Wrong association!
This CEO of Kavanaugh Investors was the enemy, through and through. I just wasn’t experienced enough at the whole environmental protest thing. That was the problem.
Here’s a tip for all you wanna-be activists: when protesting a site by handcuffing yourself to a fence, keep one hand free. Because if you had your friend lock both of your wrists together to a chain link fence, then tuck the key in the back pocket of your jeans, you were really trapped.
If you had both wrists tied together above your head then you were at the mercy of any tall, handsome, devastatingly sexy man in a dark pinstripe suit who happened to show up and find you. Then when he looked down at you like the two of you were alone in his bedroom and you were playing out some kind of naughty BDSM scene, all you could do was stand there pulling slightly against the restraints, getting all hot and bothered.
But if you had one hand free, you could avoid all that and do any number of things instead. Like slap him hard across the face. Give him the middle finger. Or, I don’t know, uncuff yourself???
The problem was, I wasn’t too experienced with protesting. Just between you and me, I’m a baker. I own my own shop, I’m proud to say. I specialize in scones and muffins and breads, the kinds of mouthwatering treats that make you laugh in the face of diets. Gluten-free. That had to be the worst idea on the planet.
But it turned out that not many people cared when a huge mega-corporation based in New York City swooped in and decided it wanted to build on the land that your little bakery happened to be on. You were one small, protesting voice in a large ocean of “sure, that sounds like one heck of a great money-making idea!”
Until you did some research and discovered that an endangered species of lichen lived on the coastal rocks next to the site.
True, when I’d first happened across the information I’d had to google “lichen” to make sure I knew exactly what it was. It was the green stuff that grew on rocks. Turned out, people cared a lot more about that fuzzy green stuff than a small business bakery. So, I’d used the card in my deck that I could play, contacting environmental organizations that then alerted the national media and suddenly, we had a real fight on our hands. The environmental non-profits organizing and funding our protest still wanted me at the helm, the spokesperson. They felt I’d be more media-friendly than they would, a more appealing face for the cause.
I just hoped no one asked me about lichen. After I got past “it’s endangered” I’d trail off. My plan was to offer anyone who asked a scone. That was usually good for ending conversations as people closed their eyes and blissed out on the tastiness. And if they could still talk, they’d take the conversation in a new direction, with questions like “what’s in this?” and “how do you make these?” Those were topics I could discuss all day.
“Love the Lichen!” a guy down the line yelled. Six of us were chained to the fence. Five environmental activists—two locals and three imported from national groups—and me.
“Now where is it?” Mr. CEO Colton Kavanaugh asked me, teasing, pretending to search me for the key to unlock my handcuffs. And all I could do was stand there while his hands caressed my calves. He wasn’t even touching my bare skin, just my jeans, but I had to admit it felt slightly more erotic than having sex with my last boyfriend. When he stood up and pretended he was going to search me, pat me down, see if I was hiding the key in my bra, I had all the wrong reactions.
He leaned in so close to me I could smell him, all musky aftershave and man. He had a real Superman thing going on with his dark hair, strong chin and shockingly blue eyes. And his hand was so large, hovering right there over my breast. I couldn’t help it. My pulse, along with my breathing, picked right up. I felt that pull and a low, slow flip in my stomach that made me press my thighs together. And damn if my nipples didn’t pebble, pushing out against what now seemed like a horribly poor choice of a T-shirt, as thin as tissue paper. Of course when I’d dressed this morning I hadn’t realized I’d be needing to hide my arousal from a demanding alpha CEO.
As it was, nothing hid the fact that his large, commanding hand hovering right over my breast got me hot. So hot that my nipples pushed out in two stiff tips, aching for his touch, wantonly begging him for more. And he saw it. There was no way he could miss it, trapped as I was with my hands bound above my head, practically offering myself up for him. Sheltering me with his large body, he brought his hand against me for the briefest fraction of a moment, brushing his warm finger so teasingly, so lightly against my hardened tip.
I gave a sharp intake of breath, a gasp, and he whispered in my ear, telling me he was going to enjoy fighting with me. Then, with a chuckle, he pulled away. And for the briefest of moments, I have to admit, I missed his closeness. Until I remembered who I was, and who he was, and why I very much wanted him the hell out of my life.
“We don’t want your development on our coast!” I mustered up my energy to snap at him. This was the man who wanted to tear down my shop. And not even to build the hotel. The land where I had my bakery was where they wanted to put the parking lot. Talk about adding insult to injury.
“What do you want, then?” He smiled suggestively, giving me another admiring glance that sparked up all sorts of warm tinglies down below.
When I’d heard that the CEO of Kavanaugh Investors was coming out to our little town to visit the construction site, I’d pictured an old, mean, miserly man. Kind of like the Monopoly guy with the top hat and the monocle. Now this long, tall, cool drink of water was inspiring all sorts of wrong thoughts clashing with my righteousness.
“I’ll set you free, Carrie.” Tom, our local arm of the law, came sauntering down to rescue me.
“No, Tom!” I told him, hating that I sounded sort of whiney. This was supposed to be a protest and now it was turning into something much less serious.
“Come on now. Be reasonable.” He reached up with some sort of a metal pin and broke the cuffs open in seconds flat.
It did feel good to get my hands free. I rubbed my wrists. They’d started to ache in that position.
“Are you all right, Caroline?” Mr. CEO asked me, all smirk and sophistication. All dominance and power. All sexy, delicious…
“No!” I replied. It wasn’t good how much I liked hearing him say my name, so low and seductive as if it were just the two of us late, late at night. Only it wasn’t just the two of us, it was a whole bunch of us thrown together to stop his real estate development. I drew myself up to my full 5’4” height, still almost a foot shorter than him. I needed to start wearing heels. Today I just had on my sneakers, good for baking and protesting. Not so good for standing toe-to-toe with big, intimidating men.
“Don’t worry,” he leaned in to whisper to me again. “Next time I’ll use silk restraints. Much easier on your soft skin.”
I pulled away, mouth open in shock. What nerve! But also, kind of hot. I turned away, feeling like he could read me all too well. He seemed to know exactly what effect he was having on me and was enjoying every minute of it. I needed to watch myself around him. Winning this battle wouldn’t be easy. Good thing I was tough as nails.
“Can we talk this through?” he asked, his voice deep and smooth as velvet. “Let me buy you a drink.” He rested his hand lightly on my lower back, moving his thumb ever so slightly along my curve.
What was that I had just been thinking? Flushed, looking up at him, I couldn’t remember. But then I did. Tough. As. Nails.
“No!” I replied, proud of myself for how sure I sounded. I’d known battling this powerful man would be hard. I just hadn’t known how hard. I hadn’t counted on having to fight myself at the same time.
“We’ve given you a list of our demands,” I continued, referring to the exhaustingly long document one of the national environmental groups backing our protest had supplied. I hadn’t actually read it yet. “You can let us know tomorrow in the meeting we have scheduled how you’re going to meet them.”
“Demands? I li
ke discussing demands. I can be very demanding.” Why did he have a wicked gleam in his eye? Why did it make me feel all fluttery and flushed? Maybe I was having an allergic reaction to something. I certainly had that full-body heat thing going on, only this didn’t exactly feel like systemic hives. This felt panty-melting.
“OK then,” I said as much to myself as to him. Time to wrap this up. More standing and talking to this impossibly handsome man couldn’t do any good. His eyes were so blue, like the ocean on a clear sunny day. And he had such classically handsome features, the type sculpted into marble during the Italian renaissance.
“Until tomorrow, Caroline.” He stood and watched me walk away. How I managed not to stumble, I’ll never know.
Once I got back to my apartment, still shaking and flushed, I instantly changed into my pajamas. I’d like to say that the putting on of pajamas while the sun was still up wasn’t a typical event for me. It was.
We’d scheduled our protest for three o’clock in the afternoon in deference to my bakery hours. The store was open from six a.m. to two p.m. When you woke up at four in the morning to start baking in your shop at four-thirty and open the doors at six, nothing felt quite so good as getting into PJs and tucking in early. Sometimes a bit too early, I admit that. But the PJs, I mean, so good. I didn’t indulge in much, but I had a few ridiculously extravagant soft pairs. The cotton practically gave you a massage, stroking your skin. From my point of view, it was the only sensible choice to pull them on the second I got home from work.
The only problem was my friend Hannah. She wanted to go out, and she wanted me to go with her. She always did. It was like she thought we were 26 or something. Which, yes, we were.
My phone rang literally the second I settled down on the couch with a glass of wine.
“Granny!” Hannah yelled into my ear. “Put on some jeans and get your ass over here or I’m coming to get you!”
This was a game we liked to play. She knew she’d have to drive over to my apartment to haul my ass out to a bar. Once I was there I usually had a good time. But my motivation level for going out to “whoop whoop get my party on” wasn’t always that high.
I liked people just fine, but I wasn’t exactly an extrovert. I could smile and chat the hours away at my bakery. I enjoyed the constant hum of interactions, the observations about the weather, the light discussions about local gossip or celebrity scandals. But loud parties or crowded bars? Not my scene.
Which was one of the many reasons it was good to have a best friend like Hannah. As much as I grumbled, without her I probably would spend way, way too much time in my PJs with a cozy romantic book or movie. Or visiting the Cordon Bleu website. If only I had a nickel for every time I gazed at the website of that cooking school, I’d have, like, half of the money I needed to pay tuition to attend one of their cooking programs!
But that was the thing about dreams, it didn’t always matter how attainable they were. I could spend hours gazing at the photos on their site, the intricate pastries so light and ornate they looked like wings on a butterfly, and I’d get this dreamy little happy smile I couldn’t seem to shake. It didn’t matter that there was no way I’d ever be able to afford the course to earn a pastry diploma, coming in around $30,000 for tuition alone.
Not to mention I’d have to figure out how I could up and leave for Paris for nine months. Who would take care of my shop? I had an assistant, affable and unreliable. Within the first week she’d probably leave the front door unlocked one night after hours and the place would get ransacked.
And who would take care of my sister? Zoe lived with me while she worked on her nursing degree. And, OK, I cooked all her meals and she didn’t exactly pay rent, but I was really proud of her for getting her degree. I hadn’t gotten mine, and neither had my younger brother, Wyatt, who was living it up as a white water rafting guide in Colorado. True, Zoe was now 21 and still hadn’t gotten in the habit of making her bed, putting away her shoes in the closet, or even setting her dirty dishes into the sink for me to wash later.
But it wasn’t exactly her fault. We didn’t have what you would call conventional parents. You know how some moms and dads bug their kids to brush their hair, take showers and tuck in their shirts? With us it was the other way around. The best way to put it would be to call them free spirits. Both Mom and Dad were artists, following the whim of their inspirations, even when it took them to live in a nudist colony a couple hours away while they still had two kids in school.
“Oh, they’ll be all right!” they’d assured me when I’d listened to their plans, open-mouthed and dumbfounded. I’d been 18, Wyatt still 15 and Zoe just 13. So while they’d gone off to strip down and run around naked in the woods, I’d stayed home with my younger siblings. Instead of heading off to Southern Oregon State, I’d kept house, making sure my brother and sister got to school on time with clean clothes and at least a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. And I’d started working at a local bakery.
If I sounded bitter, I wasn’t really. It wasn’t as if I’d had grand academic ambitions. And it just so happened that my panicked “I need a job, any job” search at 18 had led me to discover my one true, undying passion for baking. I could bake all day long and love it so much I’d go to sleep and still dream about pastries, muffins, breads, scones and cookies. I’d wake up with a new idea or a craving, raspberries and white chocolate with orange shavings, or almond and fig with anisette. Oh the baking I could do.
Which was why it was good to have a friend like Hannah come to my door and drag me out.
“Those aren’t jeans.” She greeted me critically, bustling into my apartment with her usual eccentric style. She took full advantage of working in a vintage clothing store. On a Monday she’d be 50s chic, Tuesday 60s go-go glam, Wednesday 70s lounge lizard, Thursday 80s pop. Friday could mean everything all at once. Today she looked a lot like Cindi Lauper from Girls Just Wanna Have Fun with a poofy, multicolor party dress, bright blue eye shadow and a red streak in her hair.
“You sure you want to go out?” I tried, already heading back into my bedroom to change.
“Granny!” she called after me, walking toward my fridge to help herself to some food.
Five minutes later I had on fitted (much less comfortable) jeans and a T-shirt, plus some high-heeled boots. I needed more heels in my life. I’d felt so short next to that big CEO earlier today. Colton Kavanaugh.
A shiver ran down my spine. Not the kind I should be having, revulsion for his evil greedy corporate ways. No, more like a shiver of “Oh My.”
He’d exuded such power, seemed so driven and confident with that strong, determined jaw. And the way he’d looked at me, practically licking his lips. It should have pissed me off. Instead, it had made me a little wet.
“You ready for the meeting tomorrow?” Hannah asked as I drove us the short distance to our favorite local establishment. The town of Redwood Bay didn’t have too many choices for an evening out. All bars were of the dive variety, but the one we preferred had fantastic wings and nachos. Offer me good food and I was in.
“No, I’m not ready.” I answered honestly.
“You want to practice with me?” she offered, turning down the music slightly and seeming in earnest. She was cute. She didn’t want to listen to talking points about endangered lichen any more than I wanted to give them.
“No, it’s fine. The environmental group organizing all this gave me some slides. I’ll just put them up and read from the script.” I’d hoped Nora, our local environmental expert, would do the presenting, but she spoke in a near-whisper and never made eye contact even when ordering a muffin to go in the morning. Standing up and making a presentation in front of some aggressive businessmen from New York City? Not gonna happen.
“Bring some scones,” Hannah suggested.
“I definitely will.”
Because, honestly, I couldn’t even really pronounce all of the words in the script they’d sent me. Bryoria pseudocapillaris was one of the endanger
ed species on our coastline from the epiphytic lichen family. I was supposed to say that a resort would change the local hydrology, threatening habitat integrity. The part where I’d finally burst out laughing was when I read that I had to cite the federal Special Status/Sensitive Species Program, or SSSSP for short. Try saying that ten times fast.
This meeting tomorrow was going to be a disaster of epic proportions. Add to the tongue-twisters that I was supposed to deliver, the fact that Christian Grey would be sitting there watching me with his cool ice blue eyes. That smirk playing at the corner of his lips, like he was thinking all sorts of devilish, dirty thoughts. And he knew I’d like every one of them.
“You’re going to kick ass,” Hannah assured me.
Not a chance in hell, but she was a good friend.
“So tell me, how did the protest go?”
I mumbled non-committally. I guessed we’d attracted some attention from the press, which had been our intention. But I’d also attracted some attention from exactly the wrong man, and worse still was how attracted I’d felt right back.
“How hot was he?” She turned to me, a gleam in her eyes. I flushed, knowing instantly who she was talking about. News traveled fast in our little town.
“What?” I asked lamely, keeping my eyes on the road.
“Really?” she responded, as if I’d answered her. “That hot? So hot you can’t talk about it?”
“I don’t even know who you’re talking about,” I tried, but I couldn’t help it, this was my best friend and I started to laugh a little.
“Ben’s sister was down there and she told me he looked like Christian Grey.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I gave in. “For starters, he’s much bigger than the guy they have playing him in the movies.”
Hannah squealed and gave my shoulder a shove, her way of telling me “more, tell me more.”
Unbelievable Page 2
