Turning Up the Heat (Friends With Benefits)

by Tanya Michaels

  Her eyes slid shut, her total focus on the dual sensations of his mouth hot on her skin and the rock-hard erection pressed against her. She shifted her hips, unable to resist rubbing against him. His grip on her tightened, and he sucked in a breath before nipping at her collarbone. She might not be an experienced seductress, or the type of woman who had leather in her lingerie drawer, but she’d sure as hell aroused Heath.

  You and how many other women?

  The unwelcome thought chilled some of her ardor. “Wait.” Her eyes opened, and she swayed forward, not quite moving out of his embrace, but no longer subtly rocking against him. It wasn’t that she disapproved of Heath’s affairs; his love life was between him and the women who’d eagerly shared it. She just wasn’t sure she was ready to become one of their number.

  His hands fell to his sides, and he rested his forehead lightly on her shoulder, not meeting her gaze in the mirror. She was grateful. She felt too raw to face him just yet.

  But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Wh-why did you do that?” Even though she’d asked for his help, she didn’t want those kisses to be an act of charity. “I know we’re pretending to date, but there’s no audience here.”

  “The more accustomed you are to me touching you, the more comfortable you’ll be when there is an audience. That’s not the main reason I kissed you, though.”

  “No?”

  “I wanted to,” he said simply. “Selfish hedonist, remember? You felt damn good in my arms. But I’m not so selfish that I don’t realize it’s been a long day for you.” He stepped away. “First a shift at work, then coming over here. I should let you get home to bed.”

  Just hearing him say bed caused her to feel achy and overheated. She nodded hastily. “Yeah, I should probably go.” Tonight had given her a lot to think about.

  “But I’ll see you Thursday?” he asked. “For lunch?”

  She’d almost forgotten about his awards luncheon. Technically, she worked Thursday, but she could go in a couple of hours late. The afternoon crowd was sparse. “Of course. I can meet you there.”

  “Wonderful.” He moved to the side, watching as she slid her feet back in her discarded sandals.

  “Lots of people from local restaurants will be there,” he added, sounding annoyingly composed. Her senses were still rioting. “Cam will hear all about how I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. You have my word, I’ll be very convincing.”

  Of that, she had no doubt. For a brief, scorching moment, he’d nearly convinced her that she was the sexiest woman he’d ever held in his arms. Phoebe was beginning to think fooling others wouldn’t be the difficult part. No, the trick would be not letting herself succumb to the illusion.

  CHAPTER 5

  UNDER HEATH’S INFLUENCE, Phoebe was developing a dirty mind. Was it normal for a woman to be turned on while reading a description of the salad course—arugula with goat cheese, candied pecans and honey-drizzled peaches? It was just that, sitting next to Heath, with his arm balanced on her chair and his thumb idly sweeping over the nape of her neck, she was starting to get ideas about drizzling honey over his skin and licking it off. Or sucking it off his sticky-sweet fingers.

  Trying to ignore the mild pulse of arousal between her legs, she shifted in her seat and reached for her goblet of ice water. Luncheon seating inside the refurbished 1920s mill had only begun a few moments ago, and most of the chairs at their table were still empty. Heath was discussing restaurant parking issues with a man who sat across from them, and Phoebe hoped she looked politely interested and not like someone mentally undressing her lunch companion. For the awards presentation, Heath was wearing a suit and tie, the expensive material perfectly tailored to show off the muscled body beneath it. He looked powerful. Sexy. She gulped more ice water.

  She’d been uncertain what to wear—it was one thing to declare your intention to become a bold seductress, but that proclamation didn’t come with a brand-new wardrobe. Besides, this was a professional daytime event; she would have looked ridiculous in a halter top and microskirt. The violet-blue sheath dress she’d chosen might not be the most daring fashion choice, but it was a flattering color. And she was pleased with her hairstyle. She’d started to leave her hair loose but, recalling the bone-melting pleasure of Heath’s kisses the other night, she’d secured a heavy cascade of curls with a jeweled clip that left one side of her face bare and the slope of her neck exposed. She’d taken care with her makeup, too. Heath’s description of her eyes—treasured antique gold—seemed to warrant more than a cursory brush of the mascara wand.

  “Are these seats being saved for anyone?” a woman asked.

  Phoebe turned to see an attractive brunette in her forties. A shock of white hair framed the right side of her face, giving her a distinctive appearance. “No. Please, join us.”

  “Gloria!” Heath stood so that he could come around the table and give the woman a hug. “Long time, no see, love. And is this your husband, Adam? Heard so much about you, sir.” The two men shook hands, then Heath drew Phoebe forward, his arm lightly around her waist. “This is Phoebe Mars, my favorite pastry chef. If you’ve ever ordered dessert at Piri, it was probably one of Phoebe’s masterpieces. Unfortunately, to try her dishes now, you’ll have to find out who her new employer is. I could tell you, but I won’t.” He grinned mischievously. “I refuse to send customers to the competition.”

  “I’m at All the Right Notes,” Phoebe interjected. “I have business cards in my purse. If you stop in this summer, dessert’s on me.”

  Heath pressed a hand to his heart. “Why are the beautiful women always the most cruel?”

  Gloria chuckled as they took their seats. “I can see you’re good for him, dear. How did the two of you get together? Workplace romance?”

  “Actually,” Heath said, “Phoebe and I didn’t fall for each other until after she defected from Piri. We ran into each other at a party, and she confessed her longstanding attraction.”

  “I what?” Phoebe turned sharply. It had been a strategic error to feign being a couple without first agreeing on a cover story. Heath was having entirely too much fun playing to their audience.

  “Yes.” He nodded solemnly. “She brought me a drink from the bar—”

  “You brought me the drink.”

  “—and she said, ‘I need you desperately.’”

  By now, Phoebe was laughing outright, as were Gloria and her husband.

  “‘I want you, I crave you,’” he concluded with a dramatic flourish. Then he beamed at Phoebe. “Isn’t that how you remember it?”

  “So close.” She rolled her eyes. “You forgot the part where I threw myself at your feet.”

  “Forgot? Never.” He gestured at the seats around them, including two that had been taken by newcomers while he spoke. “I just didn’t want our friends here to think you came on too strong.”

  “Such a gentleman,” she said wryly.

  The next half hour followed in the same vein, with Heath holding court and keeping them all entertained. Yet Phoebe noticed that, while he led the conversation, he didn’t keep the focus on himself. He asked Gloria if she was still considering expanding her restaurant franchise, and he recognized a young barista who’d just won a local award. When he congratulated her, the shy brunette blushed and mumbled that it was no big deal.

  “Not true,” Heath chided. “I had one of your artisanal coffees at the beverage trade show in March. Any awards you win are well deserved.”

  Her blush intensified, but her smile grew as he encouraged everyone to visit the independent coffee house where she worked.

  He was even well versed in the building where today’s awards were being held. While the shrimp-and-grits entree was being served, he told them stories about the company that had first built the mill to be close to the Atlantic Coast Line Railroad. Phoebe had never been here before and thought the venue was uniquely elegant despite the exposed brick, pine beams and concrete floor. Sunshine streamed through the skylights overhead, pic
king out threads of dark chocolate in Heath’s hair, which looked black in dimmer light.

  Like his hair color, Heath was more multifaceted than he appeared at first glimpse. He claimed to be cocky and selfish—and could be both on occasion—but those weren’t his defining traits. If he was that one-dimensional, it would be a lot easier to remember that she wasn’t really supposed to fall for him.

  It’s not really falling. It’s just transferred affection. She’d been part of a couple for a long time. Heath’s amusing company—and damn good looks—were an effective distraction, but could she possibly have recovered from her feelings for Cameron so quickly? Wonderful. So you’re in love with a chef who doesn’t want you and lusting after a friend who’s gallantly pretending to lust after you for the sake of your pride?

  Then again, there hadn’t been anything pretend about the erection pressed against her at his loft. He’d wanted her. And it hadn’t been just the impressive hard-on that proved it. Every stroke of his fingers on her skin and brush of his lips had made her feel desirable and powerfully feminine.

  That antsy, achy feeling returned. At this rate, his joking story about how they’d started dating would become truth—she would need him desperately. Want him. Crave him. After how charming he’d been today, and how many times her thoughts had drifted this week to standing in front of that mirror with him, it was becoming impossible to remember why a fling with him would be more trouble than it was worth.

  She pushed her chair back. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to run to the ladies’ room before the presentation starts.” Her hormones could use the break from such close proximity to Heath.

  When she walked into the restroom, a very tall woman glanced up from washing her hands. “Didn’t I see you with Heath Jensen?” At Phoebe’s nod, she sighed, “Lucky girl. I’m Starla Brown, sommelier for Gideon’s Westside.”

  A stall door opened and an auburn-haired woman emerged, her sharp gaze zeroing in on Phoebe. “So you’re Heath’s latest?”

  The tall woman frowned. “Don’t be bitchy, Lianne. It’s not her fault he never called you back.” Her tone was gentle as she told Phoebe, “I hope this doesn’t come as an unpleasant surprise, but Heath’s sensual prowess is equaled only by his short attention span.”

  “Good Lord. Have you both slept with him?” The question escaped before Phoebe could censor herself. She’d known Heath dated a lot, but statistically, shouldn’t she be able to walk into a public restroom without everyone there being a past lover?

  Starla chuckled. “Neither of us, actually.”

  “Which is none of her business,” Lianne grumbled.

  “I monopolized his company at a thoroughly enjoyable restaurant opening last fall,” Starla said, “but he wasn’t interested enough to pursue anything. Lianne here made it through two dates, but...” She shrugged philosophically.

  Lianne turned her frosty gray eyes back to Phoebe. “You might think you’re going to be different, but trust me, honey, plenty of women thought that. He won’t stick around.”

  Phoebe had grown up with an incredibly bitter woman lashing out at her; she wasn’t about to take it from a stranger. “He might, he might not.” She smiled broadly, channeling the confident, sexy woman she’d seen reflected in Heath’s apartment. “In the meantime, the orgasms are phenomenal.”

  * * *

  BIRDS WERE SINGING, and the sunshine was bright but not punishing as Heath climbed out of his car Friday morning. While climbing the stairs to Phoebe’s apartment, he caught himself whistling a catchy pop hit and faltered on a cement step. Damn, man, get it together. What was next? Cartoon heart eyes?

  At least he wasn’t carrying flowers. Those would definitely be a sign that the line had blurred between their fake affair and real emotions. He enjoyed the hell out of Phoebe’s company, but she was at least half in love with Cam still. Heath strongly disliked competition for his affections—call him a sore loser over his girlfriend jilting him for his stepbrother. Their wedding had been pure hell.

  The reception might have been fun. He didn’t remember much past the open bar.

  So, no. He would not be bringing Phoebe roses. Just plane tickets for a romantic getaway. Yeah, much less confusing than flowers.

  He knocked on the door, hoping he wasn’t waking her. Neither of them were morning people, but he had a meeting clear on the other side of the city at ten.

  “Just a minute.” Thankfully, the voice that called though the door was Phoebe’s and not that of her brash roommate—the opinionated, baseball-loathing she-beast who’d taken one look at the way he looked at Phoebe and had given him the stink eye ever since. Clearly she had never trusted his intentions.

  Insightful she-beast.

  There was a pause while Phoebe presumably checked the security peephole, then the metallic slide of the chain and dead bolt. “Heath!” She smiled in greeting, but her gaze was quizzical. They were almost seeing as much of each other this week as when they’d worked together.

  “Should I have called first?” The question was for form’s sake. He hadn’t phoned first because his persuasive skills were much stronger face-to-face.

  “You know you’re always welcome.” She ushered him inside, and he enjoyed the sight of her legs in the short denim cut-offs she wore with an oversize Braves jersey. Her hair was wild, an untamed profusion of curls.

  Following his gaze, she tugged on a ringlet and scowled. “I started to put on the ball cap that matches the jersey, but with the humidity today, I figured my hair would just launch the hat into the air like it was spring-loaded.” She huffed in exasperation. “When I was a teenager, I had a little bit of bounce to my hair, but it’s gotten crazier in the past few years. It’s like, the more ruthlessly I pull it back for work, the more it rebels.”

  He nodded, siding with her hair. “Repression is bad for the soul.”

  She snorted. “Like you have any experience repressing your impulses?”

  “More than you might think.” For instance, he hadn’t kissed her hello. That was a notable display of self-denial. He’d stolen a brief goodbye kiss yesterday, in full view of the luncheon guests, but he’d wanted to kiss her more thoroughly, to continue the sensual exploration they’d started in his loft. If she hadn’t pulled away that night, how far would their encounter have gone?

  “So what brings you by?” she said, walking into her kitchen. A coffee cup with steam still rising from it sat on her counter. She opened a cabinet and pulled out an empty mug, wiggling it by the handle in unspoken question.

  He nodded, glancing around the modest apartment. “Is Gwen gone?”

  “Yeah, left shortly after dawn. They need her on set for a twelve-hour shoot today. It’s safe to speak freely,” she teased.

  “I’m here to ask you about a business trip—well, combination business and pleasure.” His gaze slid back to her legs as he appreciated the toned muscle of her calves and her smooth thighs. “Cam and I are going to Miami a week from tomorrow. We’ll be there a few days evaluating a couple of potential restaurant locations before flying back Wednesday. Come with me.”

  “Are you kidding?” She slammed the mug down hard enough that he winced, making a mental note to check his coffee for ceramic chips. “You, me and Cam? I was resistant to spending a few minutes with him at a party. And you’re asking me to spend several days with the guy?”

  “Let’s evaluate your objectives,” he coaxed. He tapped his index finger, counting off his first point. “You want to spend time with me and master the art of sexual confidence. We can do that in Miami, a hot, sensual city full of vibrant experiences. Two, you want to make Cam jealous. What’s going to make him crazier than you and I canoodling on a beach with you in a revealing bikini?”

  “I don’t own a bikini.”

  “Easily solved.” He tapped a third finger. “Finally, you’ve said that you don’t know for sure if you even want him back. This could be the perfect time to decide once and for all. Maybe you’ll surprise yourself and come ho
me free of him.” One could only hope. “In the meantime, I get your opinion on location, staffing, decorating... You know I think you’re a great chef, Mars, but you have valuable input on lots of subjects, not just recipes.”

  She tried to hide a smile. “You are very difficult to turn down.”

  “That’s just what your boss said.”

  “You talked to James already?”

  “Well. It seemed pointless to invite you if you couldn’t get the time off work.” He’d had to do some significant pleading, promising James that this was not a stealth attempt to rehire Phoebe. He’d also agreed to periodically mention to Piri diners who came in on weekends that All the Right Notes would be a great place to enjoy dessert and live music afterward. Plus, there’d been the outright bribe of a hundred-dollar bottle of pinot noir. “The trip wouldn’t even affect Tuesday and Wednesday, since they’re your days off, and we’re leaving late enough Saturday that you could go in for dessert prep in the—”

  “Stop! I don’t need you to go behind my back or plan out my schedule.” She tossed her hands in the air. “You totally pulled a Gwen. How did you two not hit it off? You’re equally manipulative and diabolical and autocratic... As I hear these things out loud, I’m starting to realize I have terrible taste in friends.”

  “So we’re flawed.” He gave her a winning smile. “But we keep life interesting.”

  She stirred one and a half spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, then passed the mug over to him. “The timing would be tight. I’m swamped with June weddings, although I guess if the flight was later in the day, I’d theoretically have time to deliver the two cakes I have scheduled. But even if I wanted to go, and that’s a big if, the airfare—”

  “Is taken care of.” When her eyes widened, he made an impatient gesture. “I got a good deal. Seriously, my mother owns handbags that cost more than the round-trip ticket.” After his father had died on a business trip, Rebecca Jensen hadn’t hesitated to start spending life-insurance money. She’d wanted a second husband—a wealthy second husband—and she’d felt she should look the part. She’d told Heath that projecting success was a self-fulfilling prophecy, and he’d kept that in mind when he opened Piri. His mom was Rebecca Crawley now, married to an affluent software developer in Cary, North Carolina.