Rules of Payne (Cake Love Book 1)

by Elizabeth Lynx

  “Sunshine?”

  I bent over my desk and snatched the paperwork back before hiding it in a drawer. “Never mind about any of that. Only Mr. Mimir needs to read that part. So, I think we are done here. Let’s get you settled back into your desk.”

  She grabbed her bag and flung it over her shoulder. As we passed by the window in my office, I noticed our reflection. How opposite we appeared. Morgana was short, with thick, long red hair, and an hourglass figure times ten. Her clothes, while defined as office wear, were so tight I could sometimes make out the lace pattern of her panties.

  I was tall and thin. No shape. I didn’t even think a flag pole would be jealous of my figure. My clothes, well, they were office wear too. But I liked to be comfortable, have things loose on me. Always buying my clothes one size larger. The last thing I was here to do was attract men, so why would I wear something that could even risk that?

  I am beginning to realize why I was almost invisible to Edgar.

  Once we passed the elevators and arrived at Morgana’s desk, I pointed at the clock. “It’s ten forty-five, almost time for the Brooks Bomb. I told Payne on Friday that this would be your first day back but he had meetings out of the office all morning.”

  I turned to head back to my office but stopped as Morgana yelled out for me. “Maybe I’ll take an early lunch. You up for it?”

  I was about to tell her no, that I had some work that needed to get done when the elevator doors opened and out walked the last person I wanted to see, ever, Edgar.

  Then I would be forced to talk to him about the new hire for his department. Something easily done via email. Instead of face-to-face where I would have to try desperately to control my hormones. It was hard to not turn into a giggling mess with his deep voice acting like a Siren song. I always tried to be aloof, but I had a feeling he didn’t care anyway.

  Before he saw me, I turned back toward Morgana and nodded my head. “Sounds great.”

  “Okay, let’s go. Oh wait, is that Edgar? Hey, Edgar.”

  I was surprised by how fast Morgana could move considering her height. She was like a red blur blazing past me and before I knew it, she had Edgar deep in conversation. His perfectly sculpted blond hair just brushed the tops of his ears as he ran his fingers through them.

  He had long hair when I first started to work here, but last year he cut it. I appreciated both styles, but I missed his long hair. Something about it made me want to run my fingers through it, fist it in my fingers, and scream “mine” to anyone who passed.

  I sounded barbaric. And sad. Mostly sad.

  Holding my ground, I refused to move closer, not on principle because what was I arguing about? Lunch? No, I was hungry, but I lacked the strength to resist Edgar’s charm. Especially when he smiled and those dimples appeared.

  Dimples of sin I called them. I wanted to lick them so much.

  “Hey, Evaleen, Edgar is going to join us for lunch.” Morgana waved me over with happiness radiating out of her pores. I wish I could glow with happiness. The only time I glowed was after I had danced a few songs at a club. Also, my makeup usually melted by then, and my pit stains were large enough by that point that tadpoles had been known to form, even when I wore a tank top.

  What I’m saying was I got swamp pits but, hey, I glowed.

  Edgar’s dimples were on full debauchery mode. That was, until he saw me. I guess Morgana left that part out when she invited him to lunch. He probably would have declined the offer if he knew I would be there.

  “Dreary Evaleen Bechmann? No, thank you,” he’d say. I was always surprised when he knew my name considering how unhappy he appeared around me.

  It wasn’t just his dwindling smile but how his eyes gazed at anything but me. Like he was trying to find an escape from the worst thing ever, me.

  “Great.” I said through gritted teeth.

  It wasn’t great. It especially wasn’t wonderful when Morgana conveniently stood by the elevator buttons when we were moving down to the bottom floor, forcing Edgar and me to stand next to each other. I could smell his cologne.

  His mouthwatering, manly man scent.

  I took deep breaths, not because I was about to hyperventilate (but that was an idea to get out of this lunch), but because I wanted to inhale all of him.

  My mouth watered and I knew my neck was red without even glancing into the reflection of the metal elevator doors.

  I turned my head to face the wall and tried to fill my lungs with non-sex god air, but it wasn’t working. Perhaps if I scooted toward the wall, inching farther away from him, I wouldn’t want to lick him so much?

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to make that decision as the elevator dinged and opened on the ground floor. Cool, platonic air breezed around me and I began to feel human again.

  That was until he placed his hand on the small of my back to guide me out of the elevator, causing my lady parts to spasm uncontrollably. I think they were having a seizure from too much hotness.

  I coughed. Actually, I tried to suppress an eruption of humiliating giggles that would have embarrassed twelve-year-old girls, with a cough.

  It worked. He dropped his hand and the lower half of my body went into a deep depression. The top half of my body felt relief tinged with bitterness.

  The chill of the Chicago air solidified me. What if I’m not sexy or beautiful enough for him to notice like he did every other woman he came in contact with? He slept around anyway. Even if he did seduce me, I would just end up heartbroken anyway.

  “Here we are. Chuck’s Sausage Shack. I am so thankful I can get a good sausage right next door anytime I want.” Morgana smiled as she held the door for us.

  “I sure do love to suck on tubular meat during my breaks at work,” I said without hesitation.

  That time I coughed for real. I hadn’t meant for that to come out of my mouth. It was there in my head and then my mouth decided it was the perfect time to give it a voice. I blame Morgana. Who says they are thankful to get good sausage? She was practically begging me to embarrass myself like that.

  “Let’s hope,” Edgar said. My eyes narrowed at him but he had turned from me.

  Cool as always. Nothing fazed him, not even a frumpy coworker making blatant and not very good penis jokes.

  He was just casually glancing around the place scoping out a table.

  “Crap. Looks like I got to head back to work. I just got a text from Mr. Payne telling me he needs to meet with me since it’s my first day back. Sorry.” Morgana frowned, shoving her phone back into her purse and pushing out the door.

  After watching the door close, I turned to Edgar. He was staring at me, grimacing.

  “Look, if you have something to do we can just order food to go,” I said, trying to offer him a way out. It was obvious back at the office he was only agreeing to lunch because he thought it would be him and Morgana. I’m not blind. Morgana was gorgeous and sexy and exactly what a player like Edgar would be into. I think it’s a little shitty that he would go after someone his best friend, Payne, was obviously into, but that was none of my business.

  Now we can order food for lunch since we are already here and then go our separate ways.

  Edgar smirked. His dimples deepening as his gaze drifted languidly to my lips. “Now why would I miss out on the chance of watching you suck on some tubular meat?”

  My lady parts were seizing again.

  Want to read more of The Attraction File? Just click HERE. Now on Kindle Unlimited.

  PEEK INSIDE: ONE WILD RIDE

  Here’s a chapter from Aria Dixon & Alex Hawthorne’s story, One Wild Ride.

  *****

  Aria

  “I peed myself,” my best friend, Morgana Drake, whispered to me.

  We sat in a cold, dim room. Despite the darkness, my skin prickled from the glare I knew was coming from the towering, muscle-bound man standing by the door. The hoodie he wore shadowed his face, making him appear even more menacing. Like some thug waiting for a pretty young bl
ond like myself to take a wrong turn down a dark alley.

  Only, we weren’t in an alley. We were somewhere much worse. Somewhere, that if Morgana, Evaleen Bechmann, and I screamed at the top of our lungs no one but this thug and his equally menacing friend would hear.

  We were in downtown Chicago in one of the tallest building in the city where the top floor was the home of the wealthiest resident: A. Hawthorne.

  But we were in the basement garage of that building in a tiny room surrounded by cinder blocks and one door. In other words, I should be scared.

  I smirked. “Why are you hiding by the door? Afraid I might bite?”

  I wasn’t frightened.

  Growling for added effect, I kept my eyes trained on the hoodie guy by the door.

  “Aria,” Morgana whisper-screamed at me.

  I laughed at our ridiculous situation. Laughed because these guys only wanted to scare us. We weren’t tied to these chairs. They looked tough, but I’ve been around men who were the stuff of nightmares. Hoodie and his friend, Buzz Cut, were like boy scouts compared to them.

  “What are they going to do to us, Morgana? Take us to some warehouse and brainwash us to take over the government? Come on.” I snorted and rolled my eyes at my redheaded friend.

  “You never answered us. Why are you here with the paintings?” Buzz Cut moved forward and into the light. His dirty blond spikes almost disappearing under the harsh glow of the hanging lamp.

  “That’s none of your business. Why would we tell you anything? We don’t even know who you are.” Evaleen’s blue eyes narrowed as she leaned toward him.

  I liked Evaleen. She worked with my roommate, Morgana, so I’ve only known her less than two months but she’s tough and loyal. The perfect person to have with me when I decided to infiltrate a wealthy recluse’s home.

  Despite her blond hair always pulled back into a frumpy schoolmarm style and dressing like one too, she had a no-nonsense approach to life that fit perfectly now.

  “My name’s Bradley. That’s all you need to know. Now tell me why you were with the delivery of A. Hawthorne’s paintings or I’ll have you all arrested for trespassing,” he said as his dark eyes narrowed.

  Evaleen snorted while Morgana whimpered.

  Hoodie moved closer, hiding the most stellar gray eyes I’d ever seen beneath his hood. He concealed that secret weapon well. When Morgana, Evaleen, and I first arrived and got out of the delivery van, Hoodie was the one who grabbed me and pulled me into this room.

  The light in the garage was faint but his gaze hit me like a bolt through thick smoke. Those pale gray eyes caused me to make a wish—to kiss him.

  Unfortunately, I never got the chance to make good on my wish.

  The men thought it odd that three women were helping to deliver some paintings when the actual delivery guy and his assistant were perfectly capable of doing it themselves. At least Hoodie and Buzz Cut weren’t dumb. I knew it was risky to pass ourselves off as part of the delivery team, but I had to come here.

  When the wealthiest man in the city, if not the country, buys your paintings, you want to shake his hand. And I was giddy to catch a glimpse of the famously withdrawn A. Hawthorne.

  “That’s funny, Bradley. Since when is being in a garage trespassing. For all the police know we were only looking for our car. Besides, you two strong-armed us ladies into a dark, closed off room. Even if A. Hawthorne can buy off the police to cover this up, I don’t think he can do a thing about us keeping it off social media.” Evaleen smirked.

  That’s my girl.

  Thugs may have muscles, but brains will always win in the end. A smart person would know not to let fear and emotions cloud their judgment. Bullies rely too heavily on their emotions to know better.

  Bradley didn’t seem to like what Evaleen had to say. His eyes widened, and he went over to Hoodie. They whispered and as much as I leaned forward I couldn’t make out their words.

  Hoodie finally came into the light. His eyes, turning to me, burned and seemed to brighten the room just enough to cause my heart to take notice.

  He pulled down his hood to reveal thick dark hair that dusted his ears. And his skin, smooth and tan. I wondered if he lived in a country full of sun and sand and was forced to the cold, concrete-blanketed Chicago as punishment.

  “Aria.” His hypnotic eyes, the deep rumble of his voice, held me tight as he knelt in front of me.

  “Yes?” I said transfixed.

  “Why are you here?”

  “To meet A. Hawthorne. Those were my paintings he bought. I just want to thank him.”

  Way to spoil everything, Aria.

  Where was my usual flirty snark? His eyes were a dangerous drug. If his eyes had the power to get me to reveal my secrets against my will in a dark room, imagine what his hands could do?

  My heart stumbled at the thought.

  I soon found out their power. He placed his palm on my arm. My resolve obliterated the moment his fingers dusted my skin. And my breath, it withered and died as I leaned into his hand.

  He had to feel that. That heat. That electricity. Or did his eyes protect him from such mortal things?

  After a moment he rose, letting his hand fall and leaving me desperate for his touch. I suddenly felt the early March air in my bones. It was bitter and unloved.

  When I glanced at him, the corner of his mouth ticked up, just enough to bring some of that warmth back.

  “I think I can make that happen.” He reached a hand toward me to help me up and I took it. At that point, I would hand over my wallet and perhaps my ovaries to make him smile.

  Bradley opened his mouth to speak, but Hypno-eyes halted him with one look.

  Those eyes were weapons. Even Bradley did as they commanded. He shut his mouth and let Hypno-eyes lead us out of the room to a set of elevators.

  Once we were all crowded into the lift, Hypno-eyes leaned forward and stared at a mirror. The doors closed, and the elevator began to rise.

  “Wow. That was cool. Did the elevator just scan your eyes?” Morgana asked.

  “Yes. Mr. Hawthorne had his private elevators equipped with the latest security technology,” Bradley said.

  “Like James Bond or—” Morgana said before being cut off by Evaleen.

  “Or Get Smart.” Evaleen smirked at Bradley. “Let me guess, his shoe is also a phone?”

  Hypno-eyes snorted and everyone in the elevator turned with wide eyes.

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “What? It was funny. I love Get Smart.”

  The elevator stopped, and the doors opened causing my mouth to drop open. We stepped onto gray-tiled floors and into a small hall with bright white walls. But it’s what covered those walls that had my eyes melting.

  Works of art.

  Not my artwork, but master works of art.

  Stuff I had only seen in textbooks during my art history class at Northwestern. I remember falling in love with Native American art in school. To the point where I studied Native culture and even learned some Navajo.

  I stood only inches from paper warped and molded decades before I was born by R. C. Gorman. Fear that my hot breath would wither its beauty but too in awe to move.

  “Stunning. How does A. Hawthorne have such a piece? Shouldn’t this be in a museum?”

  That’s when I felt the warmth from down in the basement return to my arm. I turned to discover Hypno-eyes and I were alone in the hallway. A large, dark wooden door sat wide-open at the end. Bradley must have escorted my friends away and I hadn’t even noticed.

  I should be worried, for them, for myself, but for some reason I felt safe. Those eyes and now, his touch, did strange things to me. Had me reacting to the world in a way I never had before, well, not since I was young. Not since I was innocent of the evils that existed in the hearts and hands of men.

  His eyes crinkled with warmth. “It’s much safer here than a museum basement. Most of the collection is loaned from time to time to galleries and museums around the world.”


  “A. Hawthorne may be a recluse but at least he’s not a hoarder. I’m glad he allows the public to experience these treasures,” I said with barely contained excitement.

  Hypno-eyes frowned and abruptly turned his back to move toward the door. I guess Mr. Hawthorne’s employees didn’t like people calling him a recluse. It’s a good thing I hadn’t brought up the rumors that he prefers to sleep with prostitutes.

  I’m not one to judge women on what they have to do to survive in this male-dominated world, but I would think a billionaire wouldn’t need to add to the exploitation of women. But what did I know of the happenings behind closed doors of penthouses?

  I walked through the door and it eerily closed behind me. I hoped it was the latest tech gadget closing that door and not a dead painter’s ghost here to collect his lost work.

  I quickened my step from the eerie door and was struck once again as I entered what appeared to be the love-child of a living room and a museum.

  My friends sat on a what I thought to be a replica of an orange Florence Knolls sofa. But as I glanced around the room, I realized there were no replicas in this room. No knockoffs or vintage-inspired. Everything was original, from the George Nakashima end table to the Matisse hanging on the wall behind Evaleen.

  I pointed to my friends and said, “When I die, I want to be cremated and my ashes scattered in this room.”

  “You got it.” Morgana gave me thumbs up.

  “Ah, Dixon, you can’t just scatter your ashes anywhere you want. This is someone’s home. They don’t want a dead person’s ashes on their couch.”

  Despite Evaleen’s cute habit of calling people by their last name and sound logic, I chose to ignore her comment.

  “Ms. Dixon, A. Hawthorne will meet with you now. He is down the hall; the second door on the right.” Bradley pointed toward a hall that appeared to be in competition with the Louvre.

  This was it—the point of the whole evening. To meet the man who didn’t just buy my paintings but propelled me into the elite artistic circle. If A. Hawthorne showed interest in an artist, their career was set. Every gallery wanted to show their work.