True North

by Amy Knupp

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “This is dumb.”

  “What’s dumb?” As if he didn’t know.

  “This. Us. Acting like we barely know each other.”

  “Just keeping it professional.” Or trying.

  Failing, if you counted his thoughts or his body’s reaction to her being so close.

  “You’re guarded. Uptight.” Standing face-to-face with him, she reached over and squeezed both of his shoulders, as if to check how tense they were.

  “Monday morning. Back to boss-employee,” he managed to say in a mostly matter-of-fact voice, even though it was turning out to be a lie. “Fake date,” he continued. “You said it yourself.”

  She snapped her gaze to his, narrowed her eyes, studied him. He tried to keep his expression blank.

  “It was supposed to be a fake date,” she said pensively. She pressed her lips together as she continued to size him up. “And by saying that Saturday night, I was trying to keep things straight in my head, trying to justify going against my own policy of not getting involved with anyone at work. But that made it seem like I didn’t want to be with you, huh?”

  “You were keeping boundaries in place. I got that.”

  Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she shoved her hands in her back pants pockets. “That was the goal. Boundaries. But after everything that happened, those boundaries are history.”

  “They don’t have to be.” He needed them not to be. He needed to put about six feet between them so he couldn’t see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes or the sheen of uncolored gloss on her lips. So he couldn’t extend his arm, touch her, pull her closer the way he was dying to.

  “I call bullshit.” She stood up straighter, lifted her chin. “I had fun with you, liked being with you. And then later, with your mom—”

  “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I should’ve driven myself.”

  “Stop it. You needed a friend. I’m glad I was there. Glad I got to meet your family that I didn’t know existed.” Her lips quirked up, eyes sparked with a hint of teasing, then she went serious again. “I get the impression you don’t let a lot of people in, but guess what? I’m in. We’re friends. No going back.”

  He didn’t know much about friends, didn’t really have any, but this didn’t feel quite like friends. Not the way his blood was pounding through him.

  Sierra’s gaze slipped downward, to his lips, and she moved closer, mere inches away, those doe eyes locked to his again. He couldn’t get himself to look away, couldn’t break the sudden connection. He dropped his arms to his sides, gripped the table behind him, fighting not to touch her or put a hand at her waist or brush that stray lock of hair from her cheek.

  A heartbeat later, she closed the rest of the space between them, grasped his upper arm, and pressed her lips to his.

  He froze. For a split second, his brain said no, but then the synapses connected and he received the message from his lips, and everything in him said hell yes. He couldn’t stop himself from gripping her hip, holding her to his body as he soaked up the feel of her lips on his—soft, pliant, feminine but unwavering. She let out a sexy satisfied moan, and her hand landed on his chest, gripped his T-shirt, pulled at him. Instinct and need had him taking it deeper, sliding his tongue over her lips until she opened to him, let him in, and he lost all ability for rational thought.

  She tasted of coffee and mint, smelled of oranges, felt diminutive and feminine as his hands landed on her lower back, pulling her into his body, showing her he was hard as a steel beam. She moved her hands to his neck, one of them roving over the back of his head, her fingers digging into him, as if she couldn’t stand the thought of letting him go, letting this end.

  The outside door to the kitchen opened and then slammed shut, and Sierra jumped away from him at the same moment he snapped to attention and stood up tall, stepped away from the table. Sierra swiped a hand over her lips as if she could erase any evidence of what they’d been doing, and he turned around to face the table, pulled his bag close, struggled with the zipper, his hands shaking.

  “Morning,” Reggie said from the office doorway mere seconds later.

  Cole picked up his sweatshirt, grabbed his bag, hoped like hell his face was blank, and turned around. “Hey, Reggie. See you on-site,” he said to Sierra, and then he walked out of the office and out of the building at a normal pace, as if his heart wasn’t about to pound right out of his damn chest.

  Chapter Ten

  Sierra had managed, nearly nine hours ago, to shove that kiss into a mental lockbox. Nine everlasting hours. She’d had to in order to get through the grueling day with Cole at her side, a day when they’d only gotten half as much done as they’d planned due to a crap ton of unforeseen challenges with the century-old house.

  As she drove toward home, in the relative privacy of her truck, she let out a semi-hysterical laugh-howl she’d had bottled up all day because she’d kissed Cole. One of her employees. She’d broken her own rule, done something she’d never done before, and it’d been impulsive—she could own that—and crazy and spectacular.

  She hadn’t planned it, but when he’d walked in so closed-up this morning, acting like none of Saturday night had happened, she’d wanted to shake him up, pull him close, scream in frustration, hug him… And she’d ended up kissing him.

  “Got his attention anyway,” she muttered, still unsure whether it was good attention or bad.

  She and Cole hadn’t spoken a single word about it. There hadn’t been an opportunity, and for that she was grateful, because she didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if she should say anything. It might be ludicrous to think they could just carry on without ever acknowledging that lip-lock, especially since it wasn’t just a run-of-the-mill kiss. No, in roughly two minutes and two seconds, Cole had pretty much raised Sierra’s baseline for kissing for the rest of her life.

  At last, she drove her truck down the alley behind her apartment and parked it in her spot. Without hesitation, she got out and strode past the stairs that led up to her place. Instead, she headed toward the green space that bordered her building and went through it to get to the sidewalk on Hale Street.

  It was nearly five o’clock, and multiple people were making their way toward Bliss carrying yoga mats, probably for the five-p.m. power yoga class that Sierra usually worked too late to make. She crossed the bustling street toward the flower shop, the dress shop, and Frank’s Diner, where the dinner crowd was already starting to pick up. Monday was the fried chicken special, and nobody did fried chicken like Frank Dole. But she walked on by and kept going past the recording studio as well, though she gazed in the windows, checking for familiar famous faces who might be recording today. The front lobby was empty.

  The next storefront was her destination—Henry Interiors—but it wasn’t the one-of-a-kind furnishings or decor she was after. She needed girl time, decompression time, and a big-ass glass of wine, and Hayden Henry would handle all three.

  An old-fashioned bell announced Sierra’s entry, and she spotted Hayden in the back half of the sales floor, fussing over some funky textured gold and white throw pillows on a pure white comfy-looking couch flanked by an end table and a floor lamp. As usual, her friend was wearing a cute, professional outfit—black pants, silky white tank, light pink open cardigan with matching pumps, and a chunky but feminine necklace.

  “Hey, you,” Hayden said when she glanced up, pushing her shoulder-length espresso-colored hair out of her face. Then she did a double take, as if all of Sierra’s angst was written on her face. “Ooh. Bad day?”

  Sierra glanced around to make sure they were alone. “Weird day. Wine day. Whatcha got?” She kept walking toward the back room, understanding that Hayden might or might not be able to join her right away, as the store was open for another hour.

  “There’s a Pinot Noir and a Malbec on the counter, or help yourself to the wine cooler.”

  “Goddess. Pinot Noir will do. Where’s Elena?”

  “Day
off. She had a thing to do,” Hayden said distractedly, still eyeing the layout of the white-couch area, one of several furniture groupings scattered throughout.

  Sierra slipped behind the curtain that covered the extra-wide doorway between sales floor and back room, the contrast between the two areas jolting her as it always did. The public room was impeccable, exquisitely designed, with every detail well thought out and executed. It was the kind of showroom that made you itch to buy something, to make your home as beautiful as the store, the moment you walked in.

  The back room, on the other hand, was overfilled with merchandise stacked to the high ceiling in places. Some of it was in boxes, but most of it was one-of-a-kind treasures that Hayden had found or created from other pieces. She was a genius at repurposing anything from an old chair to an antique cabinet, but the fact was, she’d outgrown this space within months of opening. The landlord, Burke Wentworth, who also owned Sierra’s apartment building, had allowed her to construct a sturdy storage shed in back, and it was stuffed to the gills as well. In addition, Hayden’s two-car garage at her home was her work area, where she refinished, reconstructed, redesigned the pieces she picked up at shows, estate sales, and antique stores. It, too, was overflowing with “treasures.” The girl had a knack for visualizing some stunning pieces, but it was a messy, large-scale endeavor. The retail aspect of it was young but successful so far.

  In the far-left back corner was a tiny sort-of break area for Hayden, her assistant, and her two employees. There was a sink and a three-quarter-size fridge next to a microwave and a cabinet, all situated behind a short counter that fit two barstools. The stools barely cleared the doorway to Hayden’s minuscule office, which was too small for storing stock and contained only an antique desk that Sierra rarely saw her use.

  Sierra went behind the break area counter, located the Pinot Noir, and made quick work of the cork. She reached up to the hanging wineglass rack and took down two glasses, then filled them, Hayden’s to a moderate level and her own to the top, knowing that Hayden wouldn’t drink much, if any, until after she locked the store doors for the day.

  Hayden came into the room as Sierra set the bottle back down, and her eyes widened as she noticed how full Sierra’s glass was.

  “Okay, let’s hear it. What happened to you?” Hayden said as she tossed two apparently rejected pillows into an open-topped bin where she stored the spares.

  Instead of answering, Sierra lifted her glass and took a big, socially inappropriate gulp of the deep burgundy liquid. “God yes. That’s good stuff.”

  “Want a shot glass instead?” Hayden asked dryly.

  Sierra took a more restrained sip, letting the hints of berry linger on her tongue before swallowing it. She went around the counter and slid onto a barstool, and Hayden took the other one, pulling her glass closer. Waiting.

  When Sierra still didn’t speak, because she was trying to figure out what to say, how much to tell, Hayden said, “Let me guess. Cole?”

  Sierra snapped her gaze to her friend. “How the hell could you know that?”

  Hayden took out her iPhone from the pocket of her tailored pants, unlocked it, swiped several times with her thumb. She held the phone up, and Sierra recognized the selfie of her and Cole from the wedding. “Look at you two.”

  Sierra did, for the dozenth time since Saturday night. It was a good picture, if she did say so herself, but then she’d been fancied up to within an inch of her life, her makeup professionally applied by Harper, the esthetician at Bliss, and her hair by one of Violet’s friends. And Cole…the guy didn’t need professionals to make him look good in a suit and tie, even with the cut above his eye. There was something about a normally rough-around-the-edges man cleaning up and dressing up. Something irresistible, apparently, as she’d proven this morning.

  “Mr. Foreman looks gooood,” Hayden said.

  “Yeah,” Sierra said in an exhale, taking an extra couple of seconds to study his face. In spite of his uptightness as they’d arrived at the reception, his smile in the pic was real and wider than his usual reluctant half grin. It did something to his whole face, and that, in turn, did something to her heart rate, even now, even though it was just pixels on a screen. “You had a good trip?”

  “My trip was fine,” Hayden said of the trade show in Boston. She’d returned late last night, texting Sierra she was home and exhausted and they’d catch up today. “Back to you. And this guy. I want to know everything about Saturday night.”

  “Saturday night ended in the wee hours of Sunday morning—”

  “Hello. So much for not banging the boys who work for you.”

  “I didn’t bang anyone,” Sierra said. “I’m not going to bang anyone.” The second sentence was less sure than the first, and she swigged some more Pinot.

  She launched into a play-by-play of the wedding, the reception, her time with Cole, that moment in her apartment with him. She told Hayden about the hospital, his brothers, and how worried sick he’d been about his mom, keeping the parts about his dad to herself. That felt intensely personal, was Cole’s secret.

  “It was a whole different side of him,” Sierra said. “All of it. The brothers, their weird dynamics, and his concern for his mom. He usually keeps himself locked up tight at work.”

  “It must be terrifying to have your mom rushed to the hospital,” Hayden said. “It’s good you were there for him.”

  Sierra nodded, thinking back on his shakiness, the sheen of sweat she’d seen on his forehead, the stark fear in his eyes. “His mom basically died on the table for a few seconds.”

  “And he chose to be with you instead of his brothers,” Hayden said, her look turning speculative.

  “Like I said, weird dynamic. He says they don’t like him. His oldest brother was kind of distant to him, but I didn’t get that from the other two so much.” She told her friend what she knew of the brothers and the fact that his family was the Norths of the largest sporting goods chain in the area. “Good-looking, every last one of them,” she said. “Well, the ones that were there. One’s in the military and apparently deployed somewhere. I could set you up.” The last part she said to get a reaction out of Hayden, who’d sworn off relationships almost a year ago.

  “Don’t you dare,” Hayden said. “So how did the night end?”

  “I left him with his brothers, waiting for surgery to be over. I felt bad deserting Cole, but it was pretty awkward once we went upstairs to the ICU waiting room with them. It felt like it should be family only.”

  “And it was the middle of the night by this point,” Hayden said, as if reinforcing she’d made the right decision in leaving. “His mom made it, I take it?”

  Sierra told her the basics, which was all clammed-up Cole had given her between yesterday and this morning.

  “That’s a high-drama night for sure,” Hayden said.

  “It pales in comparison to this morning at the office,” Sierra said.

  “Oh?” Hayden leaned closer, planting her chin on her hand, elbow on the counter. “Do tell.”

  “He was back to reserved Cole, business-only Cole, but even worse than usual. Really buttoned up and he didn’t want to talk about his mom at all.”

  “Like an awkward morning after, and you didn’t even get the sex,” Hayden said.

  “Sort of like that.” Sierra spun her glass round and round, her fingers at the base of it, a repetitive, almost subconscious movement as she went back to the morning in her head. She’d been able to tell, from the second he walked into her office, that he was guarded and she was going to have to smack him, figuratively speaking, back to the reality that Saturday had changed things. “I kissed him,” she blurted out.

  Hayden had raised her glass for a drink, but she froze with her hand midway to her mouth. “What? Like, an I’m sorry your mom is unwell and I’m here for you kind of thing?”

  Sierra grinned. “More like a damn, you look good and I need to kiss you to remind you that we practically spent the night together two
nights ago kind of thing.”

  “Okay.” Hayden sat up straighter, lifted her glass in a toast. “Here’s to going after what you want.”

  Sierra laughed, raised her glass, drank. As she set it back down, she said, “Do I want him though?”

  “Seems like a resounding yes from here.”

  “Shit, Hayden, I kissed one of my employees. How many ways is that wrong?”

  “How many ways was it right?”

  Sierra glared at her, then eyed the bottle, starting to think there wasn’t enough wine for the evening. “What if he thinks I harassed him?” she asked, trying to break through her friend’s lack of concern.

  Hayden’s perfectly groomed brows went up. “Harassment would mean he didn’t welcome the attention. Did he seem like he didn’t want it?”

  “He didn’t want the personal talk, but the kiss?” She remembered every second of him pulling her closer, his strong hands on her back. “He took control of the kiss.”

  Hayden let out a quiet sigh of longing.

  “You don’t want a guy,” Sierra reminded her.

  “I don’t want a boyfriend, but being ravaged by the right guy wouldn’t suck.”

  “Slut,” Sierra said, grinning as she went for another healthy swig of wine.

  “I haven’t had sex for almost a year,” Hayden reminded her. “If I’m a slut, I’m failing.”

  “Mason is the CEO of North Brothers Sports—”

  “No.”

  “Gabe? Friendly guy, good-looking—”

  “No.”

  “Drake is the baby. I got the feeling he can charm the pants off any girl he wants—”