Turning Point Club Box Set

by JA Huss

  I open my eyes and smile for real. His face is right up next to mine, his eyes just inches away. The brown eyes with flecks of black and rings of green are pretty much the best thing to wake up to. Ever. “You’re leaving, right?”

  “Not yet. It’s fuckin’ early.”

  Which makes me laugh.

  “I was gonna make breakfast first. What do ya like?”

  I don’t even eat breakfast but I don’t want to say that. “Ummm… I dunno. Cereal?”

  He makes a face. Which is adorable because out pops the dimple. “No, I mean like, real breakfast. Something hot.”

  He’s hot. His stubble is clearly into the getting-me-wet territory. I didn’t see him wake up yesterday morning—God, was that only yesterday?—so I missed the morning stubble.

  I never want to miss it again. I reach for his face, my hand finding a home flat on his cheek to feel the roughness. “Bacon?”

  I’m pretty sure guys love bacon.

  “How about French toast?” he offers up instead.

  “Is French toast something on your regular menu?”

  “No.” He smiles again. Fuckin’ dimple. “But it’s sweet and I want you to have something sweet to start the day.”

  I sigh. It’s one of those God-I-might-love-you sighs. Contentment, or whatever. “Sure. I’d love some French toast.”

  “OK,” he says, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek. “I’ll work on that while you wake up. Meet you in the kitchen in ten.”

  I watch him get out of bed. Naked. He has a very nice ass. Like… those glutes get worked regularly. And his thighs. Jesus. He looks over his shoulder as he pulls on yesterday’s jeans.

  Dimple. Only it’s a new dimple. This one has a twin and they are both in his lower back, right above his ass.

  “You OK?” he asks. “Not having regrets about last night or anything, are ya?”

  I shake my head no as I study his new tattoo. It’s gorgeous. Still wrapped up in that clear barrier Vivi put on it last night. The colors are fantastic. Bright and new. Just like this relationship. “Do you get a lunch, Lawton Ayers?”

  He laughs. “I do. Eventually. But I got clients today, so there’s no telling when it’ll be. I’ll be back for dinner though. Still wanna go to dinner tonight?”

  I nod my head. Let out a long breath of air. And wonder how I’m gonna get through an entire day without him.

  Then wonder… how did that happen over a weekend?

  “Ten minutes,” he says, walking back over to kiss me again. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  I watch him leave the bedroom. I wonder if he knows how hot he is. He doesn’t act like it. He doesn’t have a stuck-up air to him. Even though he’s rich, handsome, and smart. Which is like the stuck-up trifecta.

  But Lawton is a guy who comes from nothing. I can’t forget that. He’s got it all now, but if that new tattoo on his arm is any indication, it was a long journey to get here.

  I can hear him downstairs as he goes through my kitchen cabinets looking for things. A frying pan. A spatula. I hear the fridge open and close several times. Getting out eggs and butter probably.

  “Five minutes, Oaklee!” he calls from downstairs.

  But I stay in bed a little longer. Thinking about how nice it is to have someone else in this penthouse for once.

  That comes with a bunch of feelings. Mostly about loss, and sadness, and pain. And not all of them can be attributed to the fact that my father used to live here with me and now he’s dead.

  Some of them, I admit, come from the fear of failing. That I might fuck up this new beginning and it’ll all go away.

  Because—I swing my feet out of bed, my hands flat on the mattress, my head bowed—because I’m pretty bad at relationships. I’ve never had a long-term one. And maybe I tell myself that it was Hanna who stopped me from falling in love. That I was always afraid she’d try to take what I had. Always be there waiting to kill anything good that came into my life.

  And that’s partly true, I guess. Because she is a sneaky bitch who is way too obsessed with me and my life. But it’s not the whole truth.

  The whole truth is… I’m just very bad at relationships. I don’t take orders. It’s hard to put the needs of others first. It’s a challenge to consider other people’s opinions instead of just my own.

  But I don’t feel that way with Law. I like considering him. And he’s not really a bossy guy. At least not outside of sex. Then he does have a bossy side.

  “Two minutes, Oaks!” Law yells. “Get your ass down here!”

  And apparently that carries into breakfast.

  But it’s all so hot, I don’t care.

  “Coming!” I yell.

  I pee, pull on my shorts and t-shirt from last night, and walk down the stairs, kicking myself for not getting down here immediately, because I can see those back dimples as he flips French toast at the stove.

  I walk quietly over to him and wrap my arms around his torso, pressing my face into the back of his shoulder. “Delicious,” I say.

  He turns his head just enough for me to see him smile, then looks back at breakfast. “Go sit. I’ll bring it to you.”

  I back off. Reluctantly. And take a seat on the barstool up against the island where he’s set a place for me.

  He plops two pieces of French toast onto a plate, pours some syrup over them, then sticks his fingertips into a bowl of powdered sugar and sprinkles that over the top.

  When he sets it down in front of me I feel… special?

  Yes, but no. That’s not it.

  “Eat,” he says.

  “Aren’t you eating?” I ask, my fork already cutting into the bread.

  “I never eat breakfast,” he says, bending over so he can place his elbows on the counter and lean forward. He just smiles at me. Like serving me a homemade breakfast is the perfect start to his day.

  Cared for?

  Yes, but no. That’s not it either.

  “Me either,” I say. “But for you I make an exception.”

  He laughs. “Well, it’s not even up for discussion. If I’m here, you’re eating breakfast. It’s good for you.”

  “But it’s not good for you?” I ask, shoving the fork into my mouth. “Mmmm,” I hum.

  “Well, you’re not insisting I eat, are you?”

  “Should I be?” I ask, my mouth still full. “I mean, would you listen?”

  “Of course I’d listen. Listening is the least I can do for you.”

  Adored?

  That might be it. But it’s so ridiculous.

  “You don’t have to eat it,” he says.

  “No,” I say back quickly. “I want to.” Because I do. He made it specially for me. He wants me to eat it. So I want to eat. “It’s the least I can for you.”

  He pushes forward on the island. Slowly coming towards me. I swallow my food and hold my breath for a moment. Then his lips touch mine and we kiss.

  If I wasn’t sitting down I might faint. That’s not even an exaggeration.

  When he pulls away, he licks his lips and says, “You taste good.”

  What the fuck is happening? Am I falling in love with this man?

  “So do you,” I whisper back.

  Which makes him sigh. “I gotta go home and take a shower and get to work. Got a nine o’clock showing down in Greenwood Village.”

  “Then what?” I ask. “What will you do then?” Because I have a sudden need to understand his day better. I want to know everything.

  “Then…” He thinks for a moment. “Then I have a showing in Cherry Creek at noon and I round out the day with another one in Park Hill at three. In between there’s lots of paperwork and shit. Pretty boring stuff.”

  I picture all this. Him taking people to these million-dollar houses. Talking to rich people. Probably couples, but maybe not. Then I realize something. “You know, if we get this TV show we can do that stuff together.”

  He nods. “I think that would be good fuckin’ fun, Oaklee Ryan.”

 
; We stare at each other for a long moment. “I think I’m very fuckin’ glad you’re my boyfriend this week.”

  He laughs and backs off. Standing up straight. Shoves his hands in his pockets and just stands there, looking at me as I look at him. His hair is messy, that stray curl I noticed in the shower last night still hanging over his forehead. Like that’s where it lives when he’s not taming it back into a more professional style.

  “Well,” he says, “I get to be your boyfriend next week too, so there’s that.”

  “And then what?” I ask.

  “Then we’re partners forever,” he says.

  And I’m not quite sure if he’s just talking about professionally. Or if he means we’re going to like… really give this romance thing a go.

  “So I’ll pick you up for dinner?” he says.

  I nod. “I’ll be waiting.”

  He walks around the island and sits down on the couch to pull his boots on. Then he grabs his t-shirt and pulls it over his head. Slips his arms into the leather jacket and stands there looking like a Greek god in need of a motorcycle.

  “I’ll check in with you later, OK?”

  I nod, because I’m actually speechless. Then catch myself, because I don’t want him to walk out without me saying anything. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

  He winks at me and turns. Walks to the elevator, presses the button, then looks over his shoulder at me. “Respected,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, shaking myself out of the stupor he’s put me in.

  “That’s what you feel. Because I know you’ve been asking yourself that since you came downstairs. It’s respected, Oaklee.”

  And then the elevator dings, opens, and he walks inside.

  I watch them close. Watch him disappear.

  And wonder how long I have to wait before I can marry this man. How soon is too soon?

  Because yeah, I feel special, cared for, adored, and respected when I’m with Lawton Ayers. But that’s what he’s making me feel. Not what I’m feeling back.

  What I feel back scares the shit out of me.

  Because Hanna Harlow is still out there. I still have to deal with her. She’s still stealing my recipes. She’d steal my life if I let her.

  If I love him, then now I have something else she can take away from me.

  And I hired Jordan Wells to give me a boyfriend for Hanna. Not me, her. So I could get close to her and figure out how she’s doing all this. Why she’s doing all this.

  And I just know—I feel it deep down in my gut—that if she sees Lawton like this… like he is now and not like he was on Saturday at the Opera House tavern… if she sees the real him she’s gonna want him just as much as I do.

  Because how could she not?

  And that terrifies me. What if he likes her better than me? What if he falls for her charm just like all those other boyfriends did?

  There’s a part of me—a rational part—that says he won’t. She’s got nothing I don’t already have too, after all. She’s pretty, but no prettier than I am. She’s smart, but no smarter than I am. She’s successful, but no more successful than I am.

  But there’s another part of me—the insecure part—that says he will. Because she’s more outgoing than I am. She holds her shit together when things get hard. I blow up. She’s satisfied, and happy, and on her way up.

  And I’m lost, and sad, and falling pretty fast in this whole beer business. I haven’t won a beer festival award since my father died. I’m surviving on what’s left of his fumes and she’s gassed up full, ready to win the race.

  So there’s like a few minutes, as I sit and eat the rest of my French toast, that I dwell on all that. On how she always takes things away from me. On how she always beats me to the finish line.

  But I snap out of that thought.

  Remember who I am.

  Remember what I’m capable of.

  And decide to fight for what’s mine this time instead of letting her take it from me.

  I will fight for Lawton. And I will fight for my beer recipes. And I’m gonna enter Assassin Sour Saison in the festival this weekend and win that prize too.

  I do not care what it takes, I’m going to fight that bitch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - LAWTON

  It feels weird to be in a suit after this weekend. Which is also weird, because I wear suits every day and leather jackets… never. But I miss it. I want it back. I want to take off this tie, take off this starched-collar shirt, take off this life and put on something else.

  But work. This fucking job. I have clients to meet and paperwork to file, and deals to close and… yeah.

  So that’s how I spend my morning. Driving down to Greenwood Village to show another half-acre-lot mansion. Being polite to clients as they discuss the pros and cons of the amount of veining in the marble countertops. Listening patiently as they tell me they’d like to offer a hundred and fifty thousand dollars under fair-market value so they feel like they’re getting a deal. Force myself to smile and say, “That’s an excellent idea, Scott. Let’s make it happen.” And then drive away and do it all again in Cherry Creek and Park Hill.

  I don’t actually get a lunch so I’m glad I didn’t try to make plans with Oaklee. Not unless you count pulling through the Carl’s Jr drive-through and eating the number three value meal in my car as I sit in traffic a lunch.

  Which I don’t.

  I have an urge to text her all day but I don’t know what to say. Rather, I do know what to say, I’m just not sure it’s appropriate. Because what I want to say is, “God, I miss you.”

  But that’s very stupid because… I don’t think I’ve earned the right to say that yet. I need to earn the right to have these feelings for her. People don’t just fall in love over a weekend. Especially when they came together for business purposes only. Especially when both business propositions are flat-out crazy.

  I mean, she hired me to bait her nemesis into a fake relationship so I could… could what? Steal something from her? Get her to admit something on tape? I don’t see her end game in this and I don’t think Oaklee sees it either.

  This game was a… a whim. A last resort. She’s grasping at anything to save herself from drowning under an obsessed nemesis.

  And me.

  Jesus. I’m no better because I want her to be a figurehead in my new venture with the TV show.

  And both of these things are equally ridiculous.

  When I get back to the office Zack is out, the receptionist has gone home for the day, and it’s too quiet as I finish up what I need to do so I can put this place behind me and go back to the little game I’m playing with Oaklee.

  My cell phone buzzes on my desk and when I check the number, the area code for LA pops up, so I answer it.

  “Lawton Ayers,” I say.

  “Please hold for Michaela Cummings.” And then I get three hold beeps.

  I get why people do this. They could actually be that busy, and Michaela Cummings is the executive I’m working with over at Home TV, so she probably is so busy she can’t be bothered to press some buttons on her phone to make a call.

  But sometimes I think it’s just a tactic. So the person receiving the please-hold-for call thinks something important is about to happen.

  “Lawton!” Michaela says into my ear. “How’s things? Are you ready for this meeting?”

  “Hundred percent, Michaela. Hundred percent. I’m your man. This show is gonna be great.”

  “Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.” She says it three times. Like she’s actually doing something else out there in LA and wants to make me think I’ve got her full attention as she does it.

  I roll my eyes, kind of annoyed. It’s been a long day and I don’t particularly feel like stroking egos. “So what’s up?” I ask.

  She whispers something to someone, then says in her normal voice, “Just calling to make last-minute arrangements. We’re moving the meeting up to Wednesday. Are you available Wednesday?”

  “Uh, sure,” I say. �
�Yes. I can do Wednesday.”

  I can’t really do Wednesday. I have five fuckin’ appointments that day. But I can’t tell her that, either, now can I?

  “How about…” She pauses for a long time. Like ten whole seconds. “How about noon? Does noon work? I think we’re catching a return flight to LA at three. So… noon?”

  Noon. Is she flying in that morning? I don’t get it. And if her flight leaves by three, then how long does she think this meeting will last? Ten minutes? Twenty tops?

  “Noon is… great. We’ll have lunch—”

  “Sorry, no time for lunch, Law. Just the quick meet-and-greet and then we gotta get back to work. You understand though, right?”

  “Totally,” I say. “No problem. Shall we meet at my office?”

  “Sounds great. Email me the details and my assistant will handle things from there.”

  “OK—”

  But the phone goes dead in my hand. I put the handset back on the base and stare at it for a moment. Wondering… wondering if this is really the new second-chance life I thought it was going to be.

  But then it rings again, and my hand automatically picks it up. “Lawton Ayers,” I say, expecting it to be Michaela’s assistant.

  “Mmmmm, Lawton Ayers. It’s a very nice name.”

  “I’m sorry?” I say to the unfamiliar voice.

  “This is Hanna Harlow, Lawton. I was wondering if you had time to meet up with me tonight. Perhaps have some dinner? Chat a little? We didn’t get much time to talk on Saturday and I’m thoroughly intrigued by your sudden appearance in my old friend’s life.”

  At first I can’t really put all those words into something that makes sense. The announcement that this is Hanna throws me. Especially the blatant way she purrs her name. Not to mention the seductive tone of her voice as she makes her intentions clear.

  “I’m sorry, Hanna. I’d love to, but I have plans with Oaklee tonight.”

  “Cancel,” she hums. “She’ll understand.”

  Which makes me laugh. “Uh, no, I really don’t think she would.”

  “I know what she’s up to,” Hanna says.

  “Good for you,” I say.

  “It’s not going to work, ya know.”