Say You Still Love Me

by Tucker, K. A.

  “Right . . .” Kyle murmurs, as if reading the doubt in my thoughts. He hesitates, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft. “Does it make you wish you’d never taken my dare the first night here?”

  When I announced that I’m crushing hard on Kyle in front of everyone.

  “Not even a little bit. Is that why you didn’t want me to know about this? You thought I wouldn’t want to be with you anymore?”

  He bows his head and mutters softly, “Something like that.”

  “Well then . . . you can’t read people nearly as well as you think you can.”

  He lets out a slow, long sigh of relief, and then leans toward me.

  My heart begins to pound in my chest.

  But he stops himself. “I’m sorry.” He holds up his cigarette.

  “I don’t care.” I press my mouth against his with determination—to prove how much I don’t care. I revel in the softness of his lips, even tinged with tobacco.

  He pulls back suddenly, to drop his cigarette to the ground and grind it out with his toe.

  And then he’s moving for me quickly, turning his body, one hand sliding around to cup the back of my neck, the other one gripping the side of my waist.

  There is nothing tentative or teasing about this kiss, his mouth smashing into mine with a hint of desperation. He beckons my lips to open and slips his tongue inside to move with mine, a deep moan rumbling from somewhere inside.

  All day, I’ve had to restrain my hands, but I no longer have to, letting my fingers smooth over his body, familiarizing myself with the lean body I’ve been aching to touch freely for days.

  He sucks in a breath as my fingers slip beneath his shirt, reveling in the warmth of his skin. Hooking a hand under one of my knees, he pulls me onto his lap to straddle him. The stone beneath my shins is hard and uncomfortable, so I wriggle my body to put my weight on his thighs. It earns his soft groan and a deeper kiss, his hands sliding down over my backside, the tips of his fingers trailing the hem of my shorts, teasing my thighs. I fist his T-shirt, itching to yank it off, my mouth working harder against him, my body aching for more.

  He pulls me closer, until our chests are flush. His heart beats hard and his response presses against me farther down.

  On instinct, I roll my hips against him, and the ache in my lower belly flares with even more need. All hesitation, all restraint is gone, that voice of reason silenced.

  He groans, his hands sliding up beneath my shorts to grip each cheek. He squeezes as he pulls my hips against his.

  And I want more. I want all of him.

  Our mouths break free of our lip-lock at the same time, as if both of us suddenly realized how far and fast this could go tonight, right here atop this rock, if we don’t show some control.

  “Whoa.” He laughs.

  I giggle. “I know.”

  He leans in to press his forehead against mine, his hands now finding a safe place on the rock beside him. “We have all summer.”

  I trail his jawline with my fingertips. “Yes. Definitely.”

  “And this isn’t the most comfortable place.”

  “No, it isn’t.” I flick his lip ring with my tongue and he moans softly. “My mom was right. I am going to love being a camp counselor,” I whisper, earning his throaty laugh.

  He cups either side of my face and presses a sweet kiss against my lips. “And it’s only the beginning.”

  Chapter 11

  NOW

  Mark knocks on my office door at six P.M. I beckon him in with a wave of my hand.

  “Need anything else before I head out?” He’d stay here until midnight if I asked him to, and likely never utter a complaint.

  “I’m good, thanks. I’m leaving soon anyway, to meet my brother for dinner.”

  He hesitates. “Any follow-ups for me after your call with Kieran?”

  Yeah. Start looking for a new job for the both of us. I plaster on a fake smile. “Nope. All good.” I called my father in LA and point-blank asked him if he gave Tripp the go-ahead to work a deal with this unknown KDZ company. “I told Tripp to see what they had to offer,” was his answer. For a split second, I felt immense satisfaction, knowing Kieran Calloway would tear a strip from Tripp’s hide for misrepresenting his wishes.

  And then he proceeded to tear a strip out of me, for letting Tripp walk all over me.

  By the time we ended the call, I was wavering between running home to hide for the rest of the day and hunting down Tripp to wrap my hands around his stocky neck.

  “All right, then. Good night.” Flashing one last smile, Mark throws his satchel over his shoulder and strolls out.

  Finally alone on this corner of the floor, with nothing but the soothing hum of white noise to keep me company, I fold my arms across my desk and lay my forehead on top.

  And release a loud groan.

  What the hell am I even doing in this job? Maybe Tripp is right! Maybe I am just a twenty-nine-year-old spoiled tart. Maybe my father has indulged me for far too long.

  It’s always been that way. At six years old, when I asked him if I could design our new house, he sent me off with a box of crayons and a pad of paper. Of course, my design was grossly off-scale and a few things weren’t practical—the seven stories, the slide from the top floor to the kitchen, the pool in the living room, the dolphin tank in the main bath—but he took my better ideas and transformed them into my childhood home, the house my mother still lives in. She has always said that if Kieran Calloway has a weak spot, it’s me, and I’m beginning to think she’s not wrong.

  He should have left me quietly managing projects for the next ten or fifteen years, until I was old enough, experienced enough, to perhaps deserve a place among the men.

  It’s a silent admission that curls my stomach with disgust.

  A knock on my door has me snapping upright, my mind spinning with excuses as to why it might appear that I was napping at my desk.

  Until I see Kyle standing on the other side, a brown package in one arm.

  Smirking at me.

  Every one of my problems evaporates as my heart begins pounding and my lips curl into a sheepish smile. I wave him in, the revelation from Gus lingering in my mind.

  “This just arrived for you.” He still has that slight swagger, I note, as he strolls forward to set the box on my desk, where my head was resting. It lands with a dull thud, marking its weight as substantial.

  I clear my throat, not trusting my voice. “Security isn’t expected to hand-deliver packages. But thank you.”

  “Your assistant was leaving for the day, so I said I’d bring it up.” His gaze roves my glass office—the framed pictures and degrees sitting atop my filing cabinet, the purses dangling from my coatrack, the extra pairs of heels I keep at the office, in case I feel the need to switch.

  I frown curiously at the label on the box. It’s another package from Rhett. I’m meeting him in an hour. What did he feel the need to send me ahead of time? “When do you finish your shift?” I ask, running my pair of scissors across the seams of the box.

  “I’m done now. Heading home.”

  Home to his wife? His girlfriend? He hasn’t come out and said it yet, and I don’t have the nerve to ask. Or, more likely, I don’t want to. It’s easier to deny reality that way.

  The small, rectangular name badge on his shirt catches my eyes. “So it’s Stewart now?”

  “Yeah. My mother’s maiden name. I thought it was a good idea given my family history.” His jaw muscles tense, his gaze flickering to my Persian rug.

  “Right. I guess that makes sense,” I murmur, digging into the box. How much do Gus and Rikell know about Kyle’s family? Are Kyle’s brothers and father still in prison? I can’t remember how long he said they’d be away. I have so many questions to ask, I wouldn’t know where to begin. My instincts warn me off asking any of them. For now.

  He’s finished his shift and yet he lingers, watching me.

  “What the . . .” I feel my brow furrow as I pull
out the wood-and-metal contraption. It’s a lamp, quite obviously, made of industrial pipes and a wire cage, the hefty base a block of wood. There’s a card included, with my brother’s store logo at the top, and a list of where the various materials were sourced from. “Wow. This was part of a railway tie.” I tap the wooden base.

  There’s another small box nestled safely inside, containing a vintage Edison bulb. I fish it out and set to screwing it in. “My brother made it.”

  “The one who took off to Thailand?”

  “I . . . yeah. That one.” A wave of nostalgia washes over me. “You remember that.”

  Kyle’s gaze is now out the window, on my view of the downtown core. “Gus mentioned it.”

  Somehow I doubt that. Gus is a lot of things, but a gossiper is not one of them. I decide not to challenge him, though. “I’m meeting Rhett for dinner tonight,” I say, gingerly unwinding the twisted black cord. “He’s back now. From Thailand, I mean. He and his wife live an hour outside Lennox. They opened up this little store that sells up-cycled things. And some days I really envy him.” I’m babbling now.

  I feel Kyle’s eyes on me as I map out the best way to plug in this desk lamp.

  “Here.” He drops to his knees in front of my desk and takes the plug’s end from me. Our fingertips graze for just a moment, sending a shock of awareness through me—those hands that spent a lot of time on various parts of my body, oh so many years ago—and then he’s feeding the cord through the electrical opening in the top right corner and down to the plug panel beneath. “There’s one open plug left,” he murmurs, and I hold my breath, hyperaware of how close he is to my bare legs beneath the desk, with my skirt reaching just above my knees.

  His head pops back up. “Try it now.”

  And I’m momentarily lost in his beautiful golden eyes, staring back at me.

  I clear my throat and flip the simple silver toggle switch. The bulb explodes with light. “I guess my brother actually knows about electricity.” I settle back into my chair to admire it.

  Except I can’t keep my gaze there for long. I never could, on anything else, not when Kyle was around.

  Kyle stands, smoothing his uniform’s shirt collar, though it’s perfectly straight.

  Can he hear my heart pounding right now? I feel like I’ll explode if I hold the question in any longer. “Why did you request to transfer here—” I begin to ask at the same time that Kyle asks, “You and Tripp Porter don’t get along, do you?”

  “What? . . . No. We don’t, actually.” I frown curiously. “Why? What have you heard?”

  His lips twist as he seems to consider explaining. “I was behind him earlier today, when he was heading down to the parking garage. He was on the phone, talking to a guy named Hank about a contract that’s as good as his. He said he has Kieran Calloway’s ear and not to worry about you sticking your—” Kyle purses his lips together, cutting off whatever words he was about to repeat. “That you won’t be blowing up this deal.”

  My ears begin to pound. “Really . . .” This must be about the Marquee. But who the hell is this Hank guy? On impulse, I quickly type “Hank KDZ Boston” into my search engine. And shake my head as a profile of the president of KDZ Construction—Hank Kavanaugh—appears. “Son of a bitch. What the hell does he think he’s doing?” I mutter, more to myself, feeling my cheeks burn with rage.

  Kyle folds his arms over his chest. “How aboveboard is this Tripp guy?” he asks in a way that makes me think he has an opinion.

  “I haven’t had reason to suspect he isn’t. Why?”

  “Because, just before he ducked into his car, I heard him say he wanted his five hundred in the account the same day the ink dries or he’ll kill it.” Kyle watches me calmly as I process his claim.

  “Five hundred . . . What five hundred? Is he talking about money?”

  Kyle gives me a knowing look.

  “Are you saying that Tripp’s taking a kickback for this contract?” My voice is eerily steady in contrast to the storm brewing inside me. Five hundred . . . thousand?

  “I’m telling you what I heard. Thought you’d want to know what he might be trying to pull behind your back. For what it’s worth coming from me . . . yeah, he’s definitely up to something.”

  And Kyle always had a knack for distinguishing between fact and fiction.

  He moves for the door. “I’d really appreciate it if you don’t pull my name into this. I doubt it would help with credibility, if you take this to your father.”

  “No . . . probably not.” How would my father react if he knew Kyle was working in our building?

  Kyle opens his mouth to say something, but then seems to change his mind. “Have a good night, Piper.” He’s out the door and strolling along the hall before I notice that he finally called me by my first name and not “Miss Calloway.”

  “ ’Night, Kyle,” I whisper into the silence.

  As if hearing my words, he turns to catch me staring at him, and then he disappears.

  Leaving me to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with this information. If Tripp is lining his pockets with money by securing this construction contract for Hank Kavanaugh, why was he dragging his feet on getting the Marquee off the ground less than a month ago?

  Something doesn’t add up.

  Also, I never got an answer to my question.

  Why have you come back into my life now, Kyle?

  “You’re not as smart as I’ve given you credit for.” Rhett sucks the edamame beans out of the shell before tossing it into the discard bowl.

  “How so?” I swat his hand away as he reaches for another helping. He showed up to this trendy tapas-style vegetarian restaurant—that he chose—twenty minutes late, and now he’s eating double his fair share.

  He leans back in his chair with a grin, brushing aside his blond hair. It’s perpetually six months behind for a haircut—intentionally. The guy is the epitome of ease and in stark contrast to me, right down to his worn metal concert T-shirt and frayed jeans, his Birkenstocks, and the fair trade satchel made from recycled bike tires and plastic bottles that dangles from the back of his chair. “Come on, Dad probably has a series of prerecorded messages so he can run the company postmortem.”

  I shoot my brother a glare.

  His hands go up in surrender. He knows I don’t like death jokes, especially after Dad’s heart attack. “All I’m saying is, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Not by choice, anyway. And he’s going to run his company the way he always has, even with you there as his sidekick. It’s worked well for him so far.”

  “And for you.” I give him a pointed glare. Rhett can afford to spend his days making functional art out of trash because of Dad’s unrelenting work ethic and tenacious drive to succeed.

  He rolls his eyes but then acknowledges my point with a sigh and a nod.

  “Anyway, if it were up to me, I’d fire Tripp’s ass tomorrow. It makes my blood boil that he could be so disloyal to Dad.”

  “Do you really think the guy would take a bribe for a construction contract, though?”

  “It would surprise me,” I admit. But Kyle’s confidence is hard to ignore. Though maybe it’s because I want to believe him. Maybe that would be the silver lining to Tripp’s deception—a stepping-off point for Kyle and me to begin talking again.

  To what end, though?

  “Sounds like you’ve had quite the day.” Rhett’s hand moves fast, snatching three bean pods as if it’s a game.

  He doesn’t know the half of it. “I can’t go to Dad with this. He’s already thinking he made a mistake promoting me.”

  “Kieran Calloway doesn’t make mistakes like that.” Rhett smiles sympathetically. “He wouldn’t have put you there if he didn’t know you could handle it.”

  I snort. “You didn’t hear him shred my eardrum over the phone earlier. I think maybe he’s changed his mind.”

  “Doubt it. And, besides, you’re his only option if he wants to keep the business in the family.”<
br />
  “Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way,” I mutter sarcastically, stabbing at a deep-fried cauliflower bite. There are days where I am envious of my brother’s laid-back lifestyle. Days where I sit in my office and wish we could swap roles, so he could take the burden of continuing our father’s legacy off my shoulders, even just for a little while.

  But the truth is, I wouldn’t gain any more satisfaction from weaving electrical wire through pipes to make things light up than Rhett would at the helm of the team that’s going to build a thirty-two-story condominium.

  We are both exactly where we’re meant to be.

  “Please. If I told him tomorrow that I wanted back in, he’d tell me he’d rather dissolve the company than give me a chance. And I don’t, by the way, want anything to do with that world.”

  “That’s because you’re too busy smoking pot and playing with silver spoons.”

  He grins. “Mock me all you want, but do you know how many of those phone holders we’ve sold? Probably enough to pay for a pair of those ridiculous, overpriced shoes.” He waves his fork toward my Manolos. “What were they, a grand? Two?”

  “Funny, I seem to recall a time when you only dated girls who wore ridiculous, overpriced shoes.”

  He smirks. “And then I saw the light.”

  My brother used to be the archetypal wealthy city-boy type—stylish gelled hair, a taste for expensive clothes, fast cars, and high-society blondes. Moderately entitled, but tempered by my mother’s influence; quick to anger when he didn’t get his way, though he was for the most part disciplined and eager to please my father. He was interning at CG during his summers, being groomed for an executive position.

  And then it was like he woke up one day with a new personality and a one-way ticket to Thailand. In truth, there were probably signs that he would one day snap, but the six-year age gap between us made it hard for me to see them.