Man Candy

by Lila Monroe

  “It’s not even late!” My sister protests. “Stay, watch another movie with me. Or Heartbreak Hospital!” she adds, naming our guilty-pleasure medical drama. It’s been running ten years now, and we’re both the only people we know still hanging on for the illicit on-call room hookups and medical shenanigans.

  But as much as I’d like to swoon over Dr. Casanova’s perfect rumpled hair, “I have work in the morning.”

  “Right. With your hot client.”

  I nod.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, watching me.

  “Nothing,” I insist.

  “Alice.” Gemma gives me a look. “You can’t fool me.”

  She’s right.

  “I maybe, possibly, have a teeny-tiny crush on my client,” I admit.

  “I knew it!” She throws a triumphant fist up into the air. “Bang him! Problem solved.”

  I laugh. “I can’t, Gems. He’s my client. It’s so complicated.” Way more complicated than she knows, but I can’t go there. I also can’t tell her about the kisses. And the pretending we’re engaged. I want to, but legally I can’t. To keep myself from blurting something out, I pop the truffle into my mouth.

  God, it’s so delicious. Maybe it’s betraying Lainey, but CandyShack really knows what they’re doing.

  “Wow, that’s good,” I say, looking at the wrapper. It’s rich and velvety with a hint of something spicy. It’s actually kind of similar to Lainey’s from the other day. I wonder . . .

  “Earth to Alice,” Gemma calls.

  Whoops! “Sorry. I . . . It’s just really messed up. Anyway, he lives here. And I’m in NYC.” Sort of. Nick Cameron is a rolling stone. One more reason he’s not the right guy for me.

  Even if everything about him feels like he’s the right now guy for me.

  “Stop overthinking it,” Gemma says, reaching for a truffle. “Let your lady parts decide for once. She knows you need to get laid. Life is short. Bang him and then go back to New York. Your nether regions will thank you.”

  She makes it sound so simple. But of course she doesn’t know the whole story. Though I’m not sure it would change her mind if she did. Also, it would be two against one. My lady parts are very much on her side.

  “Fuck,” Gemma says, reaching for another chocolate. “These truffles are orgasmic.”

  I laugh. “That’s my cue to leave. I’ll leave you and your lady parts alone with the candy.”

  I grab my purse and open the door, and almost walk right into what appears to be a lumberjack. A young-ish lumberjack with longish hair and a full, dark beard, barefoot in a pair of low-slung sweatpants.

  He doesn’t see me, because he’s otherwise engaged, kissing some woman goodbye in the doorway to the apartment across the hall.

  Gemma looks past me, and her laugh disappears. “Great,” Gemma growls. “Sasquatch. My asshole neighbor,” she adds, explaining

  “Shhhh!” I say because my sister can be loud. Really loud. She sighs and raises her voice.

  “Zach!”

  The man seems to ignore Gemma. But his date doesn’t as she lets out a surprised squeak, mutters something, and rushes down the hall toward the elevator.

  The lumberjack’s gaze finally turns toward us. “Hello, Emma,” he says. “Nice to see you, as always.”

  Gemma doesn’t correct him. “Nice seeing you and your flavor of the week. Who was it this time. Kiki? Kelsey?”

  “Kate.” He gives her a lazy smile. “You know, I think I might have an opening. I could fit you in for . . . the last week in July,” he says. “Shall I get my calendar?”

  I smother a laugh as my sister turns her scowl on me.

  The man’s smug expression disappears as he notices me. He steps forward and extends his hand. “Zach,” he says with a charming grin. “You must be Emma’s nicer and much less uptight sister.”

  “You are exactly right,” I say as I shake his hand. “I’m Alice.”

  Gemma lets out a loud, “UGH!”

  Zach is about to say something else when a phone rings behind him. “I think it’s next week’s flavor.” He winks at us and then disappears into his apartment.

  I turn and look at my sister.

  “Don’t even,” she says. “That guy is so gross.”

  “I don’t know, Emma,” I say. “I got a peek inside—looks like he even has his own washer and dryer.”

  Once I’m in the Uber and heading back, I text Nick that I’m on my way. I’m still not used to sharing a place with him, so I feel I need to give him fair warning, in case he’s wandering around naked or something.

  I would definitely need warning for that.

  Still out, he returns only a moment later. Watching the game with Jack.

  I’m both relieved and disappointed that he’s not home. So much for him not waiting up, I think as the Uber rounds the final corner.

  But as the car pulls over, I see what appears to be a ninja emerging furtively from the lobby.

  No, not a ninja, because that’s ridiculous. A cat burglar. In all black: pants, long sleeve tee, black beanie. Very suspicious.

  Yep, a cat burglar makes waaaaay more sense, Alice.

  I shake my head, reminding myself not to get over-dramatic. Then the ninja-slash-cat-burglar starts walking, and I recognize the casual gait.

  It’s Nick.

  What the what? What is he doing? He said he was already out . . . which means he lied to me.

  But why?

  “STOP THE CAR!” I holler. Unnecessarily. Because the car is already stopped.

  I’m about to hop out of the back seat. But before I get the chance, Nick jogs over to a Prius parked on the street. He jumps into the driver’s side and takes off.

  “Follow that Prius!” I cry.

  “Lady, I’m—”

  “GO!” I shout. “I’ll pay whatever! JUST GO!”

  He stomps the gas, jerking me back into the seat.

  I stuff my phone into my bag and get ready for whatever.

  My heart is racing. I can’t catch my breath. My eyes are trained on the car in front of us as it’s zooming down the street.

  And I can’t stop grinning.

  This. This is the feeling I’ve been waiting for.

  14

  Alice

  We follow Nick through a maze of streets, until finally he pulls over to the curb and stops the car.

  “Thanks!” I tell the Uber guy, tossing some bills over the seat at him before I jump out. I hurry across the street and plant myself in front of Nick’s car, just as he climbs out.

  “Well, fancy meeting you here.”

  Nick’s jaw drops. I grin. “Alice? But? What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  He looks down the street. “Nothing.”

  “Right,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Great story.”

  “Fine,” Nick sighs. “I need to do some recon,” he says, adding a very pointed, “Alone.”

  I look around, wondering what’s so interesting. That’s when I realize we’re around the corner from the Janssens’ mansion. And, based on his outfit, by “recon,” he means snooping around. And here I thought I was excited about a car chase.

  “This is great!” I exclaim. “You can teach me those lock-picking tricks.”

  Nick laughs. “Yeah, nope. Go back to the condo, Alice.”

  “Can’t.” I shrug. “My ride’s gone.”

  His eyes move behind me and then back to mine. “Not as far as I can tell.”

  What? I turn to see the Uber car. Which is just sitting there. Seriously, Uber guy? You seemed in such a hurry only two seconds ago!

  Like the driver heard me, the car pulls away from the curb and tears down the street. I return my gaze to Nick. “You were saying?”

  He scowls. “I was about to say that you can’t be here.”

  “And why not? If it wasn’t for my bringing you Janssen’s calendar, you wouldn’t even know he and his wife are out tonight.” My eyes
widen. “Are you going after the red folder? I bet the info is right there. If we find it—”

  “Alice!” He looks frustrated. “I’m not screwing around. This isn’t a game. You need to go back to the condo.”

  “No.”

  I stare him down. This is why I took this assignment. I mean, not to break and enter, exactly, but . . .

  To have adventures. Take risks. Push myself out of my comfort zone.

  And I’m guessing that whatever Nick has planned tonight is way, way out of my usual routine.

  He must see I’m serious because finally, he exhales. “Fine. But you are to listen to me, not touch anything, and . . . and listen to me. Understand?”

  I beam. “Understood.”

  He shakes his head, but I swear I see the hint of a smile. “Let’s go,” he says as he grabs my arm and tugs me toward the mansion. “And remember, no touching!”

  It takes all of two seconds to slip through a back gate and into the house, via that door we used last time. Not only is Nick a master lock-picker, but some sort of alarm wizard, because he makes short work of the main system. “Bert’s son’s birthday,” he explains, as the lights all flash to green.

  I’m impressed.

  We sneak down the hallway and back to the main study, but to my disappointment, the red folder is nowhere to be seen.

  In fact, it looks like nothing’s been touched since we were caught in here that night.

  That night.

  Boy, does that desk bring back memories . . .

  I glance over at Nick and gulp. Maybe coming along on this caper wasn’t such a great idea after all. Especially when Nick looks so damn hot as a very capable, very tight-pants-wearing cat burglar. I have never referred to a man as catnip, but Nick Cameron fits that description right now.

  “So,” I say as we’re exiting the office, grasping for something to get my mind off Nick’s pants. Or, more specifically, what’s in them. “You lied to me.”

  Nick glances at me over his shoulder. “What?” Then, before I can answer, he grabs my hand and pulls me down the hall toward a set of back stairs.

  “When you texted me. You said you were out.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t like being lied to, fiancé.”

  He smirks. “Fake fiancé. And would you have stayed at the condo if I’d told you what I was doing?”

  No hesitation. “No.”

  He lifts an eyebrow as if to say, Well?

  I grin at him. “I’m here anyway, so . . .”

  “Against my better judgment. I like to work alone.” His eyes slide down my body. Is it like eight thousand degrees in this house? “Even though you make a very cute burglar.”

  “Not so shabby yourself, Ocean’s Eleven,” I return.

  He snorts as he looks down at himself. Does he seriously not know how hot he is? Of course, that just makes him hotter.

  “Come on,” he says, pulling me up the stairs.

  “Do you think James Bond holds hands with his partners?” I say as we hurry up to the next floor.

  “You know what they say . . .”

  I look at him, waiting.

  “Keep your enemies close, your fake fiancée closer.”

  I’m about to protest when we arrive at a set of double doors. “Master bedroom,” Nick whispers. “Maybe Janssen left the file in here.”

  He uses his phone flashlight, lighting up the room just enough to see. He moves over to a dresser that’s covered in papers. I look around while he starts leafing through them—careful to keep everything in place.

  The bedroom is ginormous. But it’s so beautifully decorated that it’s cozy and lavish, but not overly so. This room even makes Nick’s spacious bedroom seem small.

  Nope, Alice. Not going there. Because the last thing I need is to be thinking of Nick’s bedroom.

  Although. Here we are in this bedroom. Together. Not that we’re going to be making any use out of the bed. Though there is that sumptuous-looking chaise . . .

  I’m glad the lights are out and Nick’s busy. Because I’m suddenly blushing fiercely.

  Wait! On the chaise! Janssen’s briefcase.

  I take a peek inside. The red folder! Jackpot. “Nick!” I whisper.

  He looks over.

  I hold up the folder. “Project Wonka—is this what you were looking for?”

  That gets his attention. He comes over and I lay out the first few pages so he can take photos, arranging more on top when he gestures he’s ready. We’re about halfway done when we hear a door slam downstairs.

  I freeze. Oh my God.

  Suddenly, the truth of what we’re doing hits me: we’ve broken into some guy’s house. Some very rich guy with an army of private security and lawyers.

  What seemed like just a game before suddenly gets real, real fast.

  I don’t want to go to jail!

  Nick quickly shoves the file back into the briefcase “Closet!” he hisses, gesturing. He opens the door, but the phrase “walk-in closet” is laughable when referring to this huge dressing room, complete with cabinets, another chaise, and a marble-topped island with like a hundred drawers. Beyond the room is a large en-suite bathroom.

  Not that I am surprised. Because my dream bedroom would obviously have this dream of a closet. One that makes Carrie Bradshaw’s look meh in comparison.

  Nick looks around for a hiding place.

  The outside bedroom door opens.

  Shit. I grab him and silently pull him into the bathroom. We can hide out in the shower.

  Noooooooo. The shower is glass-walled. Not frosted, not colored. It’s a fucking window. Crystal clean, too. Not a drop of soap scum. The Janssens are living my dream life in every way.

  Nick’s eyes go even wider. Until I notice a narrow door beside a stack of towel shelves.

  Please God, let this be a closet!

  I open the door. Hallelujah! Prayers answered. Sort of. It’s tiny, but it’ll have to do.

  I shove inside, parting the hanging bathrobes to hide behind them.

  And nearly break my leg as the floor disappears. “Careful,” I whisper, warning Nick as he follows me in. “Come right to the back.”

  “What the fuck?” He aims his beam of light down to the floor. Or, where the floor should be.

  “It’s a laundry chute. Come on.”

  He looks down again. Then up at me. I nod. “Not big enough to escape through, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “Hoping,” he sighs. Then he pulls the door closed behind us, plunging us into darkness.

  I feel my way around. The back of this closet is maybe eighteen inches deep. Which means that Nick is pressed right up against me, his hands are on the wall behind me, caging me in.

  I have nowhere to put my arms, so I rest my hands on his waist.

  Oh, his tight, trim, warm waist.

  My heart is already pounding, but now, it seems to thump extra-fast.

  Did I mention he’s right up against me? Like, every inch of him. I have a sudden thought of just how many inches I might like up against me.

  This moment of oh baby is suddenly interrupted by a loud laugh—Mrs. Janssen.

  Nick and I both go stock still.

  “Oh, Margie! Don’t be silly!” she says in her Belgian accent, as she wanders into the bathroom. I can hear her heels on the marble floor. “No . . . I told him I’d meet him there. He’s been so busy with that Italian . . . yes, the hottie yachtie.” She laughs again. “He is . . . I know . . . I’d trim his sails!”

  Maybe it’s the adrenaline giving me an inappropriate reaction to the whole situation, but I have to press my face into Nick’s shoulder to keep from laughing along with Mrs. Janssen.

  But at the same time, isn’t this interesting? Tiffany has it so wrong. Mrs. Janssen isn’t quite the prude she thinks. I wonder if both the Janssens have their ships in other ports.

  “I bet he’d have me coming about!” More laughing.

  I risk a look up at Nick.

  H
is eyes are closed and he looks a little embarrassed. But also amused.

  Not that I can blame him.

  He opens his eyes and sees me looking at him. He bites his lip. I’m sure he’s doing it to keep from bursting out laughing.

  “I bet his mast is huge!”

  Oh God. I have to press my lips together or I’m going to lose it.

  “All right, Margie” ,Veronique says, “I’d better go. Bert is texting me that he’s waiting . . . Yes. I’ll see what I can do. See you at wine . . . I mean book club.”

  As she says this, she sounds very close. Like, very, very close.

  I’m holding my breath. I’m pretty sure Nick is, too.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Janssen doesn’t have any dirty laundry, so we remain undiscovered. A few moments later, we hear footsteps. Then the bedroom door closes.

  Relief crashes through me.

  Oh my God, that was close!

  I cling to Nick, panting for air. I can’t believe we nearly got busted like that.

  Or that we’re in such close proximity, alone here in the dark.

  “You were right. I’m sorry, this is way above my pay grade,” I whisper-babble, still clinging to him. “I can’t believe we nearly got caught! I would not be OK in jail!”

  I feel the rumble of a laugh. “I don’t know,” Nick murmurs, teasing. “I can see you, running the books for the prison gang. You’d look cute in orange.”

  “Don’t even joke!” I smack his chest.

  His hard, muscular chest.

  He catches my hand in his. “It’s OK,” he reassures me. “I would never have let her find you.”

  His voice is low and protective, and, damn, sexy as hell. He squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. My pulse skips again, but this time, it’s not from panic.

  It’s from pure, 100 percent Nick Cameron.

  I’m about to open the closet door again when Nick holds me back. “We need to give her time to leave,” Nick murmurs softly. He shifts against me, and things get . . . warmer.

  Like, molten hot.

  Suddenly, I’m aware of every inch of his body. The steady rise and fall of his breath. The soft weight of his hands, still resting lightly on my hips.

  I have to stifle a moan. I didn’t realize it was possible to be so turned on by standing next to someone, but apparently, Nick is out to prove me wrong.