Best of Penny Wylder: Boss Romance

by Wylder, Penny

  But in order to ramp up production enough to actually fill orders at a store that big, I need investment capital. And in order to get investment capital, I need a wealthy person on my side. Someone who believes in me and my products. Someone who’s willing to take on a risk.

  Someone not like Norman, as I learned.

  My heart sinks. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. Shouldn’t be dwelling on that right now. Tonight of all nights. So I force a broad smile on my face and agree with Becky. “As long as tomorrow’s interview goes well,” I hedge, but she brushes away my doubts like so much air.

  “Please, girl. I’ve seen you give this presentation so many times I know you could knock it out of the park in your sleep. Now let’s have some fun.” And then, before I can stop her, Becky’s back at the bar ordering us another round.

  Three more shots and a couple hours of dancing later, to no one’s surprise except maybe Becky’s, she winds up hanging off Marco’s arm as he finishes his shift.

  “I’m so sorry to cut tonight short,” she’s yelling in my ear in the parking lot, but I wave her off.

  “It’s fine. Honestly, I should get to bed anyway. I don’t want to show up hungover tomorrow.” I’ve got plenty of time to sleep this off, but, still. You can never be too careful. “Have fun!” I add, and to judge by the little wink Becky fires me over Marco’s shoulder, I know they both will.

  If there’s a faint pang in my chest at watching them saunter off, Marco’s strong arm wrapped around Becky’s waist, well… I can ignore that, too.

  I head back up the club entrance and order a rideshare home. At this hour, it shouldn’t be too long of a wait. But before my phone even connects with a driver, I hear a muffled curse, followed by the clatter of something metal hitting pavement.

  Confused, I step away from the door and the bright light of the club entrance. Near the entrance, but around a far corner of the brick building, hidden from the view of most of the clubgoers, there’s a row of parked cars. Standing next to one of them, cursing and rubbing his back, is an older man. Between his silver hair and his wire rimmed glasses, he reminds me of my grandfather.

  The cursing, however, is not very grandfatherly.

  He kicks at a tire, swearing up a storm, and I can’t help myself. I step over to him.

  “Do you need some help?” I ask.

  He turns to squint into the club light. I move closer, and his vision clears. “Oh, aren’t you a dear.” He shakes his head. “But it’s this tire needs changing, so I’m afraid you won’t be able to help me.”

  “My dad taught me how to change a tire, don’t worry,” I reply, hiding a smirk. I realize I don’t look like the handiest person with a power tool right now, dressed as I am in a tight black club dress, with my mini going-out purse over one shoulder and a full face of makeup.

  But, as my mama always used to say, I contain multitudes.

  “Here, let me give it a shot.” I duck down to pick up the end of the jack that he let fall beside him. Then I glance up at his worried expression, trying not to feel too offended by his doubt. He’s from another generation, clearly. “If I mess up your car, I’ll call the tow truck myself, all right?”

  He laughs. “Well, if you’re that confident, miss… you’ve got a deal.” He backs up, then, and I get to work.

  It’s easy enough to jack his car up to the right height, and I’m lucky he has a wrench in his trunk. I get to removing the lug nuts that suspend his tire, and he watches, his eyebrows climbing higher every second.

  “Not often these days you find any kids your age able to do this,” he comments. “Much less… well.”

  I shoot him an amused glance over my shoulder. “Much less a girl dressed like this?” I ask, arching one perfectly brushed eyebrow.

  He grins. “Apologies for doubting you, miss.”

  “Cassidy,” I reply. “And there’s no need to apologize. Just give a girl the benefit of the doubt next time. My dad taught me how to do this before he’d let me apply for my driver’s license. Said it was a necessary life skill.”

  “That’s me schooled,” the man promises. “Lee, by the way. And thank you. Your father taught you well,” he adds, watching me work.

  I step around his trunk to reach for the donut, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Expecting it to be Lee, I glance back. Then I freeze, my eyes going wide.

  There’s an unfamiliar guy standing behind me. Two, in fact, both a head taller than I am, and dressed in dark clothes. I look around, startled, and realize the second guy is already holding Lee by one arm, his fingers digging into the poor man’s bicep hard enough to be visible from here.

  “Hey, leave him alone,” I say, at the same time that Lee blurts out, “Let the girl be.”

  Lee and I trade a long glance, while our taller assailant sneers. “Wallet. Phone.” He looks me over. “And, well, if you aren’t quick about it…”

  I shudder, not liking the way his gaze lingers. But I’m also not about to give up without a fight. I’m still holding Lee’s wrench, after all, and we’re not ten feet from the club door. Never mind that this guy has almost a head on me, or the fact that he’s got backup.

  “Excuse you?” I demand, advancing. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Messing with a defenseless old man?” As I move, I shift my body weight so the wrench in my fist is concealed behind my torso. Then I settle into a defensive stance, knees bent, ready to move quickly in either direction.

  My dad taught me this, too.

  The man doesn’t move. Over his shoulder, I spot Lee, his eyes going wide. He shakes his head, but I ignore him. “Wallet and phone,” the man says. “I won’t ask again.” He holds out a hand.

  That’s when I strike. I swing the wrench as hard as I can at his wrist. There’s a sickening crack as it hits bone, and the man curses. The guy behind him throws Lee to the ground, about to sprint at me too, but I’m already backing off, screaming for help.

  The man I struck is cradling his wrist, but when he looks up at me now, there’s no more disdain or lingering desire in his gaze. There’s only white hot fury. “You’ll pay for that,” he swears, advancing on me.

  Then, out of nowhere, a blur collides with him.

  All I see are fists, and all I can hear are grunts. At first, I wonder if Lee has miraculously sprung up off the ground to perform some jiu-jitsu worthy of a guy half his age. But no. One glance shows me he’s still sprawled on the pavement, his forehead crumpled in pain.

  As for the two attackers, they’re both busy defending themselves from another guy, a blur of a man who stands at least as tall as they do. I catch a glimpse of the newcomer landing a solid hit to one attacker’s jaw, then wrenching the other’s arm around his back in the same motion, using the man’s momentum against him to flip him ass over head onto pavement.

  I sidestep the brawl and kneel beside Lee. “Are you all right?” I ask in a low undertone.

  He huffs at me. “Please, I’ve certainly had worse. But you … You’re supposed to just give men like this what they demand. It’s dangerous to fight.”

  “Believe me.” I offer Lee a hand, and he lets me help him back to his feet. “I’ve learned the hard way. Sometimes it’s every bit as dangerous to give them an inch, because they’ll just take a mile.”

  Lee huffs again, but to judge by the shrewd look in his eye, he’s not about to contradict me.

  Another grunt interrupts us, and we turn to find both the attackers laid out on the pavement. Standing over them, blood dusting his knuckles, is quite frankly, the hottest man I’ve ever seen.

  It’s not just the fact that he’s glistening with sweat from fighting off a pair of assholes who would have robbed me—or worse. Although the small cut on his cheek and bruise forming beneath it do serve to highlight exactly how sharp his cheekbones are, how square his jaw is.

  But mostly, it’s the fact that he looks like he’d be perfectly at home on the cover of some sporting magazine, advertising the team he plays for, or something. He’s musc
ular, but not overly built. Just… solid.

  Solid enough that he laid out two guys almost the same size as him in no time at all.

  Beside me, Lee starts to clap. After a split second, I grin and join in. Our rescuer turns, and my breath catches in my throat.

  Fuck. Not only does he have those cheekbones, that jawline, that build, but he’s also got unreal eyes. Green, with a twinkle from the reflection of the streetlight overhead. “Are you all right?” he asks, and I assume he’s speaking to us both, but he’s staring straight at me.

  “We are now,” Lee replies, with a glance in my direction. “Although, I have to admit, Cassidy might have had them cornered, given another minute.”

  “I noticed.” His gaze still hasn’t left mine. I can’t make myself look away. I don’t want to. “One tip, though?” He gestures at my arm, and I glance down, surprised to realize that I’m still clenching the wrench in my fist. “Next time, aim for the temple, instead of the hand. If you’d incapacitated him completely, it would’ve narrowed your odds with the second man.”

  I let out a faint huff of laughter. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m being mugged.” With that, I pass the wrench to Lee, and run my hand through my hair. “Shit. Should we—”

  “I called the cops already,” the man says. He glances from me to Lee to the car in the lot behind us. “Roadside assistance, as well.”

  “That I had handled,” I protest, but Lee is already nudging me toward our rescuer.

  “Go, go. The last thing I need is you getting into even more trouble on my behalf,” Lee is saying.

  By this point, I realize we’ve attracted something of a crowd. A few camera phones are pointed our way, and someone from the club—another bouncer to replace the one Becky took off with—comes over, saying he has basic medical training. He kneels beside our would-be robbers to check their pulses, nodding to confirm they’ll be all right, minus the scrapes and bruises.

  All the while, my gaze keeps straying over to our knight in shining armor. Or rather, knight in… a pair of jeans and a polo shirt.

  The second or third time I glance over, he catches me looking, and moves closer. “Can I give you a ride home?” he asks. “It’ll probably be safer, this area, this time of night.”

  “Actually.” I tilt my head. Size him up. It’s still early yet. The club might have to shut down when the cops show up, but he’s right, this area, it’s chock full of night life. Both the good and bad kinds.

  Part of me shouts at myself to remember about tomorrow. I have a big important meeting to nail. But it’s in the afternoon. Tonight was meant to be my celebratory night out, to hype myself up for it. Now Becky’s vanished, leaving me all alone to deal with all of this.

  I deserve a little fun, too. “Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.

  My hero grins.

  2

  Cassidy

  We wind up at a dive bar down the road. It’s much more my scene than the club was to begin with. Don’t get me wrong, I love dancing on occasion, but that place catered to a younger, more tequila-heavy crowd than I normally party with.

  In the dimly lit bar, I lean across the counter to catch the bartender’s eye. “Whiskey for me,” I say, “And…?” I glance over my shoulder.

  Is it my imagination, or do his eyes lighten with something close to interest? “The same,” he says, and settles onto a stool next to me. “So, Cassidy, was it?”

  I nod, watching him as the bartender passes us both well whiskeys.

  “Lark.” He smiles. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but, well, considering the circumstances…”

  “Oh, no.” I slide his drink toward him, then raise my own. “It was very nice to meet you indeed.” We tap glasses. “To your perfect timing, Lark.”

  He laughs. “Perfect timing would’ve been if I’d gotten there quickly enough to knock that asshole out before he got anywhere near you,” he admits, and rubs at his cheekbone.

  I peer at his bruise. “We should get some ice—”

  “No, no. It’ll be fine.” He offers a wry smile. “Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

  I settle back onto my seat, watching him curiously from the corner of my eye. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” I ask after a moment. Because I saw him move. That was no basic self-defense class. He’s been in fights before. Real ones.

  “Actually…” He smiles, a genuine one this time. “I grew up with five brothers. So, my training started there. And then, you know, perfected it in college. Between playing on the rugby team and going on one too many nights out to even seedier bars than this one…”

  “Oi,” the bartender barks, before shaking his head and moving away to the far side of the bar.

  We both stifle our laughter, trading amused glances. “Better watch your tongue,” I murmur.

  Lark’s gaze shifts to my mouth and then back up again, so quick I wonder if I imagined it. But then… “Oh, I know. It’s always getting me into trouble.” His gaze drops again, and this time I know I’m not imagining things.

  My cheeks flush, but luckily it’s dark in this bar. I take a sip of my whiskey, and watch Lark from the corner of my eye as he does the same.

  “So where did you learn to change a tire?” Lark asks. “Or, for that matter, to swing a wrench like that.” He tilts his head, sizing me up. “Not sure I’ve ever seen anyone use that technique before.”

  I grin. “What can I say? My dad wanted me to be prepared for any challenges the world could throw at a girl.”

  “Well.” He raises his glass once more. “To fathers who prepare us properly, then.”

  My grin falters. But I lift my glass anyway, tap it to his. What I don’t expect, though, is for him to notice my sudden shift in demeanor, the way I don’t quite meet his eye this time.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks, his voice dropping low.

  “Just… my dad.” I shrug, blinking back a sudden and unexpected surge of tears. “He passed away a couple years ago.”

  Lark lifts a hand to rest on my shoulder. Where his palm touches me, warmth spreads, tingling, all through my arm, up my shoulder and across my body. After a moment of hesitation, I reach up to thread my fingers through his, and squeeze just once, lightly.

  He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. That’s what makes me ask.

  “What about you?” I keep my eyes on the bar, but I can see him in the reflection of the bottles of liquor lined up there. The way his head drops a little, and his eyes darken.

  “My youngest brother,” he says, after a long moment of quiet. “He was in a car accident last year. Drunk driver. They say he was killed on impact, never felt anything, but…”

  “Shit, Lark.” I tighten my grip on his hand.

  He shifts beside me, then picks up his whiskey again, takes a longer sip this time. “Losing someone that young… Really makes you appreciate the time you still have. Makes you want to live life right.” He glances at me again, and this time, I don’t look away. I let my eyes linger, the same way his are.

  I lose track of how long we just sit, sizing one another up, before he bends a little closer. There’s barely a foot between us now. He’s close enough I catch his scent, woodsy and smoke-tinted from the whiskey, with a hint of something else underneath, something that reminds me of salt and the ocean.

  “Cassidy,” he says, and my name on his lips sends a thrum of electricity through me, all the way to the tips of my fingers.

  His hand slides along my body, from my shoulder down to the small of my back, where his fingers spread out, strong and so roughly calloused I can feel them even through my thin clubbing dress.

  “Lark?” I manage, and my voice only quivers ever so slightly at the end. I manage to hold his gaze, though, keep my chin raised, and I don’t even let him see the way my breath catches or my stomach tightens at his touch.

  “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, still in that low, thrumming voice. The one that’s impossible to resist.<
br />
  I tilt my head back, my face toward his, and when he dips down to feather his lips against mine, it feels like static shock, touching a doorknob after shuffling your feet across a carpet.

  Then he sinks against me, his free hand drifting up to cup my cheek, pulling me off my stool and toward him. I stumble against him—the whiskey’s hitting harder than I expected after those other drinks earlier at the club. He chuckles, his mouth still pressed to mine, and then his lips part, taking mine with. His tongue traces the edges of my lips, and I arch my back, both my arms sliding up to wrap around his neck.

  I’m not sure how we settle our tab. I have a vague memory of Lark tapping on the bar, sliding his wallet out of his back pocket. Then the next thing I know, we’re stumbling outside, his arms around my waist, holding my body against his.

  The cold night air wakes me up a little, shoots fresh pulses of energy through my veins.

  We part, and in the distant streetlights, Lark’s eyes look greener than ever, pools I could drown in. I realize I’m grinning like an idiot, but I don’t stop, because he’s looking at me with the same expression.

  “Where the hell did you come from, Cassidy?” he murmurs, and I wonder briefly if this man is a mind-reader, because I’d just been thinking the same thing. Then he kisses me again, and I forget all about speaking.

  His hands slide lower, from my waist down over the curve of my ass. I slide one leg around the back of his thigh and arch my body up against his, while my hands slide down those strong, thick shoulders and over his chest.

  God, I can feel every inch of his muscle through the shirt he’s wearing, as starkly as if he were already half-naked.

  He tilts his head, kisses his way along my jawline and then catches the lower edge of my earlobe, worrying it between his teeth, just for a second, before his tongue traces the curve after. The sensation makes my breath catch, my body sing with want.