The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2)

by Melanie Munton

  Somehow, he’s managed to put me at ease. So much so that I’m finding it irresistible to open up about this, in a way that I never have to anyone else. Not even to my girls.

  “If I did that—quit my job at the Foundation and started my own cosmetics company—then I would ostracize myself from the only family I have,” I admit. “My mother would disown me, and Violet would by association. How can I turn my back on them like that? I may not have grown up with overly loving parents, but they still gave me everything else I needed. So much more than most kids have. I don’t take that for granted.”

  He leans forward to set his beer down on the coffee table and props his elbows on his knees. “No offense, Harper, but you’re a little too selfless sometimes. You don’t owe your mother for the rest of your life, just because she gave birth to you. Parents are supposed to want to see their kids grow up and live their own lives. To find their own success and happiness.”

  My mother must have missed that day of parent orientation.

  Because that credo was certainly never emphasized in her household. Under her regime, she was the dictator, and God help you if you didn’t follow orders.

  This is one shining aspect of West’s character that first attracted me to him. The fact that he doesn’t give a shit about everything I was raised to care about. To center my life around. I knew when I met him that I didn’t have to maintain some perfect image. Didn’t have to worry about being scrutinized for my everyday decisions. Being myself has always been enough for him.

  Unless, of course, I’m friends with Shae.

  Then apparently, I don’t have good judgment, and I’m too weak to stand up for myself.

  That reminder hardens my resolve.

  “What’s happening with the charter service?” I ask. “Any progress?”

  Despite our tumultuous relationship, I admire him for having the guts to do what I clearly can’t. Or won’t.

  Sensing the topic of my pursuits is deader than a doornail, he picks up his beer and drains the rest of it. “Some. The helicopter I fly now, the one my boss owns, is in good shape, so I told him I’d buy it from him. He knows I’m trying to start my own company and said he’d give me a deal on it. But even at his discounted price, I still need a pretty sizeable loan from the bank. And, well, they’re not exactly jumping at the opportunity to loan me money right now. Said I’m high risk, considering I don’t have much capital or anything in the way of collateral.”

  He picks at the label on his bottle, acting almost…self-conscious. “And obviously, I can’t run a charter service without a helicopter. If I can somehow get that squared away, then I’ll be able to apply for a new business license. Then there’s the Part 135 certificate with the FAA, not to mention a shit ton of other aviation licenses and local operating certifications I’ll have to have. So…overall, I’d say I’m off to a good start.”

  That draws a laugh from me.

  My next words tumble out of my mouth before I even realize my mind formed them. “At least you’re going for it. I’m really happy you are.”

  His gaze lifts and clashes with mine. “I hope you know I’m always here if you need anything.” His voice is so…poignant. “I mean, I don’t know dick about makeup. But I’ll always do whatever I can to help you, Harper.”

  When did it get so hot in here? It feels like I just stepped into a sauna. The air in the room suddenly feels thick and moist. Heavy with temptation. Misty with unresolved emotion. There’s a buzz of sensuality swirling in the air, settling over our bodies like dew on an early dawn.

  This is getting too serious.

  I know I have to get out of here whenever I feel my chest concave like a sinkhole opening up in the earth.

  “I appreciate that,” I say in a too-cheery voice as I rise to my feet. “I’m actually pretty tired. Long day, you know? Think I’m going to turn in.”

  I don’t wait for a response.

  But I do grab the sangria pitcher on the way to my bedroom.

  Because that conversation in no way relaxed me.

  “What’s all this?”

  I hear West’s voice, but I don’t look up from what I’m doing at the kitchen table. I tell myself it’s so I don’t break my concentration. But deep down, it’s really because I don’t want to see how good he looks today. It’s weird. His work “uniform” is nothing more than a white polo and flat-front khaki shorts. But he fills out that polo so well.

  And those aviator sunglasses…

  I don’t even have to look at him for my nipples to harden.

  “Work,” is the only answer I give him.

  When he bypasses me on his way to the kitchen, I’m grateful he doesn’t graze my body with his.

  “When you’ve said you have to do work from home, I thought you’ve meant stuff for the Foundation.”

  I remove the glass beaker I’m using to melt down the mixture of beeswax, cocoa butter, and coconut oil from the small pot on top of the Bunsen burner. To the mixture, I add a pinch of beet root powder for the right hue, one-eighth teaspoon of bentonite clay for a matte texture, another one-eighth teaspoon of cinnamon, and a tiny drop of freesia essential oil for scent.

  I’m making a new shade of lipstick.

  “I told you I make my own cosmetics,” I murmur, focusing on the dropper I’m using to add the ingredient mixture into the empty lipstick container.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t realize you actually make it make it.” He waves down at my work station covering the table. “Like, from scratch. I didn’t know the process was this involved.”

  “Yep.”

  I glance up at the mess I’ve made and wince. Glass containers, droppers, scattered notes, and loose powder litters the table’s surface. “Don’t worry, I’m not breaking my own rule. I’ll clean all of this up as soon as I’m done. It’s just difficult to do this in my room where there’s no hard surface.”

  When he goes silent for more than ten seconds, I muster up the courage to peek through my lowered eyelids.

  He’s looking at me in…awe.

  Kind of like he did that first day in the market.

  He walks his fingers over my notebook that has tons of chemical formulas scribbled over its wrinkled pages. “This is impressive.”

  I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. “It’s no big deal. I’ve always had a knack for chemistry.”

  “Okay, I know what you said the other night about this being a hobby and not a career, but have you at least tried to sell this stuff?”

  I briefly consider the reasons why I never discussed something so personal with him when we were dating. About how having my own line some day is my ultimate dream. I guess it’s because I wanted to make sure I could trust him before I divulged inner desires I’ve never even shared with my best friends. Not that those career plans will ever come to fruition—it’s turning into a pipe dream at this point. But unburdening something so close to your heart peels off a layer of skin, leaving you feeling raw and vulnerable.

  And it’s not that I didn’t trust West when we were a couple.

  It’s that I hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to expose myself like that.

  “They’re not exactly professionally-made products,” I say, hedging his question. “I make them more for friends, or if I just get inspired. It’s like someone who scrapbooks or makes candles. Plus, it saves me money in the long run.”

  “I think you’re full of shit, princess.”

  My head whips up. “Excuse me?”

  He doesn’t even flinch at my acidic tone. “Your eyes never light up like this when you go to your job every day.”

  My mouth firms. “That’s because jobs aren’t really supposed to be fun, are they? They’re necessary. Hobbies are fun because they aren’t necessary.”

  He tucks his tongue in his cheek, looking so breathtakingly gorgeous I want to slap him right across the face. It actually pisses me off how easily he can turn me on without even trying.

  “Are you too afraid to quit your job and branch ou
t on your own? Or are you too afraid of your mother?”

  My lungs fill with angry smoke that’s going to start steaming out of my ears if I’m not careful. “I’m not going to answer that.”

  “You don’t have to. I can read you better than you think, princess.”

  Oh, please don’t let that be true.

  Otherwise, I’ve embarrassed myself a million times over in front of him.

  “Rule number two.”

  He nods slowly without breaking our eye contact. “I know.”

  “Then why do you keep breaking it?”

  His nostrils flare. “Because it makes you look at me with something other than indifference.”

  “You would rather have me angry?”

  “I would rather have you affected.”

  I can sense he wants me to ask why, but I refuse to give in to the temptation. My emotions are already tangled up in the worst kind of rat’s nest. The kind that no amount of conditioner will ever smooth out.

  Instead, I lower my head back to my work. But all that’s left to be done is to wait for the liquid inside the container to cool before I can test the finished product, which will probably take around a half hour. So, I decide to use cleaning up my mess as an excuse to end the conversation. Hell, I’ll clean out the garbage disposal with my bare hands right now if it’ll distract me from salivating at the sight of him in that damn polo and those damn aviator sunglasses hanging from his damn collar.

  Turning my back on him, I stand up and collect all the beakers and bowls to be washed. He backs out of my way when I breeze past him to the sink. Taking the hint that I’m not going to re-engage our escalating discussion, I hear him leave the kitchen moments later, followed by the opening and closing of his bedroom door.

  I place my hands on the counter to steady myself against the lightheadedness that swarms me. Whether it’s caused by West and his intoxicating aroma or—

  Dammit, I forgot to eat dinner.

  I got so into my work, I once again lost track of time. I really need to stop doing that. But because I’m honestly not very hungry, I eat some of the pineapple I sliced up yesterday.

  By the time I’ve cleaned up the table and washed all the dishes, the lipstick has hardened into a solid mass inside the slim container. I twist the end to examine the color, pleased to see that it turned out pretty well. A bright red that should match the exact shade of the dress I bought for the Foundation Gala.

  I’m reaching for a knife to slice the tip into an angle that will conform to my lips when the tube is snatched out of my hands.

  “Hey! Give that back.”

  How did I not hear him leave his bedroom?

  West runs his eyes over the rich color before lifting it to his nose and sniffing.

  He groans. “Jesus. You realize this smells like fucking Fruit Loops?”

  “And honey,” I add softly, my vocal cords operating on auto-pilot. He’s standing so close that my voice pitched lower without thought. “I added freesia oil to it.”

  His gaze heats considerably as it lowers to my parted lips. “I want to see it on you.”

  I swallow.

  His masculine rasp of a voice consumes me, like it does every time things get sexual between us. Shoot, he could recite the maintenance manual to his helicopter cover-to-cover, and his voice would still pull me under like a drug.

  “What makes you think I’d give you anything you want?”

  “Because you want to see what I’ll do once it is on you.”

  I must have glue on the bottom of my feet because I can’t move. Not a single inch.

  “That’s not a good idea,” I whisper. “I thought we agreed to keep our distance.”

  “We sleep twenty feet from each other. I’d say that’s about as much distance as we’re going to get in this house.”

  A knot takes shape in my esophagus as he moves closer, directing the tube of lipstick at my neck. His hand stills just before the red tip kisses my flesh.

  “Are there any chemicals in this?”

  My head twitches in a barely perceptible shake. “No. I only use all-natural products.”

  The next thing I feel is the smooth slide of the lipstick trailing down the length of my neck. Immobile, I watch his fascinated expression darken, features slackening, as he drags the tip over my skin.

  “You know how I said I like adventure stories about lost treasure?” he breathes, head lowered over my skin.

  That voice. It’s going to lull me into a sex-crazed coma.

  “Um…yeah.”

  “Well, you see.” He drags the lipstick toward my collarbone, adding curves and twists to the pattern. “Most of those stories usually involve a map. The explorer has to follow the map in order to find the treasure.”

  He draws more red lines, more red shapes, as the tube moves back up toward my jawline. Against my better judgment, I crane my neck to give him wider access. He makes a low sound of approval.

  “But you’ve got the sweetest treasure right here. Don’t you, princess? Rubies and emeralds can’t touch your riches, can they? This is the kind of wealth men kill each other over.”

  My mouth falls open when he traces the shell of my ear with his new toy. It almost tickles, the feather-light sensation causing goosebumps to sprout along my flesh. Though that’s nothing compared to the feeling of his hot breath following the same path.

  “I was once in possession of all that wealth.” His teeth scrape my earlobe. “I was the richest man on the fucking planet. But I let it slip away. Lost all of it.” There’s a distinct edge to his voice with that sentence. “So, if I’m going to go on a treasure hunt, I’ll need a new map. Won’t I?”

  The warm, wet glide of his tongue as it runs along the path of red from collarbone to jaw fires off shockwaves of arousal throughout my body.

  I suck in a sharp breath.

  The flat of his tongue licks up the lipstick like it’s candy. Or a lollipop. Like I’m his favorite sweet.

  “Christ,” he growls against my heated skin. “It tastes like Fruit Loops, too. And…fucking cinnamon.”

  I can barely breathe, let alone speak, when he closes the distance between our bodies and mashes his stiff erection against my center. When my head lolls back on my shoulders out of reflex, his hand is there to cradle it, holding it up for more of his oral attention.

  I shouldn’t be letting this happen.

  I can’t let things get too comfortably intimate between us again. He’s not the right guy for me. He’s a good person, he’s fun to be around—when you don’t have to live with him—and he’s got the kind of mouth that leaves your bones quaking by the time it’s through with you.

  But we just don’t fit.

  He’s too pushy, too altruistic when it comes to the way he thinks the world is supposed to operate. He doesn’t understand it’s not that simple for everyone. You can’t just snap your fingers and have complete and total control over your life, I don’t care what all those self-help books say. Be your own person, be true to yourself, stand up for what you believe in…all that’s good and well. But familial obligations and traditions supersede selfishness.

  That’s how my world works.

  Oh, just shut up and let him bang you into next week.

  Hm. I don’t remember inviting the demon slut to this particular party.

  Don’t expect an R.S.V.P., bitch.

  “I can’t tell which is a better shade of red on you,” he whispers right over the pulse point in my neck as he fists my ponytail. “The red of your lipstick, or the red of your soft, supple skin after I do this.”

  His mouth opens over that pulse point and sucks.

  My eyes roll back, my teeth clamping down on my lower lip in a silent moan.

  Cool air blows over the damp skin when he pulls back. “It’s just a touch pinker than the lipstick. Almost rosy. Both are pretty, but I might be partial to this color.” His lips hover over my ear. “Because I know my mouth did that.”

  His breathing turns uneven as
he brings the lipstick back to my body. He draws a line down to my cleavage, stopping just above the neckline of my tank top.

  He meets my eyes for three long seconds.

  Waiting for me to stop him?

  I slap my hand onto the nape of his neck and shove his face against my chest. I don’t even know what I’m doing at this point, and only a fraction of me cares.

  His mouth latches onto me on a groan. My heavy panting causes my breasts to undulate in his face, making him growl. As much as I’m dying for him to touch me, cup me in his hands like a feast on a platter he’s about to devour, I know it’s best that his free hand remains clenched at his side.

  If we take this too far, there might not be any going back.

  You might have already passed the point of no-return, my friend.

  No, I haven’t. I can stop this at any time, and we’ll go back to hating each other. I’m just not ready to do that yet.

  His tongue hungrily laps up the line of lipstick he’s left between and across the swell of my breasts. Before either of us realize what’s happening, our lower halves have started rocking into each other, creating a grinding friction.

  But even after I realize it, I can’t stop it.

  I don’t want to.

  His hardness feels too sensational against my dripping sex, even through all our clothing. Why would I ever want this to stop? Why would anyone?

  His hand lowers to my waist, his fingers slipping beneath the material of my tank. He traces the waistband of my cotton shorts back and forth a few times before his knees hit the floor. My gaze follows his dark head of brown hair, his face now even with my belly button. Dropping his forehead to my stomach, he blindly shoves up my top and haphazardly draws a messy line of red down the middle of my torso, stopping several inches below my belly button.

  The urge to run my fingers through his hair is almost as insistent as the urge to shove his shorts down and take him into my body. But that act somehow feels too intimate. Like the act of him licking me from head to toe isn’t intimate enough.