by Cat Carmine
“I’m so glad you feel that way,” he says. “We just love that energy, and assuming you and Trent are both willing, we really want to get you two out there, engaging with people.”
I bite my lip. Trent? I don’t want to sound stupid for asking, in case I’m supposed to know who that is, but Tomas must read my confusion.
“You know Trent Whittaker, of course? From Loft & Barn?”
“Oh.” My heart instantly sinks. When Rich had mentioned we secured this spot on the fundraiser, he had definitely made it sound like we had ousted Loft & Barn from the position. Apparently that wasn’t the case.
“Of course,” I say, trying to sound smooth. “I haven’t met him yet, but I know who he is. I just didn’t realize they were still involved in the project.”
Tomas smiles. “Oh yes. They’ve been with us for years. Huge supporters.” He pauses. “That isn’t a problem, is it?”
“Of course not!” I assure him. And it’s not, I suppose. Though it does mean I’m going to have to work twice as hard to get the Bailey name out there.
There’s a light rap at the boardroom door, and then a petite blonde woman sticks her head in. “Mr. Whittaker is here, Tomas.”
“Thank you, April. Send him in please.”
Tomas stands and strides over to the door while I smooth down my hair.
I’m not exactly nervous about meeting Trent, but he is the competition after all. And now that news has broken about my dad’s passing, I’m sure he’ll be doubly curious about me.
And then…
I feel him before I see him. It’s a sense, more than anything, a change in the air pressure and a quickening of my pulse. I have to actually swivel the leather chair I’m sitting in to see him properly but I know even before I turn all the way around that it’s him.
Luke.
Also known as the man who’s been haunting my thoughts for the last week.
No.
I just …
No.
This can’t be. His name’s Luke. Not Trent. And he’s not a Whittaker. He has no affiliation with Loft & Barn.
Except for the fact that his fucking penthouse was basically a Loft & Barn showroom.
I manage to tune in to the conversation happening across the room from me.
“We were expecting Trent,” Tomas is saying, a puzzled expression on his face.
Luke runs his hand through his thick dark hair, a gesture that only serves to remind me of the way I pulled on that hair a few nights ago, drawing him closer to my pussy while he went down on me.
Jesus, Bree. Simmer the fuck down.
Luke is giving Tomas an easy grin. “I’m so sorry, I thought someone had let you know. Trent is on paternity leave right now. So you’re stuck with me.”
“And you are…?” Tomas is clearly as flustered as I feel right now.
“Luke,” he says smoothly. “Luke Whittaker.”
Tomas reddens, and he hastily holds out his hand to shake Luke’s. “Oh, God, of course. I’m so sorry, Luke. I should have recognized you from your pictures. My mind just went on a little holiday there.”
“No worries,” Luke says. His eyes dart across the room and land straight on me and he does a double take. I force myself to meet his gaze even though inside, a part of me is having a tiny little freak-out.
Okay, maybe not so tiny.
Tomas steps between us. “Do you two know each other?”
Luke and I both automatically shake our heads. Good. At least we’re on the same page about that.
Tomas introduces us and then, with only the barest moment of hesitation, Luke holds out his hand for me to shake. I know I have no choice, so I stand up from my chair and reach out to clasp his hand. As soon as my fingers brush against his palm, my heart skips a beat. Just one, but it’s enough for me to know that this? This is bad.
Judging by Luke’s expression, he’s a hundred per cent on board with that assessment.
Tomas, on the other hand, is all smiles as he gestures for both of us to sit. We do, though I can’t help but notice that Luke conveniently chooses a seat on the opposite side of the table from me. I don’t even let myself look at him, instead focusing on Tomas, who’s standing at the front of the room.
“Thank you again for being here, both of you.” His voice is genuinely warm, and I remind myself that whatever happened between Luke and I, we’re both here for the same reason, which is to support a worthy charity. And thank God we won’t actually have to spend much time together — I’d looked at how this campaign has been run historically, and other than donating all the furniture, it didn’t seem like we’d need to do much other than pose for a couple of photographs and maybe go to a kick-off party.
I can handle that, and I’m sure Luke can handle it too. We’re adults, after all.
Or at least, we’ve certainly got up to some very adult activities.
No. I slam the thought out of my mind as soon as it enters. I refuse to let myself think about Luke’s hands on my body, about his tongue flicking across my clit, about his cock slamming in and out of me …
Jesus. Is it hot in here?
I shake my head and Luke gives me a funny look, so I raise my eyebrows and then pointedly turn my attention to Tomas, who’s still talking about how grateful he is to have both of us here.
“Since you’re both new to the fundraiser, perhaps I’ll start by giving you a little rundown, as well as fill you in on some exciting new plans we have for this year.”
New plans? I sit up straighter in my seat, refusing to look across the table at Luke.
“Trinity Central Hospital is, as you most likely know, Chicago’s largest hospital, and that makes us — The Friends of Trinity Central Hospital — the largest fundraising board. Eight years ago, we began a fundraiser called Homes for Hearts Lottery, in which we raffle off beautiful new homes across Chicago and the surrounding area. The homes are typically new builds, generously donated by the builders or condo developers. They are our platinum sponsors and of course receive the bulk of our promotional opportunities.
“Tickets for the lottery sell for two hundred dollars apiece, and, as you can imagine, are quite popular. In our first year, we raised over two million dollars, and we’ve managed to increase that amount year over year. Last year, we achieved our record of raising 14 million dollars. All that money is funneled directly back into the hospital and specifically goes to support our research initiatives, as well as patient care and support for afflicted families. I don’t think it’s overstating it to say that the Homes for Hearts Lottery is the most important thing the Friends undertake each year.”
Tomas’s words give me goosebumps. I knew this was a great fundraiser, but listening to him talk makes me even more grateful to be involved. Even if it means sharing the spotlight with Luke.
“Now, Luke,” he continues. “As you’ll no doubt know, for the past six years, Loft & Barn has graciously provided the furniture for these homes. This has been a huge boon for us, because, as we well know, a beautifully furnished home gives the appearance of more value, and our ticket sales noticeably improved once you came on.
“But this year, we thought that, since we have both of you, we have a really unique opportunity to do something fun with this. If you both agree, of course,” he adds hastily.
As he flicks on the slide projector, I feel a wave of nervousness. What am I going to be asked to agree to? I glance at Luke but he’s staring hard at the screen, chewing on his bottom lip and tapping one knuckle softly against the conference table.
“Since we have both of you with us this year,” Tomas says again, “We thought this would be a perfect time to expand our social media outreach and audience engagement strategies. We’ve reached out to a number of design bloggers and online and television design personalities, and what we’d like to do is feature a decorating challenge for each of the homes in the lottery. Each contestant would be assigned a room to style and decorate as they choose — using your furnishings, of course. You two would
serve as our hosts, so to speak. Or perhaps ‘judges’ would be a better word.”
My stomach sinks even further. But thankfully Luke is the one to ask the question.
“What would that entail from us?”
“Well…” Tomas clicks his laser pointer on and off nervously. “It would be a bit more work than usual. But we think it would really benefit the lottery. We think millennials are a huge untapped market — they’re priced out of the housing market but they have expendable income, and they’re hungry for opportunities to make a difference. We really think that with some marketing and engagement efforts that are more targeted to them, we can boost our ticket sales by at least forty percent.”
“But from us …” I prod, glancing at Luke. He still won’t look at me. “What exactly would you need us to do?”
“Well, there’d be a open house for each home, so six events there. A judging for the final competition. And, I suppose, we’d hope that you would be willing to join us for a few welcome and showcase events for our participating bloggers and design personalities.”
I’m doing the math in my head — that’s at least nine events, plus the actual lottery kick-off and whatever else we would normally need to do. I glance at Luke, and this time I actually catch him looking back at me. I raise my eyebrows, and he scowls, turning back to Tomas.
“It sounds like a great idea,” he says smoothly. “I, for one, would be happy to help.”
“Oh, I would too,” I pipe up. Does he actually think I’ll drop out just because he’s signed on? If so, he’s got another thought coming.
Tomas claps his hands together. “That’s wonderful. I’m so excited — I think this is going to be a really special event. We have lots up our sleeve, I promise you.”
I don’t doubt that.
“I’ll have my office get in touch with both of yours as soon as we have detailed itineraries worked up,” he says. “Of course, we’ll work with your schedulers to make sure we’re all coordinated.”
“Of course,” I murmur.
Tomas walks us through a few more slides, telling us about the six homes in this year’s lottery. The properties are beautiful — a penthouse on Michigan avenue, a brownstone similar to Dad’s in the Gold Coast region, a lake home out in Fox Lake, a McMansion in the Clarendon Hills area, and a couple other properties. At the moment, the homes are bare-bones, but soon the design bloggers and television personalities will waltz in and, using furniture from Loft & Barn and Bailey Living, will turn these empty abodes into cozy and stylish homes.
I have to admit it’s a great idea, and it’ll be amazing publicity for Bailey Living. It isn’t the kind of thing Dad would have ever gotten involved in, but I think Tomas is right — there’s a whole untapped millennial market out there, and this could be a great way for us to reach them.
Even with the prospect of working with Luke looming in front of me, I can’t help but get a bit excited as Tomas talks. The whole thing actually sounds like … fun.
Minus the surly man sitting across the table from me, of course.
By the time Tomas wraps up his presentations, I’m feeling ramped up about the whole thing, and I’m anxious to get back to the office to start pouring over our catalog, to see what pieces might work in the different spaces.
Tomas thanks us both again for coming, and Luke and I get up to leave. We both try to push through the conference room door at the same time and end up bumping shoulders. He glares but stands back to let me pass. I don’t know why he’s so angry with me — after all, I’m in the exact same position. I didn’t tell him who I was, but he didn’t tell me who he was either. And he was the one who’d insisted we not talk about work.
And, I remind myself, he was also the one who insulted my family’s business. If anything, I should be the one pissed at him.
And I am. Of course.
I definitely am.
I make a beeline for the elevators, hoping I can get there before he does and I won’t have to ride downstairs with him, but just as I’m about to hit the call button I feel his hand on my arm.
I whip around and suddenly we’re face to face. Inches apart. Barely a breath between us.
His eyes are as hard as steel.
“We have to talk, Bree.”
9
Luke
“We have to talk, Bree.”
She glares up at me, her green eyes flashing. Her copper lips are pursed and she juts out her chin defiantly.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. We really don’t.”
“We do. How could you not tell me you were Bree Bailey?” I hadn’t really meant to ask the question but it suddenly seems like the only one that matters.
But her eyes just darken. “You didn’t tell me you were Luke Whittaker,” she points out. “And besides, it was your bright idea not to talk about work. Remember that? No pointless small talk, I think you said? Well, a little pointless small talk would have saved us a lot of trouble, don’t you think?”
She’s not wrong, I’ll give her that. But I won’t give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her. I already find it hard to peel my eyes away from her face, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that either.
Instead I fold my arms across my chest.
“You need to drop out of the fundraiser.”
She laughs. A loud, barking, very unladylike laugh that drives me nuts at the same time that it sends a rush of blood down below my belt.
“And why do I need to drop out? If you feel so strongly about it, then you should drop out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Loft & Barn has been doing this fundraiser for years.”
“Then maybe its time for some new blood. Fresh perspective.”
“Please.” I scoff at the suggestion. “Fresh perspective? Bailey Living? Do those two things even belong in the same sentence?”
The look on her face instantly fills me with guilt, and I curse myself for going too far. But still — I’m pissed, and right now, anything that will mean I don’t have to spend the next six weeks glued to her side for this stupid fundraiser is worth it in my books.
But Bree just puts her hands on her hips. Her curvy wide hips, the same ones I slammed into, the ones I want to see bucking on top of me, the ones …
Fuck, man. Shake it off.
“What’s your Instagram name, Luke?” she asks, drawing me out of my reverie.
“My what?”
“Instagram. Are you on Snapchat?”
“Now you’re just making up words.”
She laughs again. “This is why Bailey Living is a better partner for this fundraiser. This is my world, Luke. I live in this world with Bounce, and I can do it here too. Maybe you better take a look in the mirror before you start accusing other people of being out of touch.”
God, she has a smart mouth. Why did I think she was so charming the other day? Must have been all the scotch, or the compounded stress of running the business on my own. Maybe I was suffering from some sort of temporary hallucination. That’s the only reasonable explanation.
Bree still seems to be waiting for an answer, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction, so instead I just roll my eyes and fold my arms, as if to say that this conversation exhausts me. Bree just laughs and hits the call button for the elevator.
She has her back to me now and I take one soft step towards her. I’m close enough to her now that I can smell her shampoo — it smells like honey, I think, or something equally sweet and homey. I breathe it in as quietly as I can, so she won’t think I’m some sort of weirdo hair sniffer.
The elevator doors chime open and she steps in. She holds her arm, stopping the door from closing, so that I can enter behind her. She doesn’t look back at me and I don’t know if she does it out of practiced politeness or because she wants to make sure I get in the elevator with her.
Once we’re inside, the doors seems to take an agonizingly long amount of time to close. Every inch is another heartbeat. I can hear Br
ee breathing next to me, and I can see the way her chest rises and falls under the silky pink top she’s wearing. I’d always heard redheads shouldn’t wear pink but everything about this girl seems to send traditional rules sailing out the window.
Finally, the elevator doors close and the car gives a soft lurch as it starts to move.
I’m on her in a second. I push her up against the mirrored wall and run my hands through her long hair, making that sweet honey smell waft up all around me. I breathe it in, as much of it as I can, and I press my lips against hers.
She seems startled for a second, and she brings her hands to my chest in surprise. I almost think she’s going to push me away, but then she gives in to what’s happening and kisses me back just as ferociously.
I fist my hand in her hair and pull her face closer to mine, devouring her mouth with mine, thrusting my tongue past her soft lips.
Her hands are roaming over my chest and my cock surges inside my jeans. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life as much as I want her in this moment.
My right hand trails down the length of her body, while my other one stays twisted in her hair. I let my palm skim over her large soft breast, over her stomach, across those gorgeous hips.
She gasps, a puff of air against my lips, as I hike up her skirt. I slip my hand between her thighs and push aside the fabric of her panties. I’m desperate to feel her heat on my fingers again, to have just a taste of her sweetness.
My fingers find her slit, pushing through her lips to find her swollen nub. She’s soaked already, and my fingers slide through her silky heat like a knife through butter. I yank her head back so that she’s looking at me, and I watch her face as I find her entrance and push two fingers deep inside her.
Her lips part in surprise, but her eyes go almost foggy with lust and she bucks her hips against my hand. I grin as she whimpers, and then my grin widens when she grabs my wrist and pushes my hand closer to her. She’s almost riding my fingers now and I can feel her walls start to pulse around me.
I realize she might actually come like this and I glance at the elevator display. Just ten floors to go. Thank God this is the slowest elevator in the whole city of Chicago.
