Double Dipped: The Lunchtime Chronicles

by Brooklyn Knight

  Missed some of the series?

  Read them all Now!

  Also By Brooklyn Knight

  The Maid’s Daughter

  Oui: The French Connection Series, Book 1

  Coup: The French Connection Series, Book 2

  Trois: The French Connection Series, Book 3

  Torn: The Alpha Series, Book 1

  Loveless: The Alpha Series, Book 2

  Pied

  Five Years

  Served, The Lunchtime Chronicles, Ep. 10

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  www.brooklynknightauthor.com

  Mocha Latte

  SIERA LONDON

  Chapter One

  ~Excerpt~

  I fell for the wrong guy.

  Once.

  Drake Santoro used to dangle my world and Victoria Secret panties around his neck like a trophy.

  Maybe that’s an exaggeration. The point is, the arrogant, self-serving Richie Rich had me and my thong in his possession. Being linked to him is not an option.

  I trusted him with everything I had, which was nothing during my Sinclair State University years. Everything except, my heart. That’s all I had to give a man born into a family who wielded power like Jason Mamoa’s Aquaman, with his golden trident unleashing devastation on little, naive me. The Santoros cured me of the madly-in-love disease. Now, I’m all about my business, N2U Dating. It’s strictly online, but that’s about to change. Well, it was until this morning.

  Who’s this woman doing all the talking, you ask?

  My name is Deja Cummings and love moved out of my life years ago. Being the independent woman that I am, I barred the damn door because that bitch is unwelcome. In the deeply profound words of Ceelo Green, ‘forget you’; and forget Drake too.

  Now, after all I’ve shared about Mr. Santoro, unsolicited I know, you’re probably wondering why I’m in his office.

  “Mandy, why the hell would you write a story about me?”

  I’d driven faster than a New York cabbie to reach Santoro Headquarters, towering above downtown Baltimore, a glimmering glass overlord.

  “Us,” Drake interrupts, before leveling a pointed gaze on Mandy. “Goodbye Amanda. Let me know when you’ve taken care of that business we discussed.”

  We glare at each other. Drake is still the most devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever seen. His hair is an haute cut of midnight waves, thick and dense. Espresso eyes that promise wicked pleasure and taboo delights. A bold nose and a full mouth that captures my attention are framed with a trimmed beard holding thin traces of silkened silver.

  I hold up a hand. “Please, don’t speak. And, for the love of all things holy, stop dismissing my friend like she’s one of your employees.”

  From behind his desk, Drake rubs the bridge of his nose. “It’s my office.”

  The cavernous white-carpeted space with its breathtaking view of the harbor has a mirrored glass wall bar, three leather couches arranged in a c-pattern, and a twenty-seat conference table. Is reminiscent of a TriBeCa penthouse.

  “Don’t remind me. The only reason I’m here is because this article could potentially damage my brand and a lucrative real estate deal already in the works.”

  “I was on my way out,” Mandy chimes in, tucking her Diva & Dudes designer clutch between her arm and body. “And Deja, the word of today is free marketing. I bet traffic has increased to the N2U website.” She raises one brow, a twisted smirk on her face. Yeah, she was right. “You can thank me now.”

  But I didn’t want my personal life broadcasted on social media. Especially if it reminded me of the years I spent with Drake Santoro.

  Remember that 1970’s horror movie with the woman and her crazy baby? Drake Santoro is Rosemary’s Italian baby all grown up.

  Tall, dark, and hell on my libido. He’s too chilled for a rich boy raised on two continents with a full staff to grant his every wish. Growing up, I was lucky if my father gave me three meals a day.

  “Goodbye, Amanda,” Drake repeats.

  “Drake,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “has anyone mentioned you could benefit from manners?”

  “More than once,” he utters, but his attention has shifted. His all-seeing eye is on me again. “How is being attached to me, damaging to you, Deja?”

  His nostrils flare.

  Good.

  I can’t be the only one pissed. Outside of functions involving our mutual friends, I don’t want shit to do with Drake or anyone in the Santoro family. Especially his bitch of a cousin, Gabriella.

  “There’s reporters outside of my house,” I growl back. “They followed me here.”

  “You refused a driver.”

  I did. The Santoros employed professional high-speed drivers who could outrun a shadow, if needed. But, I didn’t need Drake. Not now.

  “Girl, you should’ve rode on the hood like an ornament,” Mandy snaps two finger. “All publicity is good publicity.”

  I give her a cross look. “Whatever, Uhura of the Starship Enterprise. You put my name in your article and broadcasted very old shit into the galaxy.”

  “That’s fake news. Only your initials were included.” Mandy’s cinnamon-colored curls obscures her right eye, but I can still sense the amusement on her face without seeing her features.

  “Our names,” Drake grumbles, relaxing his big body in his Captain Kurt command chair. “And, you need your daily sugar fix.”

  I blow out a breath, angry that he knows I missed my morning coffee and now it’s lunchtime.

  “Would you stop with the us and our references,” I snap. “And, don’t pretend to know what I’m missing.”

  He drops the Wall Street News he’s holding to his desk. “You’re going to get your ass spanked, Sweets.”

  The way he says it so casually, I roll my eyes. Like this is just what he wanted. Maybe it is. My back stiffens, my suspicions rise.

  For the first time, I search his face. “Did you know?”

  Drake chuckles. “I called this meeting.” His voice is low, deep, and unsettlingly comfortable. It wraps around this little hope chest buried in my heart and squeezes. He’s not the boy I remember, yet he’s still the man I want. Correction, wanted. “All this attention could disappear in a few weeks, Deja. Relax.”

  Lies. I reach into my purse, retrieving my smartphone. I thrust it at Drake.

  “This is a frenzy,” I scoff. “Text messages, emails, WhatsApp, LinkedIn, TMZ, OkayPlayer. Like everybody at SSU, the tabloids know, D.C. And D.S. are the initials of Deja Cummings and the obscenely rich Drake Santoro.”

  Yeah, the poor girl from Baltimore on the arm of the Italian, the wealthy Italian, had been a shocker to students and staff. Hell, I wondered sometimes what he saw in me back then. With work study, a part-time job, and my partial scholarship, I was one payment away from being a college drop-out. I ate Ramen noodles till I had the scientific formula memorized. I flipped my jeans inside-out every night, to decrease laundry-mat visits. Yeah, my purse strings were that tight.

  “You have to admit,” Mandy grins, “with our upcoming class reunion it’s the perfect draw. Why did D.S. and D.C.’S romance end?”

  “That question is two fucking decades old. Care to enlighten me, Sweets?”

  “Don’t call me that.” Yeah, not going there – now or ever.

  He stands to his feet, his sculpted masculine features hard. “I call you mine.”

  “Oh, shit.” Mandy muttered, while easing out the way. “Drake, tell your chef I’d like soup and salad to-go.”

  At the thought of being his again, two emotions erupt inside me, wild and lashing like a violent wind. Back then Drake had been my anchor, my inspiration, the guiding light to a future I hungered for. Security, connection, love.

  “Don’t make me choke you,” I hissed.

  “You’re too afraid. You’d rather walk away from us.”

  He hurls the words at
me. They are clipped and blunt-ugly, like a bad haircut from one of those beauty schools.

  Walked away. His actions made it impossible for me to stay.

  “Gurl,” I spin to look down at Mandy, “why would you bring me face-to-face with him? This is not one of those online games you post on Facebook.”

  “I’m not all bad,” he laughs.

  I cut my eyes. “Until I ask for a personal reference, and you don’t provide one.”

  “Deja,” he says my name with a warning attached, “it’s my damn office. I own everything you see, smell, and touch. I call the—,”

  I interrupt. “You’re also the only mucky-de-muck in the room with the dollar bills to make your problems disappear.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Drake,” I muse. “You don’t have to suffer the perils of us little people.”

  He takes a step towards me. I hold my ground. Not because I want to feel his delicious body heat. No, that would never be the reason. Rather, with a man like Drake Santoro, you have to stand firm, or his kisses, his touch, his taste will upend you. Set your world spinning to his tune. And when the music stops, you’re confused, wobbly, and alone.

  “Don’t downgrade yourself, Deja. Everything I have is big, sweets.”

  He used to do that in college too. Tell me how beautiful I was. He’d look at my transcript and marvel at how I maintained 3.85 GPA while working two jobs. Nothing was ever good enough for my father. Drake celebrated every one of my victories like they belonged to him.

  “Ah.”

  That’s Mandy. I had forgotten we had an audience.

  “I’m going to go,” she starts backing up, moving towards the twin doors leading to the glass atrium beyond Drake’s office. “I have some business cards I need to pass out to the reporters downstairs.”

  Amanda Murphy lives for the online comments. I can’t hate on my girl—cause she’s a lifelong, ride or die friend.

  With Mandy gone, I turn on Drake.

  “We’re done here.” I pivot to leave, but his next words halt my departure.

  “You touch that doorknob and I’ll ruin you.” He already has. My mind knows it, my body feels it. But, I ignore his threat. “Your sexy ass stays put.”

  Here’s an idea. Fighting with Drake is the only way to keep this wall of safety between him and my very disrespectful pussy. That bitch keeps throbbing and mewling like a cat in heat.

  “Did you just reduce my brains to physical beauty?”

  “Yes,” he rasps. “I’m looking at your ass. Your tits are bigger, too. They real?”

  “Kiss my ass.” He knows damn well I’m au-naturelle. Hair, nails, and body. Every fucking part of me worked hard to get where I am. Fuck a so-called upgrade.

  He quirks a brow. “Now you’re speaking our language.”

  We have, correction – had great chemistry in the bedroom.

  Drake is an ass man.

  I have nice cheeks. Apple bottom, bubble butt, milkshake, Daisy Dukes-worthy – I got it. “Stop looking ‘cause this is not Santoro ass or titties.”

  “So fucking bossy,” he mutters. “You don’t get to decide when we’re done.”

  We square off. In a flash, he has me in his arms. The heat of his body seeps through my Brooks Brothers suit. His breath, warm and scented with this morning’s coffee, caresses my lips. They part of their own volition. Desire flashes behind his dark eyes.

  I stiffen. “I’m not yours, Drake,” I manage to push out between my unsteady breaths.

  He brushes his thumb across my cheek. Fire and ice shoots through my veins. I want, but I can’t have what I need with this man. Two different worlds. Too different worlds.

  I jerk back. “Don’t touch.”

  Just then, the intercom on his desk beeps.

  “Mr. Santoro. There are media trucks surrounding the building. I’m afraid they’ve located Ms. Cummings’ vehicle, sir.”

  Drake looks down into my wide eyes.

  “You’re mine for now.”

  Mocha Latte, Drake & Deja’s story releases: April 8, 2020

  Catch up with S. London’s Lunchtime Chronicles: WHIPPED, THICK CUT, & PRIME RIPPED https://amzn.to/2Jfyewt