Red Hot Rival

by Cat Carmine

  Thankfully, he seems unfazed by the fact that I’m practically panting into the phone.

  “Well, we’ve had a ton of great feedback already,” he says. “The bloggers loved it, and they’ve been sharing stuff about the event and about the fundraiser all over social media. I think we’re up to something like ten million impressions now? And best of all, ticket sales are actually twenty-five percent higher than they historically are at this point in the lottery.”

  “Tomas, that’s great!” With the way I’ve been letting Luke distract me lately, I’ve almost forgotten that this is a fundraiser. For a good cause. Kids with cancer, and all that. It feels good to know that Luke and I are helping to contribute to the hospital’s success.

  “I knew I was smart bringing you on,” Tomas teases. “And it’s been a pleasure working with Luke as well — I hope you’ve been enjoying it too?”

  “Hmm, yes, he’s ... pleasant enough.” That’s the understatement of the century.

  Tomas chuckles lightly. “Yes, he’s certainly pleasant. I was a bit concerned when I first realized that he’d be replacing Trent this year, but I’d say it’s worked out rather well.”

  “Yes, it has,” I say again, equally noncommittally.

  “I guess it pays to have the designer of the company on board,” Tomas muses. “In fact, he’s even invited all the bloggers and designers out to his workshop this weekend to view the collection in person and start picking out pieces for their designs.”

  I sit up straight in my chair, digging my toes into the carpet.

  “He has?”

  “Oh, yes,” Tomas says quickly. “That’s the other reason I was calling. Since Luke is having everyone out to his workshop, we wondered if Bailey Living had anything similar? A place where we could tour, do some social media, get people hashtagging the lottery?”

  My mind races. “We ... we have a factory in Detroit.”

  “Hmm,” Tomas says politely. “I suppose that won’t work quite as well as Luke’s workshop. Did you know he has an old grain warehouse on his property that he had converted into a custom workshop?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.” I twirl the phone cord around my finger. God dammit. I like Luke — more than I want to admit, probably — but of course, here he is again, trying to get publicity for Loft & Barn at the expense of Bailey Living. We’re supposed to be equal sponsors in this, and now here he is, trying to undercut me. I wonder again if he’s just been kissing me to distract me.

  I touch my lips absently as I decide: if he thinks I’m going to let him get away with that, he has another thought coming.

  “Tomas, I would love to be able to come out to the workshop this weekend too. If I can’t bring them to our own facility, at least I can be on hand to answer questions and to help offer suggestions from our own collection.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Bree! I’ll just give Luke a call, but I’m sure it won’t be an issue.”

  “Actually, why don’t you let me chat with him? I have to talk to him about a few other things anyway, so I’ll run it by him then.”

  “Sure,” Tomas agrees amicably. “That’s one less thing on my plate. I won’t be able to attend this weekend, but I trust you two will have no trouble managing without me?”

  “We’ll try our best,” I smile. “I’m looking forward to it already.”

  I hang up the phone and then pace around my office.

  Luke. Once again, it feels like he’s trying to push me out. Trying to claim a bigger role in the fundraiser. I tap my teeth as I stare out the window. The workshop tour isn’t a big deal on its own, but it’s not like Loft & Barn needs the additional publicity either. They’re not the ones with sales in the toilet. They’re not the ones facing layoffs, downsizing. Luke doesn’t have a Rich, telling him at every turn that he’s the wrong person for the job.

  Well, Luke’s going to see what happens when you try to keep a girl down. If he thinks he’s getting his own little advertising platform on Saturday, he’s in for a big surprise.

  18

  Bree

  Saturday morning I’m up early — far earlier than I need to be, really, considering the thing at Luke’s doesn’t even start until after lunch. I spend the morning pacing around the brownstone, alternating between feeling excited about seeing Luke, pissed at him for trying to hog the spotlight, and smug about besting him at his own game.

  Despite what I told Tomas, I never did call Luke to let him know that I’m coming today. And God, am I ever looking forward to seeing the expression on his face when he sees me.

  I tell myself that’s the reason I’m putting so much effort into my appearance. I pull my long red hair back into a french braid and spend a good hour pacing through Dad’s house, scouring all my racks of clothing and looking for the perfect outfit. It has to be a dress — I’m just not a pants girl — but I don’t want anything too formal. I finally land on an older sundress, one of the first really nice pieces I ever made. It’s dark blue, almost black, with a tiny pink and purple floral pattern, and a scalloped hem that I was once seriously proud of.

  I studiously ignore the little voice that wonders if Luke will like it. After all, what Luke thinks doesn’t matter. Obviously.

  I have Clifford drive me out to Luke’s place, even though I feel tremendously guilty about making him give up his Saturday afternoon. Luke’s real home and workshop — different from the penthouse I went to the night we met — is quite a ways outside the city and since I’m not familiar with the area, Clifford had offered to take me.

  It’s a beautiful afternoon — sunny, without a cloud in the sky. Clifford and I spend most of the ride talking about his infant granddaughter who, if her doting grandfather is to be believed, can already recite the alphabet backwards, play a Bach concerto on her little baby piano, and dance a mighty fine two-step.

  Sometimes talking to him about her makes me sad that my own dad never got to experience the joys of being a grandfather, but today it just reminds me of how much he doted on me when I was little. He was the one who encouraged me to get into fashion — the one who saw that my passion for playing dress-up might have some real roots. After Gram taught me to sew, he was the one who took me to fabric stores to spend my allowance on swaths of silk and chenille, waiting patiently while I agonized between two virtually identical shades of teal.

  Daddies love their daughters, and mine was no exception. Talking to Clifford reminds me how lucky I was to have him as a father.

  I’m only sorry I missed so much of the last years of his life. Since I’d moved to Paris, Bounce kept me so busy that I’d only been back to Chicago a handful of times. Dad had flown out to see me once, but he wasn’t a big fan of flying to begin with and I think the transatlantic flight was just too much for him.

  We’d never had a falling out or anything, and we still talked on the phone every couple of weeks, but our relationship had definitely begun to feel the strain of the long distance between us.

  He was so involved in his work that I’d convinced myself it was okay. But the truth is, I was the one who was engrossed in my job. I was the one who wanted to give everything to Bounce, to make a name for myself. I was the one who’d chosen work over my relationship with him.

  Which is why it’s so important for me to put my all into running Bailey Living now, I think, as I stare out the town car window at the country fields rolling by. If my father loved anything as much or more than me, it was his company. I owe it to him to do a good job.

  I just wish I knew whether I could trust Rich — obviously my Dad trusted him, and in some ways, he does seem to have the best interests of the company in mind. But his approach just feels so wrong to me. Laying people off? Outsourcing to third-world countries? It just doesn’t seem like that’s what Dad would want to do.

  But he also wouldn’t want the company to go bankrupt, a little voice whispers.

  And that’s the real sticking point — if the company goes under in a year or two, what will I have achieved? I
’ll have given up everything and still failed.

  “We’re almost there,” Clifford announces, cutting through my thoughts.

  “Great.”

  We’re really outside of Chicago now. In fact, I don’t recognize anything — we seem to be on a main road but we’re surrounded by farms and open fields. I had no idea Luke lived out in cow country. Then again, I think, picturing the plaid flannel shirt he showed up to the launch party wearing, maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised about that.

  Clifford checks the GPS and starts to slow the car. I don’t see any houses around, but he turns confidently into what appears to be a small side road. We drive for probably a mile or so before coming to a stop in front of a house. That’s when I realize it wasn’t a road at all but a driveway. Luke’s driveway.

  I stay seated in the back of the town car for a moment, taking in the property. The house — mansion? — is enormous. It looks like it was once a farmhouse but it’s now been restored and tricked out so that it looks like something you’d see in a magazine. There’s a wrap-around porch, and gabled windows line the second floor. A huge flaming purple wisteria tree sits in the front yard, completing the picture-perfect effect.

  There are already quite a few cars parked along the massive driveway and outside the multi-car garage, so I assume most people have already arrived. I take a deep breath, suddenly a bit nervous.

  “Everything okay, Miss?”

  “Yes, Clifford, thank you.” I force myself to smile. “There’s no need to wait for me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll take a cab home.” I already feel bad enough making him drive me out here on a Saturday that the last thing I want is for him to spend the rest of the day waiting for me, but Clifford looks horrified at my idea.

  “Miss, we’re very far from the city. It will be very difficult to get a cab. Please promise you’ll call.”

  I try to protest, but Clifford is insistent, and I finally agree that I’ll call him when I’m ready to go home. I climb out and linger while I watch the cream-colored car disappear down the long driveway.

  Okay, Bree, enough stalling.

  There’s another building off to the side that’s much plainer-looking than the rest of the property, and I assume that’s Luke’s workshop. I start walking towards it when I hear laughter from behind the house. I detour back that way, cutting through the neatly manicured yard and trying to tell myself I have every right to be here.

  I come around the corner of the house and immediately see everyone. They’re gathered on a stone patio area, holding little Mason jars of something that looks like iced tea. Luke is, of course, holding court in the middle.

  “By now you’ve all been assigned your houses and rooms, and of course, depending on the property you’ll be working on, you’ll have different design challenges. Those of you working on the penthouse won’t be going for the same look as those of you who will be up at the chalet. Luckily, I think Loft & Barn offers universally stylish pieces that will fit well in any of your designs.”

  There’s a polite chuckle from the group and one loud shrill laugh. I look around for the source of the voice and spot her right away. Of course. Kelsey. I have to smile — I see she hasn’t given up her enthusiasm for Luke.

  I stand and watch as Luke finishes the rest of his speech, and then invites the group to join him in the workshop. It isn’t until they’re starting to make their way over that he spots me.

  I’m expecting him to be pissed, or at least a little bit annoyed, but instead his face breaks into an enormous grin.

  And then I’m grinning back. And ignoring the way my heart starts to flutter when I do.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Luke says, falling into step beside me as we make our way towards the workshop.

  “Tomas told me about your little plan and I just had to crash,” I say slyly.

  He sighs. “This whole thing was Trent’s idea,” he says. “He ran into Tomas at the gym, believe it or not, and they concocted this whole thing. Trust me, there are better things I’d rather be doing with my Saturday.”

  “Like what?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  Luke’s gaze travels the length of my body and I have to force myself to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  “Oh, I can think of a few things,” he murmurs.

  “Well, I’d be grocery shopping,” I say, realizing even as the words are coming out of my mouth how ridiculous they sound. “There just never seems to be enough time for that during the week, don’t you find? Of course, then when you go on Saturday, the grocery store is completely packed because everyone and their mother had the same idea. Maybe I should start doing my groceries on, I don’t know, Tuesdays at eleven in the morning or something.”

  Luke is looking at me like I’ve completely lost my marbles, which, to be fair, he may not be wrong about.

  I’m saved from any further humiliation by our arrival at the workshop. Luke slips past the crowd and pushes the big barn doors open, stepping inside. I let everyone else flow in ahead of me, so it takes a minute before I can fully grasp the scope of what I’m seeing.

  The space is massive — half the size of a football field, at least. It’s filled with huge industrial looking tools. Saws that could take your arm off and things that I can’t even recognize. But most of all, it’s filled with Luke’s work. Half-finished pieces near the front with the power tools, and then finished pieces towards the back. The place looks more like a museum than a workshop, except for the fact that the polished concrete floors are covered in a layer of sawdust.

  Everyone seems as awestruck as I am, because a hush has settled over the group as we all fan out, checking everything out. There are beautiful farmhouse tables and delicate little wishbone chairs and mighty armoires that look big enough to accommodate even my substantial wardrobe.

  Luke is saying something to the group about picking out their favorite pieces, but I can barely pay attention to what he’s saying.

  All I can think about is how amazing his work is.

  It’s no wonder that Loft & Barn is so successful. All along I’ve been telling myself that all Bailey Living has to do is get our name out there, improve our marketing a little — but the truth is, our stuff can’t compete with this. No amount of advertising or hashtags is going to make our furniture look like this. Our style has a certain niche, and we have dedicated customers, but Luke’s work is that perfect cross between trendy and classic that, if you can hit it just right, can get you legions and legions of fans.

  I know, because that’s exactly what I’ve tried to do with Bounce.

  I watch Luke in front of the group, talking and laughing and easily fielding questions. I had meant to be here to insert myself and promote Bailey Living whenever I could, but now I feel silly. Luke is in his element here, doing what he loves, but I feel like an imposter. So instead I hang back and just try to soak up his enthusiasm.

  Hell, maybe I can even learn something.

  We spend a good three hours out in the workshop, and I’m glad I wore comfortable flats. Luke takes us through the entire collection, as well as some of the older pieces that he’s hung on to for sentimental reasons, and the new pieces that he’s working on. The bloggers all ask polite and interesting question, and I can see their own passion coming through as well. Every once in a while, Luke catches my eye and smiles. I smile back automatically, even though inside, part of me feels like crying a little bit. I try to help where I can, especially once the group starts placing requests for their designs, and I even manage to sell a few people on some pieces from the Bailey Living collection, but it’s clear this event is about Luke. He deserves it.

  When it’s finally time to wrap things up, Luke looks tired but happy. I, on the other hand, am ready to climb into bed with a pint of ice cream so that I can reevaluate all my life’s decisions.

  I stay until everyone else leaves, so that I won’t look too eager to get out of there, but as
soon as the last car pulls out of the driveway, I yank my phone out of my purse to call Clifford.

  Before I can press the phone to my ear, Luke wraps his hand around my wrist. Despite my carousel of emotions, his touch still manages to send a shiver through my whole body. I look at up at him — his hard stubbled jaw, his soft brown eyes, his sexy grin — and my whole body seems to go slack. Which is why I’m not at all prepared for what he says next.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  19

  Luke

  I wasn’t planning to ask Bree to stay for dinner. In fact, when I saw her show up that afternoon, all I was thinking — besides how hot she looked in that little sundress — was that I had better be on my best behavior this afternoon. She was dangerous for me, and being around her made me feel like an alcoholic trying to casually hang out in a bar.

  I’d surprised myself by actually enjoying the afternoon. I was skeptical when Trent first suggested it, but I was in my element talking about our collection, and it felt good to get back to the area where I felt confident, after months of muddling through Trent’s CEO duties.

  Bree’s arrival had been the cherry on the sundae. And when I saw her still lingering there after everyone else had gone, I suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?” The words just pop out of my mouth, and her expression is enough to make me want to retract my offer. “I mean, you don’t have to. But I have steaks I could grill. Some salad, I think. A couple bottles of red wine.” I run my hands through my hair nervously. Since when do I get nervous around women?

  She’s still hesitating and I’m mentally kicking myself for being such a chump. But then her face breaks into a smile. It’s warm and sweet and sexy and it makes me want to take her bottom lip between my teeth and tug.

  “I’d love to,” she says finally. “Thanks, Luke.”