Bad Love (Modern Romance Book 2)

by Piper Lawson

  Now there’s no way I’m crawling back to her with less than two hundred tickets sold.

  I usher Rory to the spot where he collects his boat and remote, then we stroll back along the water’s edge. Rena’s supposed to meet us soon, but before she can, my phone rings.

  "Mom? It’s so nice to hear from you.” We usually talk after dinner, and I’m the one to call her. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, Kendall. Everything’s fine.”

  Before she can launch into typical catch-up, I pounce. “Great. I wanted to ask if you’ll come see the school talent show. I’m helping organize it, and Rory’s going to be in it."

  “Oh. What’s he doing?”

  “We’re still working that out.” Part of me wants to say, “He’s going to singlehandedly create world peace while deriving his universal theory of everything in front of a crowd of Nobel Prize judges,” to see her react. But I push the thought away as I give her the date.

  "It's a Saturday, and you know how busy Saturdays are."

  Disappointment floods me. "It's two months away. And it's not like it's a Sunday. The parishioners would understand Dad being gone for half a day."

  "We’ll discuss it, Kendall. That’s not why I called.” Her voice lifts, and my heart kicks. “The realtor stopped by to see your father. We found out someone put an offer on the house next door."

  "Ah, that's great."

  "It's Blake."

  Cold washes over me as my gaze finds my son by the pond. He’s far enough away he can’t hear, but I can’t help wondering what he’d think if he could. "What do you mean? Blake was working out of state."

  "He was. He’s coming back."

  "But… why?"

  "Kendall," she says, chastising, "it's God's plan. It's not our place to question."

  "I'm not questioning God. I'm questioning my ex-husband," I say, frustration rising up in a wave. "I’m kind of in the middle of something. Can I call you back later?”

  “Of course. Say hello to Rory for us.”

  “Bye, Mom."

  "What was that?" Rena asks, coming up behind me as I hang up with a little screech.

  "Rory's dad bought the house next to my parents."

  Her jaw drops. "Whoa. The ex moving in next to the parents? Sounds like a throwdown."

  I grimace. "There will be no throwdown. They like Blake. Always have." Anger lodges in my throat, but I can’t stop. "He thinks he can have whatever he wants, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else wants."

  I blow out a breath to regain my composure. I’m not used to spinning out, and it feels terrible. "He comes. He goes. He expects everyone to make plans to suit his schedule. And the moment someone tries to hold him accountable for jumping ship? He acts as if he’s perfectly entitled to do whatever he wants. As if…” I rub a hand over my lips. “As if he’s not a father.”

  Rena’s face colors with compassion. “I’m sorry your ex is a dick. Most exes are.”

  “I know. It’s just… I don’t understand men, Rena. They’re mysterious."

  She smiles. "Men are a lot of things. Mysterious isn’t one of them. Take Wes. He wants scientific answers to everything and more Back to the Future sequels. I keep telling him neither is possible."

  My mouth twitches despite my mood.

  "But it's not Wes you're talking about. Or Blake. Is this about Hunter?"

  Oh boy.

  My stomach’s flip-flopping changes entirely. "He came over for a work conversation the other day. Then he kissed me.”

  “Oh yes.” She grabs my arm. “Normally I wouldn’t be so excited for a kiss, but this is you we’re talking about. That’s practically third base.”

  I explain what happened, leaving out some choice adjectives. Still, her eyes get bigger and sparkle more with every word.

  I've spoken with Hunter on the phone since then, purely about advertising and budget questions.

  He seemed distant. Distracted.

  He hasn't said anything about what happened between us or what happened after. Neither have I.

  It's for the best.

  "You want to kiss him again,” Rena predicts.

  "I want to strangle him." For the way he made me feel and for the look on his face when he walked out. As if I was the one who’d done something wrong.

  "Kinky. When are you going to see him again?”

  “Monday,” I admit. I’ve decided on a new product to advertise in the hopes of winning his crazy bet. Knowing the stakes on his side had me going over my own work, double-checking everything.

  It’s one more thing I curse him for.

  “I bet that man would be a helluva vacation,” Rena says. “And it looks like you could use one."

  I reach into my bag, pull out my notebook, and slide out the “My Adventures” sheet. “That’s what this is for.”

  Rena takes it, scans down the list, and laughs when she sees the one about not fantasizing about hot guys. “You sure about that?” she teases.

  I shut my eyes. “Yes.”

  “So, why’re you looking so frustrated?” Rena asks as she passes back the list and I tuck it away.

  “Because even though we have chemistry, I’ve never had a problem steering clear of physical encounters. I’ve been attracted to men before. Hello, it’s New York. There’s a hot guy on every corner and two on most. I don’t know why it’s so hard this time. Why all I can think about is how it would feel to be with him.” My throat dries.

  She turns my question over. "That’s easy. Because you’re used to being able to avoid the object of that chemistry. You don’t have to work with random hot guys. But you can’t avoid Hunter. You’re going to see him for another two and a half months. The pressure’s bound to build up.”

  I groan. “So, what do I do?”

  Her face is sympathetic. “Find a release valve.” She nods to my list. “And I don’t think origami will cut it.”

  I walk into the meeting room at Closer, my phone and notebook in one hand and my secret weapon in the other. "Morning."

  Hunter looks up from his phone. He's looking handsome as always, today in a navy V-neck sweater over jeans, one ankle crossed over his knee, but his chair’s pushed back from the table. As if he’s ready to spring into action. "You're late."

  I check my phone. One minute.

  "I have something for you." I hold out the vibe, holding my breath.

  He takes the thing in, the curves, the shape, like the petals of a flower. "It's not a cock."

  "No. The vibrators with the greatest growing market share are for external stimulation. So, I chose this one from the company’s line of products.

  “It's not meant to replace a partner,” I go on quickly, unsure why my heart is thudding in my chest, “though of course it could be used solo for stimulation.”

  He presses the first button on the end. Nothing happens.

  "There's a safety switch,” I say. “So you don't turn it on accidentally."

  "As if that would happen."

  I flick the switch, and he goes back to the device, cycling through the five modes.

  “You’re going to save my grandmother’s company with a flower.” Hunter’s voice is flat.

  My spine stiffens as I turn back to him, the criticism in his eyes. “This is a solid alternative to the Rocket. And, in my opinion, the best option we have.”

  “Why?” Hunter grills me as if we're on opposite sides of a court case and not a table. I respond to each question in turn.

  When I finally think he's done, he pronounces, "It's not enough."

  I blink. "What do you mean?"

  "Because whatever the market has, this needs to be better in every way. It has to fulfill every desire a woman has."

  "Hunter. We’re not developing a new product. We’re selling an existing one." Between his suddenly critical attitude after the “we’re all in this together” of last week, my ex’s antics, and Nadine’s criticism, my patience is thin enough to snap. "We’ll ship it to fifty women in our target dem
ographic once you give the okay. They can test it and give us comments in their own words, which can help us tailor the messaging so we can sell more. A lot more."

  Hunter scowls, meeting my gaze.

  The last threads of my professionalism snap like fragile threads of spun silk.

  “I didn't ask you to come to my house last week, Hunter. I didn’t ask you to bring me beer and look at sex toys in my kitchen. I certainly didn't ask you to…"

  "To what?" Hunter's voice is lower when he leans in, chocolate eyes deepening.

  I fight the flush crawling up my neck. "To kiss me."

  "And you didn't tell me you had a kid."

  "I didn't owe you an explanation."

  "I figured it would've come up. We've talked. You told me about your parents. How you grew up."

  I resent the accusation in his tone, but he's not wrong. Needing something to do, I shove out of my chair and grab the spray bottle before going to work on the plants with furious jerks of the plastic trigger.

  The delicate leaves duck and flail under the streams of water. I don’t relent.

  “Maybe I should’ve known,” Hunter drawls from behind me. “You’re such a nurturer.”

  His sarcasm has me spinning and taking two steps toward his large frame reclined in the chair.

  I spray him in the face.

  My mouth forms an O before I realize what I’ve done. The water dripping down Hunter’s cheeks, off his scruff on his chin, has me swallowing.

  Shit. I just sprayed a client.

  He deserved it, a voice insists.

  Still, what’s wrong with me?

  He blinks, then wipes a sleeve of that expensive-looking sweater over his face.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

  “We’re even.”

  I nod, turning back to the wall and taking a slow breath.

  "When people find out I had a child at eighteen, they think I made a mistake." My spritzing rhythm slows its frenetic pace. "I didn't make a mistake, Hunter. I just don’t give my heart away easily. Or anything else for that matter."

  “Easily or ever?”

  I finish watering and adjust the leaves on a few of the plants that bore the brunt of my frustration. “There’s a reason fantasizing about strangers is on my ‘don’t do’ list. Because fantasizing about someone you’re attracted to—especially if they’re attracted to you too—can only lead to casual, fantasy-inspired sex.”

  “That sounds terrible.” His flat tone tells me it doesn’t.

  “It is. Because normal people don’t need crazy sex. It’s how people become sex addicts, Hunter, and neglect their goals and values and make bad choices and end up ostracized. And when they’re on their deathbed, all they can think is, ‘God, I wish I’d spent less time banging and more time doing meaningful things for the people I care about.’”

  I glance over my shoulder to find Hunter watching me. I expect to find amusement in his expression, but there’s only interest. As if I’m some fascinating creature he’s never before encountered in his travels.

  “As much as I could spend all day dissecting your appalling fantasizing-about-strangers theory, there’s one glaring flaw.”

  “What?”

  “We’re not strangers, Peach.”

  His words dig at my stomach, but it’s the implied intimacy that guts me. As if he knows me. As if we’ve shared pieces of ourselves.

  Because we have.

  I always figured intimacy was like an eighth-grade slow dance. At the beginning, it’s cordial. Fingertips grazing waists and shoulders. Gradually, you work your way closer until you’re nestled against each other.

  Trust takes time. What’s new has to become comfortable before things progress.

  Hunter never got that rule book.

  Forget fingertips. He hauled me against him and made me feel every inch of his body until I had nothing to hide.

  I meant what I said to him at my place. That he’s so much more than he pretends. That’s what makes this even more dangerous. I shouldn’t want him closer. Not because of Rory or Nadine, but because intimacy with Logan would be a gateway to something I don’t trust.

  “I’m not looking for something physical, Logan.” His given name slips out before I can stop it, and I swear his eyes darken. “Or emotional, for that matter. It was one kiss. No worlds were rocked.” I clear my throat, folding my arms with the empty spray bottle still hooked on one finger. "So, I need your go-ahead on the vibe. Do I have it?”

  He studies me a long time, then reaches over to grab the vibe once more.

  My phone buzzes on the table, and Hunter’s hand stills as he stares at the screen.

  “What?”

  I lean over the table to read the notification. It’s a text.

  Blake: Kendall, babe, you’ll never believe what I did!

  Perfect. I should’ve known he’d want to talk soon.

  I let out a little grunt and turn it facedown.

  It vibrates again. Another message. I clear my throat. “Do I have your go-ahead, Hunter?”

  He stares at me, folding his arms over his muscular chest.

  Oh, for goodness sake.

  It looks bad, a guy calling me “babe” after my sermon on abstinence, but I don’t owe him anything.

  "You have no idea what you read,” I say anyway.

  “No? It looks pretty clear to me.” I don’t know what Hunter’s thinking, but judging by his expression, it’s murderous.

  I set the empty spray bottle down with a clunk. “If you were hoping to criticize my personal life, you don't pay me enough for that.” Hunter’s chest rises, slow, as if he’s trying to restrain the urge to lunge over the table. “Now, I need a decision on that vibe. If you want to do any further personal testing in the interim"—I nod at the vibe in his hand—"knock yourself out."

  I grab the bottle and stalk out the door.

  It's not until I hear the loud whistle that I realize he's right behind me.

  11

  I’m a man who’s willing to admit when he’s wrong.

  I wasn’t at my finest this morning. The pressure of the bet and meeting my grandmother over the weekend is getting to me, but that's not Kendall's fault.

  Still, from the second she walked into the room, she added to my problems instead of alleviating them.

  She looked refreshed since last week, wearing a black skirt and cherry-red shoes. Her white top was sleeveless, clinging to her chest and showing off her toned arms.

  I should’ve been glad she looked well rested and put together, but it irritated me.

  I’d planned to get through our business and wrap up the meeting on a personal note—with an apology for acting like an ass about her kid. At least until I noticed the text on her phone.

  That made it personal real fucking fast.

  I couldn’t look away. Not with some prick—who I’m guessing didn’t have to pry her phone number out of her colleague—calling her “babe” when she’d made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want me or any other guy.

  Now I’m pissed. It’s one thing if I can’t have her, for her reasons and mine, but I’m not gonna watch her tell me about her childhood, about her kid, about her crazed theories about how stranger fantasies lead to Armageddon—which have me torn between laughing at how damned cute she is and pinning her up against that stupid wall and kissing her until we crush every plant to death—then watch her walk out of here to meet some other guy.

  I refuse to participate in some kind of twisted lust triangle. Monty and his operas can keep that shit.

  That’s why I followed her down the hall.

  When I whistle to get her attention, she stops and spins, spitting fury from her eyes. "You did not whistle at me."

  She continues down the hall before disappearing through a door.

  I follow her into the bathroom. Because we're not done.

  She's filling the bottle from the tap, her eyes widening on mine in the mirror over the sink. "Hunter! What are you—"

&nb
sp; "Tell me who he is.”

  My low voice echoes off the tile in the space that’s big enough for a single stall plus a vanity.

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “You really want some guy calling you ‘babe’ and blowing up your phone at work? I didn’t think you were into that.”

  Kendall’s eyes flash in the mirror. “I’m not. That’s why I divorced him.”

  It takes a minute for me to catch up, the justified rage in my brain dialing down a few notches.

  “Blake is my ex-husband. Rory’s father.” The churning in my gut intensifies instead of resolving. “We haven’t talked in a long time. But he moved back to my hometown.”

  I reach for her arm, turning her to face me because I can't stand the mirror between us.

  “Is he messing with you, Peach?”

  I’ve gone from jealous to protective in three seconds flat, and it’s hard to keep up. From her expression, she’s finding it hard too. “No. Why is it so damned hard for guys to be nice and easy?”

  I should comfort her, but what comes out when she lifts that frustrated face to mine is, "A woman who can talk about sex toys like a boss isn't looking for nice and easy."

  Kendall's pulse hammers in her throat, her chin lifting in defiance. "Perfect. Another man who thinks he knows what's best for me.”

  But her tone’s not as edgy as it was when she was murder-spraying those plants in the conference room. It drops in a way that drags down my spine, deliberate or not, when she says, “Go on, then. Tell me what I'm looking for, Logan Hunter."

  My brain's slow.

  My body's not.

  It recognizes the undercurrent in her voice. The smart-ass inflection that drags down my spine, telling me she wants to fight or fuck.

  Desire surges through me as I take the bottle and set it on the vanity, feeling her breasts press against my chest. "You need excitement, Peach. You need a man who'll take you outside your comfort zone.

  Kendall's hands grip the counter behind her. Her eyes flash, but there's hunger under the challenge.

  God, she's beautiful. All lush curves I want to sink my teeth into. Lick every part of until she's moaning under me.

  My voice is a rasp. "Here’s the real problem. This"—I hold up the vibe—"won't do it for you."