Flawless: (Fearsome Series Book 4)

by S. A. Wolfe

  She gives me a genuine smile, and I feel a little guilty for judging her.

  I check on Marguerite, who works the bar like a magician, whipping up cocktails and pouring wine so quickly no one has to wait. Our staff is known for stealthy, unobtrusive service. We wear traditional black pants and white or black shirts so we don’t stand out. We barely talk above a whisper when we introduce a tray of hors d’oeuvres to guests. I’ll hold out a platter and announce the food—“shrimp croquettes, steak tartare, mushrooms stuffed with savory herbs and ricotta”—and let guests serve themselves. It’s impossible not to notice that Peyton has a different technique.

  He’s wearing those jeans that make his butt look great, and they’re relaxed enough to hang from the hard edges of his slender hips. His gray T-shirt shows off his V-shaped physique. The broad shoulders swoop down to his firm pectorals in front and the hard planes of muscles in back. Peyton is comfortable in any crowd and walks with a gunslinger’s swagger. He’s not attempting to be invisible at all.

  “Hey, you in the silver dress,” he says from behind a woman with glossy black hair pulled back into a smooth bun.

  I cringe. He’s like a guy from a construction site, whistling to a woman walking by, minding her own business.

  The elegant woman in the silver sheath turns around, and instead of being offended, her face lights up with a smile when she sees Peyton. Of course it does.

  My cordial, professional Bo has been replaced with a tall, sexy guy who makes you wonder what it would be like to have him in your bed, naked and hot and heavy for you.

  “Here, have a shot,” Peyton says to the woman.

  I roll my eyes and groan. “Have a shot,” I grumble to myself and go back to the kitchen for more food. This is what people mean by bull in a china shop. Peyton is most definitely a bull, and he has the serving skills of a WWE wrestler.

  I work my way back through the crowd with a new tray for Peyton.

  “Here,” I say in a low voice as I take his empty platter and hand him a tray of stuffed mushrooms. “Maybe you could try to be a bit more subtle. Less talking.”

  “You don’t like my style?” He winks. There’s a group of women behind him, waiting for him. They are so obvious.

  “This is Adam’s party,” I whisper. “Don’t interfere.”

  “Don’t worry, sunflower. I’m a professional.”

  When he calls me sunflower, I feel a little light-headed and giddy. Like the women waiting for him.

  He turns to the group, and that sexy charm of his seduces them. They’re enthralled by my rogue waiter, the man I lust for, the man I sleep with and pretend is my friend.

  “Hey, pretty in pink,” Peyton says to another woman in a pink blouse.

  I hold my breath again, wondering how long this can go on, but the woman steps forward as though honored to be beckoned by Peyton.

  “Here, have a ’shroom.”

  “Oh, for the love of fudge,” I whisper angrily to myself.

  He looks over at me and grins. He’s intentionally messing with me. He knows I’m a stickler for a sense of order and decorum when it comes to party etiquette, and he likes getting away with breaking other people’s rules.

  “Talia.” Adam’s voice from behind me makes me freeze. I hope he isn’t angry about Peyton’s performance. I’m just getting to know him, and it’s been nice. I would hate for all of it to end because of Peyton. Because I’m sleeping with Peyton and letting him into every part of my life.

  I turn around and come face to face with the woman who has been hanging onto Adam since she arrived. She’s a bit taller than me, thin, but with shapely curves in the right places—her bust, her rear. Her red hair is thick and drapes in loose curls just below her shoulders. She has lovely skin, and her bronze tan highlights her cheekbones and smoky eyes. She’s very attractive, but I think I’d be more envious if she were hanging off Peyton’s arm rather than Adam’s. That image sticks with me, the idea that I want to keep Peyton away from these women.

  “May I get you both a drink?” I ask Adam and the pretty woman. I’m always in service mode and never want to presume I can behave like a guest.

  “No, everything is excellent. The food … And Marguerite is some bartender. Her drinks have won everyone over. Seriously good stuff,” Adam says.

  “And where did you find that waiter?” the woman inquires.

  “Peyton,” I say with a sigh. “He’s helping out for tonight.”

  “Talia, this is Chloe. She’s a fund manager at another firm.”

  “It’s a pleasure.” Chloe smiles and reaches out to shake my hand. I slip the empty tray under my arm and give her a firm handshake. “You’ve really done a wonderful job here. I bet Adam is going to have a lot of parties.”

  “Oh, thank you. Adam has the perfect house for parties, and he’s the perfect client,” I say, trying to make up for Peyton’s wild behavior—every caterer’s nightmare.

  “I’m not just her client,” he says to Chloe. “You get to know someone when they’re in your home several times a week. And that guy over there, schmoozing all the women, he’s not her employee. He owns that German beer hall you drove by on the way up here.”

  “Interesting.” Chloe follows Peyton with her eyes. “Are you dating him?”

  “Dating?” I say. “No, we’re not dating.” It’s sort of true. Sleeping with someone isn’t the same as dating them.

  Adam is watching me carefully. It’s exactly what I do when I’m around him. I study him and wonder what it would be like to be with him outside of work. I look for clues to see if he’s interested in me beyond the way a man checks out a woman and imagines what it would be like to have sex with her.

  It’s becoming a little awkward with Chloe holding his arm. I have to assume she wants a relationship with him. I’ve been in his home enough to know that he doesn’t bring any women here. There are never extra dishes in the sink, or two used wineglasses on the counter, or objects left behind that would indicate a woman spent the evening. I imagine his New York apartment is where he takes his dates. It’s a part of his life I don’t want to think about.

  “I was hoping you’d play the piano for us again. I told Chloe you’re talented.”

  “No. No, thank you,” I say, laughing as if I get these requests all the time.

  “Peyton! Over here!” A woman is waving her empty martini glass, and then a few cheers and laughter from a group of women takes over the room.

  “I think I need to get Peyton some more appetizers to serve.” I’d like to talk to Adam, but I really need to pay attention to my job and the fact that I’m worried women are going to start slipping twenty dollar bills in Peyton’s pants and beg him to strip.

  “It’s all right, Talia.” Adam touches my shoulder to reassure me that he isn’t upset with Peyton’s intrusion. I suppose Wall Street people are used to excessive, alpha behavior.

  “It was nice meeting you,” I say to Chloe. “I love your hair … and your dress! Please excuse me.”

  I walk away, berating myself for acting like a nervous ninny in front of Adam. He’s been so nice to me, so there’s no reason for me to think I don’t belong. As my father would say, the rich and beautiful have to take dumps like everyone else. We’re a family of poets.

  Dumps or no dumps, I can’t get to know Adam when he has a gorgeous woman at his side and I have a pretend waiter who’s about to be coaxed into a Magic Mike performance if he keeps going along with the flirty women who find ways to touch him. Oh sure, I haven’t missed a single, manicured hand that caresses his shoulder, or the woman with the husky laugh who dared to stroke his unshaven jaw. Only I get to do that! He’s my …

  Exactly. What is Peyton to me? My lover? The word makes me gag.

  When I find Peyton, his back is to me, and my instinct is to put my hand in his back pocket, right where his jeans hug his perfect ass.

  He’s really screwing up my catering etiquette. I’m not supposed to be having inappropriate thoughts about him whil
e I’m working, yet somehow, it seems like it’s my right to slide my hand in there and tug him toward me because we’re …

  And there it is again.

  We’re friends? Friends really don’t have sex unless you’re one of those women who claim her boyfriend is also her best friend. Friends with benefits? Again, I don’t believe in that. Those are people who are confused about their relationship. Either they’re going to have a romantic relationship or not. Friends who have sex for the sake of sex will eventually realize it’s screwing up their friendship, so the sex and the friendship both end.

  But isn’t that what I agreed to when Peyton and I decided to sleep together? If I continue to treat him as a sex buddy without any emotional commitment, then I can’t be jealous if he is also attracted to other women. He may be used to this kind of arrangement, but I’m not.

  I so desperately want to feel like the old Talia, the pre-surgery Talia who had a sense of immortality and felt secure about how she rated on the desirability chart with men. One little physical scar doesn’t change all that. It’s the inner, emotional scar, like a zipper from head to toe, concealing all the new insecurities and fears that have arisen from the moment the doctor said mitral valve prolapse and silent killer.

  I’ve looked in the mirror so many times since, studying my eyes, my mouth, for any change that proves I’m an entirely different person. Even if I can’t see it, it’s there. Marko saw it, and seeing the change in his expression, how his eyes looked at me in a different light, I felt it. New Talia made an appearance before the surgery, with her sudden anxiety attacks over every little thing, her short temper, her frenetic behavior to stay on top of to-do lists, and her constant worries of what-ifs.

  I’ve been trying to unload that New Talia since I left the hospital, but she’s a hard bitch to shake.

  New Talia is intent on being a workaholic, on exercising dutifully, on watching over her mother and sister like a caretaker, and on living each day with as little emotion as possible. Living joylessly for the sake of surviving life. But it’s impossible to live like that and not be emotional, because I remember how much life I had inside of me, even when our family was at its lowest point. I believed in the power of my youth and my desire for more in life, my yearning to love someone and to be loved, and it terrifies me that there’s a part of me trying to prevent me from having that again.

  This New Talia thinks she’s protecting me, but she’s wrong. She’s wrong about so many things, and I see that now. The thought that I could always be empty and alone is unacceptable. Letting myself go, to fall recklessly into bed with Peyton, was the first step in defying New Talia. She’s in my head all the time.

  He could be just like your father—all charm, all talk, seducing you with sex because there’s nothing more. Marko was right. You could pass this on to your children. How selfish of you.

  Yes, she is right about Peyton, and she’s correct about my genetic disorder, but is it selfish if I choose to find love and choose not to have a family to spare anyone heartbreak, both literally and figuratively? I shouldn’t have to live like a nun. I can make sacrifices and hold out hope that I can find love, find a man who will tell me, you’re enough, you’re all I need.

  I kick New Talia out of my head and grab Peyton’s elbow. “Time to refill our trays.”

  “Hey, you’re getting a little frisky there,” Peyton says, then quickly turns his attention to a woman eating a leek and goat cheese puff with amorous delight. “Puff Girl, I’ll bring you some more of those.”

  The woman noshes and nods enthusiastically. It makes me smile.

  “See? I’m doing an awesome job out there, selling your goods,” he says as we make our way back to the kitchen.

  “You’re not selling anything. You’re giving away my food.”

  “I’m selling sex—sexy, bite-sized food on sticks and in shot glasses. You sell sexy food, sunflower.”

  “I’ve never thought of it like that.” I pause for a moment to consider a new business name. Sexy Food Catering. It’s better than T & A Services, but still a disaster. “Anyway, it’s time to get ready for the real deal here. We make one more round with appetizers, and then we let everyone get a little hungry while I get the main courses ready. Think you can help do a little prep work for me?”

  “Give me those knives. I don’t want to brag, but you’re going to be so fucking impressed.”

  “You’re not modest at all.” I laugh. “You’re going to be chopping—nothing exciting.”

  I’m wrong. Absolutely wrong. Watching Peyton chop and slice vegetables is a performance that deserves its own soundtrack. And then someone puts the Bee Gees on the sound system and cranks up “Night Fever” and everyone starts dancing.

  Peyton and I get caught up in the music blasting through the kitchen speakers, dancing alongside one another while he handles the knives as part of his routine. He’s fast but graceful and so sexy, coordinating his movements to the beat of the music. I mouth the words of the song as I sear the chicken breasts and the steaks. We’re having our own private party in the kitchen, and the fun disco music makes it easy to cook together.

  Marko couldn’t make a ham sandwich. The women in his family waited on the men—

  I have to stop the comparisons, but Peyton is surprising me again. He likes cooking with me. And for me, watching him prep and cook as my personal sous chef, while moving in perfect time to the dance beat, is hot!

  After a few more dances, it’s time to corral the guests for dinner, the main event.

  “I’ll finish the salad plates. Will you tell the guests they can make their way to the dining room?” I ask. “And can you do it without making it look like you’re luring them to an orgy?”

  “I think I can handle it. Pretty sure they’ll do what I say.”

  “I think so, too. Shake your ass, and they’ll pay attention.”

  “I don’t shake anything.”

  “You have a certain way you walk. It’s very sexy. At least for my business.” I say this very businesslike as I arrange the last of the appetizers on a silver tray.

  “I’m glad you think so.” He swats my butt, and I jump, hoping no one noticed us. “I’m seriously ready for tonight.”

  He takes my hand, holding a leftover puff I planned on eating, and guides it to his mouth. He bites into it while staring at me. That sweet, familiar stirring in my belly and below begins to whirl and spin between my thighs. I can’t take my eyes off him as he finishes off the delicate puff. He then places my empty hand against the front of his crotch so I can feel his erection. Our clandestine groping makes me wet.

  We are safely hidden from the party by some well-placed, modern, concrete columns between the living room and kitchen, but even if we weren’t, I need to kiss Peyton. I keep one hand on his crotch, stroking him ever so slightly while I wrap my other hand around his neck. I pull him in for a kiss, tasting and stroking with my tongue. An aggression is building in me as the kiss goes deeper. His breaths become ragged, and then he grips my backside.

  Someone accidentally hits the volume control and the music screeches through all the speakers. We pull away from each other at the same time.

  Is he thinking the same thing I am? Wondering if we’re beginning to feel a stronger attachment to one another?

  Of course he isn’t. He’s thinking about banging you up against the deluxe Sub-Zero fridge.

  I hate New Talia.

  I remove my hands, and he straightens up to his full, towering height. There’s an extra beat of staring at each other, and then I have to step back farther from him. He’s too enticing.

  “Let’s get that table set up.” Peyton is disturbingly cool, as though the kiss left no lasting impression on him.

  I nod, willing my professional side to be stronger than my horny one.

  He successfully wrangles the guests to the dining table without incident, then rejoins me in the kitchen, where we move in tandem, working the ovens and pans with very little conversation needed.
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  He’s behaving oddly now, and it’s not my imagination. He walked into the party with gusto and good cheer and worked the crowd comfortably with his usual wit, and now it’s gone.

  Marguerite enters the kitchen and tells Peyton she’ll serve the dinner with me. She mentions that he’s too tall, and too distracting, which isn’t fair to the host.

  I expect Peyton to laugh, as I do, but he doesn’t argue. He assigns himself to keeping the kitchen clean and orderly. Something is occupying his brain. Something struck him hard. Was it triggered by our kiss?

  The dinner service is effortless. Marguerite handles the end of the table where Adam is sitting, and I serve the other half. The conversations are lively, and Adam is clearly in his element as the powerful CEO who is both entertaining and witty. He’s extra polite to Marguerite and gives her his full attention when she passes by with dishes and drinks. He pays attention to everyone.

  It’s the long, hard looks Adam gives me that throw me off a bit.

  The man is confusing me. Either he likes to always have the attention of the women around him merely because it’s what he’s used to, or he’s interested in me and working on it as slowly as possible. I’m not sure why. If Adam has any interest, why is Peyton taking up so much real estate in my head?

  I do what I have to do in the dining room and return to the kitchen as often as possible with dirty dishes to line up in the dishwashing queue or to retrieve new items. Peyton has his back to me, standing at the kitchen sink, doing the dishes while gazing out the window at the pastoral views visible under the full moonlight. He should be running his big, busy restaurant. Instead, he looms over the sink, cleaning my knives with care, his bare hands rinsing them in the hot water as he inspects each blade. I appreciate that about him. Nothing is beneath him. He worked his way up in the restaurant business, and as a manager, he’s willing to do any lowly task.

  Something is still on his mind, though. He’s dwelling on it intensely as he scrubs the dishes until they are spotless, so I think better of interrupting his thoughts and give him his space.