by Lili Valente
I curse beneath my breath and lift my arm, signaling for the waitress to bring us another round. We’re going to need it.
“I’m sorry.” She sinks lower against the leather cushions. “I was hoping I would be able to pull it off solo, but the more I thought about going to the wedding alone the more I just wanted to crawl into a hole and die.” She stares down into her empty glass. “Seriously die. And I don’t want to feel that way anymore.”
“You won’t have to.” I scoot across the couch, putting my arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. “No worries, beautiful. We’ve got this.”
She leans into me, her body soft and warm against mine, and for a moment, I’m aware of her the way I was when I first saw her standing on the street. She’s a gorgeous woman and her breast is pressed against my ribs and she smells like lavender and something addictively sweet and I’m only human for God’s sake.
But stronger than the desire buzzing beneath my skin is the need to help her, heal her, to make sure my friend doesn’t have to face the ugliness of the world alone.
This is why I do what I do.
After all the things I’ve seen, I’m pretty sure romantic love is the stuff of fairy tales and bad porn, but friendship is real. And helping people who feel they’ve got no one on their side is what gets me up in the morning. My corporate friends can mock MB Consulting until the cows come home, but I know the dark places in my soul got a hell of a lot lighter the day I walked away from Wall Street for good.
Still, the fact that Penny is my assistant and also happens to be the kind of curvy, brown-eyed girl that is the Incredible Bulk’s personal kryptonite will create certain…challenges.
Challenges like controlling my body’s response when she turns and wraps her arms around my neck, whispering, “Thank you, Bash,” into my ear in this sexy as hell voice while she turns the moment into a full-fledged hug fest.
“My pleasure,” I say. But it isn’t. It’s torture.
Torture to wrap my arms around her and hold her close, offering her comfort even as I struggle to get my damned cock under control. I think of dead puppies and my college roommate who picked his nose pretty much constantly, but it isn’t until I bring up a vivid mental picture of the recently delivered goats at my grandmother’s farm eating their own afterbirth that the bulge in my pants finally begins to soften.
And just in time. The server is here with our second round, and Penny is settling back onto her side of the couch, giving her an excellent view of my lap.
“Here you go.” The raven-haired waitress hands Penny a fresh tumbler. “Two more Laphroiag double shots on the rocks. Anything else for you guys?”
“This will do for now, thank you,” I say, accepting my fresh glass.
“Drinks are my treat, by the way,” Penny says as the server drifts away to check on a group of newcomers settling in at a table for four across the bar. “I insist. It’s the least I can do to thank you.”
“Absolutely not. These shots are obscenely expensive.”
She grimaces. “How obscenely?”
I let my voice go low and rough, “Dirty, filthy, wrongly expensive.”
“Wow.” Her eyes glitter, and for a second, I wonder if she feels it too, the crackle of potential energy in the air every time our eyes meet. But then she laughs, a light, airy sound that makes me feel silly for reading too much into the moment. “Then I’ll let you get this and I’ll pay for pizza tonight while we work.”
“Sounds good.” I take a fortifying swig of my drink, determined to keep my mind on business. “We’ll have to make the most of every minute before we leave on Tuesday. We only have forty-eight hours to cram in a week’s worth of preparation.”
“We can do it. I mean, it’s not like we’re complete strangers. We already know a lot of each other’s backstory.” Her mischievous grin makes a dimple pop in her cheek. “I even know your LetsGoLove password so I can change it for you on days when you want to be locked out of your account.”
“You do,” I agree, even as I think of all the things I intend to keep secret from Penny. Things like how sexy she looks sipping scotch at eleven o’clock in the morning in her running clothes and a messy bun and how much I’d like to pull her back into my arms.
Or onto my lap.
Or roll her beneath me on this couch and discover every inch of her incredible body.
But none of that is going to happen.
Penny knows the Magnificent Bastard rules better than anyone—never get emotionally involved, never confuse fantasy with reality, and never, ever, take things further than a kiss.
CHAPTER NINE
From the text archives of Sebastian “Bash” Prince and Penny Pickett
From Bash: Let’s talk about the monkey piss you were drinking last night.
It has come to my attention via your last e-mail that you have been subjecting your taste buds to the unfiltered night sweats of an unwashed homeless man—aka Bud Light—with your pizza.
That shit will cease immediately.
Your salary has just been raised two hundred dollars per annum in order to afford you the luxury of purchasing Labatt’s Blue Light, the true king of light beers.
You’re welcome.
Penny: Thank you!
I’m so grateful I’m not even going to ask how you know what monkey piss or the night sweats of a homeless man taste like.
Bash: A wise decision. Some stories are best left untold…
Penny: LOL! Color me intrigued…
I wonder if I’m the first assistant in the world to get a beer snob raise…
Bash: I doubt it. Good bosses know that life’s too short to drink bad beer.
Penny: Amen.
CHAPTER TEN
By the time we finish our second round of drinks, Penny and I have made it through a quick refresher course on the basic who, what, where, when, and why of our personal histories—Penny’s twenty-five, born in Los Angeles, raised in the Hamptons, and a graduate of Vanderbilt, Boston University, and the school of hard knocks; I’m thirty-two, born and raised in Manhattan, a graduate of NYU, Columbia, and the school of reformed corporate land sharks—and we’re both a little buzzed.
Penny’s giggles are coming more frequently and I’m finding it harder to keep my eyes from straying to her lips and my thoughts from straying to territory as obscene as the price of our drinks.
Much, much harder.
So hard that I know there’s no way we can tackle the next stage of orientation until I’ve had the chance to decompress, sober up, and take a long, cold shower.
After settling the bill, I put Penny into a car headed toward Brooklyn with a promise to be at her place at six p.m. and aim myself toward the West Village, hoping a long walk will help me get my head on straight.
Thankfully, after logging several miles, chugging a liter of water, and enjoying a long shower and a longer power nap, I’m feeling like my old self. The self who knows business and pleasure are separate roads and never the twain shall meet.
By five o’clock, I’m dressed in dark jeans, a gray tee shirt, and a deceptively simple-looking jean jacket that was nearly as pricey as our morning bar tab, and I’m itching to get back onto the streets. My apartment is enormous by Manhattan standards, an open concept two-bedroom loft purchased with the spoils of my first career tearing embattled companies apart piece by piece, so it’s not like I’m squeezed into an efficiency and can’t wait to escape. Still, I always feel most at home surrounded by the bustle of my favorite city.
I grab a coffee with extra cream and sugar on my way to the L train and settle in for the ride across the river to Williamsburg.
I was surprised this morning to learn that Penny dwells deep in the heart of the hipster jungle—she doesn’t seem the type to pay sky high rents in order to live closer to her favorite artisanal donut shop. But when I find her building and climb the steps to one of the last crumbling brownstones on a street filled with renovated million dollar homes, my mind is put at ease.
>
Penny’s not a closet hipster; she’s a true New Yorker, hanging on to what is likely one of the last rent-controlled apartments in the area.
I don’t know why that matters, but for some reason, I hate the thought of Penny insisting on drinking organic, locally sourced, handcrafted microbrews or dating men with questionable hygiene, tight tee shirt fetishes, and patchy facial hair. The trend toward social acceptance of men who walk the streets looking like they just rolled out of bed four days ago is offensive.
I pity the twenty-somethings whose dating pool is composed purely of such poorly groomed posers, even as I appreciate the edge granted to Yours Truly simply for utilizing a razor and getting a hair cut every six weeks.
Women deserve better. Especially Penny.
After all she’s been through, the girl deserves a Magnificent Bastard on her side protecting her from the failed Prince Charmings of the world.
I knock on her door and call through the opening where the peephole lens is supposed to be. “MB Consulting. Here for my six o’clock.”
“Just a second!” A moment later, a breathless Penny opens the door, her face flushed.
Her hair is hanging in glossy waves around her shoulders, she’s wearing a touch of makeup—just enough to make me realize how long her lashes are—and a pair of fitted jean overalls that shouldn’t be sexy, but somehow, they are. Still, I manage to keep my mind on business and my gaze from drifting to where the jean straps stretch tight over the swells of her breasts.
I am a fucking professional, and I can handle this.
“Come in!” She motions for me to enter a cozy apartment filled with floor to ceiling bookshelves, a micro-kitchen with vintage 1940s appliances, and a window seat made up into a daybed, covered with obnoxiously colorful pillows. On the far wall are vintage ice cream ads framed in seashell frames and a motivational poster that declares “Let’s Make Today Suck Less than Yesterday!” in a decorative font.
The place is very homey, very welcoming, a little bit weird, and all Penny.
“I just finished cleaning up. The scotch knocked me out. I was asleep until an hour ago.” She bustles around the kitchen island toward the ancient fridge. “Would you like something to drink? I’ve got water, lemonade, ice tea, cheap box wine, and a few bottles of Labatt’s Blue Light.”
“The True King of Light Beers,” I observe with approval.
She shrugs. “Yeah. My boss made me quit drinking beer that tastes like a homeless man’s night sweats. He’s a total drag.”
I chuckle. “You shouldn’t have needed that intervention. If something tastes like any part of a homeless man, you don’t put it in your mouth, Penny. That’s rule number two of being a grown-up.”
She turns to face me, one hand braced on the fridge and the other propped on her curvy hip. “Oh yeah? And what’s rule number one?”
“Don’t shit where you eat,” I quip without thinking, only to realize it’s the perfect advice.
Penny is invaluable to my business. I can’t afford to shit where I eat. If I screw up our working friendship because I can’t stop thinking about how much I’d like to have the weight of her breasts heavy in my hands, I’ll never forgive myself. I’m a thirty-two-year-old man, for God’s sake. I should have more control over my thoughts, not to mention my dick.
But the Incredible Bulk has been semihard since the moment Penny opened the door and shows no sign of softening in the near future.
Which means anything that might impede my self-control is a bad idea.
“I’ll take a lemonade, thanks.” I move to face her across the island. “And then let’s start with wardrobe. If we get in a crunch for time, we can always sort out the love story on the way to the Hamptons, but I’m not familiar with the shopping out there and it doesn’t sound like there will be much time to go searching for battle armor with all the events your mother has planned.”
“Battle armor.” Her full mouth curves into a half smile as she fetches the lemonade from the fridge and two glasses from the tiny cabinets above the sink. “You really think clothes matter that much?”
“I know that clothes matter that much,” I say without hesitation. “You know what they say, looking good is the best revenge.”
Penny wrinkles her nose. “I thought the quote was living well is the best revenge.”
I accept the glass of lemonade she pushes across the counter. “You’ll live well after the revenge is over. For now, we’ll concentrate on making your mother green with envy and Phillip want to kick himself repeatedly in his own ass for letting you go. From the moment you step out of my car Wednesday, to the moment we drive off into the sunset on Saturday, we want all eyes on you, the lovely duckling who has turned into an even more stunning swan.”
“You remember that my mom is a famous movie star and former model, right?” Penny asks, a dubious expression on her face. “She might be forty-two, but she sure as heck doesn’t look it.”
“She doesn’t look twenty-five, either.”
“I don’t know.” Penny takes a considering drink of her lemonade. “She could easily pass for early thirties. She exercises four hours a day, eats superfoods for every meal, and can afford all the lotions and creams.”
“Lotions and creams?”
Penny nods seriously. “Some might tell you that plastic surgery is the path to eternal youth, but truly rich people know it’s all about exclusive lotions and creams. The more snail goo, ground up beetle shells, and whale semen in them, the better.”
I barely avoid spitting lemonade all over the counter.
“Bull semen, too,” Penny adds, with a grin. “Semen is kind of a big deal. Or so I hear.”
Fixing her with a mock glare, I swipe my sleeve across my mouth and point toward a door on the other side of the room, which I assume leads to her bedroom. “Quit stalling and go put on something pretty.”
She lifts a shoulder and lets it fall. “Fine. But I’m warning you, this fashion show is going to be brief. I pulled anything even remotely appropriate out of my closet, and everything that still fits after my close encounters with several pints of ice cream this spring is out of style, boring, or has grass stains on it.”
“Why grass stains?” I ask as she flounces around the island, looking so much like a kid being sent to her room I can’t help but smile.
“I used to like reading books stretched out on the great lawn at grad school. Back when I left the house more than once or twice a week.”
Before I can think of how to respond, she disappears into her bedroom. As the door shuts behind her, I scan the apartment. It gives off a cozy, homey vibe, but would it still feel that way after being cooped up in it for months?
Maybe even years? Penny said it has been over two years since the incident.
Has she been hiding away from the world in this tiny room ever since? Is that why she turned me down every time I tried to get her to meet me for happy hour drinks or bike riding in the park or the newest exhibition at the Met?
I had assumed she was one of those Brooklynites who loathe crossing the river or maybe thought it was creepy to meet her boss in real life. But maybe it’s more than that. Maybe she’s been serving a self-imposed prison sentence for a crime her mother and slimy ex-boyfriend committed.
My stomach tightens at the thought.
And then Penny emerges from her room in a floor-length goldenrod dress that makes her olive skin look a sickly shade of yellow and the tightness becomes a full-fledged intestinal cramp.
Holy mother of pearl, what the hell has she put on her beautiful body?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My tongue curls at the back of my throat and I fight the urge to gag. “Jesus H. Christ.”
Penny’s hands come to rest on her hips with a huff. “Oh come on. It’s not that bad. The fit is nice.”
“The fit is adequate; the color is horrendous,” I say, fighting the urge to shudder. “Take it off and toss it out here when you’re done. I’ll throw it away.”
“Yo
u will not throw it away.” She scowls at me over her shoulder as she stomps back into her bedroom.
“You’re right,” I agree. “Better to burn it and make sure it never has the chance to inspire nausea in anyone else ever again.”
“Not everyone has hundreds of dollars to spend on clothes, you know,” she calls from the other room, her voice muffled. I concentrate on the memory of how sallow her skin looked in that dress, the better to keep from imagining her pulling it over her head, baring the killer curves beneath.
“If that dress was free, you still paid too much.”
“Are you this sweet to all your clients?” she asks in a lilting tone.
“If you’re asking if I lie to my clients, then no. I don’t.” I settle on the couch with my lemonade. “I’m here to do a job, Penny, not blow smoke up your ass. And even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t let you leave the house in that dress. Friends don’t let friends wear goldenrod.”
She laughs. “Your mother was an interior decorator, you said?”
“Yes. I knew the difference between pink and fuchsia years before the other boys.”
“I’m not sure most boys ever know the difference.” She throws open the door, revealing a sundress composed of yards and yards of heavy black fabric that overwhelms her petite frame. “How about this? Plain, simple, linen. A classic choice.”
“It’s a wedding, not a funeral,” I say, twirling one finger in the air. “Next.”
She rolls her eyes as she slams the door. I take a drink of lemonade and pray that she’s got at least something we can work with. There’s a boutique in Chelsea that usually comes through for my clients in a pinch, but I’m not sure even Sheila, my favorite personal shopper, will be able to outfit Penny in not one, but four ex-slaying outfits in one morning.
Penny and I repeat our open door, repress gag reflex, roll eyes, slam door routine through four more hideous dresses, and I’m beginning to think she needs a fashion intervention as much as a Magnificent Bastard one when the door creaks open, my breath catches on an inhale, and I forget how to exhale.
