By Referral Only

by Lyla Payne

  “You’re not riding with us, though.”

  “I wouldn’t presume,” Sebastian answered me smoothly, crooking a finger and summoning the Town Car idling several yards away.

  ***

  Spending the afternoon with Sebastian proved less harrowing than anticipated. He followed Emilie and me around to three different boutiques, expounding on the different organizations that might be interested in advertising on the site and also giving us pretty spot-on clothing advice.

  “Which one, Rubes, the orange or the pink?” Emilie twirled in a short tangerine dress and then held the bright pink version up under her chin.

  “Both colors look stunning against your skin, but I imagine Q would prefer the orange,” Sebastian commented, returning his gaze to his cell phone before Emilie even noticed him looking.

  “Oh. Well. Thanks.” She shot him a confused glance, her eyebrows furrowed.

  Neither of us had been able to maintain any hostility in the face of his pleasant companionship, but it felt weird. Like we were waiting for Dr. Jekyll to make a sudden appearance. It did kind of ruin the afternoon, as far as girl time goes, but it made things pretty interesting, too.

  I paid for my bag of new clothes and a fresh pair of sunglasses, then went outside to wait in the warm sunshine while Emilie did the same. Sebastian sat on a bench to the right of the doors, looking oddly at home on a shopping trip. His pressed khakis and white button-down, open at the collar, gave him an almost normal appearance.

  Then again, they did say that serial killers looked just like everyone else.

  “I can feel you looking at me as though I’m about to murder you,” he said, putting away his phone before squinting up at me.

  I shrugged, refusing to feel badly about judging him. It wasn’t as though the evidence against him didn’t make it okay. “I think you’d probably hire someone else to do it.”

  He grinned. It looked more like an animal baring its teeth than anything else. “You’re a smart girl, Ruby, no matter what people say.”

  “And what do they say?”

  “That you’re white trash. Your white trash parents stumbled blindly into multi-million-dollar fortunes but didn’t have the breeding necessary to turn out a daughter who doesn’t curse like a sailor, fuck without standards, and harbor fanciful ideas about an equally trashy Hollywood stardom.” He recited the litany of complaints against my family and me as though they interested him as little as the ants marching through the crack in the sidewalk tripping on weeds.

  “Don’t sugarcoat it on my account,” I muttered.

  “You don’t want things sugarcoated. Like I said, whether or not those things are true, you’re smart. The website is quite brilliant, and you could turn it into a moneymaker for yourself, if you wanted to. I could help.”

  “Help how?”

  “You’ve obviously reached the end of your interest. I could take over the business end for you. For a percentage, of course.”

  “Of course. Why should I trust you? You’ll probably hack into everyone’s e-mails and start splashing details all over the place. I’m not a total bitch, Sebastian.”

  He held up his hands. “I won’t take over any content, and you don’t even have to give me admin access. I’m bored, okay? Daddy Rowland won’t let me do anything at the company, and I need some experience for my business project portfolio.”

  “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  “Very well.” He glanced over as Emilie stepped onto the sidewalk, her hands filled with shopping bags. “I’ve said my piece, and now I’ll leave you girls to the rest of your day.”

  Sebastian held out a hand toward his half-brother’s girlfriend. “I’m returning to the house. Would you like me to take your bags?”

  Emilie opened her mouth as though to say something rude, then snapped it shut. Huge sunglasses hid her eyes, making it hard to read her thoughts, but she handed over the bags.

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  Sebastian nodded, then slid into the backseat of his car, held open by a silent driver. A moment later he was gone. Emilie and I both stared after him for a moment before I shook the strange encounter loose. “That was weird. I am going to think about it, though. I never considered this could be a way for me to make some cash.”

  “You don’t need to make cash.”

  “I know. But isn’t being wealthy all about not missing opportunities when they come along?”

  She hooked her elbow through mine. “Let’s just go get some froyo and talk about something other than Sebastian. He still creeps me out, even though he hasn’t put a toe out of line since Quinn told him he could stay at the beach house.”

  “Something like….”

  “Cole Stuart’s mysteriously unsatisfactory nethers, of course.”

  Chapter 11

  “Jesus, Rubes, you look fucking hot.”

  Emilie and Quinn stood in the doorway to our room, looking like they’d stepped out of a Rolex ad. Probably one being filmed in Monte Carlo. Her cherry red dress clung to every curve until it hit her waist, where it flared to show off her short but gorgeous legs, and her black hair spiraled down her back in a mass of inky waves. Quinn wore another pinstriped suit and black tie, a bright red pocket square the only alteration to the ensemble he’d worn last time I’d seen him.

  “I agree, in an I’m-madly-in-love-with-your-friend kind of way,” Quinn added.

  Tonight’s mixer with Lambda Phi at The Wharf was semi-formal, but yeesh. My own vintage inspired gold and ivory number paled—literally—in comparison. It didn’t matter. Emilie and I had spent the better part of freshman year arguing over who was hotter, only to settle on the fact that we both were.

  “Merci. So do you two. Fucking stunning.”

  “Why, thank you.” Quinn winked. “You don’t think this suit makes my butt look big?”

  Emilie swatted his arm and giggled. “You’ll have to forgive him. And me. We had some drinks in the car. Are you ready?”

  I nodded and we all headed downstairs and out front, where Quinn’s car idled at the curb. Other girls poured from the house, full of giggles from their own pre-party drinks, and the porch and parking lot filled with overdressed sorority girls excited about an evening with Lambda Phi. Several other hired cars waited to be filled with my sisters, and a few girls had gone with cabs. We liked to party, but no one wanted to be called in front of a DE Standards board for drinking and driving, so we were all pretty careful.

  Two freshmen had to stay home and man the Sober Sister line, just in case. They’d probably be busy tonight. Sober Sister was a good idea, except for when the drunks you picked up demanded a pit stop at some terrible late-night taco joint and then spent the ten-minute ride home making masks out of their flour tortillas.

  It happened far more often than I would have believed.

  The drive out to The Wharf took less than twenty minutes, long enough for the three of us to kill three-fourths of a bottle of excellent rye. My head buzzed pleasantly by the time Quinn’s driver helped us from the back seat. We navigated the wooden planks leading around to the back of the restaurant, to the private screened-in patio and deck that Cole and I had reserved for the event.

  Tables dotted the patio, waist high and without chairs, with menus littering the tops. Twinkly white Christmas lights hung on the wooden beams of the ceiling and bright lanterns decorated the deck and the path onto the beach. A local band played in the corner and laughter rang in the air while pretty waitresses in short shorts and screen-printed T-shirts brought alcohol as fast as their too-tanned legs could carry them.

  “Would you girls like something to drink?” Quinn raised an eyebrow.

  Emilie and I both nodded in response, and he hurried off to do her bidding. It wasn’t for me, I knew, but I didn’t mind taking advantage of Em’s boyfriend if he was fetching drinks. She turned to say something to me but stopped, her eyes turning up in a smile at whatever she spied over my shoulder.

  “Ruby Cotton, you look more
beautiful every time I see you.” Cole’s rough brogue warmed my bare shoulders as it spilled into my ears. He stepped to my side, extending a hand to Emilie. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Emilie Swanson.”

  “Ah, of course. You are even lovelier than Quinn led me to believe.”

  She giggled. “Then I’ll have to talk to him about that.”

  “Talk to me about what?” Quinn handed out drinks, then slipped an arm around Emilie, tugging her close and burying his nose in her hair for a moment.

  My heart squeezed again at their ease together. He’d been away from us less than five minutes, but the first thing he did when he returned was touch her, smell her. Their connection was effortless and palpable—enviable.

  “Hey, Stuart. Nice win last night against Central.”

  “Thanks. Nice win with the Turkish television rights.”

  “Yes, it’s a great anchor for the Eastern Mediterranean.”

  “Okay, no business tonight, you agreed, Quinn.” Emilie turned to him with a fake pout, her eyes sparkling. “I can think of a bunch of ways to shut you up.”

  “Oh, can you now?”

  “Ugh.” I turned to Cole. “They’re always like this. I hope you have a strong stomach.”

  He laughed, the genuine nature of his happiness infecting me. “I can handle sap, hen, but I actually came over here because I need your help with a small venue problem.”

  “Thank heavens.”

  “Oh, look, Rubes! Chaney’s here. I’m going to go catch her.” Emilie tugged Quinn away by the hand, leaving Cole and me alone.

  “Do you really need me or was that an attempt to help me escape the cloying sexual air that surrounds those two?”

  “I really need you. And I think they’re cute.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Cute?”

  “I mean…they’re fortunate. Don’t you think? To find someone so special at our age, when most people are lucky just to find someone who doesn’t turn out to be crazy or diseased?”

  “There’s a romantic picture.” Maybe Cole was one of those people who freaked out about germs, and he did weird shit trying to avoid contracting STDs or something.

  He shrugged. “I’d like to have a reason to be romantic.”

  His green eyes lightened, the flecks of gold glinting, and seemed to communicate something more than his words. We stared for a moment before I cleared my throat. “You said there’s a problem?”

  “What? Oh. Yes. The credit card they have on file for DE is expired. If you have a new one, they need it, otherwise we can front the total and you can cut us a check.”

  “No, I have one. Where is she?” I’d worked with the owner before, an ex-fisherwoman, and knew she’d get out of sorts if we didn’t settle this right away. As though we weren’t good for it.

  “I’ll take you.” He pressed a big hand against the small of my back, guiding me toward the door that led to the dining room.

  My entire body stood at alert under his touch. Somehow, I made my legs continue to the front, where the hostess pointed us toward the kitchen. Lauren, the owner, hovered over an extra slop sink in the back corner, apparently at the mercy of a rough night.

  Flour caked her gray hair and some kind of red sauce crusted on a cheek, and at the moment she was up to her elbows in crawfish. The back of the kitchen smelled like grease, fish, disinfectant, and dirty water, making me happy that food service would never be a part of my future.

  “Hey, Blondie. Your sorority girl credit card is expired.”

  “I know. Here.” I started to hold the new one out, then realized she couldn’t exactly take it from me.

  “What are you doing?” Cole asked her, sounding genuinely interested.

  “My day manager booked a crawfish boil with a law firm who wants to show their Yankee clients a real Southern meal. But he forgot to tell me and he didn’t peel the damn things, and if you think a bunch of fancy pants Northerners are going to crack open their own mudbugs, your accent must be clogging your brains, handsome.” She grunted, pulling her hands free and wiping them on her apron.

  For all of her sarcasm, I recognized panic when I saw it, and Lauren was about two minutes away from losing her shit.

  Cole must have sensed it too. “Can we help?”

  “Can you peel a couple hundred crawfish?”

  “I’ve never done it before, but….”

  “I don’t have time to teach you, so just hold on while I run this and then go back to your party.” Frustrated tears pooled in her eyes.

  They broke the rest of my resolve to stay silent. Cold fingers of dread snaked around my belly, displacing the warmth from the whiskey and Cole’s presence, but letting Lauren break down over some damn crawdads seemed mean, even if this was supposed to be my party.

  “I know how to peel them. I can show Cole, too, if you have a shirt and an apron I can borrow.”

  Lauren eyed me with a sharp, pale gaze. “What’s a princess like you know about mudbugs?”

  “A princess born and raised in New Orleans. Do you want my fucking help or not?”

  She studied me another moment before nodding, beckoning Cole and I to follow her to the office at the end of the hallway. She tossed extra-large Wharf T-shirts at both of us, swiped my credit card, then paused at the door. “I’m the only manager here tonight, so this is a huge help, Ruby. Consider your drinks on the house for the first hour of your next party.”

  Lauren turned and left without another word, leaving Cole and I alone in an outer office area. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “What about my free drinks?”

  “You’re just my lovely assistant. Come here and unzip my dress.”

  “Um.”

  “Cole, for fuck’s sake, I’m not hitting on you. I want to change into this T-shirt so I don’t get crawfish guts on my dress, and then I want to go shell those fuckers and go back to the mixer before my buzz wears off.” I turned my back to him, having flashbacks of the day in the dressing room, when I’d started things with Liam by asking him to do the same thing.

  Somehow I doubted Cole would be so bold.

  His long fingers brushed my hair forward, clearing a path, then took their time tugging my zipper halfway down. They dragged against the bare skin along my spinal cord, and an involuntary gasp escaped my lips at the electrical charge they shot into my breasts, then straight down between my legs.

  At home, I would accuse him of voodoo. I wondered if they had dark magic in Scotland. I thought they did, like fairies or whatever, but some real Haitian witch would kick the shit out of a leprechaun. Maybe that was just Ireland.

  “I can get it now, thanks. Turn around,” I ordered.

  He obeyed, the expression on his face unsettled. I pulled the zipper the rest of the way down, then slipped the huge T-shirt over my head. It was shorter than my dress, but it covered my ass, and that was all that mattered. I should have taken my shoes off, too, but the thought of traipsing around the stinky kitchen in my bare feet was too much to bear. At least I’d worn sandals and not expensive heels.

  Cole unbuttoned and shrugged out of his crisp pink dress shirt, still turned away from me, and then hung it over the back of the desk chair in front of him. He pulled his undershirt off next, revealing the most gorgeous back ever put on a man—tanned muscles bulged and rippled in every direction and once, making me want to know what it felt like to dig my fingers into them while his weight rested on top of me, inside of me.

  In that moment, I knew I had never wanted a guy more than I wanted Cole.

  But it wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was supposed to follow my own goddamn advice, listen to the girls telling me that, no matter how hot he was, how sweet he seemed, there was something missing.

  Emilie and I were going to find out what it was, and then I would feel better.

  I laid my dress over his shirts, then handed him an apron and tied a second around my waist. “Let’s go shell some crawfish.”

  His gaze traveled down my
legs, heating my skin in its wake, and I wished mine were tan and pretty like Emilie’s, not pale with a tendency to freckle. If the brightness in his eyes told the truth, Cole didn’t mind. He was from Scotland—he probably liked pale.

  “Am I going to be forced to defend your honor when the kitchen staff starts drooling over you in that getup?”

  “I’m going to pretend not to be insulted that you prefer a dirty T-shirt and apron to my favorite dress.”

  He stepped in front of me, bracketing my face with his palms and forcing me to look up at him. I got dizzy, probably from the whiskey, but couldn’t tear my eyes away. “You look amazing in that dress. Like Grace Kelly, that’s what I thought when I saw you.”

  “Well, I’m no princess. Just a girl from Louisiana.”

  “A Cajun princess. Which is probably why you look even more fetching now. You looked beautiful before, like a girl I’d love to parade around in front of my friends. Now you look like the girl I’d like to toss on that desk and screw silly. The fact that you’re both at once drives me crazy.”

  “I…oh.” I didn’t sound like myself, and no better words would form in my brain or come out of my mouth. My whole body ignited at his frank statement, even as the acknowledgment of my less-than-classy side made me uncomfortable.

  He ran his hands down to my waist and pulled me closer, near enough that he could lower his mouth and finally end this torturous cycle of almost kissing, but he didn’t. “Tell me, hen, are you still with that worthless twally?”

  Cole’s voice dipped, doing that husky thing again that turned my knees into jelly. Fire licked from my belly into my thighs, my mind still stuck on the visual of he and I going at it on Lauren’s desk, and if he hadn’t had hold of me, I might have actually fallen down.

  “Who? Liam?” I shook my head. “No, I’m done with that.”

  “That’s good. Otherwise this moment would have really tested my morals,” he breathed as he lowered his face and pressed his lips against mine.

  The relief of finally kissing him for real made me squeak with pleasure. His lips were sure but soft, exploring mine with practiced grace and far too much ease for a first time. My hands fisted in his borrowed T-shirt, dragging him closer and tilting my head to get at more of him. He tasted like mint and rum, maybe a mojito, and when his tongue swept over mine, my own involuntary groan surprised me.