Flawless: (Fearsome Series Book 4)

by S. A. Wolfe

  There’s some errant clapping, but Kimberly doesn’t pause long enough for applause. “I’m just so excited about this fundraiser, and that everyone wants to help! I love my town! Let’s hear it for Hera!”

  The applause comes on stronger this time now that Kimberly has warmed the crowd up, but it’s cut short when Lois causes another scene, yanking the microphone away from Kimberly.

  “And that’s enough of that!” Lois barks, and the audience roars with laughter. “You go sit down and let me handle this.”

  “Oh, Lois!” Kimberly stomps her foot before going back to her table.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause for Kim, the librarian,” Lois says mockingly.

  Everyone claps extra hard for Kimberly since we’ve all been the recipient of Lois’s humiliation tactics. Hoyt’s high-pitched whistle almost renders me deaf.

  “I love when Lois hosts these things,” Ian says. “It’s amazing we allow this. It’s like putting Stalin in charge of a preschool. It’s a wonder Lois isn’t advocating for a town jail, a single cell that she’d get to be in charge of.”

  I laugh too loudly and get the look from Lois.

  “She scares me,” Hoyt whispers. The weight of his heavy, muscled arm is making me hunch. With pain. I doubt we look like a romantic couple, but I try to keep up the appearance since I see Adam glancing my way.

  For the next hour, Lois rattles off services and items up for bid and makes sure the winning bidders overpay excessively. A private yoga session with Anima-Christi, Lois’s top yogi, goes for eight hundred dollars after Lois taunts the bidders with insults. A funky, psychedelic blanket knitted by Hera’s own local knitting guild, appropriately called the Knockout Knitters, sells for eighteen hundred dollars after Lois screams at a bidder, “You can do better than that!”

  Ian and I exchange a look. We may all be afraid of Lois, but we’re all secretly impressed at the results of her ability to coerce money out of innocent participants.

  “I bet she worked for the CIA or Mossad,” Hoyt whispers. “That woman was trained professionally somewhere. I’m not buying her yogi act one bit.”

  I watch Lois shoo another person away from the stage and tell some tall man sitting down front that he needs to move because he’s blocking people from seeing her.

  “When she says namaste to people on the street, they always glance over their shoulder and duck as if they expect to be hit by a bullet,” I say.

  Ian and Hoyt laugh, again too loudly.

  “Shut up, please,” Lois says, singling out our table. “You’re next.” It sounds like a threat.

  “Oh shit!” Ian mouths to me.

  I know I’m about to be humiliated. I never know how Lois will do it, but I always know it’s coming.

  “Next up is a gourmet meal prepared by Hera’s own award-winning, professional chef, Talia Madej!” Lois announces it like an Oscar presentation, which is embarrassing in itself. And I’ve never won an award, unless Lois is referring to the Quiet As A Mouse award my sixth-grade teacher gave me at the end of the school year when I didn’t qualify for any of the academic awards all the other students earned. But, if Lois thinks she can wrangle more money for my donation with false advertising, I’m not going to be the one to argue with her.

  Peyton and Bash walk out of the kitchen and stand off to the side of my table, so I have Lois, Peyton, and Adam in my line of view.

  “She is a highly coveted personal chef,” Lois continues.

  Ian smiles and mouths a, “Wow.”

  I cringe.

  “She’s in such great demand that she can’t take on new clients”—great, she’s killing my business—“so this is an opportunity for those of you who have never experienced the incredible culinary delights of Talia.”

  “She makes it sound like I perform sex acts,” I whisper.

  “It’s awesome,” Ian says gleefully.

  “The winning bidder will receive a six-course meal cooked and delivered by Talia. Not only that, she will dine with you!”

  “What?” I snap and look at Lois, who pretends not to hear me.

  “Whoa,” Ian says. “She’s setting you up, honey. She’s going after the single men with money, and you’re the bait.”

  Peyton turns toward me, his poker face giving way to displeasure.

  I shrug. It’s not my fault Lois is auctioning me off to the highest bidder.

  “I’m opening the bidding at five hundred!” Lois shouts. “That’s cheap, people. I expect to see all your paddles go up!”

  All the paddles do go up, along with a chorus of cheers, some of which come from Imogene, Dylan, and Jess.

  I shrink back into Hoyt to hide, but he removes his arm from me so he can start eating the Linzer torte and pretzel bread pudding Sunny just delivered to our table.

  “One thousand,” Adam says loudly, raising his red auction paddle.

  “Two thousand!” Peyton says firmly, holding up a paddle he must have produced out of thin air.

  “This is getting good,” Ian says with relish. He pushes his chair back to get a better view.

  “Very nice, Peyton,” Lois says, narrowing her eyes like a wicked witch or evil queen in every Disney movie ever made. “Any other takers? What do you say, Adam?”

  The audience quiets down, clearly captivated.

  “Three thousand,” Adam replies and gives onlookers a confident smile that says he’s got plenty of time and money to play this game. The same smile that puts him on the cover of magazines.

  “Four thousand,” Peyton says. He looks right at Adam and crosses his arms.

  “Things are heating up in here,” Lois says, fanning herself with an auction paddle.

  I agree. The intensity radiating off Peyton is both exhilarating and infuriating. Exhilarating because he’s so damn sexy. Infuriating because I find him so damn sexy, and because he’s trying to sabotage my chance with Adam.

  “Ten thousand,” Adam says, calmly, like a man who knows he owns this.

  It’s a game that only Adam can win. He’s rich, and I hate to see Peyton throw his money at this, thinking he can prove some misguided point to me. Harmony would be furious if she were here to witness this.

  I cross my arms and give Peyton one of his own death stares.

  He scoffs and looks back at Lois. “Fifteen thousand.”

  Bash looks uncomfortable and utters a very audible, “Shit.”

  Lois hoots and the audience cheers, egging the men on. Yes, I used to think that meant throwing eggs at people.

  “Talia, I think you’ll have to put out for this,” Ian says.

  “Shut up,” Hoyt growls. “I don’t like this. Not one bit.”

  “Hey, it’s fine. I’m only having dinner with one of them. Peyton and Adam aren’t strangers. It’s a perfectly safe transaction.”

  “Lordy,” Ian says.

  “Yeah, I get how that sounded.”

  “You can always bring one of our dogs with you.” Hoyt is serious.

  “Hades. He’s the wolfhound,” Ian says.

  “His name is Al.” Hoyt shoots Ian a look.

  “Best guard dog,” Ian adds, holding up a photo of Al on his phone. The dog is taller than me.

  “This has to end with the next bid,” I say. The atmosphere in the room is no longer fun. It’s hostile, and I’m starting to feel anxious.

  Adam studies Peyton for a few seconds, overtly sizing up his competition. There could be blood. Then he smiles, showing off his blazing white teeth. “Fifty thousand.”

  “Oh my God!” Kimberly shouts and jumps up from her table. She begins to cry and laugh, jumping like a game show contestant. “Thank you so much! We’re going to have a library in this town!”

  Lois shushes the cheering crowd. “Hold on, folks. Peyton, do you have a counterbid?”

  I’m in disbelief at Adam’s bid, and I’m angry that Peyton is trying to compete with money he doesn’t have. A flicker of rage passes between us. Then he puts down his paddle.

  “
No,” he says emphatically to Lois. He retreats to the kitchen, followed by Bash.

  Hoyt shakes his head. “Poor guy.”

  “Are you kidding? He just saved himself over fifty thousand dollars!” Ian exclaims. “No offense, Talia, but that’s an expensive dinner, even for Richard Branson. Or Idris Elba, if anyone is keeping lists of successful hot men. Now you get to go out with Mr. Hedge Fund Hottie.”

  “Will you be sympathetic for a moment?” Hoyt doesn’t like to see someone lose. “It’s easy for that other guy to throw money around. Peyton didn’t do this on a whim.”

  I let that sink in. Peyton can be impetuous and crave attention like anyone else. I think back to last year when he was the center of attention at Cooper and Imogene’s wedding reception, and then his more recent behavior at Adam’s dinner party. Peyton was gregarious and easy-going with the women, even if he was there to help me. He has been there for me these past few months.

  Maybe it was a mistake to sleep with him knowing how easy it is to fall for him. I don’t regret it, though. If anything, Peyton has confirmed my ideology about men and commitments. I know what I want, and it’s not playing house with Peyton. The blind, heady passion that ignited between us is nothing like I’ve ever experienced with anyone else, but who’s to say I can’t have that again with someone new?

  Like Adam.

  Seeing Peyton retreat to the kitchen, his posture and broad shoulders showing no sign of defeat as he leaves the room, is like a knife digging slowly into my back, precariously close to my heart.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Ian and Hoyt. “I have to go thank Adam.”

  “Men will gladly accept blow jobs as a thank you,” Ian says.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Hoyt says gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Peyton, and I don’t know what that other guy is thinking spending that kind of dough for a dinner, but I can tell you that you deserve to be treated the way you want. It doesn’t matter how much he spent. He paid for a meal, nothing more.”

  Ian snorts. “Thanks for the uplifting speech, Dad.”

  “You’re a sweetheart.” I kiss my fake boyfriend on the cheek. “We were great while it lasted, Grizzly.” I’m off to find the hedge fund hottie.

  Adam is surrounded by his friends and two waitresses who are enjoying their good luck of having a table of wealthy, attractive men. Their night will end with a very generous tip.

  As I make my way over to him, he smiles and ignores the activity at his table. He stands up to reach for me, gently cupping my elbow. Everything about Adam tells me he is a gentleman.

  “Now you have to have dinner with me.” He smiles. “I won.”

  “You won. I’m arrogant enough to know I’m one of the best chefs around. However, not a single one of my dishes is worth fifty thousand dollars. You’re crazy.”

  “Not crazy at all. I happen to be a big proponent of libraries. Also, you’re worth it.”

  My face heats with a savage blush.

  “I’m looking forward to this,” he says.

  “Me, too.” Though, I’m torn. I want to stay at his table and bask in his attention, and I want to check on Peyton because I feel responsible for what happened tonight. “Um, will you excuse me for a minute? I need to check on something in the kitchen.”

  Adam isn’t fooled by my weak excuse. We both know who’s in the kitchen. The man who lost.

  I want to find out why it matters to me. I should stay here and be with Adam as his prospective date and not as his home chef. How often does this happen to me? Never! I’m angry with Peyton for ruining the moment, and I’m angry with myself for caring what Peyton thinks.

  Adam is gracious and says we can discuss plans later, and then I storm through the dining hall. A blind rage, which I’ve aptly titled Hurricane Peyton, is filling my blood stream.

  “Where is he?” I yell when I enter the kitchen.

  Bash hands a skillet off to his sous chef. “I sent him out back. He’s mad as hell and was getting in the way here. If you’re going to yell at me, I’m going to have to send you outside, too.”

  “Don’t bother! I’m on my way!”

  As I charge through the kitchen, every cook with a hot pan or plate quickly moves aside to let me through. I surprise Ray, a new hire, who’s so startled by my violent presence that he drops a rack of barware onto the conveyer belt of the dishwasher.

  I push the back door open too hard and it slams against the building, wedging itself into a wooden post.

  “Great. You broke my door,” Peyton says sharply. He’s twenty feet away, holding a baseball bat. There’s a pile of empty cans at his feet. He picks one up, tosses it in the air, and swings his bat, slamming the can into the open dumpster.

  I turn around and take hold of the door handle while bracing my foot against the building and pull as hard as I can. It won’t budge.

  “Ha!” Peyton gives a sinister laugh, then resumes batting the tin cans.

  Another attempt at unjamming the door causes me to lose my grip, and I fall on my rear end.

  “Christ,” Peyton mutters. He drops the baseball bat and stalks toward the door. He yanks it free with one hand and slams it closed hard enough to shake the ground. Then he reaches a hand down to me. I take it, and he pulls me up with so much force I’m surprised he doesn’t dislocate my shoulder.

  “Why did you do that?” I ask.

  “Because you fell on your ass.”

  “Not that. Why did you bid against Adam? I don’t understand what you’re doing, and why you’re bidding with money you don’t have.”

  “I have it.”

  I must react with an incredulous look because he sneers.

  “Really? You think I’m a shitty businessman? The kind who would be buried in debt?”

  Yes, I did think he was carrying huge loans on his restaurants, especially Swill. He gets a lot of press as a much-talked-about up-and-coming restaurateur and entrepreneur, but those are words I always associate with “borrowed money.” It never occurred to me that someone so young in this business has more assets than liabilities.

  “I’m not a fool. I can afford to bid against Knight.”

  “I’ve never considered you a fool. I was shocked by how aggressively you bid against him.” I don’t ask him why he stopped bidding.

  Peyton slowly circles me. In the darkness, with only the dim light fixture by the door illuminating his shape, he resembles a sexy vampire or someone more dangerous. He’s contemplating, orchestrating his words, thinking before speaking. I’m not used to him holding back, but this is who we’ve become. Two ill-matched people driven by physical impulses and torn by separate needs and ambition.

  “It was a good experiment,” he says.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Knight showed he’s very interested in you. That’s good. That’s what you wanted all along.”

  “He donated a lot of money to the library fundraiser because he’s generous. He gets dinner with me as a token gratuity.” I try to downplay the monetary significance. I don’t necessarily believe it’s because Adam is overly fond of me. It’s a paltry sum compared to his net worth. The bidding against Peyton was Adam’s game. The power play is what he enjoyed. I have many clients similar to Adam; I’ve seen this before.

  “Don’t undervalue yourself, sunflower. You’re worth more. I wanted to make sure Knight knows that you’re the best he could ever have.”

  I stare at him for a moment, not sure why it feels like he’s breaking my heart. I wanted this, right? Then why does a wave of sadness wash over me, as though he’s letting me fall off a cliff?

  I take a step toward him, and he steps backward, away from me, a signal of finality.

  “You should probably get back to Knight and reassure him that you’re not going to renege on this very expensive date.” He’s talking to me like a friend, the way Cooper would toss me advice. It’s blunt without all the urgent, sexually charged emotions between us that usually punctuate every sentence.
>
  I’ve lost my ability to respond, so I go for the door, wanting to leave this miserable sensation surrounding us. I pull the heavy steel door to the kitchen open.

  “Hey, sunflower.” His voice is smooth and the words roll out slowly like he took a swig of whiskey before speaking.

  I look over my shoulder at his handsome face, grave and perfectly complementing his posture—akimbo, like a thief in the night.

  “You chose well.”

  Talia

  “LILIES! EVERYWHERE, LILIES!” GREER announces to everyone in the kitchen where I’m prepping twelve deliveries for tonight and simultaneously pretending not to keep track of Peyton’s every move.

  “We didn’t order flowers,” Peyton says in a bored tone as he exits the dry storage room with a stack of invoices in his hand. He glances at me for only a millisecond, easy for the untrained eye to miss, but not for this highly trained Russian spy who is overly sensitive to his presence.

  “They’re for you, Talia.” Greer smiles at me. “Come see.”

  I put down my knife, brush my parsley-covered fingertips off on my apron, and follow her into the dining hall. Magnificent stalks with vivid blooms of red, orange, pink, and yellow are arranged in large bouquets on all the largest tables. I’ve never seen so many daylilies in one place.

  The rest of the kitchen staff joins us to see the floral arrangements that have overtaken the whole dining room. I sense Peyton approach on my right as we all observe the outlandish display. They aren’t your typical, store-bought bouquets either. These look as if someone went out and cut hundreds of tall stalks of lilies moments ago and put them, splayed wildly, in matching, tall, heavy, clear glass urns.

  “There are a dozen vases. All of these are for you.” Greer hands me a small, white envelope with my name handwritten on it in black ink. I recognize Adam’s handwriting from the notes and work-related scribblings he’s left on his kitchen counters.

  “They’re from Adam,” I say, putting the unopened envelope into my apron pocket.