by Tessa Layne
The room erupts in applause as I rise, pulling Penny with me. But when someone in the back hollers to kiss her and it's met with a clanking of spoons on crystal, I immediately recognize this for what it is. She's calling our bluff. I lock eyes with my mother and she shoots me a cold, triumphant smile.
I see her call, and I raise her. I pull Penny close and bring my hand to her neck, thumb skimming the edge of her jaw, and I do what I should have done that night two years ago. What I've been aching to do for years. I kiss Penny with all I have.
Chapter Seven
Penny
The only warning I have is the flicker of heat that lights in Stockton's eyes as he lowers his head. I should have expected this. After all, I pushed his mother too far. Of course, she wants to call our bluff. But I'm not bluffing now.
Stockton's mouth covers mine, his lips soft yet firm. There's no question in the way he kisses. No asking of permission. Not that it needs to be asked. My answer where Stockton is concerned has always been yes. I melt into him, giving myself over to the pressure of his mouth, the heat of our legs pressed together. But it's over too soon. Even I know you can't French kiss in front of a room full of people.
My ears fill with applause and the buzzing of endorphins. I've been afraid of this moment, wanting it, yet knowing it might ruin me. I smile weakly, taking in the smolder in Stockton's eyes. A banked heat that says this is just the beginning. Which is exactly what I'm afraid of. Because if there's a beginning, there will be a middle and an end. And the prospect of the end is what terrifies me, because an end with Stockton will break me. No ifs, ands, or buts. I should have remained firm, stood my ground and quit.
To be honest, I miscalculated. Never in a million years did I think Stockton would actually give me ten-percent of his bank account. That number is simply too outrageous, at least to someone like me. He didn't even blink.
He kisses me again, gently, then smiles all the way to his eyes. The heat is still there and it sends a thrill straight to my throbbing clit. What was I thinking, agreeing to this crazy arrangement?
Stockton pulls me back to my seat, and we sit there silently, fingers entwined, eating our chocolate mousse, drinking our coffees with one hand. Once the debutantes have been introduced and Honore invites everyone to remain for dancing, the spell breaks. Across the table, Robert stands and extends a hand to Stockton. "Congratulations, son. You've caught yourself a live wire." He winks my direction as he helps Muffy from her seat.
Muffy smiles stiffly. "I'm sure we'll be seeing each other soon."
I succeed in not rolling my eyes. I have zero regrets for saying the things I did tonight. The looks on these women's faces were worth whatever hell I'll have to pay later with Honore.
"Let's go dance," says Stockton as he pulls out my chair. His hand lands at the small of my back, a hot coal that sends heat licking to my toes. At the far corner of Kirkwood Hall, a six-piece swing band has set up, complete with a crooner who could give Michael Bublé a run for his money. We make our way to the middle of the throng and Stockton turns, pulling me into his arms, moving us effortlessly in time to the music.
Fortunately, I've watched enough Dancing with the Stars on streaming video that I can at least follow without crushing his toes.
"Are you doing okay?"
"How sweet of you to ask."
He pulls back, eyeing me. "I mean it, Penny. There's a reason I spend as little time as possible at these things."
"I've faced down worse than your mother." I shudder involuntarily at the ugly memories that arise. "I can handle anything she throws my way."
"I don't doubt that. Still," his voice drifts.
"Still, what?"
"Maybe it's better if you let me handle her."
I snort. "You've been paying me to handle her for two years. I think I've got this." I pat his shoulder where I'm holding him. "I mean, did you see the look on Muffy's face? She looked like she'd swallowed a turtle."
His chest rumbles, and I decide I like being this close to him when he laughs. He spins me out then back into his embrace. "Two more songs and we can get out of here."
"Do that again," I beg. He does, and I can't help the face-splitting grin that makes my cheeks ache. Stockton is a great dancer.
"Did you take dance lessons when you were a kid?"
I snort. "Are you kidding? We barely had enough money to keep the lights on." I don't like talking about my childhood with anyone. But out here on the dance floor, when my heart feels light and Stockton's smiling at me in a way that makes my panties want to float off, I'm suddenly confessional, and the pain that typically accompanies any discussion of my pre-Steele Conglomerate days is temporarily gone.
"You're a natural."
"Thank YouTube."
A weight leaves my body. I feel light as air and... happy. This must be what happy feels like, an internal bubbling effervescence that's like champagne, only inside me. I feel like Cinderella at the ball, swirling and twirling with Prince Charming, while pushing out of her mind the knowledge that at midnight, it all goes away. The songs come to an end too quickly, and Stockton pulls me from the dance floor and out into the vestibule where he sends a text to Edward, his driver. I step away, our charade over for the time being, but Stockton pulls me back to his side, tilts my chin and kisses me again. This time, his tongue flicks across my lip, and I immediately open to him, clutching at his lapel. His tongue slides against mine with velvety precision and for a moment, I don't know where he stops and I begin. My blood turns to fire. Our breathing is ragged when he finally eases back.
"What was that for?" I ask, swaying against him.
"We're still in public, and there are people watching."
My heart sinks like a rock. "Right. Of course." I pull a smile. "Well, I'm sure that fooled them."
He keeps his arm around me and ushers me to the door. "Edward's here. Let's go."
It's fucked up, but in spite of the thorns pricking my heart, I don't want this to end. I've enjoyed the physical contact far too much. So when Stockton crowds against me in the car, I don't protest. When he tucks me into his embrace and threads his fingers through mine, I let myself believe for six foolish seconds that this is how it could be.
"I'm not ready to go home," he says. "How about we hit the Green Lady Lounge and strategize? I'll tell you everything you need to know. Everything my mother could possibly ask to quiz you."
My fantasy balloon pops. "Sure. That's a great idea." At least the night's not over yet.
"Have you ever been there?"
"To the Green Lady?" I shake my head, and give him a healthy dose of side-eye. "My boss is a taskmaster."
He's classy enough to wince. "Yeah, about that. Maybe we should take this weekend off."
I pull back enough that I can stare at him and raise a hand to his forehead. "Are you feeling okay?"
He grabs it and kisses the backs of my fingers. A thrill ripples through me. "The squad has done a great job when we've had to be out of town for baseball recruitment, or when I've been out for regattas. There's no reason why I can't turn some more over to them."
I blink. "Did you find out you have cancer this afternoon? Seriously. You're not well."
His chest rumbles and he squeezes my hand. "Maybe I've been giving some deeper thought to your proposal. Harrison and the guys and I have built an amazing company, but we're all workaholics, and maybe it's time we loosen the reins a bit."
"I think you should take me home. You have a fever and you need to get to bed." I have mixed feelings about hearing this. On the one hand, I think it's about damned time. On the other, what in the heck am I going to do with myself? And worse, what will happen to my constantly whirring brain?
Stockton just laughs again, and when the car stops in front of the Green Lady Lounge, he hops out and pulls me with him. He pushes through the door and my breath catches. It's like stepping back in time. Dark leather booths run along each deeply painted red wall. Dim yellow light pours from the side sconces and a
chandelier glitters over the center. At the far end a jazz quartet is playing. The bar, likely original to the space, is so dark it's almost black, and an old mirror is centered on the bar back filled with spirits. The walls have an eclectic collection of artwork - everything from lithographs to faux Renaissance paintings in heavy gilded frames. He's right. I love it.
He ushers me into a booth and scoots in next to me, draping an arm over my shoulder. "Well? What do you think?"
I make a point of looking around. "I feel like we could run into the Rat Pack."
"Right? They're open until three a.m., just so you know."
"Is that how you know it? You bring all your lady friends here to warm them up when you leave the office after midnight?" It's dark enough I can't see the color hit his face, but from the angle of his head, I'm willing to bet it's there.
"Only occasionally," he admits. "It's become the de-facto hangout for me, Harrison, Owen, and Mac now that Danny's speakeasy is no longer."
"So work over drinks."
"Yeah, sure." He nods. "Are you hungry? Do you need something more to eat?"
"Because the strategy sesh is going to take it out of me?" I tease, shaking my head. "I'm fine."
"Cocktail?"
"Sure. What are you having?"
"Danny's whiskey, neat."
I make a face. "Eww, no thanks." I shudder. Whiskey is so not my thing.
"Martini?" he suggests. "G&T?"
"Sure, that." I don't mind gin so much.
Stockton signals the server and places our order, then he turns to me, threading his fingers through mine.
I look at our hands and my heart pounds a little harder. "You're awfully touchy."
A corner of his mouth pulls up. "We're still in public. I guarantee you, there are pictures of us circulating on social already. Best thing we can do is keep up the act whenever we're in public."
"Right, sure. That makes sense." I swallow down my disappointment. But he's absolutely right. Honore is sharp as a tack, and I wouldn't put it past her to do everything she can to punch holes in our act. I can wallow in my disappointment when I'm home alone in my condo. For now, I'm determined to relish the full force of Stockton's affection. "So tell me, boxers or briefs?"
His grin lights his face and turns my insides to liquid. "Boxer-briefs all the way. Black."
My throat goes dry as I imagine him clad in nothing but that, package on full display. I swear I have a hot flash thinking about it. I lick my lips. "Good to know. What type of energy drink do you have?"
"No idea. I get it at Sparky's gym."
Of course he doesn't know. Stockton's the kind of guy who only hangs onto the super important details - like how to cloak an ISP or build in a honeypot for the security systems we deploy. I make a mental note to call the gym where the rowing team works out and get the name. The server returns with our drinks.
Stockton holds his up. "To... finally getting to know each other."
My heart trips, stopping up my throat. I want to say something. So many things. I settle for a smile and raise my glass to his. The drink is nice and strong, and I get a hit of the botanicals in the gin as it slides down my throat.
"So what about you? Boxers or briefs?" he asks with a wink that has me choking on my drink.
"Maybe I don't wear panties." It's a flat out lie, of course, but the look on his face is priceless and the heat that turns his eyes molten warms me to my toes. "Your mother is too proper to ask me that. Let's stick to the facts, Forde."
He shoots me a sheepish grin. "Fair enough. So you need to know I had my appendix out in the fourth grade and that Tommy Church chipped my front tooth in little league in the second grade. My mother was so relieved it wasn't a permanent tooth."
"First kiss?"
"Seventh-grade cotillion dance, Margie Wilson, by the drinking fountain."
I hold up a hand. "Wait. Stop right there. Cotillion?"
"I'm a Forde. I had no choice," he protests, lifting a hand. But only one, because he doesn't seem interested in releasing mine.
"No wonder you're such a good dancer."
"Be sure to tell my mother that when you have lunch with her."
"Noted. Where'd you go to High School?"
"Rockhurst. My mother thought it would help keep me from being distracted by girls."
"Let me guess, it didn't."
His answering smile confirms it.
"College?"
"Stanford. Computer Science and Math. Sigma Chi fraternity. Vice-President my senior year. Harrison was president."
"Of course he was. So let me guess, Steele Conglomerate was born out of late-night beers your junior year?"
"You're not far off, only it was Danny's whiskey."
I huff out an amused laugh. "Girlfriends?"
He shrugs. "I think you know the answer to that."
It's cute, his playing coy. "Too many to count?"
He smirks, then his smile fades. "There was Lena. You know about that, though," he finishes in clipped tones.
I do, and everything I was caught up in after. If I'd been smart, I'd have quit the next day. Walked away from everything. But I was in too far over my head and determined to prove how adult I was. At least now I know what a beautiful kisser Stockton is. No matter what happens, I'll always have that.
As if reading my mind, he drops his voice. "I should have kissed you that night."
"Why didn't you?" I ask barely above a whisper. The question has haunted me. Colored our interactions for over two years and fueled the constant ache in my breastbone.
His eyes are hooded as he stares at me, as if he's deciding how much of himself to reveal. His answer both surprises and disappoints me. "Because by kissing you I would have given into the worst part of my nature, and I'm never going to do that."
Anger flashes through me. "You've kissed me twice and lightning didn't strike."
He lifts a shoulder. "That was different. That was part of the act."
I pull my fingers from his, chest squeezing tight. "That's a total cop-out and you know it. But you know what? If you want to play it that way, fine. I've got what I wanted," I snap as I reach for my purse. "I'll play the part of the perfect fiancée for as long as you need, and then sayonara." I scoot around to the edge of the banquette. "Good night, Stockton. I'll see you on Monday."
"Penny, wait," he calls after me.
I march out the door without a backward glance and start up the street. Edward, who's standing by the car a few doors down, stamps out his cigarette as soon as he sees me. "Everything okay, miss?"
Always miss, never ma'am. I fight a heavy sigh. I should know better than to be stupidly hopeful where Stockton is concerned. I plaster a smile on my face that's anything but genuine. "Everything's fine Edward. I'm going to walk home. Stockton will be out shortly."
By the time I pull open the door to Ruben's tattoo parlor, I've wrestled my feelings back into their compartment and locked them back up. Sort of.
Ruben looks up from his stool and lifts his chin. "Have a seat Mahal," he says, calling me by the term of endearment he's used since we were lovers. It's the same name his Filipino father called his mother when I was a little girl, and it's the kind of reassuring sweetness I need right now. "We're just about done here."
He's working on the wrist of a girl about my age while her friend sits on a stool opposite, ogling Ruben. I don't blame her, Ruben's six feet of lean muscles, an easy smile and chocolate eyes you can lose yourself in. I should know. But what keeps the ladies flocking to Ruben, myself included, is that he's the best listener. His tattoo bench is like a confessional. I pass the time staring at the artwork and tchotchkes that decorate the walls. He wraps up with the girls and walks them to the door, then turns to me with a whistle. "What's the occasion? I don't think I've ever seen you look this good." He kisses my cheek and motions me back to the bench. He takes my right forearm and admires his handiwork. "Looking good. I think this will heal fast. Then we can add some color."
I sit on
the bench, watching him clean his tools. "Stockton asked me to pretend to be his fiancée," I say with a defeated sigh.
Ruben whips around and scoots his stool over to me. "What are you talking about, Squirt?" he says, reverting to my old childhood nickname. "I thought you were quitting today?"
I flip over my left hand and show him the ring. He lets out another long, low whistle. "Is that the real deal?"
I nod.
"Holy shit, that could buy my building."
"Probably. I don't know. I just asked for something gaudy and expensive."
"That doesn't look gaudy. It looks like you." His observation arrows right to the sensitive place in my chest. "Talk to me, Mahal. What happened? I thought you were quitting today?"
"So did I. Honore came in as usual, and I think he just snapped. He told her we were engaged." Ruben's eyebrows disappear into this thick, black hair, but he lets me keep talking. "He begged me not to quit. I named an insane amount of money to stay, and he didn't even bat an eyelash, Ruben. I thought for sure he'd choke on the amount."
"What did you ask for?"
"Ten percent of his bank account."
Ruben makes a noise of utter disbelief. "He's either stupid or in love with you."
"I wish," I scoff. "I think he just wants what he wants." The ache in my chest intensifies. "He told me tonight that kissing me would be giving in to the worst part of his nature."
"Ah, Squirt." He takes my hand, running a thumb over the very first tattoo he ever gave me. "He's older, and... you're young."
"I'm not that young," I say, rolling my eyes.
"Your mind runs circles around everyone, Mahal. But your heart... is tender." He squeezes my wrist as I start to object. "It's why you protect it so fiercely. If he's a decent man, then he sees that."
I shrug, eyes downcast. Stockton is decent.
"So what now, Mahal?"
I shrug. "We act like we're engaged and then I quit." The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. "What have I gotten myself into?" I say with a half-hysterical laugh.
"Squirt, love never made anyone think straight."
