by C. C. Koen
“Yes.” Cece answered for her, shrieking the response and dragging it out like a train whistle.
Kat shrugged, glanced left and right, and then picked up the glittery pink tulle bag. Undoing the drawstring, she pulled the take-home folder out and flipped it open. “Uh, yeah, there is.”
“Told ya.” Cece repeated the phrase three times, a very annoying parroting habit, relishing in the fact she’d been right and the adults were wrong.
Maggie snatched the paper out of her sister’s hand and read the reminder. “Fifty? Who are they feeding, an army?”
“What kind you makin,’ Mags? Save me some,” Alex requested, high-fiving Kat and then Cece.
“Oh, I’ll get right on that, while I’m answering phones and inputting your months of travel receipts in the computer. I’ll hop on over to the break room, whip them up, and pop 'em in the microwave just for you.”
“Cool.” Alex’s sarcastic reply and “yummy” added to it while he patted his stomach had not been appreciated.
Instead of taking her wrath out on him, she aimed a glower at her sister. After she handed Cece over to Kat, she ordered, “You two have to do it. Cece knows where the recipe is. She can make them with her eyes closed.”
“Yeah.” Cece bounced up and down, clapping her hands. “Go, Kitty, go.”
No matter how often Maggie heard Cece blurt her aunt’s pet name, she couldn’t resist giggling. Kat hated it and knowing that fact delighted Maggie even more. After the piss-poor day she had, she’d take pleasure wherever she could get it.
“I can’t bake, kid, so I’ll supervise. You do all the work. Deal?”
“Yippee.” Cece wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders, pressed her mouth to Kat’s cheek, and blew raspberries on it.
“Ew, gross.” With the back of her hand, Kat swiped away the slobber and planted one in the crook of Cece’s neck, tickling her in the process.
“I want chocolate with fudge frosting.” Alex didn’t know when to let up.
“Ya betcha. Max, ya want some?” Cece shouted.
Figuring he would’ve been long gone by now, Maggie whipped around to find him resting an arm along the metal-trimmed partition. How long he’d been there she had no idea.
“Yes, sweet pea. Whatever you make.”
“All right, monster, let’s go home. Give your mama another kiss and we need to go.”
After another round of hugs and smooches, including “Max too,” Cece waved both of her hands over Kat’s shoulders while being carried out.
Seated behind her desk, she jabbed at the keyboard, pretending to work. A bad attempt to ignore Rick, who stood in her doorway with his shoulder leaning against the jamb. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.” His requests and her denials fired back and forth for the next ten seconds or so, and the longer it went on, she considered flinging pencils at him from the decorated cup, which had Cece’s photo and “Happy Mother’s Day” on it. She might not be a good shot, but she’d hit something, since his oversized male ego and broad shoulders took up the entire space, blocking the exit.
“What was that about? And don’t say you don’t know.”
“If I tell you, will you go away?”
“Yes.” He agreed, but she wasn’t sure he meant it. Regardless, she had tons to do, and if she didn’t fess up, he’d never leave.
“Fine.”
“Finally,” he huffed, shutting the door and pulling a chair up right next to her. There wasn’t a lot of room in the eight by eight square, and with both of them using their chairs’ armrests, sitting elbow to elbow, arm to arm, it felt even tighter. Of course he didn’t bother to budge even with a good foot or two on the other side of him.
She picked up a piece of paper and waved it back and forth, fanning her face, neck, and chest. “Is it hot in here? Are you hot?” Once she blurted the second question, she realized how it sounded. The jackass laughed at her expense and had the nerve to grab her wrist, redirecting the air onto him.
“I think I am.” He eased his shoulder along hers, inching his hazel eyes, suckable lips, and everything closer.
“Stop that.” She yanked and his grip loosened, giving her a chance to scoot her chair several inches away. His deep, guttural chuckles echoed in the overheated, shrinking box.
“Quit stalling, Maggie. What’s going on?” His demeanor changed from jovial to serious and professional in an instant. All joking aside, he sat back in the chair with his hands clasped, resting them on his buttoned-up suit and flat stomach. “Out with it.”
“Don’t you have a meeting to go to?”
He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the armrests like he might jump out of his seat at any moment. “Knock it off. I’m serious. Why are you so pissed?” His voice got gruffer, if possible, when he asked, “Does this have to do with Antonio?”
“Antonio?” Absolute absurdity bubbled up and over, and her hilarious uproar howled in his face. “You’re kidding.”
“No. You going to tell me there isn’t something going on between you two.”
“Oh that’s rich.” She shoved her chair back, banging it against the wall hard enough to leave a mark, and rounded her desk. When she flung the door open, she thrust her arm toward the reception area. “Get out.”
“No.” He relaxed into his chair again, lips firm and eyes determined. He’d get his way or else. The master negotiator was in his element. He had her on the defensive and at a supreme disadvantage.
“You’re gonna get me fired,” she pleaded, a whiny grovel her next play, and exaggerated with a sniffle. She needed to work on her acting skills, because without an ounce of sympathy, he tilted his head toward the ceiling, rolled his eyes, and released a tired exhale.
For a brief instant, she wished she could be four years old again: get away with stomping her feet, throwing herself on the carpet, and screaming and kicking her way out of this with a temper tantrum. About to turn twenty-seven next month, she figured she couldn’t. All that maneuver would get her would be a straightjacket and a speedy trip to the psych ward.
With his thumbs rapping on his stomach, he stared and waited. He thought he had the advantage since he was bigger and more powerful, or he’d just wait her out and she’d give up. He was right.
She shoved the door closed and plopped into her seat. As she gathered her thoughts, he stretched his hand across the divide, grabbed onto her chair, and wheeled her into the exact position she’d been before. Except now, his arm was laying across hers on the rest, holding her in place. “Talk.” He linked his fingers with hers and squeezed them. His expression turned to tender and supportive. The hardened negotiator long gone, replaced by sincere compassion.
In no way could a woman resist him when he wore such emotions on his face and sleeve, tugging at her heart. Everything that happened earlier vanished, and instead of anger, she melted and got lost in him. He really was gorgeous. His ash brown hair had streaks of golden beige, shimmering black, and a single silvery whisker in a sideburn. His finger-tousled strands—longer and thicker on top, buzzed at the sides, cropped short at the nape—didn’t resemble any executives’ style she saw. No, the sexy, natural cowlick and curl that darted toward his left eye gave his face a hint of boyish charm. His dimpled chin had a five o’clock shadow and extended from his sideburns, along the ridge of his angular jaw and above his upper lip, emphasizing his caveman side and screamed: scrub me, lick me, bite me.
She swore she could still taste his salty, tangy tongue on hers from the too short of a sample a month ago. He’d sucked her in, lips clashing and tongue swapping, gifting her with the best French kiss she experienced in her life. Oh, the twirling, twisting motions he did with that muscle had left her with erotic images for weeks now. Her lusty dreams woke her up in the middle of the night. In order to go back to sleep, a temporary, disappointing relief came about from pleasuring herself. Yet “pleasure” didn’t equate to satisfaction in the least. The only way to achieve that miracle would be to throw of
f his pinstripe suit jacket, rip open his white dress shirt, and slowly loosen the red-and-black paisley tie he had laced in a professional knot at the hollow of his neck. She’d pull and clutch it in small clumps, flicking the tip against her taut nipples as she straddled him. Her core would rub against his erection, a sizable offering he didn’t have a problem providing before.
“Whatever you’re thinking, Maggie, you need to stop right now.” His down in the gutter, Adam’s-apple-bobbing order revved her up even more. It didn’t help that his arm held hers down, producing a whole slew of images: his hairy thighs pressed against her smooth ones, his hands clasped to hers above her head, his naked chest smashed against hers in an embrace so tight, neither of them would be able to breathe.
He lifted their joined hands from the armrest, pressed their forefingers together, and sucked them into his mouth. Seducing, tempting, luring—he massaged them along the crease of her lips and teased the divide.
Her legs scrunched together and hips bobbed—up—down—and as she squirmed her panties dampened more and more. The stiff seam of her pants provided a rigid hardness she craved. His gaze narrowed on her clenched thighs, and their fingers began a descent: over her tingling chin, along her begging neck, across her shirt to a pleading nipple, swirling around and around. His thumb used as leverage, he pinched and pulled the puckered tip, then drew their linked hands down the center of her chest and stomach, catching on the button of her pants and flicking it open. He pulled down the zipper, widening and separating the material. His knuckles tickled her flesh and increased her breathing. With his head bent, watching, heated air blew against her stomach, sending prickles along her skin. Together, their fingers coasted over her sheer peach panties, revealing her shaved mound.
Sensual—no.
Provocative—not even close.
Sizzling—warmer, but still far, far off.
“Oh shit. Fuck. Damn. Uh, sorry.” Matt’s outburst and quick retreat got a similar result from them.
As Rick stormed out of her office, his departing claim promised, “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”
She realized he might be right—this time.
THERE WASN’T ANY REASON TO stick around because Rick’s appointments were finished for the day. Besides a certain freckle-faced, drive-him-insane Irish cook, whose gingersnap cookie, apple blossom, lemon drop, ever-evolving fragrance wouldn’t let him concentrate on anything else but her. He had to clear his head and ran toward the emergency exit. His cantering descent down twenty flights of stairs did nothing to vanquish the demons chasing him.
Arriving home before six thirty, a rarity for him, he stripped away the suit that smelled like Maggie and threw on shorts and a T-shirt. The intent: exercise the hell out of his unresolved lust, mind-blowing confusion, and rid himself of the growing-exponentially-by-the-second affection.
When the doorbell rang an hour later, he jabbed the off button on the treadmill and lumbered his tired ass toward the entry of his brownstone.
“Mr. Stone, delivery for you.” A messenger extended a Kensington Foundation embossed envelope toward him. “Can you sign, sir?”
After initialing the pad, he tossed the package on the sideboard. “Hold on, I need to get you a tip.” He turned around to run upstairs for his wallet.
“I got it.” The next to the last person he wanted to see called out from behind him. Matt shuffled inside once he paid the messenger and leaned against the closed door.
“I’m in the middle of a run. See ya. Don’t come back.” He charged toward his gym, ignoring Matt hot on his tail.
“Too bad. I got a lot to say.”
Resetting the digital reader for the two-mile indicator, Rick picked up where he left off, at a steady pace, but his tightening gut told him otherwise.
Matt whipped off his T-shirt, lay on the bench, and lifted the two-hundred-pound weights on the bar. The massive bulk he hefted didn’t deter his mouth muscles though. “I’d like to say I’m happy you got your head out of your ass and took my advice, but I’d be lying.” A few raises later he added, “You got the wrong message, bud. Maggie isn’t one of your bimbos, and I don’t appreciate you treating her that way.”
“When exhaustion sets in from your ‘I know better than you’ attitude, and the weight crashes and strangles you, don’t look at me for any help after that bullshit remark. Your ass can stay stuck on that bench for all I care, and I might throw on another hundred pounds or two.” He’d amped up the incline to mountain trekking mode; sweat poured down his back and rage rolled over his skin with it.
The muscles in Matt’s arms twitched as his hands clasped and unclasped between his parted knees. Matt shook his head. “How’d you get so fucked up? There’s a difference between hot and heavy one-night stands, and you’ll regret it if you fuck it up, mind-numbing, throw me down, tie me up, do whatever the fuck you please love. In case you haven’t figured it out, Maggie deserves the please-me type. I thought you had that in you, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe you’re just a minute man.”
Rick dove off the treadmill, tackling Matt. Fists swung at jaws, cheeks, and ribs. Rage ripped through him, and each shot landed released his pent-up frustration, which should have empowered him. Instead, it exhausted him. They both collapsed at almost the same time, lying on their backs with their arms stretched across the carpet, neither admitting defeat. They were too old for this shit.
“So what are you gonna do?” Matt’s question stuttered between his prolonged inhales and exhales.
Battered and bone-weary, Rick slung an arm across his sweaty brow, and his stammered reply mimicked Matt’s. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”
“I could’ve told you that.”
“I believe you already did, a few times now.” They chuckled as Rick rolled onto his side and propped his chin in his hand. After several unraveling breaths, he admitted, “How am I supposed to make any sense out of this?”
Matt looked him in the eyes; pissed-off tension disappeared and sympathy replaced it. “You don’t. You go with the flow. One day at a time, buddy. She swings, you duck. She says jump, just do it, don’t bother asking how high. She wants a rabbit pulled out of a hat, don’t stop until you find it and give her everything she wants. Because I’ll tell you, her rewards will be so damn sweet. You won’t be able to crave anybody else. Your body won’t want to see, smell, or taste anyone but her.”
Overwhelmed by that insight, Rick’s mind whirled, and he collapsed onto the carpet. He covered his eyes with his arms, while a sour taste flooded his stomach and bile surged through his throat. “Dammit.”
“I know, buddy. Believe me, I feel your pain.”
“Fuck.”
“Mm hmm. That’s the good part though.”
Unable to contain his laughter, Rick let it roll. “You know that security app you installed on my cell? The panic button I told you I’d never use in a million years.”
“Yep.”
“You better answer when I do.”
Matt’s humored reply came in a split second. “I have your back, bud. Never doubt it.”
With his workout complete and fatigue setting in, Rick consumed a half gallon of water in the time it took him to walk Matt from the gym to the front door. On the way out, Matt glanced at the sideboard. “How’d the fundraiser go?”
“Oh, yeah. Hold on a sec.” Rick grabbed the envelope and tore it open, flashing the tickets. “I got these for us. For the twenty-first. You up for it? Treat Lizbeth and Harley.”
Matt removed The Lion King stubs from his hand, reading them. When he looked up, he asked, “Sure, but there’s five. What are you doin’ with the other one?”
Rick rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, his nerves hopping all over again. He wanted to buy time and think through his plans. Since he brought up the subject, he couldn’t stall and ended up spitting his thoughts out. “I wanna take Cece.”
A gradual smile appeared and Matt waved the tickets. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You’re tea
chable after all.”
“Shut up.” The girls’ surprise got stuffed into the envelope, and he set it on the table, running his thumb along the edge. “I just think she’d like it, that’s all.”
“You realize what day that is, right?”
Rick glanced toward the envelope again, checking his mental calendar. Nothing coming to mind, he asked, “What?”
Matt squeezed Rick’s shoulder and smashed his lips together, repressing a smirk. “Oh, buddy, you are goin’ down the hard way.”
“Come on, knock it off.” He laughed at Matt’s ridiculous prodding and keen ability to point out when he screwed up. “What did I do wrong now?” He considered for a brief second the possibility of groveling, but he’d never give him that advantage. It went against his belief: never let them see you sweat.
Taking a deep breath, Matt burst out on an exhale, “Father’s Day.”
Rick stared and stared, waiting for him to change the answer. Since Mighty Matt couldn’t do that, he took his exhausted ass over to the couch and collapsed instead. Damn. He forgot. Thirteen years since he’d been able to spend that special time with his dad. Four thousand, seven hundred and forty-eight days and counting since they’d gone fishing. Their customary Father’s Day outing.
“Hey, I’m sorry, man. I can be a shit sometimes.” Seated in a chair next to him, Matt flicked his gaze to the bookshelf and TV stand, where photographs of him and his dad were lined up, a remembrance of the good times.
“Just sometimes?” he reminded.
“Yeah, I have an off day every decade or so.”
Rick appreciated the attempt at humor, but he wasn’t in the mood. “You think Maggie will let me take her?” The change of subject might help distract him.
“You’ve got a good excuse at least.”
Not sure what Matt meant, he thought about it while picking up a couple pillows and propping them behind his head. After he got somewhat comfortable on his rock-hard sofa, he asked, “What’s that?”
Matt leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. “It’s Cece’s birthday this weekend, on the thirteenth.” He shrugged, relaxing back into his seat. “You could tell Maggie it’s her gift. What mom would refuse a present for her daughter? Besides, dude, it’s Lion King. Cece would love Simba.”
