when you were coming home.”

  “Is it going to happen more?”

  “No.” Absolutely not.

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  “Are you all right?” I asked him.

  “I’m not sure.” My breath stuck in my chest as Rory’s brows pulled together, his gaze dropping to the table. “Mitchell spent the whole walk home telling me about his violin lessons. Promise I don’t ever have to take music?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Promise.”

  I’ve never introduced my son to a man. Mostly because I’ve never dated seriously since Blake.

  This was a blip. A moment of weakness.

  There’s no way Rory’s going to see Hunter and me kissing again because Hunter and I will not be kissing again.

  Not at my place.

  Not anywhere.

  Not ever.

  Even if all I can think of when I close my eyes at night is the feel of his hard body under mine, the scrape of his tongue ring down my needy throat.

  I force my attention back to the park. “Have you thought about what you want to do for the talent show?”

  “Like drive the sailboat?”

  “It needs to be something you can do on a stage.”

  He cocks his head. “I could play ‘Which of these things is not like the other?’”

  I did see Nadine at before- and after-school care drop-off the other day. She didn’t mention what she’d walked in on, but she was stiff as our conversation turned to tickets. She said the gym would be set for two hundred to outdo last year’s goal of one hundred fifty. And we were expecting fifty children to participate.

  Even if every kid has two parents and a sibling, that doesn’t get the gym full. Who the heck is supposed to be going to this thing?

  But I’d forced a smile and brainstormed even as the blood drained from my head.

  She probably thinks I drag random hot guys to my house, then accost them dressed like a house cleaner while my son watches television in the same room.