Her phone rang. It was routed through the Bluetooth on the dashboard, and she should have been used to the noise, but it made her jump all the same.
“Hello? I mean, A Moveable Feast Catering.” She still wasn’t used to the fact that the company was hers.
“Please hold for Gavin Aronson.” A woman trying to suppress the Southie in her voice and not succeeding burst through the van’s speakers, followed by a beep sharp enough to make Meg wince. She quickly turned the volume down, but the next voice that came over the line was pitched so low that she had to turn it back up.
“Is this Meg Marchande?” No Southie in this voice. No, unless she was very much mistaken, the man now on the line had the nasal sound that came from someone raised in the Long Island area. “The Meg Marchande who catered the art show at Fifth Central Gallery last week?”
“That’s me.” She immediately felt herself sitting up straighter, as though she were about to be interviewed. In her line of work, a phone call often was the interview, two minutes in which to convince a potential customer why they should trust their event to her and not the competition.
“Well, Meg, my name is Gavin. I’m the director of a little company called Hyde Park Entertainment. You’ve heard of us?”
She hadn’t, but she certainly wasn’t about to say that, so she simply hummed, noncommittal.
“Hyde Park produces all kinds of ventures—concerts, festivals, films, award shows.” He paused, as though waiting for applause, so Meg hummed again encouragingly. “I was intrigued by the food at the gallery show. Those things are usually cheap wine and grocery-store cheese. Your offerings added a bit of flair.”
A bolt of excitement made Meg’s blood sizzle. Concerts? Festivals? She was so on board.
“People who simply do what is expected of them rarely get ahead,” she commented mildly, trying to keep the elation out of her voice.
“Interesting.” His voice was thoughtful. “We have several events coming up that I think you’d be a good match for.”
“Really?” Her voice squeaked, and she coughed to cover it. “I mean, that sounds very interesting.”
“We’re hosting a banquet for the mayor’s office this Friday,” he continued, and she sucked in a deep breath. “Our caterer dropped out at the last minute, and I’d like to hire you. Why don’t I arrange a brief for you? You can read it and see the scale of one of these events. Is that something you might be interested in?”
Meg’s hands clenched on the wheel as she did a little butt wiggle in her seat. She confirmed the address of her rental kitchen, and he said he’d have a briefing document couriered over the next day.
As Gavin ended the call, Meg finally let out an excited screech. A car beside her honked; she looked over to find a woman watching her with a startled expression—both of their windows were down, and she’d heard Meg’s scream. Mouthing an apology, Meg sped up, eager to get home and tell her sisters before she took the time to get ready for her evening with John.
This was a huge coup for her little business. And more than that, it would provide a welcome distraction from John after he left. See? No way was she going to be one his former flings, wishing desperately for something more.
She was going to make that something more for herself—but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t enjoy him along the way.
CHAPTER FIVE
“HI, JOHN.”
Startled, John tore his gaze away from his phone as a woman got onto the elevator behind him. Smiling back automatically, he racked his mind for a reason behind the redhead’s knowing smirk...and her name.
“Hi... Madison.” He wrestled the name from the folds of his brain, along with the history behind his knowing it. Madison was a paralegal, working on the floor above Crossing Lines. She was friends with Theo’s assistant, Ava. They’d all gone out for drinks once, and the woman had let him know that she was available for a good time.
“Having a good week?” She batted her eyes at him, and he was momentarily distracted. Not because he was attracted to the come-hither gesture, but because he was wondering if her eyelashes could be real. They looked like Muppet fur glued to her lids.
It wasn’t hot.
Belatedly, he realized that she’d asked him a question.
“Yes, thanks. You?” He knew what she was going to say—the gist of it, at least—before she spoke.
“It could be better,” she pouted, pursing her shiny lips. Her gloss was so thick it made a slight smacking sound when she spoke, putting him in mind of the slightly tacky consistency of drying paint. It, too, wasn’t hot.
Even a month ago, the woman’s thick layer of makeup wouldn’t have bothered him, if he’d even noticed it at all. He would have enjoyed the attention, let her admiration fill up the void inside him, the one he’d been trying to fill his entire life.
It might even have worked, at least for the hours he spent skin to skin with another human. Ultimately, though, that warmth would have evaporated like mist, slipping through his fingers because of its lack of substance. And yet he’d always been scared to pursue to anything more solid, afraid that it, too, might disappear.
And those were some deep thoughts to be having with a gorgeous woman making it clear that she was interested.
His problem? She might be interested, but he was not.
The elevator bell dinged as it reached the floor that housed Crossing Lines, and John nodded at the woman before slipping out of the elevator the second it opened. He registered the indignant huff at his back—women who looked like that rarely struck out.
But last night he’d dreamed of Meg. More specifically, he’d dreamed of parting those sweet, plump thighs and sliding between them. He’d spent a sweaty night, haunted by those erotic images, and had woken hard, his cock in his fist.
Meg was the sweetest temptation he’d ever known, and until he’d had his fill of her decadent body, no other woman was going to whet his appetite.
“Morning, John.” Ava was sitting behind her desk, a perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched as she sipped from a Starbucks cup. She’d seen him blow off her friend and expected an explanation.
“Morning.” She wasn’t getting it, not from him anyway. Striding past her, he angled his body toward the office that had been his for the last few months. His dream still so fresh it seemed real, he stepped quietly as he passed Theo’s office.
If Theo knew his plans for Meg, he’d punch John in the nuts.
“John!” Dammit. That was Jo’s voice, and there was no way to pretend he hadn’t heard her. Turning reluctantly, he found Meg’s sister sitting on Theo’s desk, legs swinging as she watched a man in torn jeans install a light fixture.
“Morning.” He forced a smile to his lips, directing it at Jo, then at Theo, who was sitting behind his desk. He avoided eye contact with the latter. “Are we finally getting rid of those fluorescent lights? Thank God. They make me look pale.”
He winked at Jo, patting his brown cheek, and she grinned. “You can thank me. Theo’s been dragging his ass about the expense, but we met Aaron here last night at the bar.”
The man on the ladder grunted as he strained to connect a wire.
“Don’t we usually go through a referral agency?” John lowered his voice as he eyed the stranger in the room. He couldn’t see his face. “How do we know he’s not going to burn the place down?”
“That’s rude—” Jo started, but the other man cut her off, starting to climb down the ladder.
“You know because I’m a master electrician, certified by the state of Massachusetts. And you like me because I’m giving you a discount on these fixtures. Former client decided against them and couldn’t send ’em back.” He grinned, offering his hand. “Aaron Horton. Nice to meet you.”
“John Brooke.” He took the offered hand reluctantly, squinting at the other man. “Do I know you?”
“Saw you
at the bar last night,” Aaron replied mildly, though John didn’t miss the fact that the other man was sizing him up. “You’re Meg’s friend.”
John found himself squeezing harder than strictly necessary before letting go. This—this—was the man Meg had been dancing with. The one who’d had his hands on her soft curves. The one Meg had considered going home with.
He wanted to snarl, to tell Aaron to stay the hell away from his woman. Except Meg wasn’t his woman, and both Theo and Jo were listening intently, having picked up on the tension building in the small room.
“That’s right,” he finally managed to grind out through his teeth. “Meg’s...friend. Jo here is her sister.”
“Sweet.” The other man cast Jo a somewhat sheepish grin. “I’m going to take this as a sign, then. I didn’t get Meg’s number last night, and I’ve been kicking myself. Do you think she’d mind if I got it from you?”
“Hell no.” John bristled. He looked over at Theo, who was doing the same.
“No?” Theo cast John a quizzical glance, and John realized his misstep—he didn’t have to say anything. Theo would slip into big-brother mode and refuse to pass along Meg’s number anyway.
“Something tells me you aren’t going to give the number of someone you consider a sister to a stranger.” John couldn’t hold back the scowl.
“Aren’t you Mr. Sensitivity this morning?” Theo replied, leaning back in his chair. His gaze was assessing as he looked at John, and John knew he had to bite his tongue if he didn’t want his friend finding out about his feelings for Meg.
“Uh, I’m standing right here,” Aaron offered, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I get it. I wouldn’t just hand my sister’s number out to anyone who asked, either.”
“I don’t suppose any of you have thought to consider what Meg might want on this occasion?” Rolling her eyes again, Jo slid off Theo’s desk to her feet. Crossing her arms over her chest, she arched an eyebrow in John’s direction. “And how many ladies’ numbers do you have in your contact list, stud?”
John clenched his jaw but didn’t answer.
“Thought so,” Jo smirked, then patted Aaron on the shoulder. “How about I’ll give Meg your number, and she can decide whether or not to call you? Come see me when you’re done.”
And then she was gone, mumbling something about Neanderthals.
An awkward silence surrounded the three men until John muttered about getting to his office and left. Once in the small room, he clicked the mouse to wake his laptop up, then sank into his chair with a sigh.
The sigh turned to a grunt of frustration at the knock on the door. He’d left it open a crack, but now it opened fully, framing the electrician.
“Hey, man. I just wanted to say that I’m not into stealing someone’s girl.” Aaron held out his hands, palms up. “Sorry if I overstepped.”
John hesitated. He could agree that Meg was, in fact, his girl, and then this guy would back off. But then there was a chance that Aaron would mention it to Theo or Jo, and John was already carrying enough guilt over his plans to debauch Meg that evening.
He wasn’t used to feeling guilty, because for most of his life, he’d only had to answer to himself. He should say that Meg wasn’t his. It was the truth, after all.
Instead, he gave in to the primal urge to claim his woman.
“Stay away from her.” He pointed at the door. “You can see yourself out.”
CHAPTER SIX
MEG FALTERED AS she stood in front of John’s hotel room, a bottle of whiskey cradled in the crook of her arm. She’d made it through handing the keys to her giant white catering van to the hotel’s valet, and she’d only felt slightly out of place as she carried the cheap alcohol through the sleek, modern lobby that screamed money.
Now, faced with the reality of what she was about to do, and whom she was going to do it with, she felt the nerves bubble up inside, frothing up and over like champagne in a wineglass.
“Chill out, Marchande,” she muttered, the dense velvety carpet beneath her feet and silk-covered walls absorbing the bite of the words. “You’re not here to marry him.”
Still, she’d never known anyone, lover or friend, so very different from herself. If she let herself think about it, it was extremely disconcerting.
“Are you going to knock or just stand out there all night talking to yourself?” John’s voice filtered through the heavy door, making her jump.
“Why are you standing by the door like a creeper?” Pressing a hand to her chest to slow her suddenly thundering pulse, she focused on the peephole. Knowing he was looking back made her senses come alive, and it was hard not to fidget.
The door opened, and then there he was, a lean hip propped against the doorway. Dressed in a simple black polo and jeans that probably cost more than her van, he still exuded power. Still, Meg’s mouth dried up at this glimpse into another side of him—she’d never seen him without the armor he wore at the office.
“You’re staring.” His pale eyes, so light against the gorgeous brown of his skin, roamed over her, as well. She loved clothing, loved the way she could change how the world saw her with what she wore. As his stare lingered on the simple cotton candy–pink sundress she’d landed on, though, she had the uncomfortable realization that he might be one person whose view of her didn’t change with what she wore.
That was nerve-racking as hell, so she held up the whiskey, using it as a distraction.
“Will this buy me entry?” She lifted it higher so he could read the label. “Apparently it tastes like caramel and pears.”
“No.” Still, he wrapped his fingers around the glass, tugging it and her forward into the room. With his other hand, he fingered the slim strap of her dress, his touch leaving heat in its wake. “But this sure as hell will.”
“You like?” Part of her was thrilled that he’d taken a moment to comment on her choice of dress, to compliment it. Most of the men she’d dated wouldn’t have cared if she’d shown up at their door in a paper bag, so long as it made its way to their bedroom floor.
Raising the bottle, both of their hands still wrapped around it, he coaxed her into a slow circle, and she felt the kiss of his gaze on every inch of her body.
“I hate it,” he disagreed. She frowned, taken aback, then gasped when he pulled her against him abruptly. She collided with the solid wall of his chest.
“This is a Rachel Roy,” she informed him. “I wore it because I wanted to look nice for you.”
“I appreciate that you like fine things. It’s something we have in common,” he agreed, pulling her against him so abruptly that the bottle fell. It bounced on the thick carpeting, and Meg gasped as she felt one of his large hands splayed over her back. “But I’m far more interested in what’s underneath.”
A soundless cry escaped her lips as his hand slid down, down to cup the curves of her ass. When he squeezed, her vision blurred.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” It took far more concentration than it should have to spit out that one simple sentence. Wiggling in his grip, she strained to reach the zipper of her dress. She’d only worked it down an inch when his hand closed over hers.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered. Squeezing the hand he held quickly, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then took a deliberate step back. After being pressed against the inferno that was his body, Meg felt chilled. She wanted the heat back.
“Don’t pout.” He ran a finger along her jaw, and she couldn’t help but lean into the touch, a flower to the sun. “I’m going to treat you right.”
Bemused, she wandered the suite as he uncovered dishes on the gorgeous glass dining room table in the suite. His hotel room was huge. She’d have bet money she didn’t have that the square footage was nearly equal to that of the entire house she shared with Mamesie and her sisters.
She ran a hand over the silky
bedspread. Yeah, the room was as big as her house, and nicer, too.
“Nice digs.” Perching on the edge of the bed, she leaned back on her hands and watched as he organized the table. “Is your house this nice? Where do you live when you’re not traveling anyway?”
“I don’t,” he replied simply, dusting his hands and turning to face her. “Have a house, that is. I’m always on contract, always traveling, so there isn’t a point.”
Meg sat up straight, swallowing the words that wanted to slip off her tongue.
That’s so lonely.
And also yet another sign that whatever this thing was between them—it was temporary. It could never be anything else.
“Shall we eat?” John crossed the plush carpet to her, and she pushed the maudlin thoughts from her mind as she placed her hand in his. She tried to sit in one of the two chairs. When he kept his grip on her, she looked up at him questioningly.
“Not so fast.” Just a hint of that wicked grin of his played out over the corners of his lips, and her stomach did a slow roll. All he had to do was look at her, and she wanted him. Wanted him more than anyone she’d ever wanted before.
“Don’t get between me and my food.” She heard the breathlessness in her own voice. “There’s a reason I’m a chef, you know. I like to eat.”
“I won’t let you go hungry.” That grin again, and she knew he wasn’t talking about food at all. She swallowed hard and focused on the table as a distraction since he seemed intent on taking this thing slowly.
“How come there’s only one place setting?” She arched an eyebrow at him, then squealed when he lifted her off her feet. Seating himself in one of the plush chairs, he settled her on his lap, a hard arm banded around her middle.
“Relax,” he told her as she squirmed. She couldn’t help shifting, though, savoring the sensation of his hard thighs and the scratchy denim on her bare skin. And she certainly didn’t miss his reaction to having her on his lap.
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