Tough Customer
Erin St. Charles
Tough Customer is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Stuck-Up Suit. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.
Copyright © 2020 by Erin Martin
Editing by Raw Books Editing
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or within the public domain. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
No portion of this book may be reprinted, including by any electronic or mechanical means, or in information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission for the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Samantha
Chapter Two: Lincoln
Chapter Three: Samantha
Chapter Four: Lincoln
Chapter Five: Samantha
Chapter Six: Lincoln
Chapter Seven: Samantha
Chapter Eight: Lincoln
Chapter Nine: Samantha
Chapter Ten: Lincoln
Chapter Eleven: Samantha
Chapter Twelve: Lincoln
Chapter Thirteen: Samantha
Chapter Fourteen: Lincoln
Chapter Fifteen: Samantha
Chapter Sixteen: Lincoln
Chapter Seventeen: Samantha
Chapter Eighteen: Lincoln
Chapter Nineteen: Lincoln
Chapter Twenty: Samantha
Chapter Twenty-One: Lincoln
Chapter Twenty-Two: Samantha
Chapter Twenty-Three: Lincoln
Chapter Twenty-Four: Samantha
Chapter Twenty-Five: Samantha
Chapter Twenty-Six: Lincoln
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Samantha
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lincoln
Epilogue
Blurb
Dear Ida,
The arrogant man at the dry cleaners made my bad day worse.
So, the last thing I expected was for him to offer me a job.
I shouldn’t have accepted—not if I wanted to maintain my sanity.
But the allure of a big paycheck overpowered my reservations.
Now, I know he’s just as infuriating as a boss as he was the first day we met; yet, the sparks that fly between us are far more than on a professional level.
The more time I spend with him, helping him secure investors for his new restaurant chain, the harder it is to ignore the attraction between us.
Playing with fire, you’re bound to get burned.
And this man has seared himself into my soul.
Tell me, Ida, is there hope for our future, or is it impossible to really please this Tough Customer?
Chapter One: Samantha
"Give me a minute; I can find the ticket," I tell the tiny woman behind the counter at the dry cleaners as I rifle through my purse. "Meanwhile, can you please look for Peter Shark's cleaning?"
"It's 6:54," she tells me flatly, indicating the wall clock behind her. "We are closing, ma'am."
"I'm sorry," I say with an ingratiating smile. "I have had a day, and I absolutely must get Peter Shark's dry cleaning. He's going out of town, and I need to deliver these to his house before he leaves."
The woman gives me the stink eye and narrows her gaze on me, as if maybe I made the whole story up. Slowly, she turns away from the counter and bustles to the back of the store.
"Thanks!" I call after her. I resume the search for the ticket, annoyed that I changed my purse this morning and haven’t had a chance to organize it. As a result, I cannot find the receipt.
I run a personal concierge business called GoForYou, and my day has not been going well. My client is going out of town with his girlfriend—and I suspect Peter plans to pop the question during the trip. That's because, as Peter's personal concierge, it's my responsibility to manage all the little details in his life, freeing him to manage all the big things. I like to think of myself as a cross between a butler, a girl Friday, and a work wife.
Need me to book that dinner reservation for you? Tell me when, where, whom to invite, and where you want to sit while you eat, and I'm on it.
Need your child's birthday party booked? I will book the venue, create highly personalized invitations, send them out, gather the RSVPs, and pester the stragglers who can't be bothered to respond in a timely manner, organize the party favors, activities, etc. etc.
What if a tornado blows through your neighborhood and knocks down your fence? I will contact your insurance adjuster, gather quotes to have the fence replaced, manage the contractor, see that the work is completed satisfactorily, and generally remove that source of stress.
In short, I take care of life's little details, freeing up my clients to live their best lives. I love what I do. No two days are the same.
Sometimes, what seems like an exciting errand turns out not to be, and a mundane task turns out to be the thing that changes your life forever.
Picking up Peter's dry cleaning is one of those tasks that, in retrospect, is more significant than I would have thought it would be. As I fumble in my purse for the pink claim ticket, I hear the door chimes jingle. Instinctively, I turn to the source of the sound, and my eyes widen at the sight of a ridiculously handsome, filthy blond Adonis.
This dude is probably mid-to-late 30s, at least 6' 3" or 6' 4", with a muscular build, and broad shoulders. His eyes are like the Caribbean Sea—blue with jewel-like green undertones. He has full, firm lips and a long, sculpted nose. If that wasn't enough, he has a movie-star worthy cleft chin and a firm, square jaw. He's dressed in a dark suit that's been tailored to perfection but without a tie, and the top two or three buttons of his starched, white shirt are unbuttoned. I see a few chest hairs and the edge of a black tattoo that is slightly off-center. Suddenly, I am desperate to touch those crisp-looking chest hairs, trace the lines of his tattoo, and generally finger and grope him.
Our eyes meet, and because I never seemed to get over that awkward stage that started for me at age twelve and continued for another fifteen years to the present day, all I do is stand there, gawping at him. He even smells good, like subtle, expensive cologne perfectly paired with his unique male scent.
"Uhh..." I say, blinking at him. I'm aware of the fact that I sound like a fool. I know this. The trouble is knowing this and doing something about it are apparently two entirely separate issues, and my mind has trouble resolving the two.
He cocks an eyebrow at me, then gives me a smirk. It is a knowing smirk. Kind of like, Yes, I know I’m a good-looking bastard.
Then the Adonis starts talking, and his voice is a radio announcer voice. But only if the radio announcer was also a very sexy man whose deep bass voice caused women's underwear to melt like cotton candy in the rain.
He's talking, but the words are not making an impact on me. I can see his lips moving—his very suckable, chewable lips. His expressions change, and he stops talking.
Why did the pretty man stop moving his face? I wonder. Then I realize he's waiting for me to talk.
I blink. I try to recall what he has said. I mean, he just finished speaking, so I should be able to come up with a reasonable response, shouldn't I?
"Uh...hi?" I say, because I'm just that smooth.
"Are you in line?" he asks.
"In...line?" I ask. Why is my brain having such a hard time coming up with an appropriate response?
"Yes,"
he says, and as I watch, he reaches around to the back pocket of his trousers, removes what appears to be a hybrid wallet and money clip. It's dark brown leather, and I find myself enthralled by how soft the leather looks and the attractiveness of his man hands. There is a nice sprinkling of hair on his knuckles, and veins snake between his long, tapered fingers. When he removes a pink dry cleaning ticket from his money clip, I see the clip also has a big wad of cash. He reaches around me to hand the slip to the counter lady, who has re-materialized, despite the fact that she's supposed to be looking for Peter's dry cleaning.
Something about this line-jumping outrage causes me to snap out of my lust trance. He's a pretty man, but business is business, and I need Peter's dry cleaning.
Without thinking, I put my hand up to intercept the receipt handover. I succeed in catching the stranger by the forearm.
"I was here first," I inform him, giving him my sternest resting bitch face.
One side of his mouth kicks up with a self-satisfied smirk. "I had my ticket ready first," he points out. "I'm ready, you're not."
Just then, my phone starts blaring "Papa Don't Preach" by Madonna.
"I need to get this," I tell the Adonis, then dig around in my purse, extract my iPhone, seeing the display says "Cottontail," which is my nickname for Peter. I hit the green "accept" button, and tell Peter, "Hang on," before I mute the call, then fix my glare on the annoying man.
"She's already looking for my order," I tell him with a smirk of my own. I turn around to address the counter lady.
"I can't find the order," she tells me. "I need the ticket." She emphasizes every word, gives me a pointed look, then reaches around me to pluck the pink receipt from the man's outstretched fingers.
"But, but…" I gape.
The Adonis looks at me, smirks again, raises an eyebrow like he's Mr. Spock, and crosses his arms over his chest. "You're going to have to wait your turn to pick up your boyfriend's things."
I shake my head with confusion. "I'm not here picking up things for my boyfriend," I say stiffly, all het up now.
I turn away from him, my face flushed, and unceremoniously dump my oversized purse on the counter. I need that receipt! That's when I realize Peter is still on hold.
Shit!
I grab my phone, bobble it, and drop it on the counter, knock my purse off, scattering the contents of my purse in all directions. Some of the things fall off the counter, but instead of picking them up, I unmute the phone to tell Peter, "Can I call you back in a few?" then I hang up with him.
I sigh heavily and get ready to pick up my things, only to find the obnoxious, dirty blond Adonis has stooped and begun to do it for me. When he straightens, he holds my ticket up between two fingers. I snatch it from him with a curt, "Thank you!"
"Your boyfriend?" He nods at the phone I still hold in my hand.
"I already told you. He's not my boyfriend! If you must know, he's my client."
He bends to pick up more of my scattered belongings.
"You really don't have to do that!" I practically scream at him.
He ignores me. When he straightens, he's holding a few other things that fell out of my bag. He proceeds to hand me these other items, including my wallet and compact. Also, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, a tampon that has come out of its wrapper, and a pen with my business info printed on it. Last, he hands me a small Victoria’s Secret shopping bag that had contained a bunch of lacy thongs I'd found on sale when I stopped to eat lunch at the mall earlier.
"These fell out," he says, smiling broadly as he holds up several skanky-looking thongs. These are not utilitarian pairs of underwear, but rather a red lace thong, one with purple and white stripes, and a leopard print one. He hands these to me one by one, but slightly out of reach, forcing me to reach and grab each and every one of them. I blush and sigh because this guy is an asshole, but still rather sexy when he smirks at me with a teasing glint in his blue eyes.
Cheeks burning, I stuff my belongings in my bag, everything but the receipt, and wait for the counter lady to return.
When she does, she tells me she found Peter's clothes, and she hangs them on the rack. Relieved, I smile like an idiot and begin to check the order to make sure everything is as it should be.
"Mr. Cooper, I'm still looking for your order," the counter lady says. She turns on her heel to return to the back room.
I turn to look at Mr. Cooper, grinning like the cat who caught the canary. He has lost his arrogant smirk and now looks irritated.
"First come, first served," I say, pleased with myself. I return to Peter's suit, which had had a big mustard stain on one of the sleeves. When I look at the sleeve, I see that the stain is still there. I let out a huge sigh.
"Damn it!" I say. Peter was going to take this sport coat with him on his trip, and now he can't. His flight leaves later tonight.
"What do you do that has you picking up laundry for your client?" asks a deep voice behind me, causing me to jump and turn around in surprise. He's looking at his watch, and when he looks up, his face is curious. Not cocky. Not arrogant.
I turn back to my examination of Peter's jacket. It barely looks like it's been touched! Over my shoulder, I say, "I'm a personal concierge."
I feel his presence behind me, and to my immense satisfaction, agitation pours off him in waves. I turn around again, and I'm about to ask him what his problem is when he says,
"This is taking longer than I had planned for. I'm going to be late for a meeting. Why don't you bring my dry cleaning by my office tomorrow?"
"What—" I start to say, but he interrupts me.
He has his money clip out again. He extracts a folded one-hundred-dollar bill and hands it to me. "Thanks, I appreciate it," he says before I can object. He rushes out of the cleaners, jumps into a white Audi, and drives off like he has a plane to catch.
What the hell?
I look at the parking space abandoned by the slippery Mr. Cooper.
Why don't you bring my dry cleaning by my office tomorrow?
His words repeat in my mind. I don't know where this guy's office is. I'm not sure I want to work for this guy. Something tells me this guy would be a demanding client. A real tough customer.
However, he's just handed a hundred-dollar bill to me, a complete stranger. He seems like a guy who has more money than time, which can make for a loyal customer. Even a demanding client is doable for me, for the right amount of money.
As I stand there and ponder what to do next, something flutters to the floor. I realize Mr. Cooper has given me his business card as well. I stoop to pick it up and see that the Adonis' name is Lincoln T. Cooper, CEO of the Cooper Restaurant Group.
Wow.
The Cooper Restaurant Group operates a chain of upscale steak houses all over the country, with headquarters right here in Dallas. I don't know much about it, but I do know it's a family-owned business and Lincoln is the third generation of the family. I've even booked Peter business meetings at the downtown location.
So, he may be a tough customer, but if he's going to be this generous, I'm sure I can put up with it. At least, for the time being.
I pull up my iPhone and input Lincoln T. Cooper's contact info. Frowning, I think about an appropriate nickname for him in my contacts list.
Pretty Boy? Long Tall Hottie? Sinister Smirker? None of these names seem quite right.
Smiling, I realize I have the perfect nickname, so I put it in.
From now on, Mr. Lincoln T. Cooper will be known as "Tough Customer."
Chapter Two: Lincoln
I pull away from the dry cleaners and head to my dinner with Marcia Pittman, the potential investor my good friend Brad Mellon set me up with. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I got so caught up with teasing the pretty woman at the cleaners that I lost track of time. I have to hustle to make it to my meeting on time.
I dictate a text message to Marcia, letting her know I am on my way.
My mind drifts back to the adorable woman at the
dry cleaners. She wore a pair of dark jeans, a blue, long-sleeved t-shirt, and sandals. Her hair was a color between brown and auburn. A wild and curly Afro so abundant that I wanted nothing more than to touch it to see how it felt. I could think about touching her hair, but I had dated African-American women before, and I knew hair touching privileges were a rare thing indeed, so I could only guess at how soft it would be.
She was a tall woman, about five foot ten, with an attractive hourglass figure, long legs, and a round, grabbable bubble butt. Her ass looked so firm and taut that I’m pretty sure I could bounce a quarter off it and possibly injure myself with the rebound.
She turned to look at me as I entered the shop, her big brown eyes round with surprise. Her skin was the color of peanut butter, smooth and pretty, and it looked soft to the touch. With her doe eyes, full, pink lips, and high cheekbones, I really could have looked at her all day. Something passed between us. A flicker of...something I cannot name. Attraction, but more than that. It went past attraction to animal magnetism. She blinked rapidly at me, almost like she wasn’t sure what she was looking at, and squinted at my lips in rapt attention. Closer up, I took note of the freckles spattered across the bridge of her nose, and the fact that she wasn’t wearing any makeup. And she didn’t need any, really.
When she dropped her purse and everything she owned went skittering all over the counter and floor, I'd been amused, even charmed by how much her skin had reddened under her smooth, brown complexion when I’d helped her pick up her feminine hygiene items and slutty thong underwear.
Her hot, fantasy-inducing, underwear.
I let myself imagine what the cheeks of her naked bubble butt would look like with one of the brightly colored pairs of butt floss that fell out of her purse bisecting them. What other naughty lingerie does she own? Was she the type of woman who liked her man to buy slutty undies for her?
As I drive to my meeting, I replay our conversation in my mind. I usually find lines at places like the cleaners to be akin to trips on elevators. The only acceptable interaction with others occupying the same space is to politely ignore them. Almost as if they do not exist. So, why had I spoken to this woman? And why was I relieved when she'd said this Peter...whatever, was her client, not her boyfriend? Even more importantly, why had I asked who Peter was in the first place?
Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel Page 1
