They're Strictly Friends (Tough Love Spinoff Book 1)

by Chloe Liese

  He wore a gray T-shirt that hugged his shoulders and revealed enough of his chest that I caught a smattering of gold hair, pectorals defined as he shifted and reached for a bite from his plate. His muscular legs stretched out on either side of my chair, caging me in. All of this visual information met in my brain, painting a much more comprehensive portrait of Lucas naked than it ever had before. Long, powerful legs. Lean arms and a chiseled torso I’d seen dripping wet this morning. I could almost feel his tall, bare body sliding over me. I had to bite my lip as I scissored my legs.

  Lucas set down his teacup, mouth set seriously. “Elodie.”

  My name on his tongue sounded warm and proprietary. So different from the melodic pronunciation in France, he made it staccato—brisk and English. My name on his lips sounded brave and strong.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re friends.”

  I straightened in my seat. “Of course, yes.”

  “Tell me, then,” he commanded quietly, his eyes roaming my face. “Tell me why the daughter of two of the most powerful business moguls in France is shacking up with me, with nothing but an overnight bag and a cocktail dress to her name.”

  He reached his hand across the table, beckoning for mine. I gave it to him instinctually. His hands were impossibly large, but beautiful, as elegant as they were rough. Calloused, yet fine-boned. I slid my palm against his and wished it were different parts of us connecting.

  “What did they do to you?” he asked.

  My eyes met his. “Why do you say it like that? What if I did something?”

  “Because that’s not you,” he said. “You’re good, Elodie. Generous, loyal, principled. If you left everything behind, it’s because something terrible happened to you.”

  I took a gamble. “I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

  Lucas stiffened and relinquished his hand. “I said, I’m not ready.”

  “Then, we’re at an impasse, Loulou.” I slumped back in my seat, pulling my knees up to my chin as I resumed people watching. A flock of mothers pushed their babies in prams, and a young couple kissed before parting ways.

  Grumbling, Lucas sat back himself and crossed his arms. “It’s not the same bloody thing, you impossible woman. I”—he paused—“wait, what did you call me? Loulou?”

  I kept on people watching. “Loulou, oui. It’s a nickname.”

  “I can infer that, but what’s it mean?”

  I glanced over to his handsome face. “It means a few things. It’s a diminutive of my wolf which you call your…”

  Boyfriend, I was about to say.

  Lucas took a sip of his tea and seemed to read between the lines, because he had a bashful grin on his face when he set down his cup.

  “Mon loup,” he said, perfectly pronounced. He had a beautiful accent, just like earlier when he’d shocked me with how well he spoke.

  I smiled. “Oui. Très bien.”

  The air thickened between us, and I think we both got a little lost in contemplating the possibilities. French is a very romantic language, after all. I was hearing in my head what he’d say, what he’d whisper in my ear as he sank inside me.

  A car backfired, startling us both.

  “It also means little one,” I continued, fanning my face. “Obviously I’m using it ironically. And, it sounds like your name…I don’t know, it just came out. I won’t say it again if you don’t want.”

  “No!” he nearly shouted. “I was only curious. ” He raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly as he took another sip of tea. “Little one, eh? I hope that’s not an insult to a certain part of my anatomy, because I can assure you—”

  I covered my face and laughed. “It’s not at all about that. It’s just, you know, like calling a small man big or a tiny child fat. It’s…humorous.”

  Lucas grinned. “Ironic, specifically.”

  His wristwatch started beeping, and when he glanced down at it, his face fell. “Shite, I forgot. I’ve got to go. I have a…I have an appointment. I’ll run you home, you can get settled in with your new purchases, then when I’m back I’ll make some dinner.”

  I watched him closely, wishing I could pierce through his guarded layers and know what it was that made him so closed up. What had convinced him he was better off alone for the rest of his life.

  “Okay, Lucas.”

  After a quick ride back to Greenwich, I waved him off once he’d hauled my packages up to the guest room for me at his insistence.

  “I don’t want to make you late,” I said. “Go, shoo.”

  He stared at me enigmatically as he buttoned up a dress shirt, like he was debating something, but then he simply nodded and left the room. I heard his lumbering gait as he ran down the stairs and a quick slam of the door, followed by his car’s engine roaring to life.

  “Mischief managed,” I said to myself. “Well, for now at least. Next, deal with suspicious and meddlesome best friend.”

  I put Nairne on speakerphone, and we chatted easily while I unloaded my purchases to put them in the closet.

  “So you’re feeling better today?” she asked.

  “A bit. Not quite one hundred percent, though. I must have caught a virus on the plane to London. I just hope I didn’t spread it at the party yesterday.”

  I didn’t like lying, but I needed a little space from her close scrutiny until I had a plan. The last thing I needed was Nairne worrying about me when she already had plenty going on in her life. “I’m going to rest for a few more days, then once I’m better, schedule interviews while I’m here.”

  “What?” she shrieked. “You’re actually going to do it? Tell your parents to bend over and—”

  “Yes, Nairne,” I said wearily. Her father was always in her corner, and her mother had passed away when Nairne was very young. She found unsupportive, antagonistic parents like mine both foreign and insufferable.

  “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

  Jamie squawked in the background and it made me smile. “I am. I’m just still under the weather.”

  “Ah, nice use of an idiom, Ms. Bertrand. Ten points for Hufflepuff.”

  I laughed. Nairne was forever patient with my questions about English vernacular and never failed to praise me for a job well done when I got them right. “You were so sure I was a Gryffindor like you.”

  “Well, and not without good reason. You’re brave and sacrificial, Elodie,” Nairne countered.

  “Ah, but more so I am loyal, and I lead with my heart. I’m tenderhearted, as you say.”

  “That you are.” Nairne snort laughed. “And no one was surprised what Zed got.”

  “Slytherin,” we said together.

  “I wonder what Lucas is?” she said.

  “Easy. Ravenclaw. Disciplined, intelligent. Sharp and witty.”

  “You’re probably right. Oh dear, Elodie, I have to go. Jamie’s nappy smells like a sulfur experiment gone wrong, and he’s about to scream bloody murder.”

  I hung a dress and opened up the next bag of clothing. “Go. Tend to the child of the house divided.”

  “Very poetic. Cheers, love. Keep me updated on your interviews, all right?”

  “Will do,” I said.

  “Oh, and, Elodie?”

  I pinched the phone tighter between my cheek and shoulder. “Yes, Nairne?”

  “I’m proud of you. You’re making your own way. The life you truly want. Hufflepuff or not, you’re courageous.”

  My throat thickened with emotion. “Thank you, ma fille.”

  “Kisses.” Then she rang off.

  I could wallow in the fact that my parents had left me destitute and shunned. Or I could look at it how Nairne did, as an opportunity to make my own way. Yes, I felt guilty for my role in my family’s dissolution, but what could I do now except try to live a life of integrity? And that life was not wealth management. I had skills and values, a dream to influence companies’ policies and tactics for hiring a broader spectrum of minds and abilities. I didn’t just like diversity and in
clusion, I believed in it.

  I stood back, looking at my closet, pleased to see I was settled with a small wardrobe of appropriate, versatile clothes. Now I was prepared to interview for the job I so desperately wanted and needed.

  Wardrobe secured, now it was time to check the listings, so I ran down the hallway to Lucas’s office, where he told me to make myself at home on his desktop computer. I quickly booted it up and scrolled through job postings online. Some seemed like good leads, but I found myself being selective. I wanted a position that truly aligned with my goals and paid well enough to live close to Nairne and Zed and little Jamie.

  And Lucas.

  “Yes, and bloody Lucas,” I grumbled.

  Deep into the listings, I started to feel forlorn, when a description nearly jumped off the page:

  Director of Diversity and Inclusion for Financial Services and Consultancy Firm.

  A senior staff position right out of graduate school was probably a stretch, but I’d matriculated from essentially the world’s best, and prestige sometimes got you places you otherwise wouldn’t reach. I considered it was somewhat hypocritical of me to leverage such perks when I aspired to uphold and institute better equanimity in the business world, but first things first.

  “One step at a time,” I said to myself. “Let’s get you employed for now, Elodie.”

  I read through the position, and it was ideal. Everything I’d studied, and it spoke to my professional ethic. The company was advertised through a recruiting site and thus unnamed, but it described itself as an organization that didn’t just prioritize big established corporations but served young, mid-sized, and start-up businesses that often struggled to have enough in-house expertise to manage their profits and strategize well for business growth. Another sympathy of mine—helping burgeoning businesses take flight.

  I felt a wide smile on my face as I read through the requirements of the job: compatibility with fast-paced environment, a rigorous work ethic, willingness to think creatively and collaborate with leadership in formulating equitable internal and external strategy, implementing fresh concepts, driving organizational growth. I’d be perfect. I’d be perfect for this.

  Seeing that the posting said to call first for inquiries, I searched around for my phone. It took me a little longer than I would have liked to unearth it from the unmade sheets of the guest bed, and Lucas’s judgmental grumblings about disorderliness might have infiltrated my thoughts.

  I didn’t try to make messes; I just had the tendency to set something down and change directions before I remembered to make a mental note of where I’d put it. Which meant by the end of the day, little piles tended to accumulate in my living space. I got to tidying them eventually, but Lucas’s philosophy that everything had a place didn’t sound so bad either. If it mattered to him, I could slow down and be a bit tidier while I stayed with him.

  I punched in the number and made the bed as it rang. After a while, a friendly woman answered, taking my information while she assured me the position was still open. Giving me a fax number to send over my résumé, she promised I’d hear right back from the hiring personnel once they’d reviewed my information. With shaking hands, I checked my email and read once again through my résumé, pleased with my credentials and my performance at university.

  Every class, top marks, and two glowing recommendations from my professors as well as from my mentor at my internship. I printed off my résumé and sent it through the fax, triple-checking the number as my knees bounced furiously.

  The next hour dragged. When I started to feel like I was going crazy, pacing about with nothing to do but wait for the call, I wandered into the kitchen and rummaged through Lucas’s refrigerator. It was full of fresh vegetables and fruit, brown eggs, and a few jars of creamy milk. He had herbs growing on the window ledge, and I ran my hands through them, savoring their pungency.

  A momentary pang of sadness for France stung my heart. The familiar scent of thyme and rosemary reminded me of my childhood home’s abundant garden, of our cook’s roasted game covered in herbs, Parisian bakeries, and fresh bread. It was quickly washed away though, as I remembered my parents’ faces in the café.

  “Asking me to marry myself off for their business,” I seethed. My stomach soured, and I ripped off a piece of mint and stuffed it in my mouth, letting its bite clear my palate.

  I didn’t know what I’d do if I didn’t get this job that had me written all over it. I wanted it badly, not only because I was penniless and starting completely from scratch, but because it felt right already. Wanting something, having so little security if it didn’t work out, made me choke on tears.

  “No.” I smacked my hand on the counter. “No more tears, Elodie.” I turned to the refrigerator and whipped it open, identifying my victims. Vegetables, cream, hard cheese, onions and butter. I found a jar of pastry flour in the pantry. Soon I was lost in the soothing rhythm of cooking and baking, stirring a pile of fresh chopped herbs and vanilla bean into a simmering broth for a barigoule. Kneading the dough I’d started, I pressed it flat, smiling at the joy of sinking my fingers into its sticky mixture.

  By the time I’d finished, my mobile rang just as I shut the oven. I dove for it, covering it in flour and butter as I fumbled to answer it.

  “Allô—I mean, hello?” I grimaced.

  “Yes, hello,” a deep weathered voice said. “Is this Ms. Elodie Bertrand?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Ah, good. Well, I’m Jack, calling from Farthington. You sent us your CV just an hour or so ago, and, my dear, I have to say I’m mightily impressed. We’d love to have you in as soon as possible for an interview.”

  I swallowed a squeal as I hopped up and down. “I’m so glad to hear that, sir. I’m very excited about the position.”

  The man chuckled. “That’s good to hear. We want everyone who works at Farthington to be happy they’re here. Though you sound awfully French; are you sure you don’t mind working for a bunch of uncouth Englishmen?”

  I gaped, flummoxed as to how I could respond. He was probably teasing, but what if he was being serious? What if he was implying I wouldn’t fit in their business culture?

  “I’m joking,” he said quickly, “I’m sorry. Well, honestly we do have a few uncouth numbskulls, but I’m working on them.”

  I laughed uneasily. “Oh…well…every company has them?”

  He chuckled. “Forgive me. I tend to baptize by fire. I have a terribly dry sense of humor. It’s a chronic condition, for which my wife laments that there’s no cure. How’s tomorrow look for you?”

  I sighed in relief. “Tomorrow is excellent, sir, I can be there whenever is best for you.”

  “Wonderful! Let’s say nine in the morning, sharp. You’ll meet me, and if all goes well, then we’ll move you on to schedule a final interview with the incoming leadership. How’s that sound?”

  “Perfect, sir. Thank you again.”

  “Oh, please, don’t call me sir, you’ll make me feel old!” He chuckled again, and I could tell he was indeed both older and as much of a tease as he’d admitted to being.

  “Never again, then, I promise.”

  “Ha, and a wit to boot! Lord help me, you just might have a chance, dear, because whomever ends up in this job is going to need a coat of armor and a hell of a sense of humor.”

  That made my stomach pinch with unease. What did I expect, though? Businessmen and women were demanding. I should know, I’d grown up with them, and I was one myself. I was my deepest critic. “I assure you I’m up to the task, and I look forward to showing you just that, when we speak tomorrow. Have a good evening, Mister…?”

  “Oh, we’re casual here at Farthington. Just Jack,” he said. “You as well, Elodie. Until tomorrow.”

  When he rang off, I ended the call and tossed my mobile down, then began a mad dance around the kitchen. Covering Lucas’s radio in butter and flour, thanks to my still-messy hands, I found the rock station and cranked it up high, not knowing what it was
but only needing music that echoed my happiness. Dancing, singing, and flailing about, I breathed deeply for the first time since I’d arrived in London.

  Until a tall shadowy figure in the hallway caught my eye, and I jumped and screamed.

  “Oh, Christ, Lucas!” I slumped in relief over the flour-dusted counter when I recognized him.

  Lucas stepped in cautiously, looking bewildered. Scanning the kitchen, his eyes landed slowly on me. “What in the hell happened here?”

  I reached to shut off the radio. Glancing around, I bit my lip nervously. I’d been so determined I’d keep things tidy, and it was a total disaster.

  “I’m sorry, Lucas. I was cooking, and just about to clean up. But then I got a call to schedule an in-person interview tomorrow and—”

  “What?” He whooped happily, dropping his handful of groceries on the dining table. In two quick strides he scooped me up against him, hugging me fiercely. “That’s bloody brilliant, El! I told you, didn’t I? You’ll be the queen of Canary Wharf before you know it.”

  He held me tight, so we were eye to eye. Suddenly, I was keenly aware of every bit of surface area that we shared. His powerful thighs hard against mine. The rise and fall of his chest against my breasts. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed and wondered what it would feel like to kiss the hollow at the base of his throat. I glanced down to his chest, seeing I’d gotten flour all over him.

  “I’ve made a mess of you,” I whispered. I tried dusting the flour off his dress shirt, but I just got more on him because it was all over my hands.

  “Yes.” His voice was strained and deep. “You have.”

  I looked back up to him. Hunger and emotion darkened his eyes.

  “You’ve made a mess of me all right,” he growled as he hugged me tighter. An involuntary whimper escaped my throat.

  His eyes were on my lips, then his mouth was whispering over mine. “I shouldn’t do this,” he muttered.

  I leaned so our lips brushed and felt like I’d been shocked. “I wish you would.”