Bossy Nights

by Liv Morris

  “Uh-huh,” she singsongs, tilting her lips in a smile of victory. She should be proud she cracked this stubborn man’s crusty exterior.

  “Follow me to the kitchen, Barclay. You need meds before your lips take over your entire face.” Don crooks a finger over his shoulder as he walks toward the library door.

  “Great,” I grunt.

  I touch my lips. Damn fluffy fur flying in the air. One cat makes me sneeze and scratch, but apparently a house full of felines requires major drugs.

  “Behave,” I whisper to Miss Holly before I follow behind Don.

  She bites her lip, and damn if I don’t want to kiss the living breath out of her. Aside from her not being an employee, it’s best we are separated during my talk with Don. Everything about her distracts me to no end.

  Once in the kitchen, Don turns on his oven and places his tart inside it. He gives me a glass of water, along with a Claritin. I swallow back the pill, hoping the medicine works quickly. I need to be sharp with so much at stake today.

  Don shows the way to his large veranda, and I swear this house needs a map to navigate the rooms. Once outside, we look over a sculptured garden where a glimmering pool shines in the late morning sun. Thankfully, I don’t see a cat in sight.

  “Gertrude likes to open the pool the first of May, though the water feels like the Artic until late July.” Don guides me to a large wrought iron table with cushioned chairs. “Please, sit.”

  We both take a seat, and I set my glass of water down on the table. Clearing my throat, I begin.

  “Don, we need you at the Warwick Awards Saturday night.” I hold nothing back. After all, he’s only giving me fifteen minutes. “Why haven’t you answered a single email or call from us?”

  “I was waiting,” he says, picking a piece of invisible lint from his pants.

  “For what?” His answer perplexes me. I can’t read minds. “Is Mort offering you more?” I adjust my collar.

  “Hell, he’s always offering me more, but that’s not the reason I haven’t responded.” Don takes a breath before continuing, and I find myself on the edge of my seat—and possibly my career. “I was waiting for you to reach out to me.”

  “Me?” It makes no sense. “Fill me in.”

  “Well, your father was my go-between at Hammond Press, and I was expecting the same thing from you after he left. Instead, I was shuffled off to an editor.”

  “I had no idea you were such a diva.” I laugh, and Don smiles. “So that’s it? If I work with you, you’ll come Saturday night?”

  “Believe me. I was going to show up. Though, I wasn’t sure which table I would sit at. Mort happened to mention he had an empty chair.”

  My jaw tightens at the thought of Don at Mort’s table. Mort’s mocking smile flies through my mind, though I imagine his yellowing teeth.

  “I bet he did,” I retort. “I’ll let my editor know you’re straight lined to me moving forward.”

  “I was giving you until tomorrow. By the way, the cherry tart was a nice touch. Not to mention, the gorgeous delivery girl … or ‘friend.’” He chuckles, using air quotes.

  “We’re just friends.” I try to define the lie I spoke only minutes ago. It’s more a hope than a deception, because I would like to be her friend while she’s in New York City. Return the favor preferably with her in my arms.

  “I don’t understand this ‘friends’ business with young people. Men didn’t nuance their relationships with women in my day.”

  “It’s not like that,” I object, because random hookups have never been part of my sex life. However, I can’t say how many girlfriends I’ve had over the years. Dozens perhaps.

  “Sure,” he says with an epic eye-roll. “She’s smart and beautiful.” He pauses a beat. “You’re stupid.”

  “She’s too young.”

  It’s a fact—not an excuse. I’ve never dated anyone more than four years younger than me.

  “That’s not what your father thought when he met your mother. He also never called her his friend.” Don crosses his arms over his chest, a look of victory in his eyes.

  “But he did call her his secretary,” I say with a smirk, knowing my mother was so much more than an office worker to my father. She was, and still is, his everything.

  “Minor details,” Don says in a matter-of-fact tone, and we both smile, because he’s right. Age is just a number when two adults are attracted to each other, or so I’ve heard from my parents.

  “The devil is usually in those pesky details,” I add.

  I hardly know anything about Miss Holly, other than she’s from Alabama, and maybe a little too trusting if she came to help me today without any solid facts.

  “As you get older, you learn the devil haunts your regrets.” Don stays stone-faced, and I let his words of wisdom sink in. “Bring Tessa to the awards dinner. Make an old man happy and sit her next to me. In the meantime, I hope you get your head out of your ass and realize you can’t be friends with a woman like her. I can tell she’s already gotten under your skin.”

  Has she? Or do I just want to get under her trench coat?

  14

  Tessa

  I run my fingers along a shelf in Don’s library. I can’t believe he and I are on a first name basis. I want to call my mother, the true lover of books, and tell her what’s happened today. Everything seems so surreal, I wonder if she’d even believe me.

  I spot one of my favorite books, The Count of Monte Cristo, and pull it from a tightly packed shelf. The leather edition is worn around the edges and the gold embossed writing on the surface has faded with time. I let the large book fall open in my hands, revealing a page with a crushed dried rose. I hold the delicate flower in place, wondering if Don left the faded red rose inside years ago.

  Before I close the book, I notice a passage marked with hearts in the side margin. “Woman is sacred; the woman one loves is holy.”

  I want to believe Don highlighted these words and saved the rose in remembrance of the woman he loves or loved. He does weave a thread of romance throughout his stories, as so many great authors tend to do. I’ve always thought the greatest books would be mere words on a page without a lovers’ struggle within them.

  Carefully, I close the book and return it to its rightful place. I glance over the shelves, searching for another title amongst the hundreds. As I reach for The Sound and the Fury by fellow southerner, Tennessee Williams, my phone vibrates, alerting me to an incoming text.

  I reach into my coat pocket and pull it out. After a quick glance at the screen, it shows I’ve missed five texts from Maggie. The last one begs me to call her, so I do. She answers after the first ring.

  “So, spill.” The words fly out without even a quick hello. Talk about anxious for details.

  “We’re at Don Black’s house—or more like his mansion. I’ve never seen a home like this before.” I move over to a lush velvet couch and sit down. I choose a seat that gives me a full view of the library’s door. If Don wasn’t kidding, he’s only giving Mr. Hammond fifteen minutes, so I’ll be ready in case their meeting ends soon.

  “Is your head spinning?” Maggie asks.

  “You have no idea. But there’s something wrong with me,” I confess, twirling a strand of hair around my finger.

  “What could possibly be wrong? You’re with a hot as fuck guy in your favorite author’s home. You’re living your best life.”

  “True, but I keep picturing Mr. Hammond with his clothes off. Who does that?” My face falls, causing my hair to cascade around me.

  “Finally. It’s happened,” Maggie yells with glee, piercing my ear. “Don’t worry. I do that all the time when I’m attracted to a hot guy. I’ve gotten so good at imagining what’s behind their zippers, I wonder if I don’t have X-ray vision or something.”

  “But we’re talking about me. Virgin Tessa here.” I’ve never tried to picture what a man has in his pants until today.

  When I feel a prickle of awareness against my skin, like someo
ne’s watching me, I quickly lift my head and blink.

  Mr. Hammond leans against the door, his arms over his chest. His impassive stare gives nothing away, but his steady position tells me one thing: he’s been standing there long enough to hear what I said to Maggie.

  I want to die or spontaneously combust.

  “Oh, shit. He’s here,” I whisper into the phone, then end the call without waiting for her response. She’s probably laughing her ass off at my expense while I consider jumping out a window.

  Since Mr. Hammond takes up the entire doorway, and also the only exit for the library, there’s only thing I can do to save my dignity: pretend the conversation with Maggie never happened. Maybe he’ll be a gentleman and pretend right along with me.

  “Ready to leave?” Mr. Hammond pushes off the doorframe and slips his hands into his pockets. I can’t tell whether he heard my naughty confession, along with my sexual status. He’s an ace at the poker face.

  I rise to my feet and straighten my trench coat in hopes of making it cover more of my skin. I feel so exposed under his watchful eye, it unnerves me.

  “Ready,” I answer. He assesses me from head to toes as I walk toward him. My feet are unsteady once I’m by his side.

  “Who were you speaking with?” he asks, tilting his head.

  “That conversation wasn’t meant for your ears.” My face flushes, and saving my dignity seems impossible at this point.

  I can’t even look up at him now, so I walk past him into the hallway. I hear his shoes hitting the marble floor right behind me, and I continue to the foyer, looking for Don.

  “Okay, it was rude of me to eavesdrop,” he admits. Shocked, I turn to gauge the look in his eyes. Is he truly sorry?

  He looks at me with a touch of irritation, and his jaw remains tight. Definitely not the soothing expression one would hope to find from a contrite confessor.

  “Do you realize how embarrassing this is to me? I thought you were a gentleman, Mr. Hammond,” I scold, my hands planted on my hips.

  “A gentleman? Tessa, there’s no such thing in Manhattan.” He squints his eyes at me in warning, and I want to slap him across the face. I refrain, of course, mostly because I couldn’t reach his cheeks without a stepstool.

  Why do I feel this anger toward him? Maybe I want to see him without his clothes on after all. And now that he knows I’ve never slept with anyone, a man of his experience will never want me.

  I hear a chuckling behind me, and spin around to see Don. He shakes his head while looking between Mr. Hammond and me.

  “Looks like I interrupted a lover’s quarrel from the expressions on your faces,” Don says with a knowing smile.

  “Miss Holly—” Mr. Hammond starts to speak.

  “You mean Tessa. After all, she does hate being so formal with friends,” Don corrects, smirking at me. I truly love this wonderful man’s sense of humor. Somehow, he gets me.

  “Yes,” Mr. Hammond huffs while running his fingers through his thick black hair. “Tessa and I need to get back to Manhattan.”

  “Don’t want to keep the big city waiting.” Don waves his hands toward the front door, practically shooing us out of his house. “It’ll just leave more of the cherry tart for me. I hate to share anyway.”

  “I’ll see you Saturday night,” Mr. Hammond says as he opens the front door.

  “Yes. I’ll be there. And, Tessa, I hope to see you again real soon,” he says with a crooked smile, while Mr. Hammond clenches his perfect jaw.

  “Me too,” I reply.

  The next thing I know, Mr. Hammond has his hand on the small of my back and ushers—pushes—me out of Don’s house. He leads me toward the black town car where his driver sits behind the wheel, or more like sleeps, guessing by the angle of his head.

  “Be a good girl and get in the backseat,” Mr. Hammond demands after his driver opens the passenger door for me, but my feet stay planted on the paved driveway. I’ll be a bad girl until I clear up one thing.

  “You heard what I said to my friend, didn’t you, Barclay?” Calling him by his first name feels right, especially since we’re discussing my sex life, or lack thereof.

  “Yes, Tessa. I heard it all,” he confesses, distress in his voice. He takes a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck. His dark eyes gaze down at me with unreadable emotions swirling in them. I wish I knew what he’s thinking. “Get in the car.”

  Great. This should be a fun ride back to the city.

  15

  Barclay

  After Tessa finally gets into the car, I round the trunk and lean against the door I should be opening, but I can’t just yet. I take a few deep breaths, because I need time to process one monumental fact: she’s a virgin. The word burns into my brain. My mind spins a million different scenarios knowing she wants me naked and has never slept with anyone.

  And how’s my traitorous body reacting to both realties? I’m as hard as the granite stone driveway under my feet.

  If I use the head on top of my shoulders, which is usually the case when it comes to women, I’ll ask Lawrence to drive her back to the city, alone, without me. Then I’ll order an Uber or walk to the train station a couple miles away to let off some steam.

  I pace beside the car, rubbing the back of my neck. I need to stay away from her at all costs. The idea of us together isn’t just about age anymore. Hell, I’ve never been with a virgin, even back in my school days. She needs someone who can commit to her beyond one night or a few days while she’s here in the city.

  She’s the kind of girl a guy brings home to meet his mother, and mine would love her too. There’s no way I can fuck a virgin—and that’s all it would be.

  Even after admitting I’m definitely not that man for her, I find myself grabbing the door handle and getting in the damn car. I’m thinking with the wrong part of my body. In one quick move I’m sitting next to her in the backseat, my eyes trained ahead of me, but I see her in my periphery. Golden hair and creamy long legs pop against the black leather interior. A man would have to be blind to miss her.

  “Lawrence, we’re ready to head back to the office.” I fix my seatbelt and straighten my jacket. They’re simple memory movements that should settle my rapid pulse and distract me from Tessa—and her virginity and desire to see me naked—but my heart keeps pounding away.

  “Yes, Mr. Hammond.” My driver starts the car and eases it down the long driveway. I want to yell at him to press the gas pedal and get this vehicle moving. Instead, I tap a finger rhythmically against my thigh.

  All my senses are on high alert in the tight confines of the car. I lean back against the leather headrest, making a futile attempt to handle the proximity of the blonde bombshell next to me.

  I’m trapped as her fragrant perfume floats around me like a siren’s song. I fight the crazy urge to pull her closer and inhale her scent. I crave the feel of her soft and delicate thighs. I’m drowning in her presence, yet I don’t take off my jacket to cover her legs. I want to feast on them one last time, even if it’s pure torture.

  I try to convince myself I’m protecting her, but is that true? Or could I be guarding myself from her? It would take nothing for me to get lost in the curves of her body and never come up for air.

  I close my eyes and imagine her legs wrapped around me. Our lips pressed together. Tongues. Hell, I better stop this train of thought, because I have no will power concerning her. All she has to do is ask, and I’d be hers.

  “Barclay,” she whispers, breaking our game of silence. I jerk when she touches my fisted hand resting on the leather seat between us. “It’s really okay if I call you that now?”

  “Sure, Tessa. You’re not my employee.”

  When I turn toward her and our eyes lock, she steals my breath away. Her big baby blues beg for me to let her in, like she’s searching for the smallest fissure in my heart. But I can only stay on the surface with her. Anything else will remove the last bit of control I possess.

  “Then we can start over and be f
riends?” she asks. Her voice is tender and seeking. “Pretend you didn’t hear everything. I’m humiliated beyond belief.”

  She doesn’t deny what she said, but Don warned me it was impossible for me to be her friend. I’ll prove him wrong. I can handle a friendly conversation for an hour-long drive back to the office. It’s a piece of cake, though bringing her Saturday night to the dinner is completely out of the question.

  Her alluring mix of innocence and beauty requires one thing: I have to go cold turkey. From here on out, this will have to be our last and final contact. Otherwise, she might not stay a virgin very long.

  “What conversation?” I wink at her, and she turns a pretty shade of pink.

  I unfurl my fingers, and she removes her light touch. “Tell me about yourself.”

  When she beams up at me all dewy-eyed and eager, a part of me already misses seeing her smile. I scan her face, capturing the moment and labeling her as the one who got away or I let go before it started. It’s for the best, though. I feel like a panting wolf wanting to devour a trusting lamb.

  “Okay.” She perks up in her seat. Her bright eyes are aglow with my fixed attention. “I grew up in Monroeville, Alabama. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”

  “I’d have to trade in my publishing credentials if I didn’t know the hometown of Truman Capote and Harper Lee. Besides, my mother was raised in Birmingham.”

  “It practically makes us family friends,” she laughs, and it sounds so youthful and sweet, reminding me again of our age difference. Then her laughter fades, along with her smile. “I’m curious. Why did you lie to Don about us?”

  “I have no clue.” I run a hand over my face, trying to make the awkward moment disappear. I opt for changing the subject. “By the way, everything’s okay with him now. I want to thank you for your help.”

  “That’s great. The tart worked then?”

  “I’d say it was more you giving it to him. He was quite impressed with your review of his book. So was I. You know you never really told me what you’re doing in New York City.”