The One I'm With (A Sweet Somethings Novel Book 3)

by J. Lynn Rowan

  “But when are you going to let one of them try to unlock that door?”

  I know that tone. If she was here, she’d pull me down beside her, wrap her arm around my shoulder, and squeeze my arm in that gentle way that says, I understand your pain.

  But she’s not here.

  “If a guy wants in, he’ll have to break in.” I tap my fingers on the handle of my coffee cup. “I have to get going.”

  Beth remains silent for a moment. “You’ll call if you need anything, right?”

  An incorrigible smile locks into place, affecting the tone of my voice. “You know I will.”

  We hang up. Then I brace my hands on the countertop and look around my kitchen, the heart of a house that never got the chance to become a home.

  My future was supposed to include a happy marriage to a smoking hot guy, who would mow the lawn of our big farmhouse without wearing a shirt, and split kindling with one hand while cradling a baby in the other arm. The concept really wasn’t that different from what Beth found with my brother-in-law, Rick Wright, although her happy ending brought her to the big city instead of the rustic countryside. When Jared Turner asked me to marry him at the end of our senior year of college, I thought my own blissful fantasy was about to come true.

  Pipe dreams.

  Fast-forward a year after graduation. I had the rambling Victorian-era house, though it was barely outside the Asheville city limits and didn’t have much of a lawn to speak of. Jared and I spent a fair amount of cash—mostly mine—renovating the interior and upgrading the electrical, plumbing, heating, kitchen and bathrooms. My job as an assistant interior designer paid decently, but if it wasn’t for Jared’s paycheck, we wouldn’t have made ends meet.

  I started talking about setting a date.

  Jared started talking about bigger and better job offers back on the West Coast.

  Next thing I knew, I was standing on that lovely front porch, listening not to the birds in the trees, but to the deafening roar of Jared’s car engine as he peeled out of our driveway, leaving me with a half-empty master bedroom closet, and a mortgage and tax payment I could never cover on my own.

  Asshat.

  It’s been three years.

  Beth’s words come back to me. Yes, it’s been three years since I watched someone I thought was the love of my life speed away like the hounds of Hell were after him. And in those three years, I’ve focused exclusively on myself. My career, my brand platform, and erasing all the memories of Jared Turner that haunted the corners of my dream house by turning it into an interior design showcase.

  As far as erasing the memories of a broken heart? That’s been a little harder to manage.

  Girls’ night out helps.

  Except Jared still has a hand in my happiness. My dating life from the moment he left me has been carefully orchestrated to keep from having my heart broken yet again. So I made some rules. Nothing more than a casual good night kiss before three dates. No hooking up until after five dates. And nobody ever spends the night.

  Ever.

  My sister doesn’t know about my rules, just that I refuse to make anything exclusive or commit to more than a short-term fling. My friends tease me about it, but sometimes I wonder if they’re getting sick of my romantic revolving door.

  Maybe I’m sick of it myself.

  I shake my head. What I need is a good run of dates with no strings attached, with a guy who’s a great kisser and even better conversationalist. It might be worth letting him get past the five-date threshold before cutting him loose.

  A pair of blue eyes comes to mind again.

  Scoffing, I dump my tepid coffee into the sink. Even if I wanted to take on Josh Mattingly, the likelihood of us ever running into each other again is extremely low. Besides, I still can’t figure out what it was about him that had my stomach in knots last night.

  And that’s dangerous.

  Over the next three days, work manages to push Mr. Tall, Bronze, and Handsome out of my mind, as I run around, meeting with five potential new clients. Considering the time I’ve spent wooing each of them, plus the follow up work I like to do to cinch the contract, I’ve barely had time to think. Even after leaving my last appointment at a downtown restaurant on Wednesday afternoon, my phone is in my hand as I hurry back to my car, checking for emails and texts.

  With my eyes glued to the screen, I don’t notice the six-foot-something man walking straight toward me until I run into him.

  Literally.

  The death grip on my smartphone saves it from taking a nosedive onto the sidewalk, but my computer bag isn’t so lucky. It slips off my shoulder with the force of the impact, sliding down my arm.

  Just as I look up and recognize the tanned cheeks, sun-streaked blond hair, and midnight blue eyes, Josh Mattingly saves my laptop from certain destruction.

  “Careful,” he says, returning my bag to my shoulder with a lingering brush of his fingertips to my upper arm.

  I fight the shiver of delight—and the tremor of shock—coursing through my veins. “What are you doing here?”

  A smirk appears. “Well, hello to you, too.”

  “You said you work ninety hours a week.” My words, a desperate fumble, make me sound more like an idiot and less like a professional businesswoman by the second.

  “A guy’s not allowed to take an afternoon off?”

  “No . . . I mean yes, but—” I shake my head and tuck my phone into the cell pocket on the side of my bag. Then hauling in a deep breath, I close my eyes for a second to re-center myself. When I look at him again, it’s with the sort of cool collectedness I would’ve preferred to meet him with on Saturday night.

  Of course, I could just look like a gawking teenager pretending to be an adult.

  Which is what I feel like. He wears cargo shorts, sneakers with low-profile socks, and one of those moisture-wicking athletic t-shirts in a shade of blue that plays up his eyes to distraction. And let’s not forget the muscles shifting under said t-shirt.

  Ava’s comment about the possibility of a six-pack comes to mind.

  My cheeks heat, and I force myself to sidestep around him. “Must be nice to take an afternoon off a week into a job, or whenever else you might feel like it.”

  As expected, Josh falls into step beside me. “I don’t suppose you have the afternoon off.”

  “I’m my own boss,” I explain curtly. “I make my own schedule. And right now, it’s packed.”

  “Really?” He takes my arm to propel me around a rough patch in the sidewalk, but let’s go before I have a chance to process the touch. “I’d love to learn more about what you do.”

  I stop short and turn to him. “I should’ve done a web search on you. I would have, if I’d known I’d run into you again.”

  “Asheville doesn’t strike me as being that big.”

  “It’s not. But it’s big enough that a chance meeting shouldn’t happen twice within five days of each other.”

  “You don’t believe in fate?” he asks with a wink.

  I stare at him for a second, my expression going deadpan. Then I take my phone out and bring up the web search app. “I assume Josh is short for Joshua, though either would probably pull up the same results.”

  His hand closes over the top of my phone, though he doesn’t go so far as to pull it away. “Don’t bother. Let me buy you some coffee, and I’ll just tell you everything you need to know about me and why I’m here. How does that sound?”

  Is that a note of panic in his voice? Curious, I tug my phone free, but put it away. “I suppose you’ll want me to dish about myself in exchange?”

  “It’d be nice. But you decide what you want to share.”

  “Interesting.” I study his earnest expression. “I can spare a half hour or so. Coffee shop on the next corn
er’s pretty fast, and good, too.”

  “Only a half hour?”

  “This is a workday for me. Besides, I haven’t decided if you deserve more of my time.”

  The smirk returns. “Lead the way, Red.”

  Chapter 4

  Coffee and Conversation

  Josh and I grab a small table near the coffee shop’s front window while we wait for the barista to finish our drinks. He throws my mental balance by pulling out my chair for me before settling into his own.

  “So,” I begin, hanging my bag on the back of the chair. “Tell me what I’d find out about you if I did a Google search.”

  He hesitates for the barest moment. “Can I stick to the basics for now?”

  Uh, oh. Usually when a guy wants to stick to the basics, it means there’s something he explicitly wants to hide. I shift in my seat. “Depends on what’s beyond the basics.”

  The barista approaches our table with our order, which gives Josh an extra minute to consider his response. A degree of tension pops into the line of his jaw, but he relaxes it away with an easy smile once the barista retreats behind the counter again.

  “Nothing earth-shattering,” he says, lifting his cup.

  Plain coffee, black. A simple and straightforward drink for a guy I already realize is anything but.

  “Then why leave it out?” I take a sip of my spiced chai latte and send him a challenging look over the rim of the cup.

  Josh sighs, casting a glance out the window before raking his fingers through his hair. The move reminds me of every clichéd romantic hero I’ve ever read about, but something in the action draws me in.

  Could be the biceps.

  No. No. Focus, Marissa.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” he says. “I’ll give you just a touch more than the basics. If we end up hitting it off, I agree to divulge the rest—when I’m ready, when the time is right.”

  “And if we don’t hit it off?”

  “You’re free to Google anything you’d like to know about me.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, but extend my hand across the table. Given the inauspicious way our first two meetings have gone so far, any hope of us hitting it off—of making it well past five dates—is probably wishful thinking on his part. “Deal.”

  His playful smile turns to a grin of absolute triumph as he takes my hand.

  Tremors rattle up my arm the minute our palms make contact, sending a blast of heat straight through the top of my head and almost knocking the air from my lungs.

  Josh tightens his grip, then slowly slips his fingers from mine.

  Mental sirens wail.

  He’s done this before.

  Still shaking, I fold my hands on the table and feign interest in the layer of foamed milk on top of my latte. “Okay. The basics.”

  “Sure.” Josh leans back and assumes a posture of complete control and nonchalance. “You already know my name. Josh Mattingly. Born and raised in St. Croix, went to college at USC in Los Angeles.”

  “The accent?” I interrupt.

  “Mum’s from London, Dad spent most of his formative years there. My older brother, Nelson, has the classic accent, too. But I’m a bit of a mish-mosh from all the places I’ve lived.” He pauses to take a sip of coffee. “The family enterprise is still based in Christiansted, which everybody but me calls home.”

  I frown. “That sounds kind of sad for you.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve always had a bit of wanderlust, even as a kid. My role in the business has suited me well so far. Nelson’s got a family—new wife, two daughters from his first marriage, and a brand new son—so most of the travel’s been handed over to yours truly. Especially the long term jobs that require me to stick around one place for six to nine months at a time.”

  “What kind of business does your family run?”

  “We’re something of an umbrella company that owns and operates a few dozen smaller businesses worldwide. Like a conglomerate. When a business is in trouble financially, that’s when we come in to save the day.”

  “So you’re a corporate raider,” I comment.

  “I take exception to that.” Josh straightens, his face turning a slight shade of red. “Corporate raiders conduct hostile takeovers of businesses, restructure them, and resell them for pure profit. That’s not what Mattingly Enterprises does. We save businesses. Often they call us, or are referred to us. Underperforming companies come under our auspices, and by joining the larger conglomerate, we can help them restructure in a way that allows them to continue operating.” His voice hardens in defense. “We don’t overrun them, we don’t micromanage. We provide financial backing and security in exchange for minority shares in company stock.”

  I hold up both hands. “Geesh. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “We’ve been accused of corporate raiding before, and before my grandfather retired, we actually had to prove in court that we weren’t guilty of it.”

  “Corporate raiding isn’t illegal,” I point out.

  “No, but sometimes people aren’t so clear about the legality of what we do. And sometimes people like to go on law suit benders.” He takes a deep breath, then resumes the carefree attitude my line of questioning scuttled a moment ago. “But anyway, the family business is what brings me to Asheville. There’s a small tech company here, Connors Technologies, that’s been struggling a bit since the 2008 recession. They bounced back a couple years ago, but not enough.”

  “And that’s where you come in.”

  Josh nods. “At this point, it’s too soon to tell if what I’m doing can get them back on their feet as an independent corporation, or if they’ll do better in the long run if I bring them into the fold, so to speak.”

  Nodding, I take a long sip of my latte while I try to wrap my head around what he’s told me so far. He hasn’t said it outright, but I can infer that his family is rich. Like, read about them in Fortune rich. That may not make Josh a high roller in his own right, but it wouldn’t be too off the mark to guess there are women out there who think he is.

  Which leads me to my next line of questioning. “So, why me?”

  This seems to take him aback. He straightens in his chair again, brows lowering. “What do you mean?”

  “Asheville’s probably not the sort of city you frequent on a regular basis. Don’t you feel more at home in busy places with lots of glitz and glamor?”

  He smirks. “Like Vegas or New York? Paris? London? Tokyo?”

  “To name a few.”

  “Been there, done that.” He waves his hand in dismissal. “Trust me when I say I’ve literally been around the world and back. I’ve only been here a week and a half, and I’m already enjoying the slower pace. Considering that my business will keep me around at least until October, that’s good for me. I could use a bit of a break—from a lot of things.”

  “Well, that’s a cryptic remark,” I say, pushing my half-empty cup away.

  “Let’s just say I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.”

  “And that includes picking up random women in bars?”

  At this, Josh moves his coffee to one side and rests his forearms on the table, leaning forward. “I wasn’t feeding you a line, Red. My workweek bottoms out at ninety hours. It might slow down a little after another month or so, but I’m here to work. I walked into that bar to get a beer. We caught each other’s attention.”

  A little spiral of self-consciousness worms through my stomach. To say Josh Mattingly caught my attention is a major understatement. He reached out and grabbed it. His level of flirtation hints at someone who’s used to snagging women that way, hook, line, and sinker. My initial disregard for his obvious experience threw him for a loop. But he has no intention of backing down.

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re pursuing
me,” I add.

  “Two chance meetings in five days doesn’t equal pursuit.”

  “But you’re interested.”

  His glance rakes me, taking in my carefully styled pixie cut, silver hoop earrings, gauzy cream scarf, and deep navy blue sheath dress. “Who wouldn’t be?”

  My mouth drops open, but his next words cut short any retort I had prepared.

  “What would your Google search turn up?”

  That’s a question I can answer with ease. I lean back and fold my arms. “My website should be at the top of the results list. O’Brien Interiors. Not a catchy name, but a well-known business in this area. After that, you’d probably find a few review sites where my clients rave about me, and news links talking about all the big names I’ve designed for around the Asheville and Lake Norman areas. I don’t get down to Charlotte unless it’s really worth my while. The work I did at Christmas for the Biltmore Estate won’t show up, but I’m not above bragging that I decorated and arranged the drawing room for their holiday tours.”

  Josh lets out an appreciative whistle. “I’m impressed, Red. And you’re, what, twenty-eight?”

  “Twenty-six, and that’s the only time you’re allowed to mention my age without risk of serious injury.”

  “Believe me, I know the rules about women and their ages. My sister-in-law guards hers like a tiger and refuses to admit she’s hit the big three-oh.”

  “Yeah, we’re funny like that.”

  “In any case, it sounds like you’ve done well for yourself, considering your age.” He lifts his hands in mock defense. “Please don’t throw your latte at me.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I won’t. You covered yourself on that one.”

  His expression grows serious. “But that’s all I’d find? No family?”

  “My sister’s married, lives in New York. They have one amazing kid and extremely busy lives. My parents live out in California, suburbs of San Francisco. And I’m here.”