by Elise Faber
And her heart melted all over again.
“Yeah, Jor. I can do that.”
“Great.” He blew a raspberry, presumably on Carter’s tummy since her nephew giggled loud and shrill. “Unfortunately, for now, dad duties will prevail.”
Her smile was wide. “Enjoy that diaper change.”
“You’re evil.”
She cackled and hung up the phone, thinking she was damned lucky to have Jordan in her life.
Chapter Sixteen
Clay
Two days later, Clay hung up the phone and stood up from his desk. It was Friday evening and late enough that it had already been pitch black outside his office windows for several hours.
Considering he’d entered the building before the sun had risen that morning, he figured it was time to pack it in.
Plus, he was supposed to be meeting his lawyer at a bar outside the city in a little over an hour.
A lawyer in a bar . . . now that was the starting line of a crappy joke.
Still, he’d already canceled on her yesterday—for business reasons, not because he was trying to draw out his marriage to Heather. They had both agreed an annulment was the best option.
No. There was no other option.
They were two exceptionally busy people with businesses that took up every waking moment.
Neither of them should be considering a relationship at this stage in their lives.
But the memory of their night together wouldn’t stay relegated to the back of his mind.
And not just the part where she’d given him three of the best orgasms of his life. What burned just as brightly was the laughter they’d shared, how Heather had teased him, the way they’d worked together—discussing data, arguing its various meanings, teasing conclusions out of each other until they’d functioned as a perfect unit of two.
A portion of Clay liked the idea of being part of a unit, a team, a . . . family.
The rest of him was terrified.
Which was why he was keeping his appointment with Rebecca.
He grabbed his satchel and slung it over his shoulder. Time to stop delaying.
Obviously, marriage was out of the question, but Clay had been thinking hard over the last twenty-four hours and had come up with a way he could still get his fix of Heather.
Business partners.
It was the perfect way to utilize their joint brainpower, to harness their chemistry and put it to use in a mutually beneficial way.
Now he only had to convince Heather—and his cock—of the matter.
He exited the elevator, waved at the security guard in the lobby of his building, then took the stairs down to the basement level, where his car was parked on site.
There were perks to being the boss, and one of those meant he never had to troll through San Francisco’s streets looking for parking.
A few steps later and he was inside the car, the powerful engine purring to life.
Yes, it was cliché to have a nice, sporty car that cost a ridiculous amount of money, but this particular car had been a dream of his father’s, and frankly, it wasn’t like Clay had been forced to buy it. Thirty seconds in the driver’s seat and he’d been sold. His Maserati was sleek, fast, and hugged the curved roads of the North Bay like it was spandex wrapped around a certain celebrity’s ass.
The late hour meant light traffic and a quick drive, so he arrived at the bar Rebecca had chosen almost a half hour early. He circled the block, found a parking spot, and was just about to get out of his car when his phone chimed.
He glanced down at the screen.
Sorry, Steele. I’m going to have to reschedule. One of my junior partners made a major mistake.
“Damn,” he muttered, thinking he could have spared himself the drive. Still, he was already there and parked so figured he might as well go inside.
No problem. How about Sunday?
A buzz.
I’ll make it work.
He tapped his fingers across the screen.
So, since I just got here, any recommendations for food?
Another buzz.
Shit, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole.
He replied.
Who was canceled on yesterday because her ‘asshole’ of a client had his own crisis to deal with? I understand. Don’t sweat it.
Dots appeared beneath his text.
We’ll be assholes together. Have the wings. Sunday 11am.
Clay grinned.
Done.
He pocketed his phone, snagged his satchel—because confidential files—and double-checked his wallet was in his back pocket.
It took approximately two point two seconds for him to regret his decision.
Music blared, and the bar was packed. Which was fine; he could deal with people if he really had to. But the real issue was the bar and dance floor were packed with a completely different crowd—read, college-aged kids— than he was used to.
He had to be older than ninety percent of the people in this bar.
Frowning, because he hadn’t expected a place like this to be Bec’s type, he turned to leave.
Forget this noise, he’d hit the drive-thru on the way home.
But just as he was about to leave, his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out and shook his head at the message.
Don’t panic, pretty boy. Go to the room down the hall. That’s where the old folks hang out.
A chuckle as he decided to go with Bec’s instructions and squeezed down the narrow hallway into the room beyond.
It only took one glance for him to understand why she had recommended this place—wood furniture that was the perfect amount of worn in, a smaller bar, quieter music, and a few round-topped tables. People his age were gathered in little clumps and talking rather than trying to feel each other up on the dance floor. Though, there were a few couples wrapped around one other, swaying in one corner to the melody of a song that the front group would no doubt consider an “oldie.”
The other space was fine, a typical club with kids who were just growing into themselves and their adulthood.
And there was nothing wrong with that, nothing except that it made him feel about a hundred and ten years old.
He hadn’t been that carefree for twenty-two years.
Shaking off those painful memories, he took a step toward the bar, only to halt in his tracks.
Blonde hair that shone like honey in the soft light. A delicately curved jaw he knew each minute detail of. Slim shoulders, narrow hips, and an ass a man wanted to drop to his knees and pay tribute to.
Heather.
Straight out of his dreams.
Or not.
But she was dressed more casually than he’d ever seen her—blue pajamas and silky tank aside. She was propped against the bar, one hand holding her phone up to her ear as she spoke on her cell. She wore dark jeans, heeled boots, and a close-fitting flannel shirt with a tempting line of buttons down the front.
What was it with this woman and buttons?
He needed her to invest in clothing with snaps or better yet, T-shirts. Those were less dangerous for his psyche.
His eyes trailed down to her hips and that gorgeous ass when she turned to signal the bartender, then back up to her face when she rotated to lean one hip on the bar. She’d wrinkled her nose, but her lips were curved up into a smile, and he watched them form the words, “It’s okay.”
A second later, she hung up and tilted forward to pass the bartender some cash, but when it was clear she was going to leave, Clay found himself pushing through the crowd.
He slipped an arm around her waist, bent to whisper in her ear, “I hear the wings are good.”
Then he internally groaned. She was right. He had really horrible lines.
But Heather didn’t comment on the line. Instead, she was already spinning around, extracting herself from his grip in a move that left his wrist in a vulnerable position. “Back the fuck off—Clay?” she asked, incredulous. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Can you—?” He glanced down.
“Oh!” Her fingers opened. “Sorry.” A shrug. “Force of habit.”
Clay wanted to ask her why that particular move was a force of habit and also the names, addresses, and social security numbers of every man she’d used it on, but figured he would try and play it cool.
Frankly, just being this close to her already made it difficult to play it cool, but add in the fact that he hadn’t seen her in two days, and he was barely able to do more than stand there and stare like a thirst-stricken man dying of dehydration in the desert. Just being within a foot of her, and he felt like he’d stumbled onto an oasis.
“Hey,” he said.
Her lips twitched. “Hey.”
And . . . silence.
Heather broke it by slipping her arm through his and tugging him over to a booth. “We’re scintillating conversationalists, aren’t we?”
“The best,” he agreed with a smirk.
She slid onto the bench seat, tugging him down next to her. “So, are you dogging my steps now in my personal life, too?”
“For the record,” he said. “I had a meeting, but she canceled.”
An emotion crossed Heather’s face, here and gone so fast that it was indiscernible. “Well, that’s convenient.”
“A business meeting,” he clarified, maybe not able to see through the many layers of defense she possessed, but also not a complete idiot. “With my lawyer.”
“Oh.” She visibly relaxed. “Not my business.”
“So, wings?” he added, suddenly happier than he’d been all day. “They come highly recommended apparently.”
Heather turned so her back was against the far wall, bending one leg and rotating it sideways so that it lay across the bench seat. “Is this the moment I tell you that you don’t know your wife at all?”
He frowned, though scarily, not because she’d referred to herself as his wife. “What do you mean?”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
“Oh damn, sorry,” he said. “Then not wings. How about—”
She had him going for a second, her expression so perfectly controlled that he nearly missed the twinkle in her blue eyes.
But then her lips curved at the same moment a server set a giant basket of wings down in front of her. “Here you go, Heath. All flats, just the way you like them.”
Clay’s brows drew down. “You—”
She dissolved into laughter. “Your face. Oh my God, your face!”
“Words a man lives to hear?”
Her giggles cut off as she looked at him, one brow raised. “Really?”
Now his mouth was twitching. “You asked for it.”
“You would think that I had said that I was a serial killer for how crestfallen you looked.” She snagged a wing then shoved the basket in his direction. “Plenty of people are vegetarians.”
Which wasn’t the reason he’d been upset.
Her admission had shaken him because he hadn’t wanted to believe he could have missed that big of a detail about her. Not when they’d already eaten more than one meal with each other, not when they’d spent a good amount of time together.
He hadn’t liked thinking that he might not know her at all.
She shoved the basket his way again, and he picked up a wing, grinning as she took a bite and managed to get a smear of sauce on her cheek. “I think I might actually be able to be a vegetarian”—a bite—“well, except for bacon. Bacon is just”—another bite—“too good.”
“And wings,” he added.
Nodding, she finished her piece then dropped the bone into the basket. “Eat up, Steele. You snooze, and I’ll take more than my share.”
“Why do I feel like that was your motto in kindergarten?” He took a bite and nearly moaned because, goddamn, was it a good wing. “Did you used to take all the crayons? Refuse to share your juice box?”
“First,” she said, gesturing with a half-eaten piece of chicken. “That would mean sharing straws, so gross. And second, so what if I didn’t share my Oreos? They were mine, dammit.”
His breath caught. “You’re amazing, Heather O’Keith.”
She froze for a beat before snagging another wing. “You’re just trying to distract me.”
“No,” he said and kissed her, sauce and all.
He barely felt the wing in her hand plunk onto his lap.
But he certainly didn’t give two shits about the stain it left behind.
Chapter Seventeen
Heather
“Ahem.”
Heather didn’t hear the voice, not at first, not when Clay’s lips were on hers and she had all but crawled into his lap as he’d kissed her. His lips, good God, she could write some really dirty poetry about his lips and the way they were somehow both soft yet demanding, hot yet soothing, lush and sexy as sin.
She especially loved when he slid his tongue slowly across hers then nipped at the corner of her mouth.
It gave her goose bumps, every single time.
“Ahem.”
Luckily, Clay wasn’t as lost to his surroundings as she was because while the throat clearing managed to penetrate her pleasure-addled ears, it still wasn’t jarring enough for her to pull her mouth away from his. But Clay, thankfully, had some sense left. He stiffened, gently setting her away from him, and turned to face the interrupter.
“Yes?” he asked coldly and the tone was so different than the one he’d been using with her that it brought Heather back to their initial introduction.
He’d been so standoffish months before, so frosty that the reemergence of that same quality made her realize how long it had truly been since he’d used that imperious voice with her.
“Mind not sticking your tongue down her throat in my bar?”
“That’s none of—”
Heather poked her head out. “It’s my fault, Bobby. But it won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t. I can’t have my sis making all of my customers vomit.” Bobby grinned. “Another basket of wings?”
She nodded. “Yes, please. And two of whatever’s on draft tonight.”
Bobby left, and Heather didn’t waste any time in answering the question she knew was coming. “He’s my half-brother, but on my mom’s side.” She rolled her eyes, wondering why her parents were incapable of using any form of birth control. “I’m sure you know that Jordan is my brother, but he’s technically only a half-sibling as well. We only have the same dad. Our parents banged before his mom married his dad. My mom had me then went on to have a gaggle of other children.”
“I—uh—” He rubbed his forehead. “So that’s a lot.”
“That’s not even the tip of the iceberg. And it’s not just my mom, my dad gets around a lot, too. I’ve got a pack of half-siblings on his side as well, they’re all just much younger than Jordan and I.”
“That must make for some really interesting family reunions.”
She cleared her throat. “It’s some serious Jerry Springer bullshit up in here. Or it would be, if we actually saw each other on a regular basis.”
“Uh—”
Bobby plunked down two beers and another basket of wings. “What’d you do to the poor man, sis?” he asked, smirking as Clay rubbed his forehead.
“Family tree discussion.”
“Ah. That would do it.” He reached across Clay to tug a strand of her hair. “See you around.”
And he was gone, disappearing to who knew where. He wouldn’t call, wouldn’t pop by her office. She knew if she wanted to keep any sort of relationship with Bobby, it was on her to reach out and maintain, and since he didn’t return texts, emails, or phone calls, she made bar visits when she was in town.
One out of five in which he’d make an appearance, but that was probably better for everyone.
Because while she loved Bo
bby, he wasn’t the greatest manager or businessman and frankly, the only reason the money her mother had given him for start-up costs hadn’t been completely blown was because Heather had personally vetted and hired all the staff at the bar.
Luckily, good food, good location, and good service meant the place pretty much ran itself. It also meant that her loveable but flighty half-brother could disappear for days at a time without disturbing the business.
Of course, she got the calls he should be handling, but all in all, Heather would rather have that problem than not knowing where Bobby had flitted off to.
At least the bar kept him close.
Her mother’s three other children? Not so much. Last she’d heard, Trix was in Kathmandu, working at a children’s health clinic. Kevin was in the Army and the only communication she got from him was the occasional email stating that he was alive. And Will? Well, last she’d heard, he’d gotten into MIT but had instead chosen to go to a community college.
When she’d offered to pay his tuition, thinking that the hefty price tag of MIT might have been prohibitive, he’d cut off all communication.
So, there was that.
Her mother, on the other hand, still sent plenty of communications, but they were all either centered on what piece of art she’d recently acquired—she was the curator for a very important museum in New York—or were filled with demands for grandchildren.
No questions about her business, her work, her life. Her mom just wanted her to get married and have babies.
Which was hysterical considering that her mother had five children from five different men and had never bothered to get married.
I’m different from you, pumpkin, she’d said the last time Heather had pointed out the discrepancy. You’re not like me. You need a man in your life for the long haul.
Not like her.
Well, yup, Heather would take that.
Not like her mother sounded like a damned good thing—
Fingers on her cheek made her blink and realize that she’d been staring at the basket of wings instead of eating them. Or talking to Clay. Or, well, doing anything that a normal person might do.
Her stomach twisted as she forced a smile that quickly transformed into indignation. The basket was empty. “Wing thief!”
