by Meghan Quinn
Wanting to get this conversation over with so she doesn’t start telling me about what she has in store this afternoon, I ask, “Did you get an invite to Bitsy’s Ball?”
“Ugh, yes. That ragged old hag sent me another one. Doesn’t she realize I have better things to do than sit around and hobnob with her fake friends and talk about all the lawn parties I won’t be attending?”
“So you’re not going?”
“I would rather shove a butt plug up your brother’s ass and pull it out with my teeth.”
A shiver runs up my body from the gross visual. Although, I will forever be grateful to Abe for bringing Waverly into my life. She gets it. She’s real . . . and slightly vulgar, but boy, does she turn it on for my mom, completely different woman. It’s amazing to watch.
“What would you say if I took your invite?”
“Why the hell would you want to go to that thing?”
I try not to show the desperation in my voice when I say, “Natalie Roman is going to be there.”
“Ahhh,” Waverly says. “And you want to get her to sell in your new up-and-coming shop.”
“Exactly.”
“And if you show your face at Bitsy’s party it will hold more weight than just contacting her. I see where you’re going with this. Smart lady. Yeah, take my invite for sure. I’ll call Bitchy . . . oh I mean, Bitsy today and let her know we unfortunately can’t come but are sending you as a replacement.”
“Think she’ll get mad?”
“No. She’s all about the numbers. The more people the better, and hey, if your last name is Westbrook then she’s going to want you there anyway.” Clearing her throat, Waverly speaks in an uppity voice. “Let me call the dried-up beef jerky right now. Call you back in a second.”
“Okay.”
I open my iPad back up and search Natalie Roman on the Internet. When her website pops up, I click on it and instantly marvel at her dresses. They’re not the type of wedding gown you see at Klinefelds. They’re not showboaty at all. They’re simple, beautifully crafted, and so elegant. They’re the exact look I want in Limerence; they’d be the perfect window display as well. Very eye-catching. Reaching into my file folder, I start flipping through my contacts. The last few weeks, while Racer was at his day job, I went to every wedding venue, florist, DJ, bakery, photographer, and even hotel to introduce myself and the concept I’m aiming for. I explained to them that I would offer clients the opportunity to shop through my associates—them—for other wedding services, so they could avoid running around town trying to determine who’s best.
With an exciting amount of interest in partnering with me, I now have leverage. I can pick and choose who I want to advertise in my store, and thereby offer my clients the best.
I start sorting through the business cards I gathered when my phone rings again. That was quick.
“What did she say?” I ask.
“She was upset because clearly the life of the party won’t be there, but she said she would love to have the littlest Westbrook attend.”
“Ahh, really? That’s so great. Do I need anything from you? Like the invite?”
“Yeah, when you come home tonight I’ll give you the obnoxious box she mailed that includes an itinerary for the entire weekend. You must really be committed to this venture if you’re willing to torture yourself like this.”
“Anything it takes.”
“That’s my girl. Now let me be. I need to get my freak on. See you tonight.”
“Thanks, Waverly.”
“Oh . . . wait. I almost forgot. There was one stipulation.”
“A stipulation?”
“Yeah. She’s a fucking nut bag that one.”
“What is it? Do I have to bring her a certain kind of flower or something?”
“No, nothing like that. You just have to bring a date.”
“A date?” What the hell, Bitsy? Why is that even something she cares about?
“Yeah, she doesn’t like single ladies lurking around, says they do nothing but cause trouble and try to steal husbands.”
“I don’t steal people’s husbands.”
Racer chooses that moment to walk into the main part of the shop. He raises an eyebrow at me, but I turn so I can’t see him. I don’t need his judgmental expression in my line of sight right now.
Whispering so Racer can hopefully not hear me, I say, “I don’t steal husbands.” Something whacks me in the back of the head. When I turn around, Racer is shirtless, drinking a bottle of water and letting it slowly leak out of his mouth and drip down the column of his neck. His bronze skin is already glistening and rippling under the recessed lighting he installed.
That son of a bitch!
He’s trying to get me back for my no-cami show. And I hate that it is hot as hell, that I’m enjoying his show.
Just wait, just you freaking wait, Racer. When he makes eye contact with me again, he winks. I can feel the steam build up inside of me, waiting to explode. Infuriating!
“I didn’t say you stole husbands, but you get the point,” Waverly says, breaking me away from my anger ogling. “But it’s required for you to bring someone if you want to come.”
“That’s so ridiculous. If I have to bring someone, maybe I’ll bring Spence.”
“Your brother? You want to bring your brother, the immature asshole who would rather spend five hundred dollars on one single shoe than fill his fridge?”
“He loves stuff like this.”
“And he will ruin every connection you make. Don’t bring him. Hiring a male escort would be better than Spence.”
I hate that she’s right. Any leverage I gain during Bitsy’s Ball would be quickly washed away the minute Spencer opens his mouth. Not a good idea.
“What about that guy you went out with the other day? Chandler. He could be an option.”
“Chauncey.”
“Oh yeah.” She makes a shivering sound. “That name alone makes my clit shrivel up like a raisin. He fits the bill, though. Bitsy would fawn over him.”
“God, she would. She might even like me more if I brought him.”
“She’s that kind of lady. I say go for it. He might be a really good guy, and he could be clutch at getting Natalie Roman on your side.”
“I think you’re right. Okay, I’ll ask him. Might be weird since we only went out once, but he might be okay with it. Thanks for all the help. I’ll see you tonight.”
“I’m making lasagna!” It’s all she says before she hangs up on me without even a goodbye. I should be confused, but it’s not the first time she’s ended a conversation like that, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
Wanting to inform Madison, I shoot her a quick text about what’s going on then stand, making sure to kick Racer’s shirt to the side, despite my curiosity of what it would feel like if I wore it.
It’s time to turn up the pressure cooker in here . . .
Is that the right term? Who cares? I’m using it.
Scanning the room, I try to find something that could possibly . . . ah ha! Spackle. Won’t be too damaging, but damaging enough that I might need some “help.”
I bust open the top, take a glob out with my finger and OOPS, look at that, I got it on my shirt. Now to test out my best acting abilities. Here goes nothing.
“Oh no. Shoot,” I yell out loudly, trying to get Racer’s attention. I don’t hear anything so I speak louder. “Ugh, I got spackle all over me.”
Still nothing.
Okay. Time to step it up.
“I just wanted to spackle this hole myself—”
“What the hell are you doing out there, Princess?” Racers asks as he shifts around in the bathroom.
“Just fixing some of your work.” I try to contain the smile that’s spreading across my lips because I know he doesn’t like me going anywhere near his “work.”
His heavy construction boots stomp across the floor as he comes into the main space. His eyes look wild as he glances around to see what I’m u
p to. Still shirtless, obviously, with his hat backward, his muscles flex and twitch with anticipation of yelling at me.
“Don’t touch my work. What have I told you?” He scans the walls. “There is nothing wrong with the walls. Why are you trying to fix something that isn’t broken?”
I point to the wall next to me. “There is a little speck here that needs to be filled. It’s driving me crazy.”
“What speck?” He comes over to where I’m standing and examines the wall. “There is nothing wrong with this wall.” Turning to me now, he puts out his hand. “Give me the spackle . . . now.”
With a roll of my eyes, I hand it over and then, without even thinking, I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. Racer pauses in his attempt to take away the spackle and watches as I remove my shirt . . . in slow motion. There is no hiding his perusal. He takes me in from the tips of my work boots to the top of my ponytail. He observes every inch, and Lord, I feel the heat of his observation, like a whip of lava right up my spine.
Holding my shirt out, I say, “I got spackle on my shirt.”
I’m wearing a white lace bra and from the look on Racer’s face, he likes my garment of choice today.
“Uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “just put some water on it.”
“What about my bra, did I get some on that as well?” I stand on my toes and angle my breasts in his direction. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he weirdly tries to sidestep me but also help at the same time, as if his mind is delivering conflicting reactions.
“It’s white, I can’t tell.”
“Feel it to see if it’s wet.” I lean forward some more and he takes a step back.
Hold back your smile, G. Hold it back!
“I’m not feeling your breast for spackle. You can do that yourself.” Racer sticks his hands in his back pockets, restraining himself. But it doesn’t go unnoticed the muscles contracting in his chest from his position, it almost makes him look that much stronger.
“I guess I can feel for spackle.” Taking the opportunity to feel myself up in front of Racer, I seductively run my hands over the cups of my bra and close my eyes. From the clearing of his throat, I can tell I’m having an effect on him. Poor man. Not. That’s what he gets for every prank he’s pulled on me since he’s started working here.
Sex. Sex always does it to guys and after last night, after the way he kissed me, how he looked at me, I know there is an attraction.
“I don’t feel anything.” I open my eyes and all I see is Racer gripping tightly onto the back of his neck, his biceps flexing, and a tight clamp to his jaw. He’s holding back, so it’s time to go in for the kill. “Maybe it fell into one of the cups of my bra.” I start lifting the cup to peek in when Racer grunts and holds my hands down.
“You have to stop fondling yourself.”
That’s it. I can’t hold it back any longer. A laugh pops out of me before I can stop it. His eyes narrow on me and realization hits him.
He’s been played.
“There is no hole you want to spackle, is there?” It’s as if he growled those words at me. God, so sexy.
“Not so much.” My smile stretches farther.
Grunting, he moves forward, pinning me to the wall, one hand on my hip and the other pressed against the wall behind me. There is no humor in his face, just pure frustration. I’ve seen that look before, and this can either go two ways. He will lecture me about messing with him . . .
He leans forward. Heat pours off him, surrounding me with tension, my body instantly becoming aroused.
Or he will close in on me, sucking in all the air around us, leaving me breathless.
His hand starts to slide up my side to my ribcage. Awareness of the feel of his hand on me tickles my spine, awakening every erogenous zone in my body. I want to pick up where we left off last night. I want to get lost in his lips, in his touch, in the way his strong body presses against mine.
“You trying to get my attention, Princess?” His voice is low, sultry, infiltrating my brain.
“No.” I shake my head. Don’t waver in your voice; don’t show how much he affects you with just his presence. “Just trying to teach you a lesson.”
“A lesson?” He raises a brow and positions his foot between mine, his body leaning forward, his hand skimming my skin, so close to my bra. “Why do I need to be taught a lesson?”
To keep some distance between us, I press my hand against his bare chest to let him know that’s as far as he’s going to get, but it almost seems useless when I feel the beat of his heart and the pull of his muscles along my fingertips.
“Be-because,” I stutter. “You can’t go kissing people whenever you feel like it.”
A lazy smile draws across his lips. “Ah, upset about last night? Wished I went further?”
“No.”
“Liar.” He smiles. “Don’t worry, Georgie, that was a one-time thing.” Why does my stomach plummet from the thought of his kiss being a one-time thing? Did I really like it that much? That shouldn’t even be a question, of course I did. “You and me”—Racer reaches up and plays with a strand of hair from my ponytail while still propping himself against the wall—“we’re like water and oil. We will never mix. We’re too different.”
“Why do you say that?” Not that I want us to mix. Ugh, that’s a lie, I wouldn’t mind “mixing” just one night.
“You’re caviar, Princess, I’m Spam.”
I can feel my forehead scrunch in disdain for his comment. “You’re not Spam, and I’m sure as hell not caviar.”
“Please, Ge—”
“No. You have no idea who I really am. All you see is Westbrook attached to my name, and you think you know me. You don’t. I’m the furthest thing from how my family wants me to be. So don’t lump me in with caviar when I lean more on the Spam side of life.”
That might have sounded a little classier if we weren’t comparing ourselves to processed meat in a can.
Sighing, he lowers my hand from his chest and holds it in his. His other hand caresses my face, his thumb trailing along my jaw. God, he feels so good, so strong and warm. So intimate, everything I want from him, everything I crave.
“I’m sorry. You’re right, I don’t know you very well.” He steps even closer and presses his body against mine. I’m instantly drowning in his masculinity with no life raft to save me. He’s inches from my face when he licks his lips. His cologne is sucking me, pulling me closer, egging on all the emotions raging through me. Kiss me, touch me, feel me . . . love on me. “Maybe we should get to know each—”
The front door opens, cutting Racer off. We both turn to see Chauncey standing in the doorway holding a bakery box and another dozen roses. He takes us both in, topless, intimate, practically on top of each other, our hips ready and willing to thrust at one another.
Oh boy, this doesn’t look good.
Quickly, Racer and I separate as if we’re teenagers and our parents just caught us. I scramble to put my shirt on while Racer picks up the spackle on the floor and starts spackling the wall that doesn’t need to be spackled.
“Chauncey, hi. What are you doing here?” Everything comes out high-pitched as my cheeks redden and Racer whistles and spackles next to me. Not obvious at all.
“Uh, am I interrupting something?”
“Nope, not at all.” I pull on my shirt making sure it’s in the proper place. “Just doing some, uh,” I peek over at Racer and continue, “some spackling.”
With the flowers, Chauncey points at Racer. “I thought you were a stripper.”
“What?” Confused, Racer looks at me, and then a wicked smiles spreads across his face. “Oh yeah, I do the stripping. They love me down there at Bologna Beaters. Have you been to that joint?”
Chauncey steps back, insulted by Racer’s question. “I’ve never been to a strip club, let alone an all-male one.”
Racer snorts under his breath and mutters, “Bullshit.” From behind, I smack his abs and hate that I liked
the feel of it. Having never dated someone in such incredible form, it’s as if my hands are just drawn to his body.
To him.
“Racer also does some construction-type things.” The look Racer gives me is comical. Well, it would be funny if I wasn’t sweating so much right now. “He’s been helping around the shop. But he’s really a stripper. Loves taking his clothes off.” I don’t know why I’m going with the stripper story, other than protecting him. If my dad found out one of Julius Parsnips’s employees worked for me, Racer might be fired. I wouldn’t put it past him.
“I love taking my clothes off. I don’t even know why I still have my pants on now.” Racer goes to unbuckle his belt but I glare at him, halting his process.
“You’re working with a stripper?” Chauncey doesn’t look happy about it, and if I’m going to ask this man to go to Bitsy’s Ball with me, I’m going to have to ease the discomfort in him.
“You have nothing to worry about. Racer’s gay.”
“I’m not—” I elbow Racer in the stomach casually. “Oh, yup. I’m gay. Bring me all the dicks. I just love those things, can’t get enough of the Lincoln Logs God graced this earth with.” Overdo it much?
Chauncey looks skeptical, and I don’t blame him. Who refers to the male genitalia as Lincoln Logs? “Last time I was here you talked about loving women who touch your penis.”
“Did I?” Racer twists his mouth to the side and then shrugs. “You caught me. I was trying to bro out with you, dude. Feel you out, you know . . .” He coughs and looks down at the floor as he runs his foot over the cement. “Because, I uh, I thought you were cute.” That last sentence sounded like he swallowed razors while getting it out. “You’re totally my type.”
Once again, Chauncey looks confused. “I’m your type?”
“Totally. Love the whole businessman vibe. You got my dick twizzling around in my panties.” Why did he have to say panties? Honestly. “But don’t worry, I won’t hit on you, or Georgie for that matter. Look, I can even honk her hooters and not get turned on.” Reaching from behind me, Racer does just that. He honks my right breast, his thumb skimming my nipple with precision before he breaks away. “Go ahead, man, feel my dick, limp as a wet noodle. He’s a sad boy, doesn’t like ladies. But put your penis in my—”
