So Much Trouble: Bad Boy Forbidden Love Romance Collection (So Wrong It's Right Book 4)

by Jamie Knight

  “Hey,” Jim said to Ann, his sister, as he sat down beside her at the head of the conference table. They did have their names on the building, after all.

  “Hey,” Ann said distractedly, as she was looking through a stack of papers.

  “How's the family?” Jim asked.

  “You would know that as well as I would,” Ann snapped, without missing a beat or looking up from her papers.

  “No, I mean your other family.”

  “Other family? You mean the survivors of my army unit?”

  “No.”

  “The biker gang I joined briefly after returning from deployment?”

  “You didn't -” Her brother sat back, shocked.

  She gave him a grin. “Just making sure you're paying attention.”

  “You're the one doing paperwork,” Jim pointed out.

  “Touché.”

  “Watch your language,” Jim admonished.

  “It was French,” Ann said.

  “Exactly,” Jim said, “and I meant your baby boy.”

  “Oh, right him!” Ann said, as though she had just been reminded.

  “Slip your mind?” Jim joked.

  “No, of course not! I just wasn't thinking in that exact way when you asked. Very much business right now if you know what I mean.”

  “Sadly, yes, there were times in law school when you forgot my name.”

  “Poppycock!”

  “I still have Christmas cards made out to Jake.”

  Ann rolled her green eyes, which were an exact match to her brother’s. “It was a slip of the pen. In any case, Drew is good. He is about to turn three, which is really exciting.”

  “Yeah, it looks like the name you chose is going to take,” her brother joked.

  “Hey?”

  “You waited until he was one before naming him, right?” Jim asked.

  “What are you — oh, very funny!” Ann snapped.

  “Thank you,” Jim said, giving a cordial bow.

  “Anything special planned?” I asked, distracting Ann's attention from her brother before she could commit fratricide with her pen.

  “I was planning on having a big family dinner.”

  “That's a nice idea, I didn't know you could cook.”

  “Oh, no, I can't,” Ann said.

  “Legend has it she once burned water,” Jim added and she threw her pen at him, which he ducked easily.

  “I'm trained, you know,” Ann said, glaring at him.

  “In cooking?” Jim asked.

  “Deadly force,” I pointed out, making Ann smile.

  “Oh right,” Jim said casually. His sister stuck her tongue out at him.

  “I actually want to hire a caterer to do everything to the proper scale and quality.”

  “Good call,” I agreed.

  “If only it were so simple,” Ann said, with genuine ennui.

  “Oh my, is that frustration I hear?” I asked.

  “Not yet, though I am a bit annoyed that every caterer in town seems to be busy with other events.”

  “Every caterer?” I asked, this seeming like a bit of an exaggeration.

  “All the ones that she is willing to use anyway,” Jim chimed in, not heeding the previous warning.

  “Hands, Are. Deadly. Weapons,” Ann said, putting her head dramatically in her hands.

  “It makes sense she would want it to be good,” I pointed out, trying to keep Ann's ire off of me.

  “There's a difference between good and perfect,” Jim pointed out.

  “As the philosophers would agree,” I said.

  “You wouldn't have any ideas, would you?” Ann asked, turning her attention to me.

  It was then that I remembered Emma and her Holy Crap Crapes. They really did live up to their name, and it really didn't take her very long to make them. Such was the depth of her experience and deftness in the kitchen. Her cookies were really good and fast, too, proving that she was as good with an oven as a stove. If she had any blender skills, which she well might, she would be rightly considered a triple-threat, a good smoothie often being underestimated.

  “What about Emma?” I suggested.

  “From the cafe?” Jim asked.

  “She works at the cafe but is also a really good cook and baker. She tried to teach me some of what she knows.”

  “How good?” Ann asked.

  “One of her signature dishes is called Holy Crap crapes.”

  “Okay,” Ann said, thoroughly impressed.

  “I'll talk to her,” I said.

  I was nervous about seeing Emma again. It wasn't cool what I did, and I knew it, origami note notwithstanding.

  I tried to be as gentle as I could. Not in terms of “letting her down.” I had no intention of doing that. I really did want her. Even beyond the fake fiancée thing to please my mom. The more I got to know her, the more I liked her, and I knew her biblically at this point. It was a bit scary, really.

  The last time I felt that way about a woman, I got my heart crushed under her five-hundred-dollar heels. Emma didn't seem that way and to be fair, Gina kind of did. There were red flags anyway, ones that I missed because I was so in love at the time and my mom seemed to like her, which was no small feat.

  Emma was behind the counter when I got down the café later that morning. She was wearing a really cute outfit that made it difficult for me not to imagine her naked. Particularly her tits, which were absolutely amazing. I wondered if she was wearing underwear. She certainly hadn't been the night before. Was that a regular thing, or had she done it just for my benefit? A small, terrible, arrogant part of me hoped it was the second one.

  Steeling my courage, I went into the cafe and approached the counter.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hi,” she replied.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I'm going on break,” Emma said to the worker next to her.

  Taking me to a far corner, Emma stopped to face me, her expression not happy, crossing her arms, pushing her perky young tits up even more than they were naturally.

  “Speak,” she said sharply.

  “I was just in a meeting, and it came up that Ann Howell is looking for a caterer for her three-year-old son's birthday, but all the best caterers in town are busy. I remembered how great and fast your cooking was, and I suggested that you could do it.”

  “You did?” She blinked up at me, totally shocked.

  “I did. Sorry for not asking first, Ann was just looking for someone, and you were the first person I thought of.”

  “Really?” A small smile started to play on her lips.

  “Yeah, I mean, she'll understand if you can't do it. I was just supposed to come down here and ask if you can. It's no big deal if you can't. I just thought —"

  She leaped into my arms, so I was holding her like I had when carrying her to her apartment and kissed me. The kiss was passionate but not hard, her tongue dancing playfully with mine. She tasted so good and smelled like raspberries. I had somehow missed that before. The scent, not the taste. Every part of her tasted absolutely amazing. I wasn't really sure about making out at work, either hers or mine so, gently as I could, I set Emma down on her feet, still stroking her cheek.

  “I can't believe you thought of me,” she admitted.

  “Of course, I did. You make some of the best food I've ever come across. Besides which, I think about you a lot anyway.”

  “Really?” she asked, blushing now.

  “Of course,” I said, kissing her tenderly on the lips.

  “You probably have to get back to work,” she said.

  “Yes, and so do you,” I said.

  “You're a lawyer, I'm just a coffee slinger,” she giggled.

  “Both important jobs,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” she said, seeming a bit surprised herself.

  “Not a word of a lie,” I said.

  We kissed again and then went back to our respective day jobs. Jus
t that bit of contact with her was enough to make my cock rock hard. I wondered about Emma if her pussy might be wet.

  Chapter Eleven - Noah

  I walked briskly from the cafe to get back to work. When I was nearly to the elevator, I heard a familiar voice behind me. It was a terrifying voice that never failed to fill me with dread and stop me in my tracks. Even back when I was very first learning how to walk.

  “Noah, darling!”

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, freezing in place, not needing to turn around.

  “Come now, turn and face me when I am addressing you, young man.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I said, doing a Michael Jackson dance move, turning on my heel.

  Mom stood in the foyer of Howell and Howell, looking like the rich socialite that she was. Her fur coat was freshly fluffed. Her pearls shone brightly above her light blue Chanel suit. Eyeing me up and down, she pursed her lips in a disapproving manner.

  “Don't be silly, dear, and honestly, what are you wearing?”

  “Um, slacks and a turtleneck,” I said, looking down to double-check.

  “Don't you get smart with me, young man!”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “And so, you should be, my word such sauciness.” She reached up and pinched my cheek like I was five and not thirty-five. “You really should dress better if you are going to be working a professional job.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes, I do know. I even got a suit.”

  “You did? When?” Mom asked.

  “A few days ago,” I joked, but Mom seemed to be oblivious. “I was saving it as a surprise for the gala.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!”

  “I'm glad you think so, even though the surprised is now ruined,” I snipped.

  Mom’s high expectations meant that a suit had to be designer. She had seen me in suits before, some very expensive, but if it wasn’t from Savile Row, it wasn’t a suit to Mom.

  “Oh, I'm sure it will still be a surprise,” Mom said as she patted me on the cheek.

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes, in my experience, there is rather a large difference between the idea of something and the fact of it.”

  “Don't I know it,” I mused.

  “Don't be saucy and please do not use contractions. It is so common.”

  “Indeed, it is. In that, it is what most people do,” I pointed out.

  “And you don't want to be like most people. I certainly don't, you are special, my boy. You should always seek to be the best that you can be.”

  “Which is better than the unwashed masses,” I groaned.

  “You said it, dear, but yes, I cannot help but disagree. Ordinary is fine for most people but we both know that you are bound for better things. I mean, how old were you when you graduated law school.”

  “Twenty-three, Mom. You know that.”

  “Right, and how did you manage such a feat?”

  “You got me skipped two grades, so I graduated when I was sixteen. Then forced me to go into law school after finishing my undergraduate degree.”

  She tutted. “Encouraged. I encouraged you to go to law school and can you blame me? Your majors weren't exactly useful.”

  “Not for getting rich, no,” I agreed.

  “And who doesn't want to be rich? I was just worried about your future, honey.”

  “Because heaven forbid, I be in the middle class.”

  “Oh!” Mom cried, clutching her chest like she had been stabbed, “please do not say things like that. You know I grew up poor and that sort of tragedy is nothing to make light of.”

  “Great-grandpa was a plumber,” I pointed out.

  “Exactly and your father and I both want better things for you.”

  “My father?”

  “Yes.”

  “My father, who was an architect?” I asked.

  “My point exactly!”

  “Point taken,” I said, doing my best not to laugh.

  Mom frowned but lightened up after a second. “Anyway, who was that little beauty I saw you with?”

  “Beauty?” I asked playing dumb.

  “Don't play dumb with me, young man.”

  “Who's playing?”

  “Come now, she was in your arms in the café next door and you were smooching, it was very clear what was going on.”

  “You're right, I can't fool you.”

  “Darn tootin',” Mom said smugly.

  “Her name is Emma and, well, we're engaged.”

  “You are?” Mom asked, her arms dropping, followed closely by her expression.

  “Yeah, for a couple months now. I know I should have told you. I was cruel to keep it a secret, but I really wasn't sure how you would react to her if you knew.”

  Mom’s frown deepened. “Why? What's wrong with her?”

  “She's, um, a waitress,” I said, thinking fast for a plausible reason, “I don't think she went to college either.”

  “Oh, hey, that's not a problem,” Mom said, surprising us both.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “No, of course not, nobody's perfect and if she makes you happy, which she clearly does, that's all that matters. I'm just glad that you're finally settling down. She looks like a good, healthy girl. She should have lots of strong babies.”

  “We haven't really talked about that but yeah,” I said, my head still whirling. Mom seriously couldn't have surprised me more if she had said she was moving to Afghanistan to farm heroin.

  “How old is she?” Mom asked.

  “Twenty-seven,” I said.

  “Oh, that is a good age. Old enough to be mature, young enough to still be in her prime.”

  “That's the idea,” I teased with a sly wink.

  “Oh, you!” Mom said, giving me a playful shove, “I guess we don't wave to invite Gina to the gala, now.”

  “We?” I asked.

  “Okay, I guess I don't have to bring Gina to the event.”

  “Might be a bit awkward if she came,” I said, trying to keep it casual but honestly on the very tipping edge of doing Snoopy happy dances.

  “No kidding! Oh! I'm so happy!” she exclaimed, hugging me and turning me toward the elevator. “You have to tell me everything!”

  “I-I'm just going back up to the office,” I said.

  “Oh, I get it, a bit of a lunchtime smooch,” Mom said.

  “Yeah,” I said, not daring to tell her the truth.

  “That's fine, honey, you can tell me on the way up!”

  She took me by the hand and led me toward the elevator, her grip stronger than an iron bar — from years of practice with my sister and me.

  I felt kind of bad for lying but it made Mom so happy, and I was also unspeakably relieved that I wouldn't have to see Gina again — a fact which almost made all the subterfuge worth it in and of themselves.

  “So, where did you meet?” Mom asked as the elevator doors shut.

  “At the cafe,” I said, only tailoring the truth rather than outright lying.

  “Ah, workplace romance.”

  “Technically, though, we work on different floors doing different things,” I pointed out.

  “She approached you, right?”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” I said, smiling to myself.

  “Shame it came to that, but I'm happy she did,” Mom said.

  This was really saying something, Mom's opinions on male and female roles peaking in the 1960s, and she was firmly of the opinion that it was the man who was supposed to ask. At least she hadn't asked who had proposed.

  “So am I,” I said, playing along.

  “Do you have a date set yet?” she asked

  “We were thinking of April the first,” I said, the elevator doors opening on the fourth floor. Smiling at Mom, I got ready to lie my ass off.

  Chapter Twelve - Noah

  I pulled up behind Emma's hearse at her apartment and cut the engine on the hotrod. I really wasn't sure it would be there in the morning. At home, I had taken the precaution of having
it valeted, and they tended not to screw around with customers as rich as I was. If I wanted to leave it with them overnight, they would let me. No such luck at the office, the best they were able to do was a reserved spot in a parking lot, which always seemed to me like a great place to get mugged.

  Putting the club onto the steering wheel, I locked the door and headed for the main entrance. Emma's unit was unnamed. The tag next to the buzzer button only said OCCUPANT. Only those who knew her knew that she was there. Very clever, I thought. I pressed the button, holding it for a few seconds as I had been taught in the etiquette classes I was forced to take as a child.

  “Hello?” Emma said, the static of the old intercom doing little to malign her beautiful voice.

  “It's me,” I said.

  “Me who?” she asked.

  “Me, Noah.”

  “You, Jane?”

  “Good one,” I laughed.

  The door buzzed. I was once again granted entrance to the building and made my way to her most precious and sacred sanctum.

  I gave three light raps on her apartment door and already started wiping my feet, even though there wasn't actually a mat, just a carpet. An unconscious reflex that might qualify as OCD if it were a bit more consistent, rather than only coming up when I was nervous for one reason or another. Though to be fair, it that case I was nervous because I didn't want to screw things up because I was really starting to like her.

  “Come in,” Emma said, opening the door and heading back into the apartment.

  She was dressed comfortably in a tank top and a pair of boxer shorts. It was a bit odd seeing her wear shorts because I'd never seen her wear anything but skirts or dresses, but they still looked good on her, doing wonderful things for her already beautiful ass.

  I ignored the sudden and vehement swelling in my pants and followed her into the apartment, closing the door behind me.

  “Thanks for doing this,” she said, turning her head back towards me as she walked. “I've always wanted a catering job like this but then I realized I don't actually know how to do it.” She giggled.

  “I'm here to help,” I assured her.

  “And I really appreciate it. I looked some stuff up online, and one of the main points of the agreements was that I should have a clear menu set out before I go in and start cooking on the day.”