by Sylvia Fox
The guy clearly works out.
“Okay, right.” Liam clears his throat and flips open a folder stuffed to the brim with papers, outlines, and photographs relating to Hell Cat. I blink, glancing from the papers back to Liam. It’s packed full, and notes are scribbled in the margins, brainstorming various ideas for improving the place. I have to admit, I’m surprised. I hadn’t pegged Liam as the type to get so involved in his properties, and I certainly hadn’t expected so much prep work on his part. I figured he bought a place, tossed it into someone else’s lap, and then moved on to the next project without a single serious thought directed at anything.
“This is…in-depth,” I say, flipping through the papers. I can’t help but notice there’s an entire section devoted to a new jukebox. Either he already had that in mind or he really did listen to what I said yesterday. Which would mean he spent hours last night putting some of this together. “You had the time to do all this?”
He gives me a patronizing smile, one I try to ignore as difficult as it is. “I make my own time. To be successful in life, you can’t just hope for it.”
“Oh okay,” I say with an eye-roll. “So, you have a time machine. I’ll have to be sure to get one of those myself, so I can make my own time as well.”
He opens his mouth to snap back, and a part of me feels on the edge of my seat waiting to hear what he’ll say. Sure, I just said I’ll be civil, and I kind of meant it, at the time. I can’t help it if he makes me want to lob snarky comments at him all day. And I can’t help but like it when he does it right back at me, almost like it’s a game we’re playing.
“Some of it I’ve been working on for awhile. And some I worked on last night after our…discussion.” He leans forward, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows and revealing an intricate tattoo. I hear my throat catch. My eyes widen. And my heart pounds a little too hard. Because I not only spot the tattoo, but I can see the palms of his hands as he shuffles through the papers. They aren’t smooth and pristine like I thought they would be. They’re calloused, rough, strong. Liam Landon is a man. One, I can’t help but notice, gets closer and closer to my dream man with every moment we spend together.
Of course, that doesn’t change the fact he irritates the hell out of me. And the fact he bought this bar. I don't care how sexy the man is, I won’t forgive him for buying Hell Cat, Alex’s pride and joy.
My pride and joy.
“What’s the tattoo of?” I can’t help but ask.
“Oh, this?” His face goes hard, and he pushes down his sleeves. “It’s not really for people to see.”
I reach out, instinctively, and lift the material just enough to get a glimpse of what he’s trying to hide. It’s a flower, but done in such a way that it still comes across masculine, with an intricate design spreading out from it in dark blues and reds. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a flower guy.”
“I’m not a flower guy.” His voice is harsh and angry, and he jerks his arm out from under my fingers. “And I said it’s not for people to see.”
“Why did you get a flower on your arm if it’s not your thing and not for people to see?”
He blinks, glancing away. “You sure are nosy.”
“You’re right. I am.” I turn back to the folder, trying to drag my focus away from his tattoo. It’s impossible not to be curious after his reaction. What could cause him to pull away like that? And to want to hide something he very clearly wanted to put into his skin? “It’s nice though. Beautiful artwork.”
“That’s because it’s my mother’s artwork,” he says, voice deep and gruff.
I raise my eyes, surprised. Out of all the things I’d imagined he might say, that was definitely not one of them. “She’s a tattoo artist?”
“No. She was an artist,” he says quietly. “She painted this for me the month before she died. On canvas, not on my arm. I decided to make it more permanent, so to speak, the same day as her funeral. It seemed like the kind of thing she’d appreciate.”
His voice cracks a little on the end before he swallows hard. With a timid smile, I reach out and put my hand against his arm. I don’t know why I’m doing that. A few moments ago, I couldn’t stand to be near the man, but what else can you do when someone tells you something like that? Besides, it cuts through so much of what I thought of him that it’s hard to remember why I hated him in the first place. There’s something much softer about this man than what he wants the world to see, something vulnerable hiding behind the steely, no-nonsense expressions. Here and now, in his normal clothes, sporting a tattoo to honor his mother, well…he almost comes across as…
Amazing.
No. No, no, no. I can’t think that word because it’s so far from the truth. Liam Landon is not amazing. He is not kind. He’s ruthless and only cares about the money. I can’t forget that, no matter what he says to try to make me forget.
His eyes land on where my hand still rests against his arm. I snatch my fingers away, feeling a heat flood my cheeks. I hope he doesn’t get the wrong idea. It would be mortifying if he thought I wanted him. Because that’s the furthest thing from the truth.
I don’t want him.
Nope. Not at all.
Okay, maybe just a little.
4
Liam
There are many things I don’t usually find myself doing. Attending raves. Riding the subway. Eating at a fast food restaurant. I also never find myself out and about shopping. If I need something, my assistant takes care of it unless I have a specific request in mind. And then that’s what the internet is for.
But Carrie insisted on viewing some of the potential new bar stools in person. Said she couldn’t get a feel for the ambience without running her fingers across the wood. At the time, I have to admit, I wasn’t sure if she was talking about new stools for the bar or something else.
My cock certainly wanted it to be something else.
“Good morning,” she says when she meets me outside of the store, a coffee cup in one hand and a Metrocard in the other. This morning, she’s a little brighter and chirpier than yesterday, though that might be down to a ten o’clock start instead of an eight. I decided to let her sleep in a little longer, though I can’t for the life of me understand why I even cared. It’s not like me to schedule my day around other people’s needs, especially not when they’re my employees.
“Morning, Carrie.” I nod to the coffee cup in her hand. “I didn’t think you were a big fan of that stuff.”
“Why?” She laughs and cocks her head, and I can’t help but latch onto the sound. It’s the first time I’ve heard it since I bought the bar from her old boss. It’s a nice sound. Warm and lighthearted and intensely feminine. Something deep in my gut clenches tight. I’d love to hear that sound again.
“Well, you practically threw a fit when you found out I wanted to install an espresso machine at Hell Cat.”
She stabs me in the chest with her finger. “And that is exactly what I mean and what I'm trying to get into your head. Lesson number one. Hell Cat isn’t about what I like. And it isn’t about what you like either. It’s about what the people want. What they like.”
“And the people don’t want coffee?” I ask, raising my eyebrows and gesturing around me at the busy sidewalks. At least a quarter of the people walking by have a steaming coffee cup clutched in their hands.
“It’s the crack of dawn. Of course they want coffee.” She smiles. “But when the sun goes down and the city lights come up, Hell Cat people want shots and jukebox songs. Just trust me on this. Okay?”
I can’t help but smile back. “It’s not the crack of dawn, Carrie.”
“Lesson number two.” She takes a big gulp of her coffee before continuing. “And an important one. When you have employees with shifts that end at three or four in the morning? The start of the day is not at six. It’s many, many hours later when they’ve had a chance to sleep.”
“You might be surprised to find out that I don’t go to bed at ten or eleven at nigh
t,” I say. “I’m often up until three myself. And then up at six again.”
“You’re telling me you get three hours of sleep at night?” She presses a hand to my arm, to my chest, and suddenly my cock goes rock hard just from this slightest of touches. I know she’s not really touching me. Not like she means it. But it doesn’t change the fact that her hand is roaming across my body. For a split second, her fingers pause on my bicep, squeezing slightly. Her cheeks flush and she glances away before the joking expression comes back into her face.
But I didn’t miss that. She got flustered. Touching me.
Maybe she doesn’t hate me as much as I thought…
“Uh, anyway, how the hell are you alive?” she asks. “I mean, you feel hard enough, but…I mean, solid. You feel solid enough.”
She shifts on her feet and turns away. “Should we go in and look at the stools they have?”
She’s trying to deflect attention away from whatever just happened here. From her furious blush, from the fact she’d called me hard. Little does she know just how hard I am right now. My pants are bulging from where my cock has come alive, straining to get out of this material and closer to that soft little hand of hers.
“After you.” I open the door and usher her in before me, trying desperately not to watch how her ass wriggles in her tight little skinny jeans. Again, she’s made no effort to dress for a business meeting, not that I mind it. There’s something incredibly sexy about a woman who looks better in jeans and a t-shirt than in a dress.
Though I have a feeling she looks damn good in a little black number.
We make our way to the back of the store and find the collection of stools. It’s a specialty shop selling everything a bar could possibly need, and it’s clear that Carrie has been in here many times before. She goes straight to a dark mahogany stool that would best be called shabby chic. There are uneven grooves on the surface, and the legs are skinny steel, like something straight out of an old factory.
“These look like they’ve been sat on at least a hundred times before.” I shake my head, pointing to something much more polished. In fact, the black surface gleams under the overhead lights. “What about something more like that?”
Carrie makes a face. “Sure, those would work great for some of your other bars, but not for Hell Cat. The whole point is that these stools do look worn and lived in. Homey. Comfortable. Laid back. Plus, they’re made out of recycled materials, so it’s helping the environment, too. Win, win.”
“I didn’t know you were into the whole recycling thing,” I say.
“Who isn’t into recycling?” She furrows her eyebrows and cocks her head. “I mean, isn’t everyone?”
“No,” I say with a laugh. “Most people I meet don’t care a shit about that kind of thing.”
She looks at me, something thoughtful passing across her pixie features. “Of course they don’t. You have too much cash you can throw around to care what happens to the environment. Hell, too much to think about anyone other than yourself.”
I narrow my eyes. “Once again, you just can’t help yourself, can you?” With a frustrated sigh, I tighten my hands into fists and turn my back to her. “Throwing insults in the air like they’re confetti.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Sometimes I say things without thinking them through.”
“Whatever,” I snap. I’ve tried. I really have. Despite her best efforts, I’ve felt an intense need to get along with Carrie, to make this business arrangement work between us. But she’s so dead set of throwing up this wall that I’m getting far too tired to keep trying to knock it down. If she wants to hate me just because I have money and just because I saw fit to buy Hell Cat, then so be it. She’ll just have to go on hating me if that’s what she really wants. “Let’s just buy the damn bar stools and get out of here. We can go with your crumbly looking ones if that’s what you think is best.”
A soft hand lands on my arm, and I flinch before glancing down to see her slender fingers resting on my shirt. I swallow hard as my cock twitches. This tiniest of connections shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. All I want is to take those fingers and taste them, lick them, press them tight against my hard cock.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, peering up at me with her gorgeous brown eyes. And then she licks her lips. Fuck, I’m dead meat now.
Two seconds ago, I was ready to storm away.
But she’s pulled me back in again. Damn it all to hell.
5
Carrie
No matter how hard I try to stop myself, I can't keep my mouth under control. I just keep spewing out insults at Liam left and right. For some reason, it feels so much easier than speaking to him like a normal human being. Something about being in his presence puts me on edge, like I'm always one second away from falling into danger. The kind of danger that could leave me panting, screaming, and writhing on the floor…
"I'm really sorry I keep putting my foot in my mouth," I say, lightly squeezing his arm. Why the hell am I touching him? My mouth doesn't just have a mind of its own. So does my hand. And my body. Because now I'm inching closer to him and pressing myself just slightly against him. Enough to feel his warmth but maybe not too much to chase him away.
He stares down at my hand and then swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he drags his eyes up to meet mine. They swirl with heat and desire and oh shit. This feeling between my thighs isn't so one-sided after all.
This man wants me. That's not a look you give someone unless there's some kind of desire there.
I take a step back, dropping my hand to to my side. "So, you want to get the stools I suggested?"
"Well, you seem pretty intent on them," he says, still frowning. "Like I said, it's not what I would choose, but I did bring you here for your opinion. And if that's what you think is best, then…"
I shake my head. Even though he's giving into what I want, I don't like how he's giving in. Grudgingly. He still doesn't understand what I've been trying to get across to him all this time. He doesn't really know what Hell Cat is and what works best for the loyal clientele I hope to hell will stick around after he makes his changes to the business.
"Let me ask you something, Liam. An important question." Truthfully, I should probably call him Mr. Landon, but that doesn't feel right. Our relationship, even though it's boss-and-employee, feels far too casual for that.
His lips quirk. "I have a feeling I don't want to know what it is, but go on."
"Had you ever been to Hell Cat before you bought it?" I raise my eyebrows. "Just once. Even if it was to scope the place out."
"Of course I went." That smug smile spreads across his lips again, and I push down the urge to roll my eyes. "It would be a bad investment if I didn't check out the property before purchasing it. Your previous boss gave me a tour and went through some of the specs with me."
"A tour?" I shake my head. "So, you mean during closing hours. What about when it was open? What about when customers were there?"
His gaze latches onto mine, and he falls silent. So it's just like I thought. He’s never been. Not a single damn time.
"How can you know how to run a place you never visited before?" I point out to him. "If you don't know what it's like, then you aren't going to understand why I think we should go with those bar stools. And they're not even as important as some of the other decisions you're going to make."
"Like whether or not that espresso machine stays."
For a moment, I can't tell if he's joking, but then he finally cracks a rare smile. It makes my heart flip, which is weird. It's just a smile, between a boss and his employee. Because we're finally talking, communicating, having a reasonable conversation instead of arguing. It doesn't mean anything more than that.
"Exactly," I say, smiling back. "Like whether or not you dump that crazy idea."
"I see your point," he says. "But, unfortunately, I can't go back in time to see what Hell Cat was like before I bought it. I know you think I have a time machine, but I don't
. Maybe that should be my next acquisition."
Another joke. I like this. It feels good. So good that I try another suggestion on for size even though there's something a little bit reckless about it. "There are other bars like Hell Cat. None of them are remotely as amazing, let's be clear, but they have the same…tone. They're on the same bar crawl circuit."
"You're suggesting I check out the competition," he says with a nod.
Well, that isn't exactly what I'm suggesting, but he's formed it into words he understands. It's the kind of thing I'm sure he's used to doing, something that makes sense in his button-up business world. Check out the competition, see what they're doing, and then do it better. Final stage? Profit. Because I can't forget that he's all in for the money. That's why he's here and why he's listening to me. Not because he truly cares about the bar.
But, it's what I've got to work with for now.
"Exactly," I say.
"It's for reasons like this that I wanted to keep you on, Carrie." He pats my back, his hand lingering a few seconds longer than it should. "We'll do this tonight."
My heart skips a beat. "We?"
He cocks his head, crinkling his eyebrows together. "Of course. You know all the hot spots. I don't. I'll need you to give me the tour."
What the hell do you wear when you're set to go out for a night on the town with your boss? And not just any night out. A bar crawl through the best drinking haunts in all of Manhattan. On the one hand, I should probably dress casually. It's not like we're going on a date or anything crazy like that. On the other hand, I find myself wanting to impress the man, which is utterly ridiculous.
Still…I end up choosing an outfit in between. Or as in between as I can manage. Tight black skinny jeans and a black tank top edged in delicate lace. It's the kind of thing I'd normally wear if I went out drinking with friends, so surely it's appropriate in this case.
