by Reid, Penny
“Please don’t be mad.” The hope in her features had been entirely eclipsed by guilt. “I am so sorry. I would have been on time, but Mr. Badcock sold all my eggs to somebody. And then he was treating me like I was a person of suspicion, like he couldn’t trust me. Truth be told, he was downright hostile.”
What’s this? Hostile?
Stepping around the box, I came to her side, my hand automatically lifting to her back. “What did he say to you?”
Note to self, Richard Badcock, add to list: Maim for mistreatment of my Jenn.
“Nothing harsh.” She quickly shook her head, holding my gaze and allowing me to steer us down the hall, away from the entrance. “But I did have to convince him to sell me eggs again, and then he’d only sell me eggs with an advance and a deposit. And then, once that was settled, it turns out he did have a few dozen in his house, which he eventually gave me. But trekking up the hill and back down again took longer than I’d planned.”
I stopped in front of the door leading to the stage area of the old cafeteria and pulled out a key to unlock it, listening intently to her egg-tale while keeping an eye out for any passer-bys or hangers-on. I didn’t need folks following us or asking me about how it was that I possessed a key.
“So, when I got back to the bakery,” she went on, her words dripping with fatigue, “momma was in tears, ‘cause my daddy had just called. You know, he wants half the hotel and the bakery, so he was threatening her with that again.”
I grimaced. I was aware of Kip Sylvester’s reprehensible behavior: he’d popped up again this last week after being mostly gone for just about a month, making all kinds of threats.
“When she stopped crying, there was still the custard to make, and only four dozen eggs. After some fretting and discussing the issue with Momma, I decided it was best to go to the store and pick up a few dozen eggs there—since Blair Tanner had already left, I was the only one to do it—and use half Badcock eggs and half store bought to get the most out of the Badcock four dozen. I’ll need them later this week.”
“Did you make the custard?” I ushered her forward and shut the door to the backstage area, tired on her behalf. We were enveloped in dark, which meant she couldn’t see at all, and I—like all my siblings—could see tolerably well.
“Yes. I made the custard, it’s sitting in the fridge. Used the last of my vanilla; I’ll need to order more. I just hope no one realizes about the eggs,” she finished with an agitated exhale, allowing me to lead her through the darkness.
I took the infernal bakery box, set it on a nearby crate, and then brought her near a corner, placing her back against the wall. This particular corner was scarcely illuminated by a sliver of light coming in through the stage curtains.
The cafeteria was just beyond the curtains, and the loud buzzing of town gossip and chatter from earlier in the evening was now a low murmur of scant conversation. Apparently, most folks had moved to on to the music rooms, likely because all the coleslaw had been eaten. As long as we whispered, we wouldn’t be overheard or noticed.
“Is everything settled? With Mr. Badcock?” I studied her expression, noting the groves of worry on her forehead and the way she was twisting her fingers.
“I think so. Momma is going to drive out there tonight and drop off a deposit check, try to smooth things over with him.”
“That was your idea?” I questioned, already knowing the answer.
It was a great idea, so of course it was Jenn’s idea. Mrs. Diane Donner-Sylvester, Jenn’s dragon-lady mother, was one of the most powerful business persons in the region. A visit from Diane was a big deal indeed. As well, Diane clearly needed a distraction from her divorce woes.
“Yes.” She whispered, her eyes searching for mine, but seemingly unable to settle on the right spot—my face must’ve been wholly in shadow. “We’re putting in an order for the entire year.”
“That’s good.” I nodded, but part of her story troubled me.
Why would Mr. Richard Badcock treat Jenn with even an ounce of hostility? It didn’t make any sense. Folks who knew Jenn—or of Jenn—considered her harmless, or less than harmless. A novelty, a local celebrity of no real substance or consequence, which was also how they saw me (minus the celebrity part).
I knew better: she’d revealed her genius to me last fall while proving to be the most brilliant opponent I’d ever faced, by far. She’d bested me.
Consequently, having no choice in the matter, I’d promptly fallen in love with her. Obviously.
But back to Dick Mal-Rooster and his antagonism.
“Did he give a reason for his poor temper?” I asked, studying her.
The question seemed to agitate her, and she huffed, stepping forward and reaching out blindly. “Cletus, can we talk about that later? Where are you?”
My mental processes shifted gears and abruptly, the flood of disappointment from the deep well of frustration rose to my throat. I swallowed, stepping away from her searching hands as I stuffed mine back in my pockets.
“Jenn—”
“I am so, so sorry, Cletus. I know I promised I’d be here on time, and I wasn’t, and for that I’m sorry.” She found me, her hands grabbing the front of my shirt. Her warm palms slid over my chest, up to my shoulders, her arms twisting around my neck.
I braced myself for the feel of her body, but I was unprepared for the reality of it. Soft and warm and impatient, Jenn pressed herself to me in a way that felt at once eager and content. Her lips brushed lightly over my neck. I tensed. Her hot tongue coming out to lick a path to my ear had me jumping, every inch of me aware of every inch of her.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered, a note of vulnerability in the words, her breath scorching as it spilled over my skin, a counterpoint to the disappointment still burning my chest. “Have you missed me?”
I was at once inebriated by her actions and incredulous of them.
“You know I have,” I answered gruffly, keeping my hands in my pockets for both our benefits.
Likely, she didn’t want our first time together in over six weeks—and our second time together ever—to be me ripping off her underwear and taking her against the backstage wall of the Green Valley community center. Rationally, I knew this to be true.
Irrationally however, I wanted to rip off her underwear and take her against the backstage wall of the Green Valley community center. I wanted to tear open the buttons of her dress and feast on her body, the smooth silk of her skin, while I filled her and claimed her and satiated myself with what would surely be an unrefined display of possessiveness.
Jennifer pressed herself more fully against me, one arm still hooked around my neck, a hand sliding dangerously lower, from my shoulder to my chest and stomach. I caught her fingers before she could slip them between us and cup me over my pants. Or inside my pants.
“Not a good idea.” My body shook, a surge of covetous mindlessness threatening to overtake my good intentions.
“It’s been weeks,” she complained between biting kisses on my neck, bringing my hand to her breast, pressing it there. “Don’t you want me?”
I choked on my incredulity. If she didn’t know how much I wanted her, then I’d been doing something very wrong.
“You’re asking me foolish questions,” I ground out, catching both her hands and holding them hostage between us to force her to back away a step. “And you’re not foolish.”
I needed a minute.
“Then what’s the problem?” She pressed forward. Jenn didn’t fight my hold, but she did feel restless beneath my fingers. “Why aren’t you kissing me back? Why do you keep stuffing your hands in your pockets? Why won’t you touch me?”
Lost of words, I settled on whispering the truth, “I’d like nothing more than rip off your underwear and—”
“No need, I’m not wearing underwear.” Jenn bent her head and placed a kiss on my knuckles.
Meanwhile, I needed. . . another minute.
What?
“What?” Eq
ual measures of astonishment and lust drove away any of my remaining good intentions, leaving me only with lust.
“I took them off in the car.” Her tongue licked the juncture between my index and middle fingers. “I know I’ve been working a lot and, God Cletus, I just want you so—oh!”
Unceremoniously, I backed her against the wall, tossing away her hands and clamoring for the hem of her skirt. Sliding my fingers up her legs as I lifted her dress, I groaned when I discovered no material at her hip or bottom. Since I already had a handful of her, I squeezed, resisting the urge to fall to my knees and take a bite of her perfect backside.
I’d wanted us to have privacy. I’d wanted to unwrap her. I’d wanted to take my time. I’d wanted conversation and kisses—many kisses—and a lot more light sources. Sunlight, lamps, spotlights, I wanted to see every part of her.
I pressed my forehead against the cold wall, unable to resist touching her, slipping my middle finger into that hot, silky place.
Her breath hitched, her arms once again wrapping around my neck as her hips rolled forward into my hand. “Please, please.”
Damn, but I missed her. Her skin was heaven, her fragrance paradise, and I couldn’t get enough. I was breathing heavy, wanting her all around me, in my lungs. I couldn’t think. I just wanted.
I took her mouth with mine, no preamble or gentle invasion, but a full-fledged frenzy. She moaned, a sound I took as encouragement.
Jenn’s nails scratched down my shirt, her fingers shaking as they found my belt, tugging and pulling frantically while I nipped and licked and kissed her jaw and neck, stopping at her breast to place a wet, biting kiss at the center, all the while working her with my fingers.
Her hands faltered as I devoured her collarbone and neck, preparing to lower to my knees, lift her skirt completely, take a bite out of that ass, and then spread her wide for my tongue and mouth and pleasure.
But then, her phone rang; Reba McEntire’s, ‘I’m a Survivor;’ that was her mother’s ring tone. The woman had recently programmed it into Jenn’s phone.
She squeaked, fumbling for the device. Her face briefly illuminated just before quickly rejecting the call.
“Don’t stop.” She reached for my belt again, this time deftly undoing it, the button of my pants, and my zipper while I stoked her.
Her phone buzzed. Then it chimed. Then it buzzed and chimed two more times. Then it rang, again Reba.
Cursing, Jenn pulled the phone from her pocket and once again her face illuminated, murderous rage in her eyes. Her finger moved to the power-off button. She blinked, hesitating. Her eyes widened, her body stiffened, and she gasped.
“Cletus!”
Something about her tone, like she was horrified, and maybe a little afraid, cut though the heavy haze of lust inertia, and my hands stilled. Shaking myself, it took me a few moments to realize she was showing me the phone screen, and another few to bring the content of the text messages into focus.
Momma: Jennifer Anne Sylvester, pick up your phone. If you’re with that man of yours, I need his help too. Please.
Momma: ALL THE CHICKENS AND ROOSTERS ARE DEAD! PICK UP YUR DAMN PHONE!
Momma: I’m calling you in a second, pick up the phone. Mr. Badcock’s chickens are dead. All of them. I got here and he’s running around, deranged, yelling about his dead chickens! I called the police and they’re on their way. Please, please, please pick up the phone!
At some point, I must’ve taken the phone from Jenn and stepped away, because I glanced up upon reading the messages for the third time, finding the phone in my hand and Jenn fixing her skirt.
“This is nuts.” Her big eyes searched mine imploringly. “Who could have done this?”
I shook my head, having not yet managed to fully shift brain gears. My gaze dropped to the wet patch on the front of her dress, where I’d had my mouth seconds prior, and my erection throbbed.
So we’re . . . not having sex?
“Why? Why would they do it?” She took her phone back, her tone bewildered, distracted, and distraught.
She was distraught because of the dead chickens, like any normal person would be.
I was distraught also, but my distress had nothing to do with farm animals.
“We have to go.” Jenn grabbed my hand and began walking blindly toward the direction of the hall door. “This is crazy. Poor Mr. Badcock. And those poor chickens.” A sound of mournful distress escaped her throat. “This is terrible.”
It was terrible.
And I was going to hell.
Because all I could think was, Talk about a cock block.
-END SNEAK PEEK-
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Sneak Peek: Friends Without Benefits (Available Now!)
by Penny Reid, Book #2 in the Knitting in the City Series
I recognized him instantly, even though the last time I had seen him in person he was seventeen, naked, and asleep. I was sixteen, haphazardly dressed, and sneaking out his window.
Niccolò (aka Nico) Manganiello.
Nico.
Freaking Nico Manganiello!
Rooted in place—one hand holding the informed consent forms and patient brochures, the other hand clutching my chest—I could only gape in abject horror, but also in wonder and, much to my infinite frustration, feminine appreciation.
I was entirely unprepared for this.
Everything about this Tuesday had been perfectly normal until now. I arrived to work at 4:30 a.m. for my shift. I argued in the locker room with my nemesis, Dr. Megalomaniac Meg. I planted an unopened gag box of lotion-exploding latex gloves in Dr. Ken Miles’s ER clinic room for my annual April Fool’s Day prank. I worked through the backlog of charting I’d left the day before. And, finally, I was paged to the fourth floor clinical research unit to discuss a research study with a family.
Freaking Niccolò freaking Manganiello.
He was shorter than I expected, but taller than I remembered. He looked different in person than he did on TV, and older. On his show, he always towered over his guests, but looking at him now, I guessed his height at about six feet or six feet one.
His hair wasn’t brown anymore, but had matured into raven black. His face was more angular and strong, as were his shoulders. Even from this distance, I knew his eyes were the same jade green.
Nico was standing in profile, his muscled arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the arm of the couch and speaking in hushed tones to an older woman. I instantly recognized the woman as his mother Rose, who was sitting on the beige sofa. A little girl–who I did not recognize–was on her lap. The child was clutching a blue blanket.
Blood rushed to and pounded between my ears. It ushered away my ability to hear, and replaced it with a steadily increasing rhythm that seemed to chant oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
The spike in adrenaline diminished just enough for me to realize that my mouth was agape in dismay, my wide-open eyes were staring in stunned disbelief, and no one was aware that I’d entered the room.
I gulped mostly air and closed my mouth, and then I turned noiselessly to exit unseen and find Megalomaniac Meg. She would be delighted to administer the study’s informed consent forms if I told her a hot celebrity was in the room.
I managed two steps before Rose’s voice called out to my retreating back. “Oh, nurse—can you help us? We’re waiting for Dr. Finney.”
I stopped, my shoulders bunched. Before I could nod and grunt then run off in a mad dash, I spotted a very stern-looking Dr. Botstein—my research mentor, and somewhat of a stodgeball—rounding the corner of the fourth floor clinical research unit.
My eyes flickered to the object in his fist. He was holding a box of latex gloves, and he was covered in white lotion.
I groaned.
It was the most epic-fail, no-win situation in the history of forever.
My choices were obvious yet odious.
I could step into the hall and take Dr.
Botstein’s berating in full view of everyone—and by everyone, I really meant Nico Manganiello—or I could step back into the encounter room, and confront the most monumental mistake of my life. Botstein wouldn’t interrupt my administration of the consent. As impatient as he was, he would likely get tired of waiting and leave, and I could deal with his berating later.
A confrontation with Dr. Botstein usually wasn’t such a big deal, but when I thought of Nico observing it, I was sixteen again.
It was times like these when I wished for invisibility superpowers or a diagnosis of insanity.
Dr. Botstein’s weighty scowl-stare was the deciding factor. My gaze dropped to the linoleum at my feet, and I took a reflexive step backward into the room.
“Nurse?” Rose called out behind me.
“Uh….” I tucked a long, loose strand of hair behind my ear and reached for the door. I closed it as though that had been my intention all along. “I’ll be right there. Just let me shut this door.”
I didn’t glance up as it swung shut. I was certain that Dr. Botstein’s dark expression had remained the same or possibly increased in severity and menace. But I had no time to dwell on his level of enragement. I would feel his wrath later.
The full weight of my decision, to close myself in a clinic room with Nico, landed like an anvil in the pit of my stomach. I gathered a deep, steadying breath and held it in my lungs for a brief moment. I tried to still my shaking hands by tightening them into fists.
He is just a guy…a guy you slept with once…the guy who took your virginity…the guy who tops your list of people you never want to see again.
My frayed nerves took a back seat to my survival instinct, and I mortared a smile on my face before turning. Rose was still sitting on the couch, the small girl on her lap, and I met the older woman’s green eyes directly.
“Hi, Rose.” I scored myself a point for the steadiness of my voice. The decision to focus solely on Rose was calculated, as was my decision to avoid trying to pronounce her last name. I still couldn’t pronounce Manganiello correctly, even after going to school with Nico from preschool to high school.
