Breaking the Bro Code

by Stefanie London

  ‘You’re the only woman I know who would sound so excited about having a man make her cry.’ He smiled, lacing his fingers in hers.

  ‘I am excited. I thought I was doing the right thing by letting you go back to the States. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to live up to what you need.’

  ‘And what do you need, Ellie? It’s not all about me.’

  ‘A push. I know I’m not perfect, but I’m going to try. I need you to keep pushing me.’

  Her mind switched to thoughts more illicit and heat bloomed in her cheeks.

  ‘Anything else?’ He cocked a brow, clearly noticing her change of thought.

  ‘Multiple orgasms?’

  A smile tugged at the corners of his lips and he ran a hand along his stubbled jaw. ‘I thought they affected your judgement.’

  ‘I want to be affected.’ She blinked the moisture from her eyes. ‘I want to be vulnerable and passionate and all those things I’ve been afraid of up until now.’

  He stood, scooping her up in his arms. His lips crushed down to hers with burning intensity, he opened her up, took from her the passion he deserved and that she wanted to give for the rest of her life. He pressed her back against the elevator wall.

  ‘Are you going to miss your plane?’ she asked, pressing her face against his neck.

  He shrugged. ‘There will be another one.’

  ‘How are we going to make it work? I can’t leave Mum here by herself.’

  He pressed his lips to her temple. ‘I love you, Ellie. That’s how it will work.’

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his face close to hers. ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Besides, I can afford my own plane.’ He laughed. ‘And I’ll move my whole goddamn company here if that’s what it takes.’

  ‘You can do that?’ Warmth spread through her, loosening her limbs so that she melted against him. For the first time in her life she felt exposed and protected at the same time. She knew deep down in her heart she would do everything in her power to make Col feel loved and that he would unravel her insecurities bit by bit.

  ‘I can do anything now.’ He pressed his hand against her lower back, drawing her to him. ‘Now let’s find somewhere we can get started on those orgasms.’

  EPILOGUE

  For someone who’d spent the past week relocating his office from one continent to another, Col was surprisingly energised. In record time he’d sourced a new location in Melbourne’s central business district for his company headquarters, set up a satellite office in New York to make sure all of his workers still had a job and moved his personal effects from his apartment to Elise’s unit. They would look for a new place, of course, but there were other more important matters to attend to first.

  He patted the bulging pocket of his dress trousers where a small, velvet box was hidden. His palms were slick but he’d never felt so sure about anything in his whole life. Tonight he was going to propose to Elise Johnson, and there was not a shred of doubt in his mind how she would feel about it. He bit back a grin.

  ‘I wish Jasmine and Grant would arrive so we can order,’ Elise said, fiddling with her cutlery. ‘I missed lunch today and I’m starving.’

  ‘She texted me before. It sounds like her rehearsals ran overtime.’ Missy sat across from Col and Elise, her red hair gleaming in the restaurant’s cosy lighting.

  As if on cue Jasmine rushed into the restaurant, cheeks pink and hair in a slick ballerina bun. Her fiancé, Grant Farley, was close behind.

  ‘I’m so sorry we’re late,’ Jasmine said. ‘The director’s working us to the bone.’

  ‘Only one week till opening night,’ Grant added, slipping Jasmine’s coat from her shoulders and slinging it over the back of her chair.

  The pair settled down and the three girls immediately started talking about the ballet studio’s upcoming cabaret night. Col watched Elise, enamoured with the way her grey eyes sparkled when she talked about her studio, which, thanks to a little financial planning, was starting to thrive again.

  ‘They’re always talking shop, these girls.’ Grant chuckled. ‘Such workaholics.’

  The conversation dimmed as a waiter arrived at their table to deliver a bottle of champagne and take everyone’s orders. Col grabbed the bottle from the ice bucket and eased the cork out with a satisfying pop. The girls immediately held their flutes out for the sparkling liquid.

  ‘Yes, please!’ Elise said with a bright smile on her face.

  ‘Don’t skimp either,’ replied Missy. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  Once the bubbles were distributed Col took a deep breath and stood up. ‘I’d like to make a toast.’

  Elise looked at him curiously. Toasts were not his thing, in fact this would be the first toast he’d ever made, but a lot had changed since he’d taken the stage at the technology conference three months ago. Public speaking still made him nervous, but if he were to feel comfortable declaring anything in public, his love for Elise would be it.

  The table waited for him to speak, champagne flutes at the ready.

  ‘Elise and I organised this dinner to celebrate the move of my company to Melbourne and to say thank you for keeping the ballet studio going while she was helping me in New York.’ Col drew a slow breath. ‘But I have a different agenda for calling you here tonight.’

  The table was so silent you could have heard a pin drop and the ambient noise of the restaurant faded away into nothingness. All Col could hear was the intake of breath from Elise, who looked up at him with saucer-like eyes.

  ‘Not too long ago the idea of standing up to give a toast in the middle of a restaurant would have made me run a mile. However, if it weren’t for that fear I might never have been desperate enough to come to Elise for help.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, Col,’ she said, rolling her eyes. The table chuckled and Col winked at Elise.

  ‘Elise has helped me a lot over the years,’ Col continued, his tone suddenly serious. ‘And I’d like to think that more recently I’ve helped her as well.’

  Elise nodded vigorously. ‘You have.’

  Col slipped the velvet box from his pocket and got down on one knee. Her breath hitched as she looked from Col to the box and back again. Inside, nestled in plush satin, was a diamond solitaire surrounded by small emeralds that trailed down the sides of the band. He’d known the second he laid eyes on it that it was perfect for her. Beautiful yet different.

  ‘Elise, I want us to keep helping each other. I want us to help one another be the best versions of ourselves.’

  Tears sparkled in her eyes. She was as still as a statue, her face alight with joy. He would propose to her again and again if only to be rewarded with that look.

  ‘Will you marry me, Elise Johnson?’

  A tear slid down her cheek. ‘Yes.’

  He stood and slipped the ring onto her finger, the thudding of his heart even louder than the cheers coming from their table and from the tables around them.

  ‘You didn’t have to do it in public,’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘I respect that you’re a private person.’

  ‘I know.’ He brought his lips down to hers, breaking away to laugh when Grant let out a loud wolf whistle. ‘But I wanted to make sure your judgement wasn’t clouded.’

  ‘Is that so?’ A sly smile spread over her lips.

  ‘And if we were home alone...’ he bent his head to whisper in her ear ‘...nothing could possibly have stopped me pleasuring you until you didn’t have a coherent thought left in your head.’

  ‘Judgement is overrated.’ She bit down on her lower lip, eyes glimmering. ‘Put me down for an extra-large order of incoherence.’

  ‘Anything for you, Ellie.’

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from BETWEEN THE ITALIAN’
S SHEETS by Natalie Anderson

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  ONE

  Arrogance personified. Emily stared at him, her temper going from sizzling to spitting hot. He stood right in front of her, with the height of a basketball star, and shoulders the breadth of a rugby prop. A man mountain, a mighty example of the male in physical prime. Totally obscuring her view. Totally commanding attention.

  Typical.

  Worse than that, he had one of those fancy phone gadgets that did everything—not merely phone calls, but music, web connection, camera—the works. And every time he pushed the buttons they beeped. Loudly. The overture was about to begin, and Emily found the rapid succession of beeps incredibly annoying.

  Pointedly, she cleared her throat.

  She had not spent the last year working crazy hours, scrimping and saving every last cent to get her sister and herself all the way to Italy and to this fabulous opera only for the moment to be ruined by some selfish jerk who thought his social life was more important than the live performance about to unfold. More important than showing some respect to the other people there who wanted to appreciate the evening.

  She cleared her throat again.

  Fractionally he turned, threw a quick glance her way, but the beeping didn’t stop. Rather it was the cacophony of trills and fragments of well-known phrases that ceased as under the direction of the lead violinist the orchestra stilled. Then came the lone note from the oboe to which the other instruments would tune. But did that stop him? No. The purity of the sound was shattered by the relentless beeping.

  Any minute now the conductor would walk out and applause would greet him. Beeps didn’t constitute applause. Beeps were annoying. And she couldn’t see through him.

  She glared at his back now as well as clearing her throat once more. A tailored jacket hung from those doorframe-wide shoulders, one hand on his hip pulling the jacket back, emphasising the narrowing of his torso to a slim waist and hips. She knew there were serious muscles under the white shirt and dark trousers. She’d watched as he’d walked up from the super-expensive seats. He was hard not to notice, taller than almost all the people there. From the front she’d seen the way his shirt neatly tucked into his trousers with not an ounce of anything unnecessary—like fat—rippling the smooth, straight stretch of white cotton. Well dressed, good-looking, so sophisticated and cool in this hot and crowded space. She figured he’d come up so as not to disturb those in his own elite strata—no, he’d conduct his business and bother the plebs up in the cheap seats.

  One of the waiters came past, singing his way through the crowd for one final time before he’d quieten for the spectacle, tormenting her with his cry.

  ‘Bebite! Acqua! Cola! Vino bianca! Vino rosso! Bebite...’

  She’d go for all those drinks right now. She was hot. She was thirsty. She was irritated.

  This time she coughed.

  Where on earth was Kate? What was taking her so long? Only her little sister could need the bathroom right as the opera was about to start. And as far as Emily could tell, the toilets in the ancient arena were few and far between and had queues centuries long. Meanwhile her mouth was dry and she wanted the six-foot-plus pillar blocking her view of centre stage to move. And then he did, turning right round as he held the gadget up in front of him. The flash of his grin was more blinding than the sudden flash of bright light.

  ‘What—’ she asked tartly ‘—you’re taking photos now?’

  ‘Sì.’ He nodded, smiling like the Cheshire cat. ‘I need a new wallpaper photo for my phone. And this is such a spectacular view, don’t you think?’

  ‘I think the “view” is behind you. You know, the stage, the set, the orchestra.’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re wrong. The beauty of the night is right in front of me.’ As he put the phone thing in his pocket he held her gaze with a long, lazy, unmistakably challenging stare that she felt from the top of her head to her fingertips and all the way to her toes. And in all the secret spaces in between she burned. Spitting hot became unbearable—she was melting, literally melting at his feet. And stupidly she wished she were wearing something a little more glam than her cheap cotton skirt and tee combo. Why couldn’t she have a gorgeous black gown, some serious bling and ice-queen sophistication to set it off?

  She choked for real then—half giggling, half spluttering on a speck of something in her throat.

  Eyes watering, she heard his call to the passing waiter. He spoke rapidly in Italian. She didn’t catch a word of it. Only glimpsed the smile pass between the two men and then the money. He took the step separating where he stood and she sat, and handed her the bottle of water he’d just bought.

  ‘For your throat.’ Dry amusement was all obvious and all aggravating. ‘Please.’ He held the bottle a little closer, right in her face, and she knew he wasn’t going to remove it.

  What could she do? Act the totally irritated diva? She couldn’t, not when the opera hadn’t actually started, and he’d put the phone away and was suddenly smiling. It was some smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, mentally blaming the breathiness of her reply on the awkward angle of her neck as she craned it right back to look at him.

  He sat in the gap next to her. ‘You’re looking forward to the opera?’

  ‘Yes.’ Where was Kate? Where was the conductor? But time was playing tricks and the tiniest of moments became eons.

  He nodded. ‘It is a good one. They perform it every year here.’

  ‘I know.’ She’d read it in the tourist books she’d devoured from the library. Right now her eyes were devouring something else. Up close he wasn’t just good-looking, he was incredible-looking. While his physical presence had been noticeable from a distance, nearer it was his expression that arrested her attention.

  He was tall, he was dark, he was handsome. So far, so cliché. Like almost every man she’d seen in this city he was immaculately groomed. But there was so much more. There was the strong, angled jaw and the faint shadow of stubble. And in the heart of that was his mouth—wide and full—contrasting with the steep planes of his cheekbones. That mouth raised questions that Emily wanted to answer—was it as smooth as it looked? Warm or cool? It was certainly infinitely touchable. Utterly inviting.

  Vying for first place with his lips were his eyes. Deep chocolate-brown, they were set off by the requisite thick, long lashes. But the chocolate didn’t have the dull, matte quality of a solid block. It was warm and glossy and liquid, the dark variety—there was no diluting milky sweetness. And at the very centre there was a hardness—a ‘don’t go there’ dangerous quality that totally aroused the curiosity of Pandora in Emily. It was like the bitterness at the bottom of a strong coffee or the darkest of dark chocolate that her taste buds both desired and recoiled from.

  ‘Aren’t you going to have your drink?’ He didn’t seem fazed by her scrutiny, instead seemed quite content to sit and study her right back. Closely.

  She remembered the bottle and marvelled that steam wasn’t rising from it. Surely the water should be boiling from the red-hot elements that were her hands?

  ‘I think you should,’ he spoke easily. ‘You seem thirsty.’

  That smile had broken the arrogant set to his features once m
ore. A wide, sensual slash, his lips were surprisingly soft-looking, and framed white, straight, strong teeth. Oh, he had it all, didn’t he? The height and body of a champion athlete, and the full features of a sensuous lover.

  He glanced at the cheap cloth bag beside her, so obviously empty. ‘You have no picnic? No lover to share the music and the magic of the night with you?’ He gestured around them where many in the audience were snacking on treats stored in small baskets. Most were paired off, couples sitting close, the scent of romance heavy in the atmosphere.

  ‘I’m here with my sister. She’s just gone to get something.’ Emily’s defence mounted.

  ‘Ah, your sister.’ He nodded, tone cryptic.

  For want of something, anything to stop her staring at him, she flipped the lid on the water bottle.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  It was obvious to him that she was foreign. He’d spoken in English to her from the off. She figured it was the travel garb, the ancient clothes that had left that budget chain store many seasons ago and hadn’t ever seen an iron. She was no fabulous Italian fashionista.

  ‘New Zealand.’ She tossed her head, scraping for some pride.

  A hint of surprise lifted his expression. ‘You’ve come a long way. No wonder you’re looking forward to the music.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve wanted to come here for years.’ It had been her fantasy escape. Now she wanted to know if Italy was as warm and flavoursome a country as she’d always imagined. The opera had been the way to convince Kate to stop here en route to London.

  If Emily had both the choice and the money, she’d travel on to Venice, Florence, Rome...everywhere. Countless times she’d watched every Italian movie they had at the DVD store where she’d worked. She even had a few phrases to try out on friendly looking faces. She looked down at the stage, where the lights were gleaming and the orchestra was now waiting quietly. It was the realisation of a dream.