by Lexy Timms
It was true. Since the piece on the country club had aired, the influx of customers had been—if Mark was honest with himself—almost more than they could handle. Which wasn’t a complaint. He had wanted the country club to succeed from the beginning. But the workload was putting stress on everyone. They were going to have to bring in more staff.
And things had been strained with Erica. The constant concerns of running a rapidly-expanding business hadn’t exactly made Mark the nicest person to be around; he knew that. And Erica didn’t take well to that.
Last night, though, had been good. For both of them. And the sex had been amazing. Mark buttoned his shirt as he watched Erica put makeup on, and wondered if there was any way he could manage a repeat performance later.
On his way out of the room he leaned over to steal a kiss, supporting her face gently in his palm and lingering for a long, delicious moment over her mouth. Then it was downstairs and to business, the pleasures of the bedroom put aside until after the work day had passed.
***
The phone was ringing again. At the reception desk, Christine picked up the line, answering smoothly, and Mark turned to head back toward the kitchen, where they would inevitably be having some kind of problem with something that he desperately needed to fix, as usual.
“Mr. Reid.” The head chef met him just inside. “The cabbages we got in are terrible quality. Half rotted, some of them. I can’t serve those to guests.”
And there was the problem, just like he’d expected. Honestly, they’d been open for long enough that the kitchen shouldn’t be having trouble with such mundane things, and if they did they should be able to handle it without him. But of course, they couldn’t. Mark sighed.
“Mr. Reid,” said a voice behind him. “You’ve got a Mr. Burwick on line two, demanding to speak with the owner of the country club. He won’t take no for an answer.”
“Chef Blake,” Mark said. “Go ahead and call the supply company. You’ve got the go ahead from me. And talk to the manager in charge of this stuff. He’s probably better help than I’d be.”
He crossed into the lobby again, taking the phone Christine offered.
“Yes,” he said. “This is Mr. Reid, owner of Little Lake Country Club. How can I help you?”
The voice that came down the line was overly loud. “Yes. Mr. Reid. Thank you for speaking with me. I think I misplaced my wallet while I was visiting. Have you had anything come through lost and found?”
“If someone’s wallet had been found, it would come directly to me,” Mark said. “We keep any lost and found valuables in my office. There hasn’t been anything today or yesterday.”
“Then it was stolen,” the man on the other end said. “And I’m holding the club responsible.”
Mark ran a hand through his hair, pausing to lean against one of the walls that was out of the way enough that he probably wouldn’t be run over by any of the serving staff moving back and forth between the kitchen and the restaurant, but was also not within the public eye. The last thing he needed to do was have an argument with a customer in front of his clientele, even over the phone.
“Mr…”
“Mr. Hill.”
“Mr. Hill,” Mark said. “If your wallet was stolen while you were at the club—and you have no proof of that—but if it was, then we aren’t responsible. It was your personal property, and on your body. We have no liability. There are signs clearly posted in the change rooms, fitness rooms, and several other locations throughout the club. If your wallet does—”
“You’re telling me that you’re going to just ignore the fact that my wallet was stolen on your property?” Mr. Hill demanded, shouting into the phone at a much higher volume than was polite or at all required.
“Your best option in a case like this is to call the police,” Mark told him, forcing his voice to stay calm. He wasn’t going to yell back at the man. Whatever the guy’s attitude, he was a customer, and Mark had a reputation as a business owner to uphold. A reputation which, some days, was beginning to feel increasingly unimportant in the face of the things some people thought they could get away with. But he hadn’t come this far for nothing. “Let them know that you think your wallet was stolen. I highly suggest you call your bank and cancel your credit cards if you haven’t already. They’ll be able to help you out a lot better than we will.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that in my review of your establishment,” Mr. Hill said sharply.
The line disconnected.
Mark straightened up, shaking his head, and started back toward the main part of the kitchen to deal with the cabbages. The never-ending nonsense had to settle down sometime. Eventually, everyone would settle in and they’d have a regular clientele and a well-oiled machine of a country club. But Alex might have warned him that running a business was going to be so chaotic before he’d encouraged him to do it.
Maybe Mark would mention that the next time they talked.
In the meantime, he had a dozen other things to deal with before the Saturday night crowd showed up in a few hours and he was expected to play socialite as well as business owner.
***
By the time the dinner service was over and the ballroom opened for dancing and drinks, Mark was pretty sure he was on the verge of falling asleep standing up. It had been one thing after another after another since the call from Mr. Hill, and not all of them had been as pleasant as that discussion. But it was a little bit of a reprieve to be released from the more demanding parts of the job and allowed to circulate through the guests, checking that they were having a good time and occasionally stopping to chat with one or two.
At least, it was until he happened to glance over toward the far side of the room and find Erica standing between two well-dressed men, a glass of Champagne in one hand and a smile on her face. Mark’s jaw tightened. This was one of the things that he didn’t like about the after-dinner socializing on the weekends. There was always someone, or more than one someone, trying to get Erica’s attention, and more often than not she was happy to give it, like she didn’t realize just what they were angling for.
He edged his way closer to the little group, careful to keep out of their line of sight.
“So, Erica,” he heard one of the men say, standing entirely too close to her. “What brings you to Little Lake? You planning on touring again next summer?”
“Actually,” Erica said, “I work here. As one of the golf instructors. So this is kind of where I spend all of my time these days.”
“Oh. Well, then. I guess we’ll have to be on our best behavior.” The tall blond man gave Erica a grin that she would have to be blind not to realize was a blatant invitation, and exchanged a glance with the slimmer dark-haired man beside him. “Wouldn’t want to get in any trouble with the employees.”
Erica laughed, and took a sip from the glass of Champagne in her hands, head tipping slightly to the side. “What about you? What brings you to the country club, Arthur?”
“Oh, you know, what brings most people. Golf. Good food. A chance to watch bored rich people try to pretend like they’re having a good time.”
Mark saw both of Erica’s eyebrows lift. “Do you think they aren’t?”
“It’s hard to tell with them,” Arthur said. “They have a habit of always looking vaguely constipated, and you never know whether that’s because they actually are, or because they’re trying not to say that they find the whole situation so terribly gauche or something.”
She laughed again, and Mark resisted the urge to growl. They were just talking, he reminded himself, picking up a glass of wine from one of the trays that was circulating around the room in the hands of the wait staff. Erica wasn’t doing anything wrong, and he really should be entertaining some customers himself, but that didn’t stop the jealousy from curdling in his stomach.
“So you’re not rich yourself? Or bored?”
The man she’d called Arthur grinned. “Neither of the above. I guess you could call me fairly well
off, but some of the people around here make me look like a pauper in comparison. I’m not one of the multimillionaire, home in the Hamptons, and yacht on the bay type. And, if I’m being honest, I appreciate the aesthetic value of country clubs more than the social atmosphere. I’m mostly just here to take pictures.”
That got Mark’s attention. Apparently Erica’s, too. She leaned in a little closer. “You’re a photographer?”
Arthur nodded. “Yup. The kind that even makes a bit of money off their photography now and again. Richard just tags along because he has nowhere better to be. But he’s totally anti-social.”
His grin made the teasing obvious even to Mark, who really needed to pull himself together and go talk to some of his other guests. These two were obviously doing fine. Erica had them on the hook, thoroughly enjoying their night. He just couldn’t seem to drag himself away. Still lingering, he saw the dark look Arthur’s friend gave him which was ruined by the barest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s not so much that,” Richard said, with a conspiratorial smile for Erica that looked a lot like flirting from where Mark was standing, “as that it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise around Art.”
It was Arthur’s turn to glare. He did it much more convincingly.
Erica laughed. “So what do you come out here for, then, Richard?”
“I’m a writer,” the man answered. “I come up here for inspiration.” He shot a look at Arthur from the corner of his eye, smile widening lazily. “Art relentlessly quashes it.”
“There’s nothing to quash,” Arthur said. “I’ve seen the kind of stuff you write.”
“You see?” Richard said. “He’s a tyrant.”
Arthur gave the other man a narrow-eyed look, but Mark was more concerned with the fact that he was sliding neatly closer to Erica. Way too close, in fact, for his comfort, and he considered stepping in.
“If you think she’s going to hide you,” Arthur said. “I think you’re mistaken.”
The sidelong look he gave Erica then was definitely flirting. Mark took a step forward.
“Not at all,” Richard told Arthur. “She’s just better-looking than you are.” Another grin directed her way. “And she smells nicer.”
“Flattery,” Erica said, “will get you nowhere, you know.”
“You are,” Arthur said moving closer on her other side, “a very beautiful woman. Are you sure that flattery won’t do anything for you?”
Erica’s eyebrow lifted, and she gave them both a look that Mark knew meant she wasn’t interested in the least. “What is this? Compliment Erica from every side time?”
“That's exactly what it is,” Richard said. “You’re thoroughly deserving of it.”
And that was really it. Enough was enough. Mark stepped forward.
“And also thoroughly not interested,” Erica said just as he reached her side. “Sorry, boys.”
She turned toward Mark, offering him a smile, then looked back at the men who’d been trying to hit on her and were now obviously aware that they’d been moving in on something that they weren’t welcome to, because they’d both taken several steps back.
“Arthur, Richard,” Erica said, as though she hadn’t noticed their sudden change in attitude. “This is my boss, and the owner of Little Lake Country Club. Mark Reid.”
He could have pointed out that he was also her boyfriend, but they hadn’t really discussed labels yet, and Mark wasn’t going to risk being shot down in front of them and giving them the idea that they were welcome to flirt with Erica after all. Because they weren’t.
“Nice to meet you,” he said instead. “I hope that you’re enjoying your time with us.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Arthur said, reaching out to take the hand that Mark had offered in a firm grip and giving it a friendly shake. Obviously he’d decided that he wasn’t going to take offense at Mark’s sudden appearance or the fact that Erica was clearly off limits. “You’ve got a really nice place here, Mr. Reid. It definitely lives up to the hype.”
His quiet friend nodded, taking Mark’s hand and shaking it as well. “A good place to spend a few hours, for sure.”
“It was nice to meet you, Erica. And you, Mr. Reid,” Arthur said. He turned then, and wandered away, Richard following, and Mark watched them go.
“Nice guys,” Erica said.
Mark didn’t comment. He wasn’t going to start a fight over something that hadn’t even happened, especially when that was what their last argument had been over. He smiled at her and brushed a hand against her hip, a brief touch that someone else might take for an accident if they caught the gesture at all. “They were,” he said. He sighed. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to go mingle with the rest of the room again.”
“Poor you,” Erica laughed. “It’s such a trial to be the famous owner of a famous country club.”
“Ha, ha,” Mark answered, shaking his head at her before he moved away, meandering his way through the little clusters of people on the edges of the dance floor.
It wasn’t easy, actually, being the famous owner of a famous country club, but he could handle it. It would all be worth it in the end.
Chapter 7
Jamie was in the kitchen when Alex wandered down the next morning, cooking pancakes in the soft golden light that flooded in through the windows. She was also wearing nothing but one of his button-down business shirts.
Alex stopped dead in the doorway.
After the beach, she’d been happy, although he hadn’t missed the thread of tension running through her, probably to do with the phone call he’d had to take and Lilli running for the water. He didn’t ask her about it, not wanting to disturb the nice night they were having curled together on the couch with the twins in bed and a movie on. They hadn’t had sex, though, and suddenly he was strongly reminded of that. And even more strongly reminded of how much he wanted her.
“The twins are still asleep,” Jamie said without looking up from the pan. “So I thought we could have breakfast.”
He wasn’t surprised. They’d been fussy in the early morning hours. With any luck they would sleep for another hour or two. Maybe three. But he didn’t say so. He was still staring.
“Alex?” Jamie turned around and caught the look on his face. She smiled. It was an expression that Alex thought of as particularly dangerous, and he knew she knew exactly what it did to him. Just like she knew what she was doing when she’d decided not to put on anything more than one of his too-large shirts that morning. Apparently, she wanted it as bad as he did.
Jamie looked down at her bare feet and bare legs, then back up at him. “What?” she asked, as though she didn’t know, that same wicked smile still on her mouth, and he wanted to kiss it off her.
When he didn’t answer, she turned back to the pancakes still bubbling in the pan, humming some little song to herself with studied nonchalance that was probably just meant to drive him even more crazy.
The shirt skimmed too close to the middle of her thighs, closer to her hips. Alex wanted to run his hands up the length of her thighs and he wanted to get his fingers in her and he wanted a whole lot that he fully intended on getting. With a growl of approval, he closed the gap between them and settled his hands on the curve of her waist, dragging them upward to run his thumbs across the flat of her ribcage. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t even bothered to put on a bra, and he was half hard in his boxers already. Lately he’d been worried about them as a couple, about the effect that work was having, but maybe this was a sign that they were going to figure it out.
Or just a sign that Jamie was as hungry for sex as he was. She always had been. It was one of the many, many things that Alex loved about her.
He felt her breathing catch. His hands moved up to cup the weight of her breasts through her shirt, heavier since she’d had the twins, and he stroked his thumbs over her hard nipples.
She gasped.
Whatever else was going on with work, in that moment Jamie was all h
is. He pressed up against her from behind, feeling the curve of her backside against his cock and wrapping his arms around her waist. She shifted, pushing harder back against him although all of her attention was seemingly still on the pancakes she was flipping in the pan. Like she couldn’t feel him.
“Good morning, baby,” Alex managed to speak finally, his lips against her neck.
“Morning,” Jamie answered, turning enough to give him a peck on the cheek, and Alex groaned low in his throat when her ass rubbed against him again.
She rolled her hips, slow and easy, and it was all he could do not to bend her right over the counter. The fact that she was standing in front of a hot stove was the only thing that stopped him.
“You had better finish with those pancakes in about ten seconds, Mrs. Reid,” he growled against her ear. “Because either way I’m dragging you out of this kitchen.”
Jamie shuddered against him, all the way down to her toes.
“I guess you’ll have to eat cold pancakes then,” she answered, but she turned off the heat.
The minute it was off Alex’s hand was around her wrist, tugging her toward the living room and the couch. He wasn’t going to wait until they got upstairs. He sat down, pulling her forward into his lap, and she laughed.
“We have a room, you know.”
“And it’s a very nice room,” Alex said, leaning in to kiss her, slow and hard. Her mouth opened to him, sweet and easy, and he settled one hand on the small of her back, dragging her in closer. When he broke the kiss, they were both panting. “It’s also very, very far away, and I’m not going to waste my time going up there when we have a perfectly nice couch right here.”
Jamie laughed, and he silenced her with another kiss, his lips against hers and then moving down, over the curve of her throat. His hands curled around her hips. When they slid down, smoothing over the fabric of the shirt to the warmth of her thighs, he stilled. He then moved his hands under the shirt, slid up until he was sure she was panty-less. His cock jumped in his boxers when his fingers slid over just skin.
