by Taryn Quinn
He had no business being back here. It was bad enough Seth showed up in the diner’s kitchen all the time, but now Oliver? But Oliver went where he pleased and was rarely told no.
“Hello, I don’t think we’ve met,” he said in his smooth, deceptively calm voice. His eyes, however, blazed like charred embers from a fire. So dark they could’ve been black, especially when he looked pissed.
Like right now.
I blinked. “You forget to take your meds again, Hamilton? What are you doing back here? Employees only.”
But he wasn’t speaking to me. No, his attention was squarely fixated on Greta, who seemed caught between squirming and fluttering at being under the relentless scrutiny of such a dominating man.
Either that, or Greta’s tighty-whities were a size too small. Which would explain a lot.
“Oh, I know we haven’t.” Greta was instantly all aglow, a bright smile wreathing her normally stern face. She pushed past me and held out a hand to Oliver. “My name is Greta Conrad. I’m new in town. Just moved here last week. Old friend of Mitch’s. He owns The Rusty Spoon,” she added proudly, as if Oliver would be impressed by her important friends.
I hid a smirk behind my hand. Not so much.
Oliver just stared at her hand without taking it. “Lovely. Let me tell you who I am. My name is Oliver Hamilton, and Alison is my sister-in-law.” He jutted his chin at Ally, who was turning the shade of the tomatoes lined up neatly on the kitchen island. “So, I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from making physical demands on a woman who is nine months pregnant. Or else I’ll be forced to contact my lawyer, and no one wants that, do we?”
“Oliver,” Ally said weakly. “I’m fine, and I only have two days left—”
“Do we have an understanding?” Oliver interjected, staring hard at Greta.
Greta’s smile was long gone. She nodded quickly, then pinned me with a look. “What about this one? Is she your sister-in-law too, or can she actually work to clean up the mess she caused?”
I bristled. Oliver hated me. Lord only knew what he’d say. Probably tell Greta I could clean the floors and the toilets too, for good measure.
“She’s on a break right now.” His gaze dropped below my face and lingered. “She must be, since she isn’t even fully dressed.”
I let out a startled squeak and grasped my half-open shirt tighter to my now heaving bosom and raced into the back hallway. I beelined for my locker in the break room, moving as fast as my sensible soles would carry me.
Thank heavens the break room was empty. See, the universe could be benevolent now and then.
Talking to Greta and Ally with my shirt half open over my granny bra—hello, DDs require more support than your average demi cup—was one thing. The line cooks had been on a smoke break out back, and I’d been flustered enough not to give them a second thought. Jean, one of the other waitresses, had probably come in and gone out without my notice, but she probably wore granny bras too.
Oliver, however, was a very different story.
Rule number one of having a mortal enemy—never let them see you sweat…or walking around in your underwear, especially if it wasn’t remotely sexy.
I spun the combination on my locker. Okay, so he wasn’t my mortal enemy. We didn’t have any grievous reasons not to like each other, except that he slept with any female who moved, and I couldn’t get any action unless I paid for it. Not that I should hold that against him, but I did because he was a humorless boob who took himself far too seriously.
And who had just swept in and defended his sister-in-law—and me, sort of—like a knight in Hugo Boss.
I tossed my wet apron into the bottom of my locker and whipped off my shirt, dropping it in the same pile. I’d tidy up later. The important thing now was to grab my highly revealing tank top—great job in choosing a spare shirt, past Sage—and apron. Well, after I used some of the tissues I kept for emergencies to blot my considerable cleavage. At least the coffee hadn’t done much more than slightly irritate my skin. The pinkness was already beginning to fade.
Small favors, because an ER trip for burned boobs was the last way I wanted to spend the afternoon.
I peered into my bra and peeled the cotton away. Ick, some of the coffee had soaked through. I didn’t have a spare bra with me. My locker was only so big. At this rate, I’d need to store an entire new outfit in there.
Handily, my loft was close by. I could sneak out and run over to my place, then take a quick shower and scrub my cheeks until I stopped blushing like a…well, a virgin.
I tugged out my tank top and spare apron, slipped them over my head, grabbed my lanyard with my apartment keys, and slammed my locker door shut.
And turned to find Oliver standing in the doorway, arms folded over his distractible chest.
“Jesus Christmas! You’re like a goddamn cat, always sneaking around.”
So much for my New Year’s resolution to stop swearing. I never used to, but working at the diner, I’d picked up the habit. Since the first of the year, I’d been trying Seth and Ally’s swear-jar trick. They’d started the practice to cut down on swearing so their daughter Laurie didn’t overhear bad words, but I’d decided to employ it too.
Thus far, I’d had to trade in my swear jar for a swear milk carton. The plastic gallon size. And it was only approaching the end of January.
“I do not sneak. I followed you at a reasonable pace, but you were far too involved in your task to notice me.” He cocked his head. “I must say, your sense of fashion is truly unique.”
My first inclination was to make another undignified noise and wrap my arms over my chest. But the apron was thick and, all things considered, offered decent coverage. The tank, not so much. Whatever. I’d be damned if I acted flustered around him again.
I’d be darned. Whatever. I’d just count this day as one big swear and put a twenty in the dang carton.
“Do you have a purpose in being back here or did you just want to make an already shitty day worse?”
No one could say I didn’t go all in with breaking my resolutions.
An unnamed emotion flitted through his dark eyes, but his lazy, curious pose never changed. “You don’t have to tolerate this, you know.”
“She’s new, trying to prove herself. I’m sure she’ll be perfectly fine once she settles in.” I wasn’t sure of that at all, but I wasn’t going to spill my guts to a guy who didn’t really care one way or the other.
“You have money from the sale of the bed-and-breakfast,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You must. Your parents wouldn’t have taken off in their Airstream and left you penniless after such a profitable sale.”
“How do you know how profitable it was?”
Dumb question. Hamilton Realty was run by Oliver, his brother Seth and their father, and they’d handled the deal. Even if they hadn’t brokered this particular one, real estate transactions that occurred in Crescent Cove were their business. They knew what would be hitting the market before the owners had made up their minds.
Now Oliver was trying to peer into mine, and I didn’t appreciate it.
“Working isn’t merely about material compensation.” I sniffed and looped my lanyard around my neck. Which required me to lift my arms, of course, and shifted the apron in a way I wouldn’t have thought much of, if not for Oliver’s sudden shift back from the door. He didn’t leave, just backed into the shadowy hallway.
I frowned. Weird. I hadn’t forgotten the deodorant today, had I? There was no way to discreetly check, but then again, I couldn’t smell anything but coffee right now. Good thing I was learning to almost like it.
“So, you expect me to believe you work here for the satisfaction? Does that include the bunions you’re trying to avoid by wearing such ugly shoes?”
This time, I did gasp. There was no avoiding it. When dealing with a frenemy, not much was off-limits. But insulting a woman’s shoes? That was beyond the pale.
“They are exceedingly comfort
able. What exactly is it that you want? And why are you hiding in the hallway?”
“I’m not hiding.” His voice sounded strained as he stepped forward, moving quickly enough that he seemed to be right in front of me in two long-legged strides. “I have a meeting I’m late for, and I almost forgot to give you this.”
I was still trying to adjust to his sudden nearness—how could I smell his spicy cologne even over the coffee?—when he plucked an object out of the inside pocket of his jacket and dangled it in front of me.
“Missing something?” he asked when I didn’t move.
How could I? I’d just accidentally cut my gaze to his waist. And below. Right below. To where either his impeccably cut suit had a design flaw or else he was facing an affliction even a virgin could spot from five feet away.
He was hard. I was almost positive. Surely, even I could detect an erection despite my limited experience.
“Sage. Eyes up.” His voice was pinched. Utterly without amusement. Because it was fine if he sorta-kinda ogled my breasts, but I wasn’t allowed the same courtesy.
Not that I was ogling so much as trying to understand. Did he have one of those conditions where a swift breeze got him going?
Or could it be…
No.
My breasts weren’t enough to get a man like him going. They were perfectly nice breasts, even attractive breasts, but he was a man of the world who’d bedded who knew how many women.
Women who didn’t save La Perla for dates. Bi-monthly dates, if those women were me.
My head came up and my gaze connected with my iPhone. And I cursed mightily my genius idea to put the screen on “never off” so I could sneak looks at work without taking the time to enter my passcode.
Moron.
“Moose Masterson, hmm?” Oliver’s tone was thoughtful. “Any man named Moose must be worth a furtive work search.”
“He is.” I tried to snatch back my phone, but he simply held it higher. Just out of my reach.
Not difficult, since I felt as if I were shrinking in direct proportion to his overwhelming height and breadth with every passing moment.
And his erect…member was right there.
“Who is he, exactly? An old friend?”
“Why do you care? Can I please have my phone?” There was one other question that I nearly asked as well.
How can you be so gallant about telling off Greta and such an utter prick when it comes to dealing with me?
But I didn’t think I could use the word prick when there was a live-action one a few inches away. I couldn’t even be chill about it, because fully functional cocks were a rare bird in my life.
Sometimes being a virgin totally sucked. All right, all times.
“Certainly. I even cleaned off the coffee for you.” His thin smile was about as warm as the expression of a cobra before it struck, but he handed over my phone just the same. “Just making idle chitchat as you stand about in your bra.”
“I’m not only in my bra, smart ass. I have a tank on.” Relieved to have my phone back in my possession, I closed the Facebook app and pulled up my texts. The first one was from the radio station where I’d won a trip to Vegas. I’d pushed it off as long as possible, suddenly not as excited for my out-of-state hookup possibilities as I’d once been.
That deflated-dick date I’d had over the holidays had kind of killed my optimism when it came to sex. If a guy couldn’t keep it up even when I was the next thing to naked in front of him, what chances did I have of competing with Vegas showgirls for indiscriminate sex?
Precisely none.
Then again, Oliver either had a medical condition or he found my bare arms arousing.
And he was peering over my shoulder, the snoop.
“Not that again,” he muttered near my hair, clearly scanning the bright-red splash of text. “Love in Vegas? Last chance? As if anyone would rush to go on a radio-sponsored trip. What do you get, two complimentary flutes of champagne and a mint on the pillow in your low-level suite?”
Maybe he hadn’t really been hard. Shadows could do many things. Hadn’t that been what I’d told myself when it seemed as if Jim hadn’t been that excited as I’d stripped? I’d told myself to keep my eyes on his and seduce him with my gaze.
I’d paid for that one with a limp lizard—and not of the gecko variety.
“Why don’t you just take the cash prize instead of the trip?” Oliver sounded so pragmatic, and a part of me wanted to giggle since I was solely focused on his cock. Wouldn’t that shock the stiffness right out of him?
Huh, there was one way I could answer the erection question once and for all. If I could find enough balls to get the job done.
Finding enough clits just didn’t have the same panache, so I’d have to stay with the not anatomically correct reference.
“I’m taking the trip,” I said firmly. “I intend to go and have an amazing time. Freewheeling drinking and debauchery in a town where no one knows who I am.”
“You’re still planning on going alone?”
“Sure.” I shrugged and pretended to be absorbed in the text I’d already read and reread three times.
Truth was, I was obsessed with my science experiment.
I was going for it.
In a second or two.
“That isn’t safe. Especially if you’re planning on drinking. You need your wits about you, or a trusted companion to ensure that—”
“My best friend is too knocked up to go, so what do you expect me to do?” I shrugged again, rushing on. “It’ll be fine. What can possibly happen? Other than I’ll get laid.”
Most likely, that wouldn’t happen. I talked—and thought—a good game, but I probably wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger with a stranger. Even if that trigger was made from flesh.
Oliver sucked in a breath and edged back from me. “You could get into trouble.”
Not far enough though, and not fast enough. I could be like a snake too, fast and lethal.
I jerked back into him, deliberately making contact with one certain vital area.
My eyes went wide. My nipples decided to join the fracas. Between my legs, previously dormant areas flowed like lava over Mount Vesuvius.
Erection sighting confirmed. And how.
The only thing I hadn’t plotted out was what to do once I’d discovered he was hard. My body was wedged against his and neither of us were moving and um, hi, awkward.
Even if my hormones were in sudden overdrive. They had no morals or sense.
Oliver is the enemy, remember? Even if he is built like a Magic Mike stripper.
“Feels like you have trouble in your pants,” I managed, as he made a choking sound that could’ve been a groan or possibly the precursor to a cardiac event.
And like the sexually un-liberated woman I was, I fled.
Two
Oliver
Sage opened her locker long enough to grab her coat, then tugged it on and disappeared through the rear break room exit.
I stared after her. Her leaving was both curse and blessing.
Trouble in my pants? That’s what she called it when a man was helplessly aroused by the sight of her in simple white cotton?
I wasn’t proud of it. In fact, I’d tried to hide my predicament by remaining in the hall. But I’d followed her to give her back her phone—and yes, perhaps get another glimpse of her curves—so I’d had to man up.
Now she probably thought that I wasn’t well-endowed because I’d been on the way down from an erection. Thanks to reciting the times tables backward in my head, no less. Even that had scarcely been enough to combat her allure.
The scent of her brought back memories of summer. Sunshine and green grass and the breeze off the lake. A sorely needed reminder of warmer afternoons on this frozen, chilly gray day. Layered over all had been the aroma of strong black coffee. It had smelled a damn sight better on her than it tasted in the cup.
But my control had saved me from reacting as much as I could have. I was
n’t a teenage boy any longer. Bad enough I’d popped a semi in the first place. At least I could get it back in line. I’d taken pride in the fact that I could stand that close to her, surrounded by her perfume with her scarcely concealed breasts right there, and manage to remain merely at half-mast.
And now she probably thought half was as good as it got.
A growl worked its way free of my throat. Trouble. I’d give her trouble. How, I wasn’t exactly sure.
She didn’t like me. I wasn’t overly fond of her. Her decision-making skills were questionable at best. Accepting random radio station contests to travel alone to the city of sin and searching for men on the internet named Moose, for Pete’s sake.
Unless that was why she found me lacking. A man named Moose probably hadn’t been named for his mammal-sized brain. But I was not a small man myself. Far from it.
Even if I was now tempted to make a stop in the men’s room just to reassure myself of that fact.
Another thing I was tempted to do was follow Sage to grill her about her exact meaning. Perhaps I’d gotten it wrong. We sparred often, and rarely spared feelings. I didn’t have to worry she’d look up at me with a trembling chin and tears in her eyes. On the surface, she appeared fluffy and sweet and easily hurt. In reality? She had a backbone of steel and a smart mouth to match.
As for her tits, I wasn’t going there. They weren’t relevant. I wasn’t even usually a breast man, though obviously, I could appreciate a fine pair. If I had to single out a part, asses were more my thing, but I tended to view women as a whole as exquisite creatures. Besides, the brain was the sexiest organ of all—and Sage’s enticed me beyond measure. It was so twisty and detoured in so many ways I didn’t expect.
Like why a homespun woman like herself whose persona practically screamed “I knit my own cable-knit sweaters and binge-watch HGTV and collect mementos for my future two-point-five kids’ hope chests” was so hell-bent to get laid in Vegas.
It must be the virginity thing. I’d been a late bloomer myself, not having sex until freshman year of college. Near misses had occurred a few times prior to that, but I’d attended an all-boys private school and had been focused on keeping my GPA at a level beyond my father’s reproach. Seth had been the ladies’ man in the family. I’d been the well-behaved one who never made waves.
