She’s a makeup artist’s wet dream.
But Sloane’s translucent skin tone is a different kind of challenge and one I’ll overcome if it kills me.
“She’s just jealous,” I tell Sloane. “After all, the clearest and most radiant skin is the kind that never sees the sun.”
“Yeah, radiant enough to blind a person,” Gretchen quips as she scrolls through her phone. “We hang you up on the ceiling, babe, you could be a disco ball.”
“Remind me to kill her later, would you?” Sloane groans to me.
I chuckle. “Set an alarm on your phone.”
When the front door opens, I don’t bother glancing up at the sing-song voice that fills the room. “Honey, I’m home.”
I sigh up at the ceiling fan for patience. “Why is it every time he says that it sounds like a threat?”
Sloane coughs into her fist to disguise her laughter.
West nods at my friends. “Gretchen, Sloane. Always a pleasure.” When he meets my eyes, the charm disappears and is replaced by cordiality. “Harper.”
How we’ve managed to make it an entire month like this, I’ll never know.
After that night in the bathroom, we called an informal ceasefire to the constant quarrelling and deliberate rule breaking. The next day, I found a humongous box of chocolate-peanut butter granola bars waiting for me on the kitchen table, but West never said a word about it. No note, nothing. Since then, we’ve avoided each other at the house—as much as possible—and have been nothing but polite for the past four weeks.
And it’s infinitely worse than before.
I would rather fight with him. Biting each other’s heads off is better than getting this impassive, hollowed out version of West. The version that is obviously being kept on a leash, preventing him from saying or doing what he really wants. At least when it comes to me.
Only another three and a half months of this to go.
My chin notches up in greeting. “West.”
“Hey, all the information you asked for is in that folder on the table,” Gretchen calls out to him, nodding in the direction of the kitchen.
West picks up the manila folder and starts combing through it, eyes flying over the documents inside.
“The final page lists both quotes you requested,” she continues. “Top number is for a full local tourism ad campaign. Billboards, yellow pages, social media, pamphlets for the Visitor Centers, etc. The number on the bottom is for the commercial charter ad campaign. Since the target audience for that one is more defined, the costs aren’t as great. The campaign wouldn’t have to be as far-reaching as the general tourism one.”
West nods, wheels turning behind his eyelids.
Something icky oozes through my veins, like the kind of sludgy mud your shoes get stuck in after heavy rainfall.
I know he went to Gretchen a while back—before we broke up—about possibly hiring the advertising firm she works for to create an ad campaign for the business he’s trying to get off the ground, Charleston Helicopter Tours. The guy West has been working for offers quick, ten-minute flights down at Patriot’s Point and has been mostly doing it for the past fifteen years as a side cash gig. He owns a couple of other businesses and doesn’t really need the income from small-time helicopter tours to sustain himself. But West wants to take it over from him and turn it into an incorporated company.
Although this commercial charter thing they’re talking about is new. I have no idea what that’s about. And I’m irrationally bothered by the fact that Gretchen now knows more about what’s going on his life than I do.
When West asks her some questions about expenses and they start talking logistics, I try to tune them out. Ridiculous, I know. There’s no ignoring West’s deep rumble, but I give it the ‘ol college try.
“That second tab there is some market research for the commercial charters,” Gretchen adds. “It assess the viability and sustainability of a helicopter charter service in this area.”
He peeks up from the folder, quirking an eyebrow at her. “These numbers look good.”
She grins. “They do. I think offering flights to business executives and the wealthy in this area is a great idea. Moreover, it’s needed. If you were to fly to Columbia, Charlotte, Atlanta, Savannah, Hilton Head… I mean, there’s some serious potential business there. Think about how many business headquarters are in Atlanta alone. And those companies have warehouses all over this area, especially near the Charleston and Savannah ports. Not to mention, how many of those executives have houses on Hilton Head and Kiawah Island? I guarantee you most of them would rather skip the hassle of an airport and take a helicopter.”
“Are you saying I should nix the tours and go strictly commercial charters?” he asks.
“I’m saying there’s probably more money in a charter service,” she counters. “Companies could hire you on an annual, contractual basis. Now, I’m not a money guru and I don’t know helicopters, so you’d have to talk to a financial adviser and work out all the expenses. Fuel, maintenance, insurance, etc. But even my boss said the business is there. He has clients in Columbia and Charlotte he has to regularly meet with. He said he’d be your first passenger if all the numbers add up.”
There it is again.
Every time Gretchen mentions her boss, her face contorts into a scowl. Even the word boss is spat out like a curse or an oath. I have my theories on what it means, and I know Sloane is curious about our friend’s caustic attitude toward the man. I think we’re reaching the point where we’re just going to have to strap her to a chair and methodically torture her for answers.
Otherwise, she’s likely to never spill her guts.
Gretchen is a pretty closed book when it comes to her private emotions and inner thoughts. Her military father didn’t exactly facilitate an open-door policy with sharing one’s feelings. She was raised to deal with that shit on her own, in her own head, no matter how often we’ve encouraged her that her friends are here to help her deal.
West’s eyes light up at her words, intensifying the growing ache in my chest. “Seriously? He’d actually hire me?”
“Hell, yeah. If not, I’d do it for him.” She sneers. “He’s constantly bitching about ‘crowded flights’ and ‘disorganized airlines.’ He’d pay good money to avoid major airports. And trust me, he’s got the capital to do it.”
“That makes one of us,” West mutters under his breath, but I hear the words.
And I frown.
Starting his own business was something he spoke frequently about during the short time we dated. I loved hearing him talk so enthusiastically about his love for flying. But over the past two and a half months, he hasn’t once brought the subject up with me. And why would he? We’re nothing but roommates now. Roommates who barely tolerate each other.
Hell, are we even friends?
I guess we never really were to begin with. We went from strangers to lovers in the blink of an eye, then from exes to roommates in the very next blink.
“I really appreciate this,” he tells Gretchen, holding up the folder. “Thank you. I’ll let you know what I decide to do.”
“Happy to help.”
After West leaves and closes himself inside his room, Sloane and I sit there staring at our friend.
Gretchen looks between us. “What?”
“You need to pick a side,” Sloane says in a chiding tone.
Gretchen turns to me. “Hey, I asked you after you guys broke up if you were still okay with me doing that work for him. You said you were.”
I focus back on blending Sloane’s foundation, desperate for the distraction. “I know I did. And I still am. It’s just weird.”
“If it makes you feel any better, he told me not to worry about it after the breakup. Said he’d figure something else out. And when I told him you were cool with it, he acted slightly irritated. Like he was annoyed or something.”
I feel my forehead scrunch. “He did?”
That doesn’t make any sense.
>
“Yeah. Like he was agitated that it didn’t bother you if he continued speaking to any of your friends. It was almost as if he wanted you to be mad about it. Or at least care.”
I squint down at the makeup in my hands, thoughts whirling around in my head. “Like I said, it’s weird. But it’s just business, right? Nothing personal. I can be okay with that.”
Gretchen holds up a finger. “You forgot to also mention that I know the shit out of advertising, so it’s no wonder he wants to hire me.”
“Why would I bother when you tell yourself that at least twenty times a day?”
“More like fifty,” Sloane throws out. “Is boss man not kissing your ass enough or something?”
Gretchen scoffs. “More like he expects me to kiss his ass. Thinks he’s God’s gift to all womankind, the bastard.”
“I’ve never seen anyone get this kind of reaction out of you,” Sloane comments, sending me a knowing wink.
Gretchen pushes up from the couch to her feet. “Yeah, well, I’ve never worked with someone whose head is that far up his ass before. You got any alcohol in this place?”
“Check the milk carton.”
Their heads both snap in my direction.
“Don’t ask. There’s an open bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, too.”
“That’ll work.”
I finish applying the finished foundation blend to Sloane’s skin and lean back to examine her overall tone. “I need to do a little more tweaking to the consistency because it’s going on a little thick.” I hold up my mirror in front of her. “But what do you think?”
She gasps. “Oh, wow. Where the hell did my blemishes go? And the dark circles under my eyes? Harp, you’re a freaking miracle worker!”
The smile that breaks out on my face is so big it hurts. “Stop before you make me cry.”
She stretches her skin out, looking closer at the mirror in amazement. “I will totally pay you to make me more of this stuff. Seriously.”
I wave her off. “You don’t need to pay me anything. I’m happy to do it.”
She lowers the mirror and grabs my wrist. “No, Harp, I mean it. I want to pay you. The quality of your products would be crazy expensive on the market. And you’re using your own personal time and pocket money to make all of this. You deserve to earn something for it. This is your hard work.”
I squirm, uncomfortable with her adamant praise. “We’ll talk about it later.”
My phone rings from where it sits on the coffee table. I reach over and answer it, immediately putting it on speakerphone. “Sup, Seabiscuit.”
“Conference call me in, bitches,” Quinn says in greeting.
Gretchen peeks around the kitchen cabinets. “Is that Quinnie the Pooh I hear? Hey, horse whisperer! How goes life out in the wilderness?”
Quinn grunts over the line. “It’s hardly the wilderness, Gretch. I’m living on the grounds of a multimillion-dollar estate. The grass here gets more manicures than I do.”
Gretchen holds up her glass of white wine in a cheers gesture. “In other news, we need to discuss our plans for Labor Day weekend.” She takes a sip—
And wine spews out of her like Old Faithful.
She becomes a blur of brown and burgundy as she lunges for the sink to stick her mouth directly under the running faucet. After swishing water around for a few seconds, she spits it down the drain and shoots me a death glare.
“What the hell, Harp! Is there fucking vinegar in your wine?”
It takes me a second.
“Are you serious, West?” I yell.
He barks out a laugh from inside his room before cracking his door open. He sticks his head through, grinning widely. “Sorry, Gretch. That was meant for Princess Harper over there.”
His gaze shifts to me for a few meaningful seconds, grin dropping. Then his head disappears, and he shuts his door again.
I bite my lip in an effort to contain my foolish smile.
Okay. So, we’re not really flirting now. We’re barely even speaking.
But we’re still pranking.
And that’s something.
Since when the hell do you want anything? You’re supposed to want nothing from him!
“Oh, this boy just barked up the wrong tree,” Gretchen seethes from the kitchen. “I want in on this action. Harp, I’m going to need a list of everything he’s allergic to.”
“And I’m going to need to hang up before I have to testify in court,” Quinn announces.
“Too late. You’re already complicit. Let’s talk ideas.”
My devious streak perks its ears as I rub my hands together.
Maybe the next three and a half months won’t be so bad, after all.
Mmm, that was a lie.
The next three and a half months are going to suck balls.
Because the longer I live with West, the longer I’m forced to go without sex, and the hornier I become. It’s a natural progression.
Especially when he walks in on me in the shower.
And he’s shirtless.
He stops on a dime, like he just walked into an invisible brick wall. His gaze falls to my chest that I immediately covered with my towel the second the door burst open.
“I-I’m sorry,” he stammers, eyes still locked on my naked body as if the towel isn’t even there.
But I guess the towel is a bit superfluous. It’s not like he has to use his imagination to picture me naked. He can just go by memory.
“I didn’t think—” He stops, clearly still in shock. “You usually lock it when you’re in here.”
A valid point. Yes, I did forget to lock the door before I got in the shower. The text I received from my mother as I entered the bathroom kind of had me distracted. And because this is an older house, the bathroom door tends to frequently swing shut on its own, so you always have to test the lock before entering.
“It’s okay,” I say shakily. I feel ridiculously exposed here. “I’ll just be a few more minutes. Then it’s all yours.”
The terry cloth towel is plastered to my body as water sluices down my bare flesh, my still-dripping hair falling around my shoulders. I know my skin has to be a rosy pink, too, from the scalding hot water.
While he… Ah, flyboy.
He’s bare-chested, rippling abs winking at me, biceps flexing as he fists his hands at his sides. His black lounge pants sit low on his hips, the waistband of his Under Armour briefs peeking out the top. His brown hair is tousled, clearly having just woken up and stumbled out of bed. And the few tattoos scattered over his upper right arm somehow look even more lickable under the bathroom’s fluorescent lights.
And how could I forget about his dark treasure trail? Nestled right below his belly button, the bottom portion of it dipping beneath those pants.
Dammit, it would be so much easier if I couldn’t remember exactly what he looks like naked. I’m talking every hair follicle, the way every muscle twitches when he moves. Most specifically, the way his cock looks jutting out from that thatch of dark hair when it’s fully hard.
“What?” he asks absently. He sounds like he’s in a trance as his gaze traces a path down my legs. “What’s all mine?”
My heartbeat takes off at a gallop. “The shower. I said I’m almost done.”
His dazed eyes finally snap back up to mine. “Right. Yeah. Um…sorry again.
With an abrupt spin, he’s gone in a flurry of hot, half-naked man.
I sag back against the tiled wall.
I’m wet between my legs now, but it has nothing to do with the shower I just took.
That ass face, he did this on purpose.
It’s later in the afternoon when I’m exiting my bedroom, and I literally smack right into West as he’s leaving the bathroom. And because my life has turned into one improbable sitcom episode after another, the only thing he’s wearing is the precariously-placed white towel slung low around his hips.
“Sorry,” he says with a crooked grin. “I forgot m
y clothes. Thought I could make it to my bedroom before you left yours.”
Yeah, he doesn’t sound all that sorry. What a giant coinky-dink that we’re both stepping into the hallway at the exact same time.
His skin is glistening, for Christ’s sake. Did he even bother to dry off in there?
I snap my mouth shut when I feel like drool is about to drip down my chin. But I can’t seem to peel my eyes off his chest. The hard edges. The toned angles. The even tan. The dark tattoos on his arm. The—
His finger is thrust into my line of vision and crooks. “Up here, princess.”
His voice draws my attention northward. My eyes narrow when I reach his amused expression. I get the distinct impression he’s doing this to get back at me for this morning. But I’m not the one who burst in on myself in the shower, thank you very much. I never invited him into that bathroom.
His upper lip curls. “Still like what you see?”
Smug bastard.
“Is there a reason you’re still standing here naked?”
He props his hand against the bathroom door frame. “I don’t remember that being one of your rules. After all, I’m walking around my house, wearing—or not wearing—whatever I want since I live here, too. It’s not my problem if you can’t handle that.” He cocks his head to the side. “Isn’t that how it went, princess?”
That’s how he’s going to play this, huh?
Guess the ceasefire is over.
I’m about to open the floodgates for every smartass comment and four-letter word in my repertoire—
But I have to bite my tongue, hard. Insulting him will get me nowhere, and I actually need his…help. Again.
Yeesh, this is going to be painful.
I give my eyes the express order to stay trained on his. Can’t have them crossing the border in my moment of vulnerability. But the way his dark, wet hair frames his face is almost as distracting as the way his abs tighten every time he takes a breath. His hair isn’t as cropped as it was when I first met him. Barely brushing his ears now, it’s a mid-length that admittedly, looks even better than before.
“It appears you have a better memory than you claim,” I can’t help but point out. For him to remember my every word from two months ago… “But I actually have a favor to ask.”
The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2) Page 10
