Hard No: Secret Baby Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Hazel Parker

  “Like I said, there is a world that exists outside the doors of your restaurants.”

  “You sound like you respect him,” I say by way of deflection.

  “What I hear, in business, he’s a shark, but then someone in his position has to be. Supposedly, he’s only a true asshole to people who nearly burn down his home.”

  “Eat me,” I say.

  “That’s Stone’s job,” she replies, still smiling.

  That flusters me a little. “What?” I cleverly reply.

  “Oh, come on…you weren’t holed up in the ladies’ room of the country club just because you were embarrassed.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, Stone’s one fine-looking individual, so much so that even you can see it, and that got under your skin.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She folds her arms. “Tell me he’s not gorgeous. But I warn you, the Pinocchio look won’t suit you.”

  “I have to get back to work,” I say.

  “Nice bit of dodging there. Call me later?”

  “Will do. I’ll be up late tonight.”

  “Make sure you don’t get to bed too late,” Tira says as a parting shot. “You want to leave yourself enough time for some good dreams.”

  Despite Tira’s directive, I’m up until one o’clock anyway, checking and double-checking restaurant plans for the rest of the week, especially Saturday and Sunday.

  Why Sunday? asks the devil on my shoulder. Planning on being up late the night before?

  “You and Tira should get together and go bowling,” I growl, stalking off to the shower. My back and neck feel full of knots, and I have a feeling I’m going to run out all my hot water trying to loosen them enough for me to sleep tonight.

  Under the spray and steam, I reflect on everything Tira had said, especially her observation that Stone was a good-looking individual.

  She was right, of course. Between his physical good looks and his smart mode of dress, he was hard to look away from. Unless you are, say, hiding out in a bathroom stall to avoid him.

  Why was I getting so worked up like this? I hadn’t spent that much time around him—standing on the sidewalk while his kitchen burned as a result of my blunder didn’t count, I felt—so why was he affecting me so intensely?

  I realize that intensity is exactly the issue here. I have never met anyone with as much intensity, as much magnetism, as Stone. It practically radiates off him in waves. It makes all the men I’ve known up until this point almost into one-dimensional cutouts.

  And you’re going right back into the lion’s den, I think.

  I have another realization. It’s that the idea of being in his company again, besides terrifying me, also excites me.

  What would it be like if he were to turn that smoldering intensity completely on me? What would it be like to feel his strong hands on my shoulders, sliding over the tops of my arms, down to my waist?

  I close my eyes. It’s such a delicious thought that I can almost feel it, the pressure just above my hips on either side, just like two hands resting there. Only they don’t stay at rest there, they continue moving down and around, stealing down between my legs.

  As my fingers begin to move, this time, Trent Stone’s face isn’t a fleeting image in my mind. It’s there from the outset, and unlike last time, it doesn’t alarm me. Rather, it adds to the darts of pleasure that are already shooting through me.

  My fingers are moving faster now, my other hand at my breast. My skin is so alive right now that the pulse of water on my neck could almost be mistaken for a kiss, the trickles of water down my front the light touch of fingertips.

  Not that we would be doing anything lightly if this were the real thing, I’m sure. I don’t know if Stone has ever done anything lightly in his life. That’s okay with me. Sometimes a girl wants more than to be made love to.

  I pinch one nipple, hard, and my knees go a little weak. I slip a finger into myself, something I don’t often do when I masturbate, but I want to feel something substantial, something solid.

  It simultaneously works and makes things worse. I’m worried I won’t be able to hit my peak, the water will run cold, and I will be left feeling frustrated and unfulfilled.

  I press my body to the shower wall, imagining that it’s Stone pushing me against it from behind. The tiles are cool, which lights up my skin even more. I imagine what are surely his tight abs against my lower back, his hardness against my ass as his hands continue their work.

  I add another finger, and that brings me over the top. This time, my knees threaten to give way under me entirely. I cry out, the sound loud and echoey in the confines of the shower. I have to release my breast and plant a hand on the wall to steady myself.

  My hair is hanging in wet draggles in my eyes, my shoulders are slumped, and I’m breathing hard. In spite of the cooling water splashing across me, my face feels hot and flushed. Hell, I feel flushed all over.

  And all that from just a few minutes of thinking about him, I note. And you’ll be seeing him again in a few days.

  I’m able to shut off the water, even though leaning over to work the dials makes me feel a little dizzy. Getting out of the shower proves to be more of a chore. My legs are shaky, unsteady. When I reach to take the towel off the bar by the shower, I see that my hand is trembling slightly, too.

  Although I gave myself an orgasm only a few days ago, it’s been a long time since I’ve had one with another person. This one was intense.

  Of course it was, I think. Look who gave it to you. Intensity is probably what that man breathes instead of air.

  I look at my handwritten notes on the kitchen table, the open laptop. Daylight is fast approaching, and with it, I grow one step closer to the weekend.

  I crawl into bed and switch off the light. My body is tired, but my mind is racing, full of plans, plans, and a set of dark, piercing eyes.

  In spite of my exhaustion, sleep is a long time coming.

  Chapter 8 - Trent

  I walk into my house on Friday afternoon to the smell of fresh wood and paint. I don’t want to knock off early from the office, but I want even more to inspect the handiwork of the work crews while there are still a couple of hours left in the day. I can always get some things done from home.

  I had wanted everything put back exactly as it had been before the fire, and I am not disappointed. Money does wonderful things for peoples’ focus and commitment to doing a good job.

  Trailing a fingertip along the granite countertop, I consider working out in my second-floor gym as opposed to addressing business tasks. I decide I can get both in this evening, especially if I start now.

  Free weights this time. I enjoy the attention you have to give to your balance while you use them. Maintaining your balance, keeping your footing steady—it’s one of the keys not just to business but to life itself.

  “Sir?”

  It’s Curtis, standing at the door to the gym. He waits until I set the bench press bar back on its brackets before going on.

  “Ms. White contacted me with her list of ingredients for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Cutting it a little close, isn’t she?” I ask, chuckling a little.

  “She says she prefers to buy the ingredients the night before, if not the morning of, the occasion so as to assure absolute freshness.”

  “Very considerate. All the same, think she’ll be ready by seven tomorrow?”

  Curtis is extracting a folded paper from his inside coat pocket. “I feel confident in her abilities, sir.”

  “So you did your homework like I asked?”

  He nods. “Yes, sir.” He opens the paper and begins to read. “Stephanie White. Thirty-four. No children.”

  Hmm. I would have pegged her as being younger than that. Maybe that is coming from her awkwardness. To be fair, though, I think we were all feeling a little awkward there at the end of our last evening together.

  Curtis continues. “Both parents al
ive, living in upstate Vermont. One sibling, a brother. He’s a writer. New York.”

  “Reputation?” I know that Curtis knows I’m not talking about the brother here.

  “She seems to live to work,” he says, then pauses. “I imagine you know the type.”

  I wave a hand in a keep-going gesture.

  “Seven days a week, she can be found in one of the three restaurants she started in the area. Her third restaurant received three Michelin Stars last month.” He pauses again. “As well as a glowing review from the notoriously difficult to please food critic Angelo Tomasso only just this week.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir. It seems Mr. Tomasso paid Ms. White’s finest restaurant an unannounced visit. Not a common practice, as I understand it. Usually, a critic will give an establishment the courtesy of notification, rather than just ‘dropping in.’”

  “How, exactly, did she do?” I ask, although I already know full well. In my experience, though, you can never have too much intel.

  “As I said, Mr. Tomasso’s review was highly complementary. This has been regarded as out of character for him. A number of his colleagues have wondered aloud if he’s well.”

  I’m not interested in Tomasso, though. I want to steer the conversation back to White.

  “So she’s more than competent. What’s on the menu for tomorrow? What does she want?”

  Curtis reads off the list of ingredients. My experience with them is limited, but they sound expensive.

  “White’s not pulling her punches, is she?”

  “It would appear, sir, that neither are you.”

  As luxurious as my hotel room had been, it’s still good to sleep in my own bed again. Thank goodness my house has a better than adequate ventilation system. Coupled with Curtis’s habit of closing doors as he found them open, it had kept the entire place from ending up smelling like a smoked sausage.

  I’m able to get a good night’s rest and wake refreshed the next morning. I’m so refreshed that I may go into work today, even though it’s Saturday. Naturally, I could work from home and still get plenty done, but I find I’m more productive when I’m in my office setting.

  I realize that I feel the need to stay busy to pass the time. The reason for this is clear—I’m looking forward to tonight.

  “Will you be at the office all day, sir?” Curtis asks, handing me my espresso.

  “Yes, I think so. I’ll be home about six, most likely.”

  “For dinner at seven?” Curtis sounds doubtful.

  For some reason, I feel the need to let him know that I’m taking a casual approach to the coming evening. “Time enough to shower and put on a change of clothes. You’ll let White in and get her set up?”

  “Of course, sir.” He hesitates. “Sir, may I ask you something?”

  “Sure. Just make it quick; I want to get going. It’s pushing eight o’clock here.”

  “You had the kitchen put back in order exactly as it was.”

  “Yes…so?”

  “And you are having Ms. White return a week to the day at the same appointed time.”

  “I say again, so?”

  “So, I might have expected you to see if she could duplicate the meal she served you last weekend.”

  I smile. “It’s not enough to be good at something,” I say. “You’ve got to have range to be a real pro. I want to see if White’s got any other cards in her deck.”

  “I see.” He seems not quite satisfied but adds anyway, “I’ll bring the car around if you’re ready to leave, sir.”

  “Yes, please,” I say. “I’m anticipating a very busy day.”

  One of the advantages to working on a Saturday is that, with the exception of the cleaning crew, I have the entire building to myself. One of the disadvantages is that I have the entire building to myself, thus no one to interact with, thus plenty of time to think.

  I’m also aware of how many clocks there are in the place. I find myself checking them every so often, only to find that half an hour has passed.

  Counting down til seven? I ask myself.

  Of course not. It’s just that I have an appointment later today and I’m a stickler for keeping my appointments.

  Is that why you’re eying the clock at ten a.m.? I think. Don’t want the next nine hours to slip by, do you?

  I tell myself that that isn’t it at all.

  “And furthermore,” I say out loud to the empty office, “I can prove it.”

  I take out my phone and punch in White’s number. I had badgered her into giving me her personal cell number early on in our communications and had no compunctions about using it.

  She picks up on the first ring. Waiting by the phone, I wonder.

  “Hello?” she says. No, not waiting. Irritated.

  “Ms. White,” I say.

  “That’s me. Mr. Stone. That’s you. What can I do for you?”

  “I can barely hear you,” I say. “What’s all that noise in the background?”

  “I’m at the market,” she replies, “buying ingredients for a certain dinner I’m apparently obligated to prepare tonight.”

  That makes me smile a little. I don’t mind the jab. A little fire is an attractive quality. I realize what I’ve just thought and laugh.

  “Did I say something funny, Mr. Stone?”

  “No, I was thinking of something else.”

  “Did you have anything you wanted changed about the evening’s plans?” she asks.

  “Not exactly,” I say. “Just wanted to remind you to keep it casual.”

  “I know. You made that abundantly clear. Don’t worry; I won’t be wearing anything flammable this time.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you.” She said it like a statement rather than as a question. Questions could be answered with a yes. This was a flat declaration that she wanted this conversation to be over so she could go back to what she was doing. In a way, I could respect that.

  “No,” I say. “That’s it. See you tonight, then.”

  “I’ll be at your house at four, if that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine.” I look around the office. Most of the lights are off and the place feels like a cave. It’s actually quite pleasant talking with White, a bit of warmth in an otherwise cold setting.

  “Fine,” she says. “See you at seven.”

  “Seven,” I confirm and hang up.

  I look at my watch. Ten-thirty. Plenty of time to get plenty done.

  If, that is, I can concentrate, which for some reason I’m having a hard time doing.

  Chapter 9 - Steph

  “You want casual?” I ask my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I’ll give you casual.”

  It’s true. If I had gone with my initial urge, which was to wear my Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt, I would have looked like I was prepared to serve shots rather than fine cuisine. As it was, though, I had opted for a plain, dark T-shirt, jeans, and my comfortable running shoes.

  My one concession to convention is to have my hair pulled back. The chef in me cries out at the thought of having it down while at work.

  I’d arranged to have everything delivered to Stone’s place, so the only thing I would have to take over there would be my knives and myself. Excuse me, I mean my replacement knives. My original set went up in smoke with the rest of Stone’s kitchen a week ago. Replacing them had been at the top of my list of to-dos after that rotten episode.

  As I roll up the knife holder, watching the still-new knives being tucked away serves as a reminder of how badly south the evening had gone last time. I’m determined that no disaster, great or small, is going to befall me this time.

  I take a cab to Stone’s address. It was better to see the place in the absence of flashing red lights.

  Stone’s assistant meets me at the door.

  “Ms. Stone,” he says, actually smiling. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” I say,
“although I can’t speak for your boss. I can understand if I’m not exactly his favorite person right now.”

  “On the contrary…Mr. Stone has been looking forward to this evening.” He stands aside, ushering me in.

  Stone’s been anticipating my little working visit? With something other than poisonous resentment? This was news.

  “Did all of my stuff get delivered here all right?” I ask once we are moving through the front hallway.

  “Yes, indeed. Everything is in the kitchen and ready for you.”

  I sigh. “Thanks. I just wish I felt ready myself.”

  Curtis smiles again. “I think that evening is going to go wonderfully,” he says. “If nothing else, you’ll be working on familiar territory.”

  We’ve reached the kitchen and I see he’s right. I look around in disbelief. Everything was exactly as it had been before the fire, which may as well have not even happened.

  “This room was a total loss,” I say to Curtis. “How did you get the damage…erased like this in just a week?”

  “Mr. Stone prefers not to waste time. Efficiency is one of his watchwords.”

  “Timely fellow, then?” I ask. “Guess I’d better get to work, shouldn’t I?”

  “I’ll leave you to it. I trust you know where everything is. If there’s anything else you require, just call me on the intercom.” He turns and exits, leaving me with a lot of brown paper-wrapped parcels and a gnawing desire to hit this one out of the park.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do this. We’ll see who’s sorry at the end of the evening this time.”

  I’ve heard other chefs say that when they’re in their groove, time doesn’t exist for them. For me, though, there’s always an undercurrent of urgency to keep everything moving forward, for everything to be perfect.

  It’s not an unpleasant sensation. Instead, it’s like fuel for the engine. As long as I stay in motion, everything will be fine. It’s when I stop moving, or worse, exit the kitchen, that I devolve back into klutzy Steph White.

  In my restaurants, I insist on delivering my most exotic meals directly to the patrons myself. I like to be a part of the entire process that way. Carrying the plates is almost like carrying a magical talisman—while I have them in my hands, I don’t have to worry about stumbling or running into anything. It makes me feel charmed. I wish that I could have that feeling during the other moments in my life.