by Lauren Layne
“Chicks dig the cherries,” he said.
“I feel like that’s just a dirty joke waiting to happen.”
“Well, then lay it on me. I promise to laugh even if it’s not funny,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.
Riley pursed her lips. “Coming up blank. My mind’s too pure.”
Sam snorted. “Right. The picture of naiveté in a skintight dress.”
“I think you like my skintight dress.”
Sam froze for a split second in the process of rinsing out the cocktail shaker before he very deliberately turned it upside down on a towel to dry and braced both hands on the counter. “What the hell are you up to, Riley?”
She carefully crossed her legs and took a sip of the cocktail. “This is good,” she said, mildly surprised. “Your whisky is perfect in here. Sweet, but not obnoxiously so.”
He made a tsk-tsk noise. “Trying to change the subject by using flattery? I thought better of your moves.”
“Honey, you haven’t even seen my moves yet.”
“So sneaking in the back door of a man’s home, snooping through his stuff, and then startling the shit out of him isn’t your typical MO?”
“How do you know I snooped through your stuff?”
“Didn’t you?”
“Well, of course,” she said, fishing the cherry out of her drink. “But it was a total waste of time. There was no diary or dirty magazine or leopard-print boxers.”
“Clearly you didn’t look in the bottom right drawer.”
“Big secrets there, huh?”
“I’m not really a secret kind of guy.”
“Says the man who guards his whisky-making business more closely than a nuclear plant.”
He looked surprised. “I don’t keep this a secret.”
“Really? Then why haven’t I been here since you first bought the place?”
“Well, I haven’t been hosting a bunch of bridal showers in my place of work. I mean, you haven’t exactly been badgering me to stop by the Stiletto office.”
“You so do not belong in that office,” she said, her eyes going over his jeans and workingman T-shirt.
His eyes flashed in hurt surprise, and she belatedly realized how condescending that sounded. “I didn’t mean … it’s just … you’re so male.”
“No guys at Stiletto?”
“Only Oliver, and let’s just say he gets manicures every Monday and Friday and collects Justin Timberlake calendars.”
“I like Justin Timberlake’s music.”
“Shirtless calendars,” she added.
“So you really didn’t look in my bottom right drawer, then.”
Riley smiled, taking another small sip of whisky. “I’ve missed this. It’s been a while since we’ve done this.”
There was that wariness again. “Done what, exactly? Bickered? Tried to get under each other’s skin?”
“I was going to say talked.”
“So that’s why you stalked me all the way out in Greenpoint? To talk? Because you know, they have these things now … phones?”
“Would you have picked up if I’d called?”
His expression went abruptly serious—almost offended. “Of course. Didn’t I pick you up that time you got drunk in Williamsburg and couldn’t find your keys? Or the time you decided you wanted to rent a car and go upstate only to belatedly remember you needed a little refresher on how to drive? Or then there was the time you forgot your wallet and were too embarrassed to tell your family, so I had to come bail you out—”
She put up her hand. “I get it. You save my ass when I mess up. But that’s not what I’m getting at. I mean we’re talking. We don’t talk much anymore.”
He lifted a shoulder.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked, wanting to save this easy flow between them. “In the back of the distillery I mean.”
“Six months? Maybe a little longer? My lease went up, and the place was already wired for a kitchen and a bathroom, so I thought, why not?”
“Don’t you get sick of it? Working and living in the same place? Doesn’t it smell like … whisky?”
He looked around the enormous space. “It does smell. But I love it. And sure, I guess I get a little restless sometimes. But it doesn’t feel like work when you love it, you know?”
“I guess.”
He drained the rest of his cocktail and began the process of mixing another one. “You don’t feel that way about Stiletto? And you’re not exactly one to talk about work/life separation. You get paid to write about your life.”
She couldn’t have asked for a more perfect opening. Actually, funny you mention that … I may have kind of sort of been fudging my credibility on that front …
But she couldn’t. Not yet. “Can I have another?” she asked, even though her first drink was still half full. A little more liquid courage couldn’t hurt.
“How come you never talk about your whisky?” she asked.
Sam didn’t answer for several seconds. “I’ll tell you what … I’ll answer that, if you tell me what you’re doing here. And don’t BS me about just wanting to chat and be all buddy-buddy. Despite your claims the other night, I do know you. And I know when you want something.”
Sure. But do you know when I want someone?
“You first,” she said, taking a large swallow of her drink and pushing it toward him for a refill.
“Well,” he said, giving the shaker one last rattle before straining it over her glass. “I guess you could say that it’s too important.”
“Not following.”
“ROON’s everything to me. It’s my savings, my livelihood, my passion. But the McKennas are everything to me too. You were my family when mine was crappy, and you’re even more my family now that mine’s mostly out of the picture.”
Riley resisted the urge to put her hand over his. Sam was an only child, raised by the most indifferent mother on the planet. Riley had only met Helena Compton once or twice, and although she’d passed along good looks to her son, she hadn’t been a mom. Not in the ways that mattered.
“I don’t get it,” she said softly. “Because both are important to you, they can’t overlap?”
“Let’s just say that my whisky’s my baby and your parents are my parents. I don’t think I can bear Erin and Josh not liking their grandchild.”
He gave her a boyish grin, but Riley heard the truth behind his casual tone. He was scared to death of disappointing the McKennas.
“But you’re letting me drink it.”
“Only because you batter-rammed your way into my home and I wanted—needed—a drink to deal with you.”
“Why do you think that is?”
His eyes locked on hers. She hadn’t meant for her voice to come out so husky, but her coy question sounded very much like a dangerous proposition.
“Because you’re dangerous to me,” he replied very simply. “Particularly when I don’t know what you’re after, and I confess—I’m completely stumped right now. It’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you be at some swanky hot spot with some suit in the city?”
She reached across the bar and helped herself to the cherry in his drink. “Maybe I’m in the mood for a casual home bar with a jeans-and-T-shirt guy in Brooklyn.”
Sam grabbed her wrist and her gaze flew to his, startled by his intense expression.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Do not play that game. Not with me.”
It’s not a game.
She tugged her hand back, and he released her arm but not her eyes. Riley took a deep breath. It was time.
“I said I was here because I needed a favor …”
His expression never changed. “Anything.”
Her heart flipped a little at that. “It’s um … a little more personal than my usual favors. This isn’t a ride home, or a lesson on the difference between screwdrivers, or help moving furniture.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “How personal?”
Riley licked her lips. “Kind of
as personal as you can get.”
He warily came around the bar, settling on one of the barrels next to her, although keeping a safe distance between them. “Why don’t you start at the beginning.”
And then Riley was telling him everything. Well, not everything. Just the part about Stiletto’s anniversary issue, and how she was supposed to tell the truth behind the story. How she was supposed to write about something personal.
He nodded slightly when she was done. “Okay, I get it. They want all of the writers to give a more personal account for this issue. But I’m not getting what that has to do with me.”
Here we go, here we go …
“Well, my articles are mostly about … sex.”
He rolled his eyes. “I know. I think the entire city knows.”
“Well, that’s kind of my problem,” she continued quietly. “Julie and Grace, even Emma … it’s easier for them to make their stories more personal.”
“More personal than sex?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Nope.”
“Come on,” she said, exasperated. “You’re a guy. You should know more than anyone that sometimes sex is just … sex. There’s plenty to talk about and nothing to talk about all at the same time.”
“No offense, Ri, but I’m pretty sure you might be better off having this conversation with your friends or your sisters.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said stubbornly. “Because they can’t have sex with me.”
And there it was.
Riley braced herself.
She’d run through the list of possible reactions. Laughter. Yelling. Swooning, maybe.
In none of her possible scenarios would he calmly take another sip of his drink, and even more calmly deliver a calm, quiet response. “No.”
“Hear me out.”
“No need.”
“Sam.” Her hand found his knee, and they both froze. His eyes went first to her fingers before they moved up to meet hers.
And there was the mad. No, not mad. He was furious. “Save your sexy touches for another man, Ri.”
She snatched her hand back. “I didn’t mean … I just …”
Tell him everything.
But she couldn’t. Not when he was looking at her with complete disdain. There was no good way to tell him that she couldn’t tell a personal story about sex because she hadn’t had sex. Not in any way that counted. And she certainly couldn’t tell him that the reason she hadn’t had sex was because the only guy she’d ever wanted was him.
So she stuck with her original plan of a half-truth.
“We want each other,” she said plainly.
He stood abruptly and went back around the bar, retreating to safety. Well, that was too damn bad. Because Riley was done with safe.
She stood and followed him, feeling a thrill of triumph when he took a step backward. It was the confirmation she needed.
“Riley …” he trailed off.
“Deny it,” she said in a low voice, stopping a few feet from him.
He didn’t meet her eyes. “Your brother would kill both of us if he knew we were having this conversation.”
It was a pathetic shield—a complete chickenshit form of self-protection, but he needed something—anything—to keep him from saying yes.
Because he wanted to take her here. Now.
Badly.
“Liam’s not here,” she said, sounding entirely too rational. “And neither is anyone else in my family, and they don’t need to find out.”
“You just said you wanted us to have sex so you could write about it!” he exploded. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to figure it out then.”
“I would never mention your name,” she said quietly.
“Jesus, Riley, why me? There are a million men in New York who would jump at the chance to sleep with you and would want you to mention their name.”
I don’t want any of them. “I don’t want this to be just another meaningless how-to article.”
“What the hell headline do you have in mind? ‘I Slept with My Brother’s Best Friend and Lived to Tell About It?’ ”
“No, I want it to be about friends crossing that line,” she said evasively.
“Find another friend. One who’s actually interested in crossing the line.”
It was a little stab to her heart. One that she’d been prepared for, but one that hurt like hell all the same.
Still, his expression wasn’t matching his words. His tone told her to get lost, but his face didn’t show disgust or indifference.
No, his expression revealed terror.
Welcome to the club.
Testing her theory, she moved forward. He moved back, until his ass was against the bar. His eyes darted from side to side as though plotting his escape route.
“You don’t want me?” she asked, inching closer, although still not touching him.
Sam swallowed. “No.” He cleared his throat. “No.” Louder this time, but husky, as though the word kept getting caught in his throat.
“Want to prove it?” she asked, moving into him and letting her hands find his waist.
His hands were like brackets around her wrists as he lifted her hands away from his body, holding them safely between them so she couldn’t reach for him again.
“Find someone else.” His eyes went to her mouth before he tore his gaze away.
He released her hands then, moving around her and going back to his copper still and pulling his stupid tool out of his back pocket as though the whole exchange had never happened.
But his hands were shaky and his motions jerky where he crouched in front of his stupid whisky pot. That exchange had definitely happened. And he wasn’t nearly as unaffected as he wished.
Inspiration struck.
Maybe the way to get exactly what she wanted was to give Sam a taste of what he thought he wanted.
Find someone else, he’d said.
Using jealousy as manipulation was the oldest, lousiest trick in the book, but it was the only one she had left. She moved behind him, noting the way his shoulders tensed as he heard her approach.
When she was alongside him, she knelt very slowly, very deliberately, until her lips were even with his ear. “I think you’re right. I think I’ll find someone who knows how to use his hands on something other than a copper machine.”
“Go for it,” he muttered. “We’ve both been seeing other people for years.”
She paused for a heartbeat, letting her eyes linger on his mouth. Letting the tension build. “Have we?”
With that, she stood and marched back the way she came, her mind already scrolling through her mental black book.
Riley heard the clank of metal against cement seconds before she heard Sam utter a string of heartfelt curses.
She smiled. He was right where she wanted him.
Chapter Seven
Sam thought she’d been joking.
No. He hoped she’d been joking.
He sure as hell hadn’t been prepared for her to show up at her nephew’s First Communion party with another man on her arm two days after she’d propositioned him.
And just what had she meant by her implication that they hadn’t been seeing other people over the years? He certainly had. Not that any of them had mattered. Not that any of the other women had ever gotten under his skin the way Riley McKenna did.
But there had been women. Plenty of them. Just like she’d had plenty of dates.
So just what the hell had she meant?
Riley thought Sam didn’t know how to use his hands? Wrong. Because he was thinking of plenty of ways to use them right now. Strangling her was at the top of the list.
Right after he punched the toothpaste-model smile off her new boyfriend.
He tuned in half an ear as Riley introduced the guy to her aunt. Brent Barry. What the hell kind of name was that anyway?
Sam’s fingers tightened around the neck of his beer bottle as he tilted it up to his mouth and very
intentionally dragged his eyes away from Riley and Mr. Hollywood Good Looks.
Sam joined Liam at the food table. Plucking a corn chip from a bowl, he dunked it into a seven-layer bean dip that had mercifully been spared Erin’s special touch with potatoes.
“So whaddya think?” he asked his best friend.
Liam scanned the room for his mother before flicking a black olive into the sink. He’d never been able to stomach the things. “What do I think about what?”
“Riley’s new boyfriend.”
Liam grunted. “What does any brother think about his little sister’s new guy? Douche bag.”
“That’s what I thought,” Sam said, moving on to the onion dip and chips. Ah, there were the potatoes.
Liam shot him a curious look. “Really? Because you haven’t even met him yet. I get to say he’s a douche bag because I had to listen to him talk to me about my Roth IRAs for a good fifteen minutes before you showed up. But … the guy seems to know his shit. I guess I’ll take that over a go-nowhere loser.”
Sam kept his face perfectly blank, reminding himself that Liam was not talking about Sam. Sam who’d once upon a time been able to talk corporate finance lingo with the best of them, only to quit on a whim, to do what? Start a distillery that had yet to make any money?
Once a quitter, always a quitter, his mother liked to remind him. Often.
But his best friend made a good point. Sam didn’t have to know women’s fashion to know that Riley’s tastes were expensive. And he didn’t have to live in Manhattan to know that Riley’s West Village apartment was in one of the most in-demand neighborhoods in the city.
If she was looking for someone to keep up with her lifestyle, Brent Barry was perfect.
But if she was looking for someone to sleep with for her story …
Don’t even go there.
“Shit,” Liam said, shooting a glance over his shoulder. “They’re coming this way. Your turn.”
Sam reached out in an attempt to grab his friend’s shirtsleeve, but Liam was already on his way, scooping his nephew into the air and accusing him of taking more than his fair share of the church wine.
It was just Sam and Riley.
And the other guy.
