It’s been three days since she left me high and dry in the office for her date with Mr. Stick-Up-My-Ass Robertson. Somehow, now that I know what her skin feels like, what her hair smells like, what her moans sound like, the nickname is more offensive than funny.
A pang of jealousy struck me in the gut when I watched her walk out of that office. But, not willing to admit that to Nick – hell, I barely want to even admit it to myself – I keep my mouth shut.
I roll my eyes and take another swig of my beer. “She’s fine,” I grit out. Nick hears the tone of my voice and backs off, striking up conversation about last night’s baseball game.
Since Nick’s construction company is about halfway between the vineyard and home, we’ve met up once or twice at this dive of a bar since I started working there. It’s a total hole in the wall. My feet would stick to the floor if it wasn’t covered in sawdust. The tables are covered in those red-checkered plastic tablecloths. Everything about the place, from the neon signs above the bar, to the bales of hay in the corner, screams hillbilly. There’s a fine line between country and tacky, and this place pushes more toward tacky.
Some twangy-slash-bluesy song begins to play out of the 1950s style jukebox in the corner. “I feel like I’m in Back to the Future or something like that,” Nick jokes. “But I do like those uniforms,” he adds as he calls over our waitress who’s wearing the country-girl version of a Hooters’ outfit.
Just as I crane my head to check out said waitress, a group of women, dressed in Daisy Dukes and tied-at-the-waist country-inspired shirts, strut through the doors. The waitresses can’t hold a candle to these women. All I see are miles of long legs, and I am most definitely not complaining about the view. After a few more minutes, another group or two of similarly dressed women walk in, and that’s when Nick and I realize it’s ladies’ night. Line dancing and dollar beers are on the menu, and suddenly, I couldn’t be happier Nick chose this dive bar.
As Nick and I finish the last of our drink and plan our attack, one last group of girls walks in and my stomach drops. It’s Elle and her friends. Shocked isn’t exactly the word I would go with. Flabbergasted might be more appropriate. Who would have thought, Elle, miss-uptight-in-a-business-suit, no-one-is-smart-enough-to-run-this-company, hotter-than-fucking-sin Elle, would actually be able to kick back and relax. The fact that she looks amazing is not as shocking as the fact that she’s here.
Her long hair is pulled into a high ponytail and her make-up is subtle, simply accenting her natural beauty. Watching her laugh and cut loose with her friends is strange to say the least, but oh, God, is she beautiful when she smiles. Her long and curvy-in-all-the-right-places frame stretches out as she leans her elbows on the bar. Tipping her head back, she takes a sip of her beer. I haven’t been struck-dumb like this in as long as I can remember.
And of course Elle chooses the moment I’m staring at her, ogling her, in fact, with my mouth open and eyes wide, to scan the room. Her eyes fall on me and a look of excitement, mixed with a little disgust, passes across her face. “You okay, Owen?” Nick asks, elbowing me in the side. “You’ve been frozen like that for a few minutes. See something you like?” His eyebrow arches and a wolfish grin pulls at his lips. He tracks my line of vision and lets out a low whistle. “Yeah, I wouldn’t be able to speak if I was staring her down either,” he adds, standing from his seat.
“What are you waiting for?” he asks, looking down at me. I’m still in my chair, unable to move, well, unless I want Elle, and everyone else in the room, to see the hard-on I’m currently sporting.
“That’s the S.U.B.,” I clarify, tipping my head over at Elle.
Nick laughs as he slinks back into his chair. “You’ve got to be shitting me. She’s fucking hot, man.” He steals another glance at her and that pang of jealousy I felt when she left with Robertson is back.
My elbow digs into his side and he looks at me with a smug look on his face. “You want her, don’t you?” Nick’s question catches me off-guard.
“What? No,” my defense sounds weak even to my own ears.
“Real convincing, man,” Nick chuckles.
When the bulge behind my zipper has calmed enough for me to walk, I get up and go over to Elle who is still eyeing me warily.
“What are you doing here?” she snaps as I slide into an open spot at the bar next to her.
“Nice to see you, too,” I say without even looking at her. Tipping my head at the bartender, I order another round. Her anger at me simply being in the same place she is vibrates off her. So much so that when I get my beer, I lean in just to piss her off even more. With the citrusy and vanilla scent of her perfume curling around me, I whisper into her ear, “You don’t look like you’re pissed I’m here.” I trace a finger down her exposed arm, loving the fact that goose bumps dot her creamy skin as I do. “In fact, you look pretty excited to see me.”
With a huff and puff, she storms away from me, leaving me at the bar chuckling at her antics. Can’t say I mind watching her ass sway in front of me. And then watching her dance with her friends, yeah, that’s not so bad either.
Laughing as Nick finagles his way in-between two rather busty women, I still find myself watching Elle. Ah, fuck it, I say to myself. Three beers in and I’m feeling good. All thoughts of everything that’s been going on between the two of us – awkward first meeting, stilted encounters, ugly name-calling – melt away as I slip behind her on the dance floor.
“What the–” She jumps as I wrap my hands around the soft curves of her waist. Though she tries to maintain her prim-and-proper exterior around me, I feel her melt under my touch. It was the same the other day.
“Can’t you play nice, Elle?” I whisper into the crook of her neck. The music is too loud to tell for sure, but I think her only answer is a low groan. Knowing that I affect her, I make sure to let my stubbled jaw graze the soft skin where her shoulder meets her neck. She rolls her head to the side, clearly enjoying the rough glide of it.
As a slow song replaces the previous, fast-paced one, her body relaxes into mine. With my chest pressed against her back, her ass fits snuggly against my groin. My fingers dig into her hips, securing her tightly against my body. She rests her head against my shoulder and turns so that her lips are mere centimeters away from my neck.
“Is that nice enough for you?” Her sultry voice is seductive and raspy.
Without a second thought, I spin her in my arms, reveling in the soft feel of her tits pressed up against my chest. “This is much better.” With a sly smile, I wink down at her and we finish the song.
When the music picks back up, she excuses herself to go find her friends again. Before she’s more than an arm’s length away, I wrap my fingers around her upper arm and pull her back to me. “No, Elle. We need to talk.” The fire in her eyes is mirrored in my own, I’m sure.
No matter what tension there’s been between us, there’s no denying this attraction and if we plan to work together, we’re going to need to get along a lot better than we have been. To be honest though, working together in a professional manner is the last thing on my mind. Figuring out who the hell she is, what makes her tick, and how to get her to purr like she just did again, those are the most important things on my mind right now.
She gulps, and nods, sliding past me to an open table. My large frame eats up most of the space at the small table. A waitress comes over as soon as our asses are in the chairs. I order water and Elle gets a shot of tequila. Note to self: make sure she’s not driving and that whichever friend is driving, stays sober.
Trying her best to avert eye contact, she looks all over the room, everywhere except at me. Needing her attention to say what I have to say, I drop my hand to hers, covering it easily.
Risking my pride, and swallowing back whatever reservations I have, I clear my throat, calling her attention back to us. “What’s going on with us?” I ask. Her only response is a wide-eyed and dumbfounded look.
“What’s going on with us?” His v
oice is gruff and smooth at the same time.
What is going on with us? I repeat to myself in my own head. The only answer I can come up with is that I have no freaking clue. Well, I mean, yeah I do – kind of. He’s hot; there’s no denying that, but that’s all there is.
Right?
His fingers snap in front of my face, breaking my dazed stare. “Earth to Elle,” he laughs, leaning forward on his elbows. His scent puts me on edge as it moves its way across the table. I hate him for putting me off my game, but dear God in heaven, I want to lick him so badly.
“Um – there’s nothing. I mean – why, what do you think?” Stammering over my own words makes me look like a blubbering idiot, but that’s pretty much what happens when I’m in close quarters with Owen.
Arching an eyebrow and pulling a lopsided smile at me, he laughs. Leaning back in his chair and raising his arms behind his head, he mutters, “Sure. Nothing. I gotcha.”
The smug jerk.
For the life of me, I still can’t figure him out. Rough and abrasive one minute, then smooth and suave the next. There are two things I feel when I’m around Owen: turned on and pissed off.
Right now, pissed off wins. Shooting up out of my chair, it screeches behind me. The loud noise calls the attention of my friends who are on the dance floor. In a slow-motion haze, it seems as if everyone’s attention is on me, especially Owen’s. A playful look dances in his eyes as he waits for my explanation.
“You’re unbearable. You know that?” My voice is rising in volume, silenced only when Owen stands from his chair and moves right in front of me.
“I highly doubt that,” he smirks, standing in my personal space.
I poke him in the chest, not at all shocked by the rock hard pecs that meet my finger. “Well, you are. And frustrating, and annoying, and…” I pause, looking for the right word.
“And what, Elle?” He leans in closer, infinitesimally so. Regaining my composure, I pull back from him.
With a final poke to the chest, I add my final insult, “You’re an ass.” Of course, as I turn away from him, I stumble slightly, finally feeling the effects of the alcohol. His strong hand steadies me, pulling me upright next to him.
“Come with me,” he nearly growls as he walks me out of the bar.
Normally, being led by the arm out into the dark alley of a bar would scare the crap out of me but with Owen doing the leading, I’m anything but frightened.
Turned on and excited is more like it.
Dragging us into a dark recess, he pushes me up against the brick wall. “I won’t deny I’m an ass, but let’s be honest…” he pauses, leaning against me. His thigh slides in-between my legs, the denim scratching against the exposed skin of my legs. It takes everything I have not to close my eyes and revel in the feel of his body pressing up against mine. “You’ve been an ass, too.”
“Have not!” I defend, my voice bordering on a shocked squeal.
He laughs as he cups my jaw, pulling my face back to meet his persistent stare. “You have been,” he counters with finality. “But I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he adds, moving his lips within an inch of mine.
Like a fish gasping for air, I open and close my mouth, searching for the right words. When they don’t come to me, I huff in frustration.
“Do you like it?” He dances his lips over my cheek and down to my jaw and my eyes roll back in my head.
A mumbled, “hmmm” is all I’m capable of in response.
“This,” he answers my incoherent question, “me kissing you?” My eyes fly open at his words just in time to see his lips descend on mine, capturing them in a slow, tentative kiss. Like melted caramel, his lips move against mine. His tongue licks at the seam of my lips, but he’s not begging for entrance. It’s a claim he’s staking on me, branding my lips in a heat they’ve never felt before. Willingly, I open to him. Our tongues slide together. Moans fill the non-existent space between us.
When his hand knots in my hair at the nape of my neck, pulling my head back for more access to my mouth, I can’t stifle the groan of delight that passes my lips. “I’ll take that as a yes,” his words swirl through my lust-filled brain as his lips dance down my neck.
“So sweet, Elle. You taste so…” he pauses, licking a sweet and hot path down my neck, stopping just at my exposed collarbone. “So fucking good,” he finishes, looking me right in the eyes.
“There she is!” Crystal and my other friends call out from the end of the alleyway. “Hey!” They misread the situation, a frenzied sense of worry creeping in their voices. Owen throws his hands in the air, the ultimate white flag that he’s not doing anything wrong.
Still completely incapable of making any sense of what the hell just happened, I walk away from him and toward my waiting friends. “I’m fine, girls.” Chancing a last look over my shoulder, I add, “Let’s get out of here.”
Like the ass he claimed me to be, I walk away from him, his hot kisses, and angry look, trying desperately to make sense why the hell he affects me so much.
By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’ve cleared my head enough to develop a plan. It struck me as odd last week, as Owen sat at my desk, talking about profit and loss statements, and quarterly bank accounts as if he’d actually had experience with them. But since Ethan was here, picking me up for a business meeting slash dinner – one for which he gave me no notice whatsoever – I didn’t do much with it.
Sitting at my computer now, I’m ready to finally get to the bottom of the enigma that is Owen Carmichael.
Thank you very much, Google.
Why I hadn’t thought of a basic internet search on the man with whom I’m currently running a company is completely beyond me. All I can think of as an excuse is that Vincent’s death was so sudden. The legal proceedings that followed completely screwed with my head. Knowing that I needed to get the meeting with Ethan in before Owen could find out about it, I buried my nose in financial statements, figuring out the most fail-safe business plan I could come up with. In between all of that, figuring out who the hell Owen Carmichael really is, was way on the back burner.
But with the feel of his lips singed into my memory, I type his name in the search bar, determined to get to the bottom of this. The first thing to come up is a Newsday article outlining his recent inheritance of half of Bella Luna’s Estate. Nothing new there, so I scroll down.
When his Linkedin profile shows up, I click on it, immediately intrigued by his clean-cut and professional picture. What the hell? Owen Carmichael graduated at the top of his class at Boston College. He holds an MBA and according to this profile, he had recently signed on as an intern at a prestigious financial firm.
The little fucker. He knew everything he was talking about when he was looking at those papers. Angrily, I hit print, and wait not-so-patiently for the printer to spit out the evidence of his deception.
Though, he didn’t really lie. I think to myself. Seeing as I called him a bastard farm boy, without even thinking to ask him anything of where he was from or what he knew, I didn’t exactly give him an opening.
Just as the final page prints out, the door to my office opens. Owen stands in front of me. Work-worn jeans, beat-up boots, tight-as-sin T-shirt, the man is sexy as hell. Quickly, I shove his profile papers into the stack of folders on my desk.
“Can I help you?” I ask, primly sitting back in my seat. The feeling of being lied to weighs heavily on my mind.
“We need to talk.” He sits across from me. “Look, I’m sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have…I mean, it was wrong of me to assume.” Hearing him stammer through an apology, one that’s completely unnecessary if you ask me, might be the most endearing thing ever.
“It’s fine.” My words surprise him, the shock registering on his face. “We just can’t let it happen again.” Curt is the word I would use to best describe my tone.
He shoots up from his chair, offering me a snide look. “Clearly,” he snaps. When he gets to the door, he turns arou
nd, to add, “I’ll be out in the fields, where I belong.” Dejection hangs on his words and I feel like a jerk for making him feel that way, but I need more time to make sense of this new information.
Resting my elbows on my desk, I cradle my head in my hands. When I hear the door creak open, I look up. “Hey, Rosie,” I greet her as she brings me a cup of tea.
“Everything okay, sweetie?” she asks, not as a secretary, but as a friend.
“Just peachy,” I answer with a smile that’s brighter than necessary.
She smirks at me, “Uh huh,” she mutters under her breath. When she realizes she’s not going to get anything else out of me, she walks back toward the door.
“Oh, Mr. Robertson called earlier.” She leans against the doorframe recalling the details she obviously forgot to tell me.
“And?” I prompt her anxiously. He still hasn’t decided if the wedding reception venue is a venture in which he wants to invest.
“He wanted to see if you had time for a tour of the facilities. You were free this afternoon so I penciled him in.” She looks down at her watch as if it’s no big thing she forgot to tell me this. “He’ll be here in about an hour.”
Realizing she meant no harm, I smile calmly at her but in my head, my thoughts swirl around like some crazy cyclone. Rosie excuses herself and I pull together any last-minute details Mr. Robertson might need.
An hour later, right on cue, Rosie ushers Ethan Robertson into my office. Extending a hand to him, I greet him warmly, and hopefully. “Good afternoon, Mr. Robertson.” The sly and seductive look on his face, the one that was there when we went to dinner the other night instantly puts me on edge.
“Elle,” his smile is anything but business professional, “call me Ethan. I told you that the other night.”
Yes, yes you did and I got the creepy crawlies when you said it then, just like now.
Shaking away those thoughts, I suggest we start our tour with the fields. “I want to show you where couples could do their wedding photos. I think you’ll be impressed by how beautiful the vineyards are.” As I escort him out of the office, I grab my files. Having enough foresight, I actually booked a mock-wedding photo shoot at the vineyards last week, after the field crew left for the evening. I knew that my words would never do the pictures justice.
Tangled Vines Page 4
