Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

  You certainly didn’t try to pass her off as the love of your life. She carried the groceries to the kitchen and hefted the bag onto the counter. He was probably getting an earful from his mom right now about the tramp who’d answered his door in a bathrobe and handcuffs. She unloaded organic tomatoes with unnecessary force. He’d dump her fake-girlfriend ass as soon as he got home.

  Fine. Whatever. It hardly mattered anymore, anyway. She’d spoken to Chelsea yesterday and found out the bonus looked iffy. The insurance company was burying her with paperwork. Her financial rescue was unraveling from all sides. She snagged a package of locally grown oranges from the bag, tearing the netting in the process. The fruit bounced on the counter, rolled in every direction, and spilled onto the floor.

  So what are you doing here?

  Excellent question.

  …

  Booker came in quietly, in case his guest still slept, but stopped short at the kitchen entry when a fist-sized missile flew past his head.

  He dodged, and the object thumped into the hallway. Lauralie stood in the middle of the kitchen, ready to hurl another orange at him.

  “Someone really needs her morning coffee.”

  The comment earned him an angry little scream, and then the next orange zoomed at him—on a much lower trajectory this time. He used the grocery bag he carried to block it, preferring to risk breaking the half-dozen eggs he’d just bought than his balls.

  While she bent to scoop another orange off the floor, he put his bag on the counter next to a half-unloaded one he had a pretty good suspicion who to thank for, and closed the distance. She straightened, and he got a full blast of glaring blue eyes and fiery cheeks before he caught her wrist to prevent her from taking a close-range shot.

  “Before you damage parts of me we’re both fond of, want to tell me why you’re fired up?”

  “Let go.”

  “Hell, no. Talk to me.”

  “Booker, if you don’t let go of me right now, I swear to God I’m going to—don’t you dare…”

  He did dare. He took the dangling end of the handcuff and locked it around his wrist. “Let’s try this again. Talk. To. Me.”

  “This”—she rattled the chain connecting their wrists—“isn’t funny.”

  “Depends on your perspective.”

  Her chin tipped up. “Call your mom. Ask her if she found it funny when she stopped by this morning.”

  He tamped down on the urge to wince, and shrugged a shoulder instead. “I don’t know how funny she thought it was, but I’ll bet she realizes she needs to call before she drops by.”

  “You’re not funny, either. Me, answering your door wearing your bathrobe and these stupid, freaking”—she rattled the chain on the handcuffs—“things, tells your mother in fairly explicit terms we slept together last night—”

  “As it happens, we did sleep together last night.”

  “Don’t get cute. It sends the wrong kind of message. It completely torpedoes your plan.”

  “No. It tells her we’re involved. How does that undermine my plan?”

  “You seriously don’t understand?”

  Oh, he understood. But did she? The situation pissed her off because she actually gave a damn what his mother thought of her. She’d invested more than her pride. She cared. Which meant they weren’t standing on such uneven ground after all, but he knew better than to enjoy the revelation right now. “Look”—he grabbed a handful of the front of the robe and tugged her closer, even though she stiffened—“I get that this wasn’t the most traditional first impression, but I don’t always know when my mom is going to show up on my doorstep. Maybe you can relate?”

  She shook her head. “When it comes to mothers, we have nothing in common. Trust me.”

  “Enlighten me. Tell me about the last time your mom paid an unannounced call.”

  Those blue eyes drifted to his and then bounced away. “New Year’s Day. She showed up on my patio at dawn, and yes, she’s the reason you woke up alone that morning. I got dressed, and got her gone before she could do any damage.”

  He wrapped his free arm around her waist, and pulled her closer. “What kind of damage would she do?”

  “Make a scene.” She sighed and sagged against him. “Embarrass me. Embarrass you…”

  “I’m not easily embarrassed, Jailbait. You shouldn’t be either. She may embarrass herself, but it’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “Says the man standing in the shelter of a respectable family tree.”

  “Those limbs cast a shadow—not one I’m ashamed of, most of the time—but I’ve worked hard to establish my own reputation, and be judged by my own accomplishments. I extend the same courtesy. Nothing your mother says or does impacts my view of you. I draw conclusions about people based on who they are, not the names listed on their birth certificate.” He let the words sink in for a moment, then asked, “What did your mother want?”

  “Same thing she always wants. Money.” A hard laugh punctuated the statement. Two angry slashes of red stained her cheeks. “I hadn’t seen her in a year and a half, and she showed up on New Year’s Day to shake me down.”

  “How much did you give her?”

  She replied after the barest of pauses. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  She stared at a point over his shoulder. “I gave her a ride to the train station. Of course she lifted the forty bucks I had in my wallet somewhere along the way, but really, that’s on me. I should have seen it coming.”

  He could see she was holding something back. He knew the signs—guarded tone of voice, rigid spine, pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. But he didn’t press. Maybe it had been more than forty dollars, or her mom had helped herself to a credit card, too. Whatever it was, it was done. His heart broke for her. She’d gotten a raw deal in the family department. “Idiot,” he said, knowing she’d recognize sarcasm when she heard it.

  “Yeah. I’m a fucking idiot.” She blew out a breath and gave him a tired smile. “That’s what she loves about me.”

  He tightened his arm and drew her against him. There was much to love about her, and the fact that her mother has always been too wrapped up in her own selfish dramas to realize it made Denise Peterson the fucking idiot. “The only idiotic thing you do is think you need to deal with her on your own.”

  She didn’t. Not as long as he had anything to say about it.

  “Booker, she’s my mom, which makes her my problem.”

  “That’s not true. If she shows up at your home or business and causes a scene, she’s disturbing the peace and that makes her my problem. If she refuses to leave, she’s trespassing. Again, my problem. Likewise if she steals from you. You’re not responsible for her, and you’re not the right person to deal with her. The next time she contacts you, let me know, okay?”

  She blinked up at him, clearly taken aback by the request. “I—all right.”

  “Good. When it comes to family, nobody should have to go it alone. Including me. Are you free tomorrow night?”

  “Yes.” Belatedly, she shot him a cautious look. “Why?”

  “Date number two.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Booker, I don’t think this dating thing is going to—”

  “Fine. Don’t think of it as a date.”

  She tipped her head. “What should I think of it as?”

  “A chance to meet my mother wearing something other than handcuffs and a bathrobe.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Laurie cracked the passenger-side window of Booker’s car and lifted her face to the cool air, trying not to let the winding cobblestone driveway and claustrophobic canopy of bougainvillea turn her nervous flutters into a case of carsickness. Just then the driveway widened, and flattened, and the red-tiled, multi-tiered roofline of a massive Mediterranean-style villa rose into view. The bottom dropped out of her stomach.

  “Jesus, your parents are rich.”

  Booker stared ahead, concentrating on the drive, but incl
ined his head. The crisp, white collar of his dress shirt skimmed his neck, setting off his sun-bronzed skin and the dark blue of his suit jacket. “They manage.” He steered along the circling path to the front of the mansion and parked behind a line of vehicles that might just as easily have been showcased at some luxury car dealership. “Big or small, it’s still just a house.” He turned off the engine, and got out of the car.

  She blew out a breath, wiped her damp palms on the skirt of her little black dress, and stepped out as well, almost running into him as he came around to open her door. Whoops. Her etiquette sucked. She took a tiny step back, and smoothed her dress. “Are you sure I look okay?”

  Granted, she’d asked the question at least ten times since he’d arrived on her doorstep, and apparently he was tired of replying, because he took her by the waist, backed her up against the car, and leaned his lower body into hers. The hard jut of his erection branded her hip. “I sense you’re nervous, Jailbait. Does this help alleviate your worries?”

  In a strange way, it did. The primitive demonstration stabilized some unsteady place inside her, but the immediate rush of her body’s equally primitive response promised an uncomfortable evening if she didn’t get herself under control. She gave him an utterly ineffective shove. “Put that away, unless you’re prepared to skip the party and use it.”

  “Uh-uh. You don’t earn it until after the party. Stay by my side for the next two hours. Talk weddings with my sister, smile and nod while my mother tells you how to live your life. Laugh at my dad’s jokes.” He lowered his head and nipped her earlobe. “But if at any time during the evening your nerves start to get the better of you, just give me a signal. I’ll find a private spot”—he pressed his cock against her again—“and alleviate your worries a little more.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he stepped back, took her hand, and led her into the house. She walked into the party on shaky legs, but now it had nothing to do with nerves.

  Kate spied them first, and made her way over, looking sleek in an emerald green dress. As she closed in, she snagged a brawny guy with a shaved head, a ginger beard, and a few hundred dollars worth of silver piercing his ears. All of it completely at odds with his tailored suit. Kate hugged Booker, and then, while he and Sons of Anarchy shook hands, Kate hugged her as well.

  Surprise froze her for a moment, but Kate didn’t seem to notice. She drew away and gestured to the burly guy. “I’m so happy to see you again. Laurie, meet my fiancé, Aaron.”

  Okay, that brought more surprise. Aaron looked nothing like she expected. His off-center grin said he knew it. “Nice to officially meet you. I crashed your New Year’s Eve party, briefly, but this gent neglected to make introductions.”

  “I had other priorities on New Year’s Eve,” Booker replied, sounding not at all sorry.

  “I know. I’ve got the Amex bill to prove it.”

  “You can’t put a price on happiness.”

  “You can put a price on a round of drinks for a pub full of people. It’s a thousand dollars, plus tip. Speaking of introductions…” His green eyes swung back to her. “I heard you met Rebecca.”

  “Aaron!” Kate elbowed him in the rib.

  “What?” He rubbed his side. “That was the most blinding meet-the-mum story I ever heard.”

  Was it possible for her head to spontaneously combust? She glared at Booker.

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  “Mom told us,” Kate explained, and then lost her battle with a giggle. “And yes, for the record, you definitely win for most epic meet-the-mom story. If it’s any consolation, she said you had good manners, and admirable composure. Also, she was happy to see her Christmas gift hadn’t ended up in the back of the closet.”

  Just as she wished for the polished tile to part and swallow her up, a familiar voice called from across the room.

  “Booker!”

  Laurie looked over to see Rebecca winding her way through the large room. A tall, dark-suited man with Booker’s straight nose and strong jawline followed. His father.

  “What a surprise. So nice of you to fit us into your schedule,” his mother said as she accepted a hug and kiss on the cheek from her son.

  “I’m not sure why you’re surprised, Mom. I told you I’d be here,” he replied, and leaned forward to hug his father.

  “Yes, but one never knows, with that job of yours.”

  Booker rolled his eyes, and then put his hand at Laurie’s back. “Mom, Dad, I’d like you to meet—”

  Rebecca turned to her and recognition flickered across her face. “Laura. We met yesterday.”

  “Lauralie,” Booker corrected.

  “Laurie,” she interjected. “Please call me Laurie.”

  Mr. Booker extended a hand. “Call me Richard. Sounds like you already know Rebecca.”

  “Yes.” She shook his hand and nodded to Booker’s mom. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Likewise. I’m delighted Booker brought you tonight. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk yesterday, since you were a bit…tied up.”

  Har. Har. Striving for the high road, she smiled. “I’m a big fan of Best Life’s sunscreen. Use it every day.”

  Rebecca beamed. “I love to talk to fans of the brand. Tell me, Laurie, what do you do?”

  She really needed to work out a pat answer to this question. “I’m kind of…figuring out my next move, professionally.”

  “Oh. Did you recently graduate?”

  Kate tried to help by explaining. “Laurie owned Babycakes, Mom.”

  Rebecca’s brows drew together. “Babycakes?”

  “A bakery,” Laurie supplied.

  Her forehead smoothed. She pressed a hand to her chest, and laughed. “That explains why I’m clueless. Best Life is a health-conscious brand, and I’m the face of it, so I try to avoid temptation. Offering our customers positive, nourishing ways to enhance life has always been an integral part of our mission statement.”

  Of course it was. Selling sugary carbs probably ranked right up there with dealing crack in Rebecca Booker’s estimation. Hell, she might as well have worn a bathrobe and handcuffs tonight, because despite her little black dress and counterfeit pearls, she still came off as an outsider. A tacky outsider. She dredged up a smile and tried for a breezy reply. “I guess it’s a good thing Babycakes isn’t around to tempt you.”

  Nope. Not breezy. Awkward.

  And Rebecca picked up on it. “I wouldn’t go that far. My willpower works, most of the time, but when it weakens, I bolster myself with a treat from the new line of organic dark chocolates we’re launching. Be sure to try them.” She pointed to the table set up in one corner of the room. “We use only fair-trade cocoa, and don’t pollute the flavor with a bunch of sugar or other additives. The end result is pure, luxurious chocolate loaded with antioxidants, and—”

  “Mom, it’s a party, not a product meeting,” Kate said.

  Rebecca laughed. “I’m not going to apologize. You know how passionate I am about Best Life.” She zeroed in on Laurie and added, “People should spend their energy doing what fulfills them. Did you get burned-out on running your own business, or…?”

  The unconsciously ironic question shattered her brittle self-control. Inappropriate and slightly hysterical laughter burst out of her. Everybody in the vicinity glanced her way, including Miranda McQueen and a clutch of her cronies, who turned up their sculpted noses and whispered behind their hands. She could practically hear the commentary. Her? She’s nobody. Booker’s Nido Terrace sex toy, thinking she’s going to elevate her status.

  Booker slid an arm around her shoulder before saying, “The bakery burned down New Year’s Day.”

  “Oh, dear.” Concern filled Rebecca’s eyes. “I hope nobody was hurt.”

  The words served as a reminder of how much worse things could have been, and helped dispel her laughter. “Thankfully, no. We were closed for the holiday. I was lucky.”

  Rebecca nodded, and opened her mouth to respond, but her at
tention snagged on something over Booker’s shoulder, and her gaze sharpened. “Uh-oh. Aunt Sarah is sipping her second cocktail and circling the bartender like a shark. Richard, we’d better get over there.”

  “I’m on it. Nice to meet you, Laurie.”

  “Have fun,” Rebecca directed the rest of them, as she turned to follow her husband. “Don’t forget to try the chocolate. Oh, and Laurie, be sure to find me before you leave. I have something for you.”

  “Sure,” she replied, a little thrown by the request, although Rebecca walked away like a woman accustomed to people doing as she asked. Laurie slowly exhaled and eyed Booker. “That went well.”

  Aaron laughed. “Are you kidding? That was brilliant. I made the mistake of wearing a leather jacket the first time I met Rebecca—which also happened to be my first day on the job at Best Life. By the time she’d finished her animal rights lecture I wanted to curl up into a fetal position on the conference room floor and cry.”

  “You grew to love her,” Kate insisted, and took his hand.

  He lifted their joined hands, and kissed hers. “I grew to love you. Rebecca, Richard, and this tosser just happen to come part and parcel.”

  “Aw. Isn’t he sweet?” Kate wrapped her arms around Aaron’s neck, went up on her tiptoes, and kissed him.

  “And now I want to curl up into a fetal position and cry,” Booker said drily, and pulled her toward the other side of the room. “Welcome to my nightmare, Jailbait. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Absolutely. But point me to the powder room first.” She needed a moment to fortify her armor before she circulated, in part because she found Rebecca Booker’s attitude hard to pin down. She’d prepared for the three D’s—disapproval, distrust, and disdain—and instead she’d gotten…well…she didn’t know. And the uncertainty unnerved her. Booker directed her toward a hallway, told her “Second door on the right,” and kissed her soundly. She staggered off with the heat from his lips tingling on hers.

  The powder room door opened as she approached, and she ended up face-to-face with Miranda. The woman looked at her like something that crawled out of an alley. “Oh my, if it isn’t the baker. How…interesting to see you here.”