Sweet Distraction: Stag Brothers Book 1

by Lainey Davis

  Sweet Distraction

  Stag Brothers Book One

  By Lainey Davis

  © 2018 Lainey Davis

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Individuals pictured on the cover are models and are used for illustrative purposes only.

  Many thanks to Nicky Lewis for editorial input.

  Thank you for supporting

  independent authors!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  One

  TIM

  I

  'm not sure why I keep trying to get things accomplished in the office. When I'm here, I'm interrupted constantly. Everyone has questions and apparently I'm the only one with any answers. I'm trying to review the notes from our top clients, but my email chimes every few seconds and I've already had to put my cell on silent because my family evidently needs me to manage them, too.

  When my intercom buzzes, I'm in the middle of re-reading a sentence I've started about ten times, so I'm impatient with my admin. "What, Donna? What??"

  "I apologize, Mr. Stag. It can wait."

  I exhale. Inhale again, exhale. What did that corporate meditation expert tell me I should do? Three long deep breaths before speaking? Who has time?? "No, I'm the one who should apologize for my tone, Donna. What's up?"

  "It's just that Ms. Peterson is here to meet with you."

  "Peterson?" A glance at my calendar shows only "busy" for the next half hour. It's not like Donna to be vague when scheduling. Who the hell is Ms. Peterson?

  I hate feeling caught off guard. This never happens, and I don't tolerate it. But I have no idea what Donna is talking about, and that makes me nervous. I'm always prepared for meetings. That's what I do. I prepare for things, explore every possible avenue, make a plan for each contingency. That's how I steered my family through crisis and how I managed to run my own multi-million dollar company before I hit 30.

  "Remember, Mr. Stag?" Donna's voice is calm. "Your grandmother suggested we bring on a chef and when I asked at the culinary school, they said--"

  "Oh! The chef! Ms. Peterson is the chef. Right." As usual, my grandmother has been inserting herself into my affairs and, as usual, she's probably right. But I can't have her interfering with my work. I make a mental note to speak with my grandmother about making arrangements with Donna without my consent. "Donna, can you take her for some coffee or something while I prepare for our discussion?"

  "She says that she's already had coffee today and that--"

  "Give me five minutes, Donna. Then send her in."

  "Yes, sir."

  What kinds of questions should I even be asking a chef? I should have just left this interview up to Donna. My grandmother took one look at me last weekend and decided I'm pale because I don't eat properly. She's not wrong--I work 18-hour days and usually don't remember to eat until every place is closed. When I get here in the morning, nothing is open yet. I know my staff works hard for me, too, and I actually really like my grandmother's idea to have a chef come in so they can feel appreciated at lunch and maybe eat something good in the afternoon. I click through my research. A lot of big companies are bringing in a chef, having lunch together as a team every day. My competitors aren't--it's mostly tech companies. But the research seems sound. A small investment toward food and the chef's salary for greater retention and improved morale. Who says you can't buy loyalty with pie?

  When Donna knocks at my office door, I look up from my monitor and, for the second time today, I'm caught totally off guard.

  Standing beside my secretary is the most striking woman I've ever seen in my life. In an office full of power suits and smooth hair, Ms. Peterson stands out like a star in the night sky. Her blonde curls are unruly, messily held back with what looks like a pen. Maybe it's a chopstick? She can't be more than 5'2", even in black clogs, which she wears with chef whites and a hot pink scarf. The shapeless jacket pulls taut across what I can tell is a full bust, and suddenly all I can think about is peeling her out of that double-breasted coat so I can massage the creamy, white globes it hides.

  "And this is Mr. Stag, of course, head of the company. Mr. Stag, this is Alice Peterson." She sticks out a hand and I meet her eyes, pleasantly surprised by her firm grasp as she pumps my hand.

  "It's a pleasure to be here, Mr. Stag," she says, and smiles. She has one of those smiles that reaches her entire face, and I'm mesmerized by her violet eyes as Donna excuses herself and backs from the room. The click of the closing door shakes me back to the present and I gesture for her to take a seat.

  Suddenly my mahogany desk is too big and too wide; the space between us seems too far. This isn't going to work at all, I decide. I can't have someone like this distracting me at work. I sigh, thinking of how I'll explain to Donna that she has to find someone less…tempting. I realize as I'm thinking these thoughts that I absolutely cannot not hire her because she turns me on. I should know. I'm a lawyer and we specialize in injury and wrongful termination cases.

  I realize the silence has become uncomfortably long when she asks me, hesitantly, "So…what would you like to ask me?"

  I meet those violet eyes again and tell myself to go into work mode. This is just another puzzle for me to solve. How to overcome the lust I'm feeling for this woman. Just another obstacle. "Well, I've never hired a chef before, to be honest, but it's something a lot of companies are doing these days."

  She nods. "Oh for sure. It's definitely something companies are using to differentiate themselves and attract top talent. Everyone seems to have a 'thing,' you know? Fancy milkshakes or an all-day cereal buffet…"

  When I don't say anything, she continues, rambling a bit. "I took a look around your lunch room before I signed in with your admin. You don't have a ton of space down there, but I was definitely thinking we can work on power bowls. Protein packed, quick meals. Nothing heavy on the garlic."

  My wit fails me and I can't think of a response, so I say nothing. She must think I'm an idiot or an asshole, I tell myself as I sit there, speechless. I sigh. "It sounds like you have the right idea. Hiring a chef was actually suggested to me by someone who noticed we work long hours. My attorneys are very dedicated and by the time they remember they haven't refueled, most delivery places are closed. None of us wants to rely on fast food."

  She nods. "Quick, nutritious meals, ready to eat. You guys need protein and fat if you're cranking out hours like that. Lots of fresh fruit. Nothing that will stain your dress shirt." And then she winks, causing me to glance at my chest. I'm relieved to discover there is no stain.

/>   I clear my throat. "So Donna tells me you did very well in culinary school?"

  Alice Peterson perks right up at this. I can tell she's proud of her accomplishments. "I finished top of my class," she says. "My family worked really hard to get me there, so I wanted to honor that by doing my best. I've always wanted to be a chef!" She beams. "I even got to intern with Kevin Souza before he closed Salt of the Earth," she says, referencing what had been my favorite restaurant to take clients before the chef/owner closed it to focus on a new concept a few towns over.

  "Well," I say, impressed, "Why don't you tell me what I should be asking you."

  She nods and stands. "I think we should go look at the space and talk about what's missing."

  "Oh," I say, rising. "I hadn't considered that you might need different equipment." My firm occupies the top two floors of one of the skyscrapers in downtown Pittsburgh. When we leased the space five years ago, I knew the former occupants had also been a law firm. As we walk toward the break room, I realize that of course she would need ovens and stoves and an industrial refrigerator if she's going to prepare multiple meals for us every day.

  Alice begins talking about her favorite appliance vendor and I lose myself in her speech, which seems to come so easily to her. Her words aren't measured or calculated. When she tells me that Don's is the best appliance dealer for a Viking range, I can tell she really feels this way, and not because she has a reciprocal deal with him.

  "What would your ideal meal look like here at work, Mr. Stag," she asks, frowning and pulling out a notebook from the pocket of that bulky coat.

  I squint, looking around the small break room. Right now, it's got a standard fridge and sink and electric range. It resembles the kitchen of a college dorm…with a few circular tables scattered around. "I really liked what I read about one of the tech companies in East Liberty," I say. "They have a large space where they all eat lunch together every day, even the CEO. The chef rings a dinner bell when it's time to eat." I remember reading that and thinking of family dinners at my childhood home, before everything turned sour.

  My mother used to ring an old ship's bell to summon my brothers and me in from the back yard as soon as she saw my father's car approaching our driveway. Lost in the memory, I'm jolted again when Alice touches my arm.

  Two

  ALICE

  I finally couldn't resist touching him, not another second. I just had to feel what would happen. Even through the layers of his suit coat and shirt, I can feel a surge of electricity when my fingers make contact with the rock-hard arm of Tim Stag.

  If I didn't need this job so badly, I'd say screw it and shove him against the wall right here in the break room. His grey eyes seem to shift with his mood, looking out from a sweep of short, chestnut hair. Right now, I want to brush that hair back from his skin and shove my tongue down his throat. But, duty calls, and so I pull myself together and decide I'm going to land this job with this brooding, handsome man as my boss.

  "Mr. Stag," I say, and his wide eyes meet mine, impossible to read. I pull back my hand and gesture around me. "You're going to have to knock down a wall and put in a serving line." He nods, but doesn't say anything, so I continue. "We can put glass-front coolers over here where I can keep grab-n-go meals and snacks ready. A long row of tables down the middle should be nice. With the wall gone, you'll get natural light and a view of the Point," I say, nodding toward where the city's three rivers converge outside our office.

  "We can even do some booths along that wall, if you ever wanted to have clients here for lunch. Or just want more private conversation space."

  "And are you able to oversee that renovation? Manage everything you need to get started?" His voice is so deep. I long to put my hand against his chest and feel it reverberate.

  My eyes go wide at his question, though. I mean, yeah. I can figure all that stuff out. My dad works construction and my brother sells industrial kitchen appliances. I just can't believe I might get to do something like that. I was sure my first cooking gig would be frying burgers at one of the sports stadiums. When my favorite instructor told me her best friend's boss was looking for a corporate chef, I read absolutely everything I could find about this place.

  Tim Stag is a hotshot lawyer. Stone cold. He's never lost a case and managed to land the players associations for the professional hockey, football, and baseball teams here in Pittsburgh. He finished college and law school early, nailed the bar exam, and thinks he needs a corporate chef to help his company stand out. Maybe he doesn't know how much he stands out? His photos online did him no justice. The man is a fox. I realize he's still waiting for me to answer. "I mean, do you have the budget for that sort of project?"

  He waves his hand as if that's irrelevant. Must be nice, I think. He leans past me to grab a bottle of water from the counter and I smell him--some sort of sporty deodorant mixed with the clean smell of nice soap and…something uniquely male. There's a power scent that's 100% Tim Stag. I watch his Adam's apple move as he swallows a sip of the water. "What I don't have, Ms. Peterson, is time. You can work with Donna to start the renovation. The job is yours if you want it."

  "Really? You didn't even really ask me anything. Don't you want to know, I don't know, what my philosophy is? Or if I'm a vegan or something?"

  He raises one dark eyebrow at me, his eyes questioning. "Are you a vegan?"

  I laugh. "You think I'd be shaped like this if I never ate cheese?" I immediately regret drawing his attention to my body, which is thankfully masked in my chef whites. I flush. "No," I quickly correct myself. "I'm definitely an omnivore." I hold my hand out for a shake, saying, "I'd love to join Stag Law. When can I start?"

  I brace myself for the jolt I know is coming when he returns my handshake. I feel the sizzle right through to my core when our skin makes contact, just like I felt when I first walked into his office. I hold his dark gaze and smile, imagining what it will be like to see him every day, lost in a fantasy where I feed him something delectable and he groans with pleasure.

  He frowns, looking around. "Can you start right away? I guess you can't do anything with what's here now?"

  I can't help but laugh, because I cook meals for my family most days in a space half this size. "What time do you want me to serve lunch?"

  He walks me down the hall and leaves me with Donna, who sets me up with a corporate credit card. Two hours later, I'm plating tiny sandwiches with fruit skewers, dishes of hummus with sliced veggies and pita wedges. I've got several carafes of cucumber water scattered around the room just as the first curious employees start poking in their heads. "Help yourself," I tell them.

  Soon I'm chatting with everyone, asking them for their favorite snacks and taking notes about their eating habits, things to consider about their work day. I hit it off with a woman named Juniper, who says she's new here, too. "I'm not quite sure what to make of the boss man," I confide in Juniper, smiling as she takes a hearty portion of the various sandwiches.

  She nods. "I know. He's sort of hard to read. I was offered this position after a phone interview, so I wasn't sure what to expect, but he is assigning me to represent his brother, so he must trust me!"

  I see Donna enter the room and I pat Juniper's arm, which is surprisingly firm. "Hey I gotta go talk to Donna, but I'll talk to you later, ok? Nice biceps by the way."

  Juniper laughs. "I row crew," she tells me. "You should check it out sometime. You could be our coxswain."

  Vowing to google that later, I head off with Donna to make a plan for the renovation, as well my ideas to feed everyone while that's taking place. I tell Donna that I think we should order biodegradable plates and cutlery until we can get a dishwasher set up. She just nods and tells me to do whatever I think is best. How amazing is that? Three hours ago I was just a jobless graduate from the shabby part of Highland Park. Now, I have my very own office. I can hardly believe my luck. I'm 24 years old and the week I finish culinary school, I land my first full-time job with total autonomy and an unlimi
ted budget. I definitely owe my instructor a flower delivery for recommending me!

  My first order of business is to call up my dad--who else would I hire for a construction project? I decide to use the office phone to see if I can surprise my father. When he answers with a chipper, "This is Bob. How can I help you?" I respond with, "Yes, this is Stag Law calling. We're looking for Robert Peterson."

  There's a pause on the line and Dad says, "Alice? Sweetie is that you?"

  I share the great news with my dad. I know I'm talking fast, but I can't help it. I tell him that I got the job (at the top of the salary range for corporate chefs, too) and free reign over the renovation to get their kitchen up to snuff. "We are going to hire you to do the project for us, Dad! Can you come take a look?"

  "Well, Pumpkin, that is fantastic," he says. "You know, we just finished a renovation in that building, too. Some insurance company redid their layout. Why don't I bump my first estimate tomorrow and drive you in to work and take a gander at it?"

  Dad asks some basic questions about the project and jokes that I should just make everyone garlic wings with extra ranch to drip all over their designer suits. "Very funny, Dad. But I can make those for you tonight if you want. We could celebrate, get some growlers from Grist House."

  "Anything you want, Pumpkin. You know, your mother would be so proud of you." His voice cracks a little and I can tell he's tearing up. My mom passed away from breast cancer 8 years ago. Things have been rough for us since then. Medical bills almost crushed us and we lost Mom anyway. I don't know how my dad managed to scrape together tuition for me to go to culinary school. I kept my job waiting tables and went part-time for years until I finally finished.

  I think about my mom's words during our last conversation. She told me to go after my dreams, even if it felt difficult. "I know she'd be proud, Dad, but thanks. I want to get things set up here for tomorrow, but I should be home around 5:30 I think." We hang up, and I get to work stocking the Stag Law break room with snacks and muffins for the morning. I've started stacking all my new equipment in my office, both because there's nowhere else to put it and because I still can't believe it's all mine. I was dancing through the aisles at Restaurant Depot outfitting the basic kitchen, placing my order for spices and bulk produce. Soon, I'll go meet with one of the local farms and set up an account for herbs and eggs. Oh, and dairy.