by J. M. Paul
“Ha-ha, very funny, CC.” I roll my eyes and assess myself in the mirror.
My long brunette hair hasn’t been washed in going on four days and is currently slathered in mayonnaise. My brown eyes appear puffy and tired, and I can probably pack for a summer-long overseas trip in the bags underneath them. My skin is ashen, but at least it’s well hydrated, thanks to my pricey moisturizer and my addiction to water intake.
“No joke, Noles. There’s this charity thing at Harry’s tonight, and Connor needs volunteers. I offered our assistance.” She waggles her brows and strolls back to the bed to sit.
“I already have plans.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“Um”—her eyes travel up and down my physique of hair de mayonnaise and tattered loungewear—“your appearance suggests otherwise.”
I flip her off. “I’m on a deadline.”
“Liar.” Cami points at me.
She’s right; I’m totally fibbing. It’s not that I don’t want to help with a charity; it’s that I don’t want to be anywhere near Connor if I don’t have to be. Temptations and all that.
“I checked your Google calendar, and you’re as free as a bird.” She stands again and makes her way over to my bedroom door. “So, do something with yourself—a lot of somethings—and make it quick.”
The timer for my hair goes off, and Cami flashes me an evil grin.
“You have an hour to get yourself classy yet sassy.” She taps her wrist to indicate a fake watch. “And wear something comfortable yet sexy. Connor said we’d be on our feet.”
“Something sexy to a charity event?” I question.
She shrugs. “It’ll help pull in more donations or something.”
“You’re not whoring me out, are you?”
“I said we’d be on our feet, not our knees.” She rolls her eyes, starts to leave, and then stops. “Oh, speaking of, we’ll eat there—on the house. It’s the least Connor can do.” Cami winks and then leaves.
“What the hell kind of charity is this?” I grumble to myself before I turn on the shower.
Harry’s is insane. Last week’s Black FriYAY bash has nothing on whatever’s going on tonight.
There’s live music, bodies are everywhere, and drinks are flowing heavily for only being six o’clock on a Thursday evening.
Cami says something to me, but I can’t hear her over all the commotion.
I hold my hand up to my ear. “What?”
Leaning into me, she yells, “Let’s head to the bar,” and points.
I nod, and we make our way through the sea of bodies. When we finally find a small opening, we belly up to the granite.
“Connor!” Cami yells and waves when he swivels his head in our direction.
Connor’s in mid-pour of several drinks, so he gives her a chin-bob greeting. When his attention turns to me, I get a crooked smile, and I swear, my tongue rolls out onto the bar.
Defense, Noel. Use your defense against his prowess in his woman-magnet ways.
“It’s crazy in here,” I shout to Cami.
She nods excitedly and surveys the masses.
Whatever charity Harry’s is supporting tonight is definitely a big deal.
I flit my attention around the room, trying to determine what’s going on, when my eyes land on a large Toys for Tots sign hanging from the ceiling. My heart squeezes, and a sense of nostalgia hums through my body.
When I was younger, my parents would always volunteer our family to help out a local Harley-Davidson store the first Saturday of December. We weren’t bikers, but they hosted a huge charity event for Toys for Tots. Local police and fire departments would come out with big bins for people to place toys in, and we would serve hot chocolate and light snacks. The firemen would let children tour a fire truck and get their pictures taken with them. Policemen would stand at the busy street corners and collect money from passing cars. It was always a fun way to spend a Saturday afternoon, and even though I was too young to understand what it was all for, I always felt I was part of something good, something greater than me. And my parents always taught me that the feeling our volunteering brought us—that sense of happiness and gratification from helping someone in need—that was the true meaning of Christmas. Even after all the pain and suffering I’ve encountered the last two years, I can still feel that spirit deep within my soul.
“Are you crying?” Cami asks me.
“No,” I answer immediately but realize my eyes are blurry. I grab a napkin and blot at the traitorous moisture collecting in the corners of my eyes.
Cami places her hand over mine.
“Is this too hard?” She swings her attention around the space, indicating the charity. She knows my family used to volunteer frequently because she would join us on occasion.
“No, it’s just … it brings back a lot of good memories.” I sniffle.
“It’s okay to let yourself miss them, Noles. And it’s okay for you to feel happiness during the holidays; it’s what they would have wanted.” Cami wraps an arm around my waist and hugs me.
“I know. It’s hard to let everything go when—”
“Hey, ladies. Thanks for showing up.” Connor greets us. “The auction is about to start. Want a drink before I put you to work?” He winks.
“Draft beer,” Cami says.
“Water,” I answer.
“It’s on the house. Order whatever you want,” Connor tells me.
“Water’s fine, thanks.” I turn away from him, so his gorgeous jade eyes can’t work their wooing magic on me.
“I’ll take a drink on her tab,” says a guy sitting next to where we’re standing. He points toward me.
“If you want to work, I’d be more than happy to pick up your tab.” Connor crinkles his forehead at Mooch.
Mooch clears his throat. “I’m good.”
With that, Connor heads off to retrieve our drinks.
“What do you think Connor needs us to do?” Cami taps her fingers against the granite.
“Force us to be his beer wenches.” I cross my arms on the counter and lean on them.
“You’re probably right.” Cami glances up, and her eyes twinkle at whatever she sees. “But at least he’s feeding me beer before he makes me his wench.”
“Speaking of being fed, when do we eat? I’m starving.” I tap my booted foot against the concrete floor.
“One draft and a water.” Connor drops off our drinks. “I’ll need you both in about fifteen, if that’s okay?”
“I was promised food on the house as well.” I take a long draw of the cold liquid.
“Hunger is strong with this one.” Cami points at me before she takes a pull of her beer.
“So is bitchiness when I’m not given what I’ve been promised,” I gripe.
“Isn’t that your MO, Noles?” Cami nudges me with her shoulder.
I pinch her side, and she giggles.
“Uh, right.” Connor holds up a finger. “Give me a sec.”
When he turns, he almost runs into Trey.
“Whoa, man.” Trey holds up his hands and steps out of Connor’s way. His eyes swing in our direction. “Ladies. You’re looking mighty fine this evening.”
Trey saunters over and perches against the counter. “To what do we owe the honor?”
“Apparently, I was brought here to be starved and tortured,” I grumble.
“Don’t mind her. She’s hangry.” Cami slings her thumb over her shoulder to indicate me.
I try to chomp it off. Cami yelps and then laughs.
“See what I mean?” Cami widens her eyes. “Vicious.”
Something flashes in Trey’s eyes. “I like my women venomous.”
“Well, this one’s got the bite,” Cami teases me and then sends me a look that says, Go for it! Trey’s hot!
I give her a dirty side-eye that says, Shut your trap-hole before I stuff it with napkins—or something along those lines.
“I just had my teeth sharpened, so I wouldn’t get too close if I were yo
u,” I say to Trey.
Connor’s back again, and he tosses down a bread basket so quickly, it spins around in a few circles.
“That’ll have to do until later,” he bellows as he strides away. “Trey, get back to work!”
“Guess I’ll catch you guys in a bit.” Trey purses his lips before following Connor.
I watch Trey retreat. He is easy on the eyes. Why don’t I go for it with him?
Cami leans over. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
When I turn in her direction, her mischievous, big blue eyes are blinking at me. I simply shrug and dig into the basket for a breadstick.
Four hours later, I’m running around like crazy, and I think I’m going to faint. I didn’t consume nearly enough coffee or food for what I stepped into. But the atmosphere is electric, and my former self would have said it was full of the type of magic that could only be brought on by the holidays.
“When is this crowd going to let up?” Cami grumbles to me as she makes her way to the buffet to replenish the silverware.
I’m carrying another full bowl of salad. It’s ten o’clock at night. Who the hell eats salad this late and especially when drinking this heavily? But, as Connor stated, alcohol opens their deep pockets for a good cause, and I have to agree. The televisions behind the bar are keeping a running tally of the donation amounts, and it’s impressive. Many children around the metro Detroit area are going to have a good Christmas, thanks to these generous souls.
Two hours later, I’m sprawled out on a stool, my arms crossed on the bar and my head resting against them. I’m trying to catch a catnap, and I’m almost asleep when a voice interrupts my dreamlike state.
“Hey,” Connor says quietly.
“I hate you.”
He chuckles softly. “I know you do.”
I think I feel a whisper of his hand brushing along my hair, but I ignore it.
“Where’s Cami?” he asks.
I yawn obnoxiously. “In the back, singing show tunes with some of your staff.”
“Really?” His tone seems surprised.
“That’s what you get for feeding her alcohol as payment for her services.” I shift my head, so I can glare at him. “And no food.”
“Ah, yes. You’re hungry. I think you might have mentioned that a time or two.” He has the balls to smirk.
Using way more energy than I want, I stretch my arm across the bar and slap him against the chest. “You’re an asshole.”
“You might have mentioned that a time or two as well.”
“Have I mentioned, I hate you?” I narrow my eyes.
“Yep,” he says it so that the P pops.
“Well, good because it’s true.” I yawn again, go back to my sprawled position on the bar, and curse the floor for being so brutal to my feet. My piggies are screaming obscenities and might possibly go on strike, leaving me paralyzed and unable to walk.
Connor crosses his arms in front of me and leans down, so there are only a few inches of space separating us.
“You know what they say about love and hate, don’t you?”
His finger traces along my hand, and I snap away from his touch so quickly, I almost fall off my stool.
“Hate is the strongest human emotion, and it shouldn’t be ignored,” I answer. “That, if I loathe someone as much as I loathe you, I should run in the opposite direction? Or possibly bury you alive?” I bat my eyelashes.
“No.” The corner of his mouth crooks up to display a dimple. Damn dimple. “There’s a fine line between the two. No one can hate you more than someone who should love you.”
I scoff. “That sounds melodramatic and idealistic. And I don’t buy into the whole fine line between love and hate crap. If I hate someone, it’s for a damn good reason that would never allow me to love them.” I shrug. “High standards and all that.”
“Well, Journal Girl”—Connor’s voice goes low and seductive—“consider your high standards met. It doesn’t get any better than me and—” He’s cut off by his ringing phone.
Standing abruptly, he fishes the device out of his pocket, and a smile erupts on his face.
“Hey, beautiful. Long time no hear,” Connor answers. He holds his finger up to me and saunters off somewhere.
Beautiful? Who’s beautiful, and why are they calling Connor this late?
I pull my phone out of my bag and send a quick text off to Cami. Lord only knows what she’s doing by now.
Me: Where are you?
Cami: On the loading dock, drinking with Trey and some other hottie I’m trying to get to know. ;)
Me: Slut.
Cami: At your service, whore. You should try it sometime. Maybe it’d help you relax. Lol.
Me: Contracting herpes or something worse doesn’t sound appealing tonight. Maybe next time.
Cami: Spoilsport.
Me: Let’s go, or I’m going to eat your face off when you get your ass back up here.
Cami: Mmm. Sounds kinky.
Me: Perv.
Cami: You know it. ;) Give me ten to try to woo the new guy, and then I’ll come rescue you.
She’s trying to put the moves on a new guy? What about Connor?
I shake off the thought as my stomach growls. For shit’s sake, what does a girl have to do to be fed?
I slink off the stool and wince when my feet hit the floor. They throb, and I reprimand myself for having a profession that forces me to sit the majority of the time.
Limping my way behind the bar, I search for something, anything, that’s edible. After rifling through all the coolers, I determine my calorie intake will have to be in the form of maraschino cherries and alcohol. Drinking isn’t really my thing, but when in Rome …
I pour myself what I think is a healthy shot of vanilla vodka and top it off with Sprite. I grab a napkin, a hefty amount of cherries, and hobble my way back to my stool.
When Connor finally makes his way back to me, there’s only ice in my glass and cherry stems left on my napkin, and I’m feeling warm and fuzzy.
“Go ahead and help yourself,” he says sarcastically.
“I did, thanks.” I pull a face. “No one else was going to. And I’m wasting away into nothing.”
“Ah, yes. You’re withering away.” Connor lifts my glass and jiggles it. “What were you having?”
“Vanilla vodka and Sprite. But you might want to go easy on the vodka.” I can tell my smile is loose, and my cheeks feel like they’re toasted marshmallows.
Connor’s eyes gleam. “I think I won’t.”
“Connor …” I warn but don’t say anything else as I watch him make my beverage.
He slides the drink over to me, rummages through a cooler for a beer, and takes a deep swallow.
I watch his throat contract and his Adam’s apple bob. It’s sexy as hell.
“Come.” He beckons me. “Let’s get you fed.”
“What?” I stop mid-sip of my drink.
“I’ll cook you something.” He rounds the long bar to stand next to me.
“You cook?” I arch a brow.
“Marginally. I can throw something semi-palatable together for us. Come.” He waves for me to step off the chair.
I slide down and stumble forward when my overworked feet hit the ground. My clumsiness might also have something to do with vanilla Stoli, but I don’t want to think about that. I want to enjoy the numbness it brings.
Connor’s hands land on my waist to steady me, and now, I feel everything but numb. His warmth seeps through my clothes, penetrates my skin, and burrows into the deepest parts of me that have been frozen for two years. He’s slowly starting to thaw places I never thought would feel heat again, could ever be awoken with glimmers of hope.
My eyes slam into his while a swarm of hungry butterflies flutter in my stomach. The air around us grows thicker, and my body naturally gravitates closer to him. The draw between us is electric, magnetic.
This man can challenge me and melt me without effort. It both excites m
e and infuriates me.
I stagger again.
“Whoa there, Journal Girl. Maybe you need to lay off the juice.”
And the mood is ruined.
I should be relieved, but the alcohol running through my veins has different ideas. It’s the devil sitting on my shoulder, telling me to throw my inhibitions to the wind and to pull Connor into me, plaster my mouth to his, and make him forget the other women standing in line to get to him—including my best friend.
Vodka—she’s a tricky little slut.
My stomach growls noisily.
Connor’s eyes widen. “Are you smuggling a lion under your shirt?”
No, but I wish I were smuggling your hand under my bra.
My shoulders hunch, and I peer at him through narrowed slits.
“You’re such an ass.” I swat him in the stomach, which is as hard as steel. My newfound friend vodka tells me to cop a feel, but I smack that whore to the floor.
He chuckles, grabs my hand and our drinks, and then moves us toward the kitchen. My hand—and probably my alcohol-oiled girlie bits—wishes the kitchen were a million miles away, so Connor had to hold on to me forever.
And, now, you’re acting like a lovesick schoolgirl who’s never been touched.
The truth hurts.
I shake the thought away and enjoy the feel of Connor’s soft skin clasping mine. He’s all man with large hands, muscles, and hopefully even larger extremities, but the softness of his palm does something to me. It makes me wonder if the outside package is sturdy and brawn, but the inside is soft and gooey.
When we reach the kitchen, Connor leads me over to a table in the middle that has a couple of stools around it.
“We allow our customers to schedule what we call a Night with the Chef,” he says in answer to what must be my questioning expression. “They sit back here, and the chef speaks with them while he cooks their meal.” He walks around the kitchen, grabbing ingredients out of a couple of refrigerators, pulling pots and pans down, and turning on a couple of stove burners. “It’s pretty popular.”
I’ve never been one to obsess over how food is cooked or what goes into making it, but watching Connor confidently move around this space and work … yeah.
“I understand the appeal.”
I don’t realize the words have fallen from my mouth, all breathy and hungry, until Connor traps me in a heated stare.
