Betting on Bailey (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing For Love Book 1)
Page 10
“I met a girl,” I answer her question. “Then I said something stupid and chased her away.”
“What’d you say, Danny?” she asks.
Even though my mother is unlikely to judge me, I’m not going to tell her that I’m sharing women with Sebastian. It takes me a minute to formulate my thoughts. I fumble my way out of bed and into the kitchen on autopilot, seeking coffee.
“We are trying to buy a company and Cyrus thought I should keep a low profile.” I grimace at the memory of what a dick I’d been last night. “So I told her to keep our encounter out of the tabloids. Not surprisingly, she walked out on me.” My head feels like there are a bunch of dwarfs with very tiny hammers inside my brain, digging for gold. Aspirin. There has to be aspirin somewhere in my apartment.
She hisses in anger. “Daniel Stuart Hartman,” she snaps at me. “I thought your father and I raised you better than this. Is this how you talk to a woman?”
“No mother.” I feel about ten, waiting to hear that I was grounded. “I’m sorry.”
She sniffs. “Yes, well, there’s not much point apologizing to me, Danny. What is wrong with you? Should you be listening to Cyrus for dating advice? Cyrus, who has not had a single meaningful relationship in his life?”
Okay, she has a valid point. I tell her that, and she snorts. “Of course I do,” she says. “So Cyrus told you that the family firm had been around for hundreds of years, and your only role was to pass it down safely to the next generation, and you listened to him and scared away some poor woman?”
“More or less,” I concede.
“Yes, well, what next generation?” she asks sharply.
Oh, there’s not enough aspirin in the world for this particular conversation. “Go bother Susan if you are going to start badgering me for grandchildren,” I tell her. Thanks to the coffee, my wits are slowly returning to me. “I’m not interested in kids.”
“Yes, honey,” she says. “I know that. This isn’t the grandkids lecture, this is a different lecture. Cyrus is miserable and alone, and the company is his entire life only because there’s nothing else to fill it. If you start listening to him, you’ll end up in the same place.”
“Trust me,” I rub my throbbing forehead, “I already feel like shit. The yelling isn’t necessary. Did you call for some specific reason, by the way, or do you have some kind of maternal voodoo instinct that tells you when I screw up so you can lecture me?”
She chuckles. “I called to remind you that we are having drinks this afternoon with the President of NYU to discuss the endowment the Hartman Foundation has been planning to make to the school.”
“Shit, I forgot.” I’m dropping balls all over the place. “What time was that?” As I speak, a glimmering of an idea occurs to me. I need Bailey to forgive me, and in order for that to happen, I need something good. Something big and bold.
“Four. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” I promise her. I hang up and gulp back the coffee. I have some groveling to do, and I’m prepared for it. Better still, I have a plan.
18
First we eat, then we do everything else.
M. F. K. Fisher
Sebastian:
As soon as I wake up Saturday morning, I text Daniel. ‘Lunch at one?’ I ask, sending him the address of a Hell’s Kitchen eatery that Helen’s told me about. I’m going to tackle two birds with one stone. Taste the cooking of a talented chef that Helen thinks we should hire, and chew Daniel out at the same time. Perfect.
His reply comes instantaneously. ‘See you there.’
So he’s up. Knowing Daniel, I’m assuming he slept like shit, and he’s already formulating a plan to make amends. That’s good.
Last night, in the cab, I realized something. I like Bailey, and I find her intriguing. Some of the things she’s done - living in Siberia for a year, doing field research in the jungles of Indonesia, trekking through North Africa in search of stories of the Silk Road - absolutely amaze me. She’s in her late twenties or in her early thirties, but she’s already crammed in so much travel, so much living and adventure into her life.
If my cock could talk, I’d be hearing an earful about the case of blue balls I was left with after Daniel decided to be an idiot. Even now, thinking about the taste of her, the way her soft creamy thighs had fallen open as I’d pleasured her with my mouth…
Damn it. We better fix this. Because I definitely want to see Bailey Moore again.
* * *
“This is an out of the way spot,” Daniel looks up as I walk in.
“My kitchen staff cannot stop talking about this place,” I tell him as I pull up a chair. “They tend to be a jaded bunch. If they are excited, I want to know why.”
The place is small and tired-looking. The wooden tables are weathered and worn, and each one has a dented metal lamp on it. Faded beaded curtains hang on the wall, completing the Arabian Nights theme. My lips twitch. The restaurant is called Aladdin's Lamp, and the decorator has not been subtle. It’s very kitschy.
“You fucked up last night.” My words are direct. Daniel’s my best friend, and I don’t need to tread tentatively with him.
“I’m quite aware,” he grimaces. “My mother’s already yelled at me.”
I grin at that. “Has she?” Daniel’s mom is quite the firecracker.
“Oh yes.” He shakes his head. “She told me I was brought up better.”
“Yeah.” I’m going to say more, but the pretty waitress behind the bar comes over to us at that point, her notepad at the ready. “Hello, my name is Piper,” she says. “Can I get you something to drink?”
We order beers, and she walks away. When she’s out of earshot, I look at him. “She’s right,” I tell him. “I’m concerned for you.”
“Why?” His voice is tight with tension. With anyone else, I might take that as a warning sign to tread lightly, but my concern for Daniel outweighs my caution.
“Because…” I think through my words, trying to find the best way of expressing my worries. “The version of you that I met in that greasy diner thirteen years ago would have never even thought that Bailey might go to the press. What the fuck is wrong with you, Daniel? She’s an assistant professor at NYU. She’s as ambitious in her career as you are in yours and as I am in mine. You think she doesn’t know how to be careful on keeping her sex life private?”
He hunches his shoulders. “I am a dick.”
“A little bit, yes.”
“A lot.” He lifts his head up. “The moment I said those words last night, I was horrified. Not just because Bailey was hurt, and not just because you were shocked. I did something that I swore I’d never do.” He sighs. “When my father wanted to marry my mother, my grandfather threatened to cut him off and never speak to him again. My mother was not from the right social set.” He makes a face. “My grandfather told my dad that the future of the family company rested on him, and his focus should be on that.”
“Ah.” It all begins to make sense.
“Yeah.” Daniel’s not done. “When I was sixteen, I liked a girl who was definitely from the wrong side of the tracks.” He grins in memory. “She had a nose ring, and a pierced tongue, and most interesting to a teenage boy, nipple rings. I was nervous about bringing her home. I was afraid my parents would sneer at her.”
I can’t imagine Daniel’s parents reacting that way. They certainly hadn’t sneered at me when Daniel had invited me to lunch. They’d welcomed me warmly and we’d talked about food, and one week later, I had a job as an assistant to one of New York’s most creative chefs.
“That was when my dad told me the story of bringing my mother to meet his parents for the first time. My grandparents more or less told him to fuck her out of his system and move on to a more appropriate woman.”
I wince. “I’m assuming that your dad didn’t listen?”
Daniel shakes his head. “Nope. Both my parents are far too stubborn.” Then his smile fades. “Last night, I didn’t follow my father’s exam
“Stop.” There’s a hopelessness in his eyes that I’m unused to seeing. Daniel always has a solution, he always has a plan. The waitress is approaching us to take our order, but I wave her away, signaling to her to give us another minute. “You fucked up. So fix it.”
He raises his eyes toward my face, and my worry eases when I see the steel in his eyes. He’s not giving up. “Oh, I am,” he responds. “I have a plan in motion. Now, onto other topics. How’s Ben working out at Seb New York?”
I groan as I think about the unpredictable mess that is my sous-chef. Ben is a walking personification of every angry chef stereotype. He yells at the line cooks. He curses and pouts and stomps around, and the worst thing is that most of the time, he’s responsible for the kitchen crisis he’s on a rant about. “I think he might have a drinking problem.”
Daniel frowns. “That’s not good.”
I shake my head. “Tell me about it. Last night, I had to intervene before every single one of our staff walked out en masse. He messed up the tickets, he screamed at the wait staff, and he almost caused a fucking riot. I had to send him home and take over. I was almost going to bail on you.”
“I thought you looked exhausted when you walked in. Fire him.”
“Come on, Daniel.”
“Nope, listen to me.” His voice is firm. “I run into shit like this all the time. Some people are a cancer. They ruin everything around them. You want to help Ben - do it outside your restaurant. Don’t poison everyone else by exposing them to his antics.”
“I’ll think about it,” I concede reluctantly. I hear the wisdom of his words, but I don’t like what he’s suggesting. Ben’s from the South too, and I feel a sense of kinship with him. The memories of my early struggles in New York intrude when I’m tempted to give up on Ben. Daniel had given me a helping hand when I needed it - shouldn’t I do the same?
The waitress is back to take our orders and I try to decide if I should order the halibut or the lamb. The menu is a disjointed mess. The owner of this place might have lucked out with an exceptional chef, but they are missing the mark in so many other ways. I wonder how long the place will last.
Daniel rolls his eyes at my hesitation, but doesn’t push it. He turns to the waitress and orders the lamb, and I promptly get the halibut. I want to see what these guys can do.
We chat about other things as we eat our lunch. As my crew has promised, the food is really exceptional. “Is this place going to make it?” Daniel asks me.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. The decor and the menu need an overhaul. The pricing is all wrong as well. I give it six months. A year, if they get lucky.”
“Pity,” he lifts his fork up to his mouth. “The food’s amazing.”
“Why do you think I’m here?” I grin. “I’m going to hire the chef when this place goes under, Daniel. Whoever he is, he’s too good to leave in a place like this.” I thank the waitress, who has just topped up our water. She’s looking upset, for some reason. I wonder why.
19
In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Bailey:
Lying in bed after Sebastian dropped me off, I contemplated quitting the pool team. Then I’d grown angry at myself for thinking about running away. Why should I? I’m not the one who is in the wrong here. That’s definitely Daniel.
Sebastian isn’t much better. Seriously, I want to roll my eyes when I think about Juliette confronting me in the bathroom on Wednesday and telling me to stay away from him. So much drama. It’s like I’m in high school all over again, and she’s warning me to stay away from the cute boy that she likes.
The whole thing is ridiculous. I have work to do. I’ve had to spend all of Saturday at school, catching up on grading and my own research. I don’t have time for a moody billionaire and a brilliant chef.
* * *
Sunday morning, I wake up early. I’ve been putting off getting the rest of my stuff from Trevor’s place, and I’m determined to get it done today. It’s not like Trevor can say anything to ruin my mood — Daniel already did that pretty thoroughly Friday night.
I’ve texted Trevor to let him know I’ll be by to grab my things, but because I’m in a spiteful mood, I make it a point to use my key to let myself into his apartment. This won’t be a long visit - I just have my Kitchen Aid mixer, a few clothes and some jewelry to pack.
When I walk in, Trevor’s in the living room eating a bowl of cereal in his boxers and nothing else. He almost drops his spoon in surprise when he sees me. “You can’t just waltz in here, Bailey,” he says angrily. “You should have knocked.”
“Is that what you think?” I’m spoiling for a fight; I’ve been spoiling for one since Friday night. “I’m pretty sure that charging me for rent for the next ninety days means that I still live here.” I smile pleasantly at him. “That’s how my lawyer interpreted it for me. Perhaps you need to have a chat with your own attorney?”
I’d called Wendy on my way over to confirm the legality of what I was doing. She’d sighed over the phone and she’d tried to dissuade me from being petty, but in the end, she’d given up and told me that yes, I could indeed just walk in. I can see Wendy’s point - I should just let this go. However, I’m still furious that Trevor charged me rent. The slimy dirt bag. It would be one thing if he needed the money, but Trevor is rich enough to easily cover the cost of the apartment. He wants to mess with me? Bring it on. The new Bailey, the one who won a game of pool on Wednesday night, isn’t going to roll over and play dead.
Trevor splutters angrily. I ignore him and go to the spare bedroom, where I store all my clothes. They are still there, untouched. Good. I pull out my two battered suitcases from their spot at the bottom of the closet. I took these suitcases on my one year trip to Siberia. I know that everything I own will fit in them.
Trevor stands in the doorway, watching me pack. “Do you want some coffee?” he asks finally.
“Sure.” I follow him, since I need to go to the kitchen anyway for my stand mixer. My anger is dying down. As much as I like this newfound righteous indignation of mine, it’s tiring to be annoyed all the time. I’m not tempestuous enough. Gabby’s better at being fiery.
In the kitchen, he leans against the counter and surveys me with a sly smirk on his face while I unplug the mixer from the power strip. “How’ve you been?” he asks. I’m a little puzzled about his grin, until it dawns on me that he expects me to be attracted to his almost nakedness.
Oh. Oh.
Poor Trevor. He doesn’t know that Daniel and Sebastian fill my thoughts and haunt my dreams. I only have to close my eyes, and I can feel the scratch of the pool table fabric against my buttocks. The rasp of Sebastian’s stubble against my inner thighs. The feeling of Daniel’s fingers in my most forbidden hole.
Damn it. I’m some kind of sex-crazed fiend. Worse than that, though I don’t really like either of them very much right at the moment, if they told me to spread my legs, I would be seriously tempted. I’d probably obey.
“I’ve been fine,” I answer shortly. “I joined a pool league.”
He snorts in derision. “Oh Bailey, that’s just pathetic. If you want to get back together, just say so.”
“I don’t want to get back together,” I say evenly, holding onto my temper with an effort. Guys. They always think it’s about them. “But you were a shitty, shitty teacher, and you made me think I was hopeless.” I meet his gaze squarely. “And I’m not.”
He just shakes his head. “Whatever, Bailey,” he says condescendingly. “This is what you new age chicks called empowerment, right?” He makes air-quotes as he says empowerment, and I want to punch him.
As furious with Daniel as I am, neither he nor Sebastian ever dismissed me this way. Instead, they were interested in me. They’d never once made me feel that I wasn’t important.
I consider it a win that I don’t smash Trevor’s stupid ugly vase on my way out. I’m tempted, trust me. I’m seriously tempted.
* * *
Monday morning, I’m at work, snowed under by a pile of essays, when there’s a knock at the open office door. I look up, expecting some undergrad who has come to argue about his grade, but instead, it’s Steve Ashworth, the head of the Department of Anthropology. Uncharacteristically, he has a beaming smile on his face.
“Bailey,” he booms. “Good job, great job. I can’t even begin to tell you how delighted I am. How delighted we all are.”
I blink at him, confused. “What’s going on?”
He frowns at me, entering my office. “You don’t know?”
I clear some paperwork off a chair for him to sit down. “I promise you, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”
“The endowment, of course,” he exclaims. Then he looks at my expression. “Hang on, you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes, I have been saying that,” I agree blandly. “What exactly are we celebrating?”
Sameer, alerted by the noise, appears in the doorway. It’s a party at Bailey’s, everyone. Bring your own coffee. “What’s going on, Steve?” he asks.
Steve’s grin stretches from ear to ear. “Our Bailey here has friends in high places. You’ve heard of the Hartman Foundation?”
“Yeah,” Sameer says. “They’re sponsoring Maria Rivera’s trip to Siberia.”
“Oh, did that get approved? Good for Maria,” I say automatically, then I register Steve’s words. Hartman Foundation. Daniel Hartman. How did I not connect the dots? And what has Daniel done that has Steve so pleased?
“Right. Well, they were going to fund an endowment to the university,” Steve says. “Of course, I didn’t think twice about it. Most of these grants go to the business school or the engineering school.”
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