All That They Desire

by Zoe York

  It wasn’t until she was home late that night that she realized Brent hadn’t texted her back.

  She waited for the searing pain to hit her in the chest, but it didn’t happen. Dull resignation was all she had to deal with, and that was enough.

  Well, she’d move on with her life, then. She had an exciting new challenge ahead of her. Maybe a new group of friends.

  Hell, if she could pick up some more business over this project, she could spend a good amount of time in Wardham. Get a cottage in wine country. That would be a way to glow up post-divorce.

  That made her think of the divorce proceedings paperwork she’d been meaning to get to her lawyer. They were in a big brown envelope in her office, unopened.

  One day soon, she’d open them and get started on closing that final door between her and her biggest mistake.

  4

  Brent smelled like sweat and smoke, and felt like he’d been run over by an elephant. The entire truck was silent, but the firehouse was in sight. One more block and they’d be out of their gear and into the showers. Thirty minutes and they’d have some food on the table.

  They still wouldn’t talk about the fire.

  He’d worked at other houses that were better at stuff like that—debriefing, the shrinks called it—but not No. 11.

  For the most part, he appreciated the silence. It was his comfort zone, for sure.

  But he’d spent too much of the last year being quiet. Work was quiet, unless it was bullshit nothing chatter about women, cars, food. Home—ha—was a silent tomb. He didn’t even listen to music because his apartment leaked into the upstairs space, and he didn’t want to upset Mr. Subramanian, his landlord, a widower who lived on the main floor.

  “I don’t know why the ventilation system was built this way,” the older man apologized as he showed Brent the space. “If you have a date, let me know and I’ll spend the night at my daughter’s. Offer to babysit for her so she can go out with her wife.”

  Brent had nodded along, but there had been no dates. Not for him. Mr. Subramanian brought women home sometimes, but he’d memorized Brent’s work schedule.

  The old guy was getting more action than Brent ever had. On the other hand, the old guy was a nice human being who knew how to communicate straight up about such basic human acts as dating—he was one step away from suggesting a sock on the door, with a straight face.

  Of course he got action.

  Brent was a hermit, grateful that his fellow firefighters didn’t want to talk about the near-death experiences they faced with some frequency. And an asshole who dodged his wife’s persistent text messages.

  “Hey man, we’re here.” Kacey, the youngest firefighter in their house, knocked her helmet against his. “Earth to Brent.”

  He gave her a tight nod, then followed her off the truck. His gut twisted at the thought of opening his locker. It had been a few days. Jess was due to send him another message. He wouldn’t even open it—couldn’t, although he knew that was wrong, fuck fuck fuck—and if he saw that notification on his screen…

  Well, he didn’t need to check. He could go straight to the shower.

  But he didn’t.

  His first shot was to the locker room.

  The screen was dark, though. No missed messages.

  He stared at it. Relief blasted through him, but just like everything else, that was mixed up now, too. Relief was supposed to feel good, not like a cold, clammy dump of dirty water.

  Fuck.

  Call her, you idiot.

  But he couldn’t. He didn’t know what he would say, and she’d need him to say something. Anything. To explain why he left, why he stayed away, when all he wanted to do was crawl back into her bed and sob like a fucking baby.

  5

  Jess’s phone vibrated on her desk. She shot a quick glance sideways at it, but it wasn’t Brent. It was never Brent.

  The name on the screen made her smile nonetheless. Evan was happy to blow her phone up at all hours of the day and night. Always about business, of course, but it was refreshing to have any kind of reliable phone contact with a man.

  “You’re working late,” she said when she answered the call.

  “I bet you are, too.” His voice was rich in her ear, amused and knowing, and she smiled.

  “At my desk as we speak. Poking holes in a transactional email campaign for a client.”

  “I love it when you talk like that.”

  She laughed. “I subscribed to your mailing list, too, you know.”

  “And now I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be, I’m gentle.”

  “That has not been my experience.” He made a stretching sound. “So what does your desk look like?”

  “A mess.”

  He laughed. “Do you work from home? Or do you have an office?”

  “Home. I have access to a flex space if I need a boardroom, but most of the time, I work from here.” It was a beautiful space, even though the desk was covered in stacks of books and notepads. What she’d once hoped would be a nursery had been Brent’s gym when they’d lived together. When he moved out, the first thing she did was buy a stunning set of executive furniture, feminine and strong, and re-painted the walls a glorious pale yellow that energized her and made her feel good every time she came in.

  “I’m still at work,” Evan said into her ear. “In theory, I’m having dinner with my brother, but he’s in the basement working on a new blend with a visiting guest from Germany, and when they get going on the science stuff, they can be all night.”

  “That’s kind of cool.”

  “It is. Ty’s a beast.”

  “Was he at Liam’s wedding? Have I met him?”

  Evan made a stretching sound, like a long sigh. “Yeah, probably. He was there, but he may have been holding court in the tasting room.”

  “I’ll have to find him the next time I come down.”

  “I’ve got a list of people I want you to meet. DeShawn Williams, Chase Miller…”

  She scribbled down the names as he listed them. She recognized some sports celebrities in the mix, but the others she would have to Google before her next trip to Wardham.

  Her strategy for re-branding the beach would be to have as many allies in the business community as possible, so when Carrie—the counsellor in charge of beach signage—spent a reasonable amount of money on a new sign for the beach, her guerrilla campaign to de facto re-name it would just…happen. Organically. Seemingly by magic.

  Hashtags.

  Google search results.

  Blog posts, like the top ten beaches within a day’s drive of Toronto. Best beach towns to overnight in. That sort of thing.

  And then it wouldn’t matter that the town council was stuck on not wanting to modernize the town’s tourism campaign, because they’d have done it around that, not mentioning the town except in passing.

  It was quite Slytherin of her, and she loved it. Campaigns like this were why she left corporate life to be a freelance consultant.

  “Did you get my email on the new naming ideas for your subdivision,” she asked when Evan finished giving her a list of names.

  “Yeah. You can deal with Liam directly on that if you want. I’m really just the landowner, he’s the primary contact person.”

  Five years ago, when she met Liam at the start of their MBA program, she never would have guessed that the Toronto-born-and-bred silver-spoon kid with an engineering degree and a banker father would turn into a contractor jack-of-all-trades in a small town.

  Of course, she wouldn’t have seen herself as running a boutique marketing firm out of her should-have-been-a-baby-nursery spare room, either.

  Life was funny like that.

  “Will do.” She twiddled her pen between her fingers. They didn’t really have anything else to talk about, but she found herself not wanting to say goodbye just yet. “Any sign of your brother?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where are you going for dinner?”

  �
�Another winery down the road in Kingsville.”

  “Fun.”

  “Yeah. Business, but…the food is a perk.”

  “I bet.”

  “We should have dinner at one of my favourites when you come down.”

  For business, she reminded herself. “That would be great. Get a better feel for the competition.”

  “Sure.” He stretched again. “When are you coming?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe next weekend.”

  “Not this weekend? I’m in California after that for a week. I won’t be back until the end of the month.”

  She really couldn’t make it down that soon. And at the end of the month… “I’ll be busy when you get back. I have a gala dinner here that I’m not looking forward to.” It slipped out. She’d convinced herself she wasn’t going to ask him to be her date. She didn’t need a cover like that.

  “Oh right, Evie mentioned that.”

  Jess groaned. “What did she say?”

  Evan chuckled. “Nothing bad, I promise. I know, she’s a gossip, but she means well. Her heart is big, even if she doesn’t know where to stop. She said you had a gala dinner that you needed a date for, and I should go with you.”

  “That’s not—”

  “I know.” His voice was low now, quiet and soothing in her ear, and her jumping pulse responded by calming down—a little bit. “But I could come to you for that, if you can’t come this way sooner.”

  Jess swallowed hard. “I won’t have a ton of time to talk shop, though. I’m on the gala fundraising committee, so it’ll be a lot of glad handing and getting commitments for next year.”

  “I’m good at that.”

  “I bet you are.” She scrunched up her face. “That’s not all. It might be personally a bit messy for me. The reason I told Evie about it is that my ex will be there, and—look, this is embarrassing, okay?”

  “Hit me. I do embarrassing shit all the time.”

  “Without going into all the pathetic details, he left me right before Evie and Liam’s wedding. Ghosted me, in fact. Now he’s getting a commendation at this dinner, and I can’t skip it because I’m on the planning team, and I’m a bit of a mess when I think about being face to face and having to be polite. Frankly, if I could show up with Ryan Reynolds on my arm, I’d still be nervous that he’ll pop out of the woodwork with a younger, hotter fiancé or something.”

  “That fucker.”

  She laughed.

  “Sorry, that wasn’t professional.”

  “No, it’s okay. I feel the same way sometimes.”

  “So you need a date.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But you could use a date? I’m no Ryan Reynolds, but I’m available, and I own a tux.” He laughed again in her ear. “How about this: Hey, Jess, can I be your date for the gala? I clean up pretty good.”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she whispered.

  “You’re helping me save my town,” he said quietly. “It would be the least I could do.”

  Somewhere, Evie Calhoun was cackling over the success of her plan, Jess was sure of it. She closed her eyes, ignored the butterflies in her belly, and nodded. “Okay. I would love that, actually. Yes, please. That would be lovely. And something to look forward to, for sure.”

  The next couple of weeks flew by. Evan tried to stay in touch with Jessica, but his trip to California was pure chaos. By the time he landed back in Canada, it had been a while since they had talked.

  A text message from her was waiting when he turned his phone back on. He replied immediately.

  Jess: Are we still on for next weekend?

  Evan: Can’t wait. I’ll pick you up. What time? What’s your address?

  Instead of getting ready for the gala in Wardham and then driving up, he booked a hotel suite in London for the night, and got ready there. It was a short drive from the hotel to her cozy turn of the century home just south of downtown, in a village inside the city.

  Over the last month, he’d gotten to know Jess—on a business level, and as friends. Tonight he needed to switch gears and act like an adoring date. It wouldn’t be hard. She was a stunning woman.

  Still, it was one thing to know that, and have a plan of attack.

  It was another to walk up to her house and have his breath taken away when she swung open the door.

  “Hey,” he said, stretching the word over two long syllables. Heeeey-eyyyyy. If he were less classy, he’d have whistled. Hell, maybe he should have whistled anyway, the way her eyes lit up at the appreciative noise.

  She was dressed like a movie star. Red lips, smokey eye, glossy hair falling perfectly around her face in bouncy waves. She cocked her hip, swinging the slinky skirt of her black floor-length gown back and forth, revealing a long slit up one thigh. “Yes?”

  “You look gorgeous,” he found himself growling.

  Her eyes twinkled. Good. If she thought this was him putting on an act, that was even better. It would keep his reaction contained to a role-play between them—and for her ex, which was the whole point.

  “Come on in,” she said, stepping back. “I need to just grab my purse, and then we can go.”

  He followed her into the foyer, enjoying the way her ass moved in that dress right in front of him, the way it bounced as she strode away.

  “Nice place,” he said, raising his voice as she disappeared down the hall toward the back of the house.

  She reappeared a moment later, a bright red clutch in her hand. “Thanks. We bought it for the neighbourhood, thinking we would have to renovate if we stayed here long term, but now that it’s just me…it’s the perfect size for a single woman.”

  “Three bedroom?”

  “Only two. At one point it had been three, but a previous owner combined two of them to make a master bedroom suite. And the other is my office.”

  “The one you’re always in when I call.”

  “That’s the one.” She winked, her dark eyelashes brushing the apple of her cheek. Jessica Rabbit had nothing on Jessica Doran, that was for damn sure.

  He shouldn’t have a sudden urge to ask for a tour of that office. Sit her in her chair and whisper filthy things in her ear as she tried to work, ever so diligently. Late into the night, as the big, bad man kissed the back of her neck, then knelt between her legs and licked—

  “Evan?”

  “We should go,” he grunted.

  She smiled brightly. “Great.”

  Jess wasn’t surprised that Evan had a nice car.

  She was surprised how much his nice car turned her on, after a month of very firmly convincing herself that a crush was a no-good, very-bad idea.

  And yet his car smelled good. Great, in fact. Which was a direct side effect of the fact that Evan smelled great. Like wood and spice.

  She’d stood pretty close to him at the meeting in his office. He hadn’t smelled like this then. If he had, she’d have propositioned him on the spot, their friends being in the room not a factor in the least.

  This was sex cologne, obviously worn to signal to Brent—when they saw him—that Evan intended to take her home and ravish her.

  What a marvellous, glorious lie.

  He had the address for the conference centre already programmed into his GPS unit—sexy, just like his car, with a masculine British accent and slick turning directions appearing like magic on his dashboard.

  Money wasn’t new or impressive to Jess. She worked with a lot of successful business people. And yet this was on another level. Quiet, understated. Ruthlessly modern.

  Evan wasn’t how she’d pictured a small-town businessman, although she was quickly learning her assumptions about who lived in small towns were way off-base. Wardham and its citizens were surprising her at every turn.

  When they arrived, he pulled into the valet parking circle. She let herself wait until he came around to her side and helped her out of the car. “This is fun,” she whispered to him after he handed his keys over to the guy on duty. “Thanks for
coming with me.”

  “My pleasure,” he rumbled.

  Yes, she set him up to say that. No, she wasn’t sorry, because this was fun. And it kept being so as they headed inside and she bumped into a few people she knew, made introductions.

  The whole time, Evan’s hand was warm and big and solid in the small of her back. His gaze drifted her way often enough to be clear—to her and anyone who might be watching—that his attention was on her.

  That he was transfixed by her.

  He played that role so well, she could believe it if she let herself.

  “I don’t see Brent anywhere,” she murmured. “He may not be here yet.” In her head, she added the more direct instruction, you don’t need to stare at me like you want me naked until he’s around—but okay, keep doing it anyway.

  Evan didn’t hear her inner thoughts. His gaze prickled her skin anyway as they rode the escalator up to the second floor, as they crossed the central hallway to the ballroom. And by the time they stepped inside—still no sign of her ex—Jess found herself a little overwhelmed, and she needed a break.

  Just a minute to compose herself and remember that Evan wasn’t actually her date. That he was pretending, and that was for the best.

  “I need to use the ladies’ room,” she said. “Would you mind getting us some drinks?”

  “Of course. Wine?”

  She nodded. “White, please.”

  Evan stepped into the line at the bar, then did a slow turn, getting the lay of the land. He had learned over the years that there was a lot of reward in carefully doing recon. People watching, but with a purpose. Checking out the dynamics of the room. Were people talking about the official topic of the event? Was business being conducted, were secrets being shared? Even in a room where he didn’t know anyone, he could pick out who were the community leaders, who were the titans of enterprise. Who was on edge, who needed a deal.

  He could smell desperation a mile away.

  He’d gotten rich on that ability.