by Lane, Nina
Irritation ripped through him. “Who the fuck ever said it would be a terrible idea? Or a mistake?”
“We didn’t have to say it.” Julia’s eyes flashed with responding annoyance. “We both knew. Why else would we have kept things platonic for so long? Because our relationship is about your children and keeping this family strong and solid. It’s about Sugar Rush, Rebecca’s memory, and the Stone reputation. What would people think if they found out Warren Stone had hooked up with his late wife’s sister?”
“I don’t care what they’d think,” he said. “I don’t owe anyone explanations about anything. And yeah, we could spent a shitload of energy feeling guilty about Rebecca, but the fact is that she’s been gone for almost fourteen years and nothing you and I do together is a betrayal of her. Just the opposite. Everything you’ve done for the Rebecca Stone Foundation, for her children, has honored her. And I’ve got news for you, Jules.”
He approached, determined to make her see the truth. She stepped away and brought a hand up between them. Wariness shone in her eyes.
“Our relationship has always been about a hell of a lot more than just the kids and Sugar Rush.” Warren took hold of her upper arms, digging his fingers into her soft skin. “It’s been about us. As friends, partners, confidantes. Why not lovers too?”
Her throat worked with a swallow. “What… what would the boys and Hailey think if they knew…”
“I don’t care what they’d think,” he repeated. “We’ve done everything we could possibly do for them. I don’t need their approval to be with you.”
Julia’s teeth came down on her lower lip. “You do, you know. Because what if they don’t like me stepping into the space where their mother once was? What would you do then?”
He expelled a frustrated breath. “I’d tell them to mind their own business.”
“And that would be good enough?” She shook her head again. “Not to mention, the majority of your employees knew and loved Rebecca. Hell, we’ve all but deified her with the Rebecca Stone Foundation and all the good works we’ve done in her name. Don’t you think people will… react if they find out we’ve suddenly started an affair?”
“There is nothing sudden about this,” Warren retorted. “If anyone reacts, they’re more than likely to say, ‘Well, it’s about fucking time.’”
“And if they don’t?”
“I’ll take that risk.”
“Maybe you will.” She strode to the door, her spine stiff. “But I won’t.”
“Julia, get back here,” he snapped.
“Sorry, boss.” She threw him a cold glance over her shoulder. “Game over.”
No. This game was just beginning.
Chapter
SEVEN
Julia’s inner Grinch was snarling.
“Deck the halls with boughs of holly… fa la la la la… pfft tee be… pfft…”
The hip-hop rap beat of the Christmas carol thumped through the theater auditorium. The barbershop quartet, decked out in blindingly bright red vests and green bow-ties, began snapping and beat-boxing onstage.
Two more full hours, minimum, before she was freed from the tethers of another Deck the Halls rehearsal.
She glanced at her phone. Warren hadn’t texted her since their encounter that morning, not that she’d know what to say to him in her turmoil of confusion.
What in the hell was going on with them?
Hot, raw sex was what was going on.
Despite her assertion that it couldn’t happen again, she’d been lost the instant lust had exploded between them like a supernova. Consumed by his kiss, craving his touch, desperate to have him inside her again.
Even now, her heart sped up at the memory, her—
“They’re pretty good,” Marco said from his seat beside her. “Great rhythm.”
Julia forced her mind back to the present.
“Thank you, gentlemen!” she called, cutting off the singers mid-beat. “Please remember to exit stage left.”
…and keep going.
The men grinned and bowed before sauntering offstage. Julia checked the schedule as a choral group came out with a rendition of “Let it Snow,” followed by two local elementary school teachers performing some sort of Star Wars snowman skit that she did not remotely understand.
“Exit stage left.” She flipped the pages on her clipboard. “Wee Tinsel Dancers, you’re next.”
The spotlight danced back and forth across the empty stage.
“Wee Tinsel Dancers,” Julia repeated sharply.
Nothing.
With a groan, she hauled herself out of the third-row auditorium seat and made her way backstage—where chaos reigned. Poodles yapped from their crates, teenaged magicians practiced their rope acts, a ventriloquist inexplicably gave his reindeer puppet a southern accent, and a dozen five-year-old girls simultaneously cried, whined, or sat pouting with their arms crossed.
Julia approached one of the Wee Tinsel teachers. “Sarah, is there a problem?”
Sarah, a young woman with flawless skin and a willowy body, sighed and put her hand on her forehead. “They don’t want to do it.”
“What?”
“They don’t want to do it,” Sarah repeated. “They were apparently told they would get candy canes, and they won’t do it if they don’t.”
Julia turned to the little girls with a forced smile that felt as if it would give her a thousand wrinkles.
“Girls,” she said in her most gentle, Mrs. Claus voice. “This is the rehearsal for your big night. You want to be stars, don’t you?”
“I want to be a monkey!” announced a pig-tailed cherub. She jumped on the chair and pretended to climb the curtains.
“Get down, please,” Julia said. “You know that performers need to rehearse for their performances, don’t you? Isn’t that why you’re taking classes with Miss Sarah?”
“I need to pee,” said a curly-haired angel.
“I want a candy cane,” demanded a blonde munchkin, glowering at Julia. “You said there would be candy canes.”
“On performance night, everyone will get a candy cane,” Julia promised. “Now if you’ll all please line up to—”
“Look!” yelled a cinnamon-haired sprite. “I’m a fire truck.”
She ran around screeching at the top of her lungs.
Julia gritted her teeth. And people wondered why she didn’t particularly enjoy small children.
“Where’s the Gingerbread Man?” she asked Sarah. “Isn’t he supposed to join them in the dance?”
“He had to work late, but he’s on his way.”
“All right.” Julia stepped away from the noisy girls. “Let’s move on with the next act. Let me know when he arrives.”
She hoped to God the girls didn’t throw a fit on the night of the actual performance. She checked the schedule and approached four middle-aged women standing together and talking in low voices.
“Jingle Belles?” Julia checked her roster for their names. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Sharon, a plump woman with badly cut mousy brown hair, turned from the circle. “Did you get my email about our costumes? I’m afraid we can’t wear the Santa suits like we’d planned.”
“We were getting them custom-made, but there was a mix-up with the order,” Beverly added.
Julia eyed the clothes the women were wearing—a boxy suit, polyester pants and a sweater sequined with a Christmas tree design, an overlarge green shirt. Not to mention their lack of makeup, jewelry, and nail polish.
“So this is what you plan to wear?” She failed to keep the distaste out of her voice. Seeing women badly dressed, badly put together, was the visual equivalent of nails on a chalkboard.
“That’s what I was asking,” Sharon explained. “We can’t afford to get matching suits or anything, so we can either wear individual festive clothes or just black pants and green shirts.”
Julia attempted to suppress her instinctive urge to fix them. She did not have time to style any
one right now, much less four women for Deck the Halls.
“I have another sweater like this, but with a reindeer.” Connie gestured to the sequined tree on her sweater. “One of you can borrow it.”
“Or if everyone has something in plaid, we could coordinate with red scarves,” Sharon suggested.
“What about Christmas-themed pajamas?” Beverly asked. “I saw snowman flannels on sale at Target the other—”
“We’re short on time here, ladies,” Julia interrupted. “Take your places onstage. Let’s get this over with.”
She strode down the steps of the stage. After resuming her seat beside Marco, she started checking her emails on her phone.
“O Come All Ye Faithful…”
A shiver rippled over Julia’s skin. She looked up. The Jingle Belles stood in the spotlight, their voices rising in perfect acapella harmony. She’d known they were good, but onstage in the glow of the lights, they were… really good. Good enough to cause prickles to rise on her arms, and maybe even a bit of emotion to tighten her chest.
“…joyful and triumphant…”
A sudden memory came forth of her father singing this exact song at the piano of their little house in Palo Alto, his booming voice echoing through the room. She and Rebecca decorating the tree. Their mother making hot chocolate. Julia singing along, feeling the music opening inside her like light.
“Julia?”
She blinked at the sound of Marco’s voice. The song had ended, the Jingle Belles’ voices fading into the air. They stood looking at her, as if unsure what to do next.
“Exit stage…” Julia cleared her throat. “Thank you, ladies. If you can all stop by my studio at…” she consulted her phone calendar and decided she could fit them in before the family tree-trimming party, “…nine on Saturday morning, I’ll see what clothes I can find for you. All right?”
The women all looked surprised. Julia felt Marco glance at her.
“You’re serious?” Sharon asked.
“Of course I’m serious,” Julia replied crisply. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, you’re a little… er…” Beverly started.
Connie nudged her with an elbow.
“…busy,” Beverly finished.
Julia narrowed her eyes, suspecting the other woman had been about to use a different B word.
“Yes, I am busy,” she replied. “But I’m willing to make time for you, unless you don’t want my help?”
“No, no, we appreciate it,” Sharon said hastily. “Thank you so much. Nine Saturday morning. We’ll be there.”
They had better be, if she was going to such lengths.
“Very well.” Julia turned back to the schedule. “Exit stage left.”
You think he’s getting serious about one woman?
Luke’s voice echoed through Julia’s head. Throughout the entire rehearsal, everything Warren had simmered in a hot undercurrent beneath her thoughts.
She plucked the golden waffle from the waffle iron and dropped it onto a plate. After lathering it with butter and syrup, she sat on the sofa and dug her fork into the gooey goodness.
The waffle tasted like sandpaper—a result of her mood rather than the actual food. With a groan, she pushed the plate aside and leaned back on the sofa. The start of a migraine clawed at her head, pressure building behind her eyes.
Even though she couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe Warren capable of cheating, she had to resist the urge to text him about the boys’ conversation.
What would she even say? Did you fuck me while you’re seeing another woman? Aside from the fact that the answer had to be a resounding No, the question would make her sound like a raging jealous harpy—which, under the right circumstances, she probably could be. But she certainly didn’t want to be that way about Warren.
He hadn’t made his usual one p.m. call today. Hadn’t texted her either. Apparently he was holding to his word that he’d play the game.
And damned her for rolling the dice first.
A hollowness broke open inside her. She always told Warren everything.
Whenever she was working through a difficult problem or situation, he was the one she went to. He’d take her to dinner, listen to her vent, talk her through possible solutions. By the time they were sharing a dessert, she was clear-headed, stronger, ready to tackle the issue from a different angle.
But this time, with two crazy-hot fucks burning between them like a bonfire, and all their arguing about her workload and the festival, and him firing her from the Sugar Rush holiday party… with so much upheaval, how could she possibly go to him for answers?
Longing stabbed through her. Much as she’d loved the sensation of him inside her, the touch of his lips, the way he made her feel both dirty and cherished at the same time… she needed him. She needed the Warren she’d known and relied on for thirteen years.
Yes, she’d always had feelings for him that were better kept concealed, but she’d been willing to make the sacrifice for the sake of their deep, loyal friendship. To keep Warren Stone as the one person in the world she could turn to with a problem.
And now? Who was she supposed to turn to when he was the problem?
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the sofa. Her mind flashed with images of herself bent over his big desk, her skirt hiked up and her panties pulled down. Balancing on her stiletto heels. Never before had ice-queen stylist Julia Bennett behaved with such wanton disregard.
Never before had she liked being told what to do. But with Warren she sure did. She liked obeying his commands, that deep firm voice twisting through her blood.
She was wet just thinking about it. Imagining Warren staring at her naked ass, his hands pushing her thighs wider and opening her for his penetration. And penetrate her he had, thrusting into her balls-deep, the delicious friction of his cock sending her urgency skyrocketing. She’d only caught glimpses of him over her shoulder and had to imagine what he’d looked like—his thick shaft sticking rigidly out of his open trousers, his tie loosened and his features a mask of lust as he drove them both toward bliss.
A half groan, half sigh escaped her. She wiggled, pressing her thighs together to ease the ache in her clit. She could still feel him, smell him.
If he walked into the house right now, she’d yank off her panties and spread her legs for him without even thinking twice. Because oh my fucking god, how she craved his cock inside her, his mouth crashing against hers, his deep voice murmuring orders into her ear.
She lifted a hand to her breast, twisting her hard nipple underneath her linen sheath dress. Heat shot straight down to her pussy. She could pull up her skirt just far enough to ease her hand between her thighs. It wouldn’t take long at all, just a little tickle on her clit and she’d come with an image of Warren shooting all over her bare ass—
She pushed to her feet and went into her bedroom, stripping off her suit, leaving her bra and panties in a trail behind her. She retrieved her vibrator from the nightstand, and ten seconds later, she was working it against her pussy—no lube needed, since just the memory of Warren had made her wet and ready.
She closed her eyes, arching her body up to meet the rhythmic pulsations. She rubbed the vibrator over her clit and pressed it against her opening. Usually the toy was powerful enough to spark a quick, hard orgasm that left her reasonably satisfied, but this time her body was slow to react. Which was strange since she’d have come in a heartbeat if Warren had slipped his hand into her panties and fingered her damp pussy…
Julia groaned, pressing the round knob harder against her clit. Images flashed behind her closed eyelids—Warren naked, his cock projecting outward, his eyes smoldering. He fisted his cock and pushed between her legs, murmuring dirty phrases in his deep voice as he slid slowly into her and started to thrust… hard… harder… jostling her against the bed, filling her over and over…
“Ah!”
An orgasm wrenched through her. She gasped, stroking the vibrator over her fol
ds as the sensations peaked and began to ebb. She fell against the pillows to catch her breath. Only when her body calmed down did she realize her cheeks were damp. She covered her face with her hands and choked back a sob.
Oh fuck no.
She would not do this.
She sat up and yanked on her silk bathrobe, determination steeling her spine. She would not mope around regretting the past or worrying about the future. She’d take her recent setbacks and work her ass off to turn things back around in her favor because Julia Bennett got shit done. Perfectly.
She’d go back to drawing board on the Appear designs and find another way to launch the clothing line. She’d organize Deck the Halls so well it would be the best festival event the town had ever seen. She’d finalize all the family plans so her nephews and niece would have a memorable holiday they’d still be talking about years from now. She take her Before Fifty list and… well, she’d throw it away because it was silly, but that would give her closure from the past.
Her phone rang with “I Want Candy.”
Julia pressed a hand to her heart, her nerves flaring to life as she reached for her phone and answered the call.
“Hi.” His deep voice stroked her like a cat’s paw. “How’d the rehearsal go?”
“It went.”
“You okay?”
Her throat tightened. “I don’t know.”
“Jules, taking risks is good. Change is good.”
“So is stability.”
“We’ve been stable for years. That won’t change.”
“It already has.”
Before he could respond, she ended the call and turned off her phone.
What happened to the words I love you when you kept them trapped inside for so long? Lacking air and light, did they wilt and fall apart like old flowers? Or was it like nurturing little seeds, keeping them safe and warm so that one day they might flourish in the sunlight? Or would they fossilize inside you forever, hardening like clay?
And what would happen if she ever dared to set those words free?
