He undoes his seatbelt, reaches over, undoes mine, and pulls me over the bench seat and into his lap. I curl into his chest and sob.
In all the time since Dad passed, I’ve never really grieved him. I didn’t have time to. I had to pick up right where he left off; there was no other choice.
“Dad was a caretaker,” I say, when I can speak again. “He thought he was going to live forever, and so did we. He took care of all the business stuff, and the actual hands on work in the orchards. We had a few guys who came in to help, but he directed everything, you know? I’m an only child, which is the only reason he let me learn anything about it. If I’d had a brother, I expect he’d have put his foot down a bit more.”
I pull back and look up at Gibson, so sure he’s going to think less of me, or my Dad, and equally desperate for him not to. “You have to understand, he loved us, but he was an old-fashioned guy. He didn’t think a woman should be working her hands to the bone in the fields, or dealing with business stuff in the office.”
“And yet, somehow, you were positioned to take over from him when he died,” says Gibson, quietly, then tucks my head back under his chin.
I laugh, a wet, broken sound. “Well, I’m determined.”
His chest shakes with laughter, no doubt agreeing with me, but he doesn’t say anything, and I keep going.
“I was also very curious, and I loved my dad. Right from when I was a little girl, I followed him everywhere, all over the farm. He’d send me back to the house, and then there came a time when I didn’t go, and I’d just hide and watch what he was doing. Eventually he caved and let me tag along, figured it was safer than not knowing where I was. I was into everything by that point and he didn’t want me eating fertilizer or whatever, so he kept me close and talked me through everything he was doing. Of course, as I got older, I wanted to do it, too, so he let me. I think he thought I looked at farming as a game, and he was just helping me play.”
“Kids learn through play.” His breath brushes over my hair, his voice deep enough that I can hear it through his chest, where my ear is pressed against his pecs.
“Yes, they do, and I loved to learn. In the end, he realized I was genuinely interested and, to his credit, he took my suggestions for branching out. The merchandise was my idea, but he funded the initial designs. After that, I decided to try designing things myself, using online fulfillment, and that worked out really well, so we stuck with it. I also got us contracts at a few places for Mom’s pies and sweets. Dad was pretty impressed the day I landed the Grey Goose Hotel, near Billings.”
He makes an impressed sound and warmth unfurls in my chest. “You know the Grey Goose?”
“I’ve stayed there,” he says. “I’ve even tried the cherry pie. Your mom is indeed a talented lady.”
“Skilled,” I tell him. “Yes, she’s talented, but Dad used to say talent is what you’re born with and skill is what you learn. She’s an even better baker these days than she was back then, because she studied up on different techniques, practiced, really honed her art, you know? Dad used to say skill was more admirable than talent, because you were born with a talent, but it took study and practice to turn it into a real skill.”
“Your dad sounds like a great guy.”
“He really was. I think he’d have liked you too.” The tears are threatening to overflow again.
“Except for the part where I own and operate a string of sex clubs.”
My laughter is stronger this time, less sad. “Yeah, well, I don’t know. He might have had something to say about you meeting me in one of them, but he used to say business is business, and all businesses have their challenges.”
We sit in silence for a minute before he speaks. “So, your mom didn’t know how to handle any of the office stuff.”
I shake my head. “Nor the practicalities on the farming side. She’s a whiz in the kitchen, but she didn’t have a clue about how the farm operated, or any of the business dealings. I, on the other hand, had been following Dad around for over fifteen years by then, and I knew it all. So it was natural that I just step in.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he wants to. “What?” I ask.
“I’m surprised your mom let you. Like I said, I understand that you were the natural choice, but...how old were you?”
“Seventeen when Dad died. My birthday was a few days later. Mom didn’t even have a driver’s license. I deferred college for a year, thinking I’d stay home and just help her get on her feet with everything, but…”
He tenses. “But...?”
“Well, a few guys came sniffing around, Clive Hansen among them. They all owned farms in the area, and I realized they just wanted to add Cherry Picker to their own spreads. I sat down with Mom and asked her what she wanted to do. She said she didn’t want to sell the farm, but there was no way she could run it herself. She knew her strengths, and so did I. I’d been due to study business at Moyle, and we already knew I had a knack for it. Mom didn’t even know how to balance a budget. She’d never had to learn, and it wasn’t something she was going to pick up in a year, when you added in all the farm stuff on top of that.”
“So you stayed.”
“I stayed.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Staying on the farm?” I pull back and stare up at him. “No. I mean, there have been times when I’ve wondered what might have been, especially when…”
I falter, knowing that this might be crossing a line I didn’t want to cross. Sitting here, in his arms, taking comfort from someone stronger than me for the first time since Dad died, it’s so easy to just let everything spill out, but do I really want to do that?
Am I ready to trust someone that much?
“So the pie contest isn’t just a contest?” he asks.
I blink at the change in subject, then realize he’s doing it deliberately. Coward that I am, I go with it, and I’m grateful for the reprieve.
“No. Bunny Hughes is a rich lady in need of a hobby.” I’m instantly ashamed of myself for saying it. “No, wait. That’s not fair of me. If a business can’t stand a little competition, it shouldn’t be in business.”
“But?”
I slump against his chest, inhaling his cologne, something woodsy, and under it all, the clean sharp scent of sweat and warm, strong male.
“A few of the cafes who used to take our products started taking hers instead. She’s a hobbyist. She doesn’t have to make money from her work, so she can afford to undercut us on price. Cherry Picker, on the other hand…”
“A business needs to turn a profit,” he agrees, and I relax, just a little.
God, it’s been so long since I’ve been able to talk business with anyone. I’d forgotten the satisfaction of it.
“Do those cafes affect your bottom line that badly?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“No, they’re not the problem. The problem is the bigger venues, like the Grey Goose, who are watching the outcome of the pie contest.”
There’s a moment’s silence, and then he gets it. “Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“No one wants to advertize the state’s second best pie.”
His words echo my earlier thoughts so precisely I wonder if he’s psychic, and then I realize that no, he’s just a businessman.
“I’m guessing losing those contracts would seriously affect your bottom line,” he continues.
I nod. “Mostly my ability to keep up repayments on the loan I just took out to facilitate the production of said pie. Without that, it would be tight but doable. As it is, though…”
“Ouch.” His arms tighten around me. “For what it’s worth, I can understand why you’re stressed.”
The words are like a balm to my soul, soothing the scared, aching places that still long for my dad to tell me he understands and that everything will be okay.
“You know the worst thing?” I find myself whispering, my darkest fear leaving my mouth. “The farm was debt-free when Dad died
, and now we might lose it because I decided to expand right when Bunny decided to get into semi-professional baking.”
He laughs, and I pull back and glare at him. He just grins at me, totally unrepentant. “You are aware you can’t control everything, right? I mean, you’re a farmer, you should know this.”
My glare intensifies, as does his grin. “Is that the attitude that made you your billions?” I snarl at him.
“Of course not. But even I’ve come up against things I can’t control. What matters is how you handle it.”
I grunt at him and go to push off his lap, but he holds me there with irritating, and panty-moistening, ease.
“Hey, there’s something I want to know.”
“What?” I snap.
“What your lips taste like with cherry juice on them.”
My eyes snap to his. He turns his head and spits a pit out the window, then pulls me closer. I have no idea when he swiped the cherry, but then he kisses me, the sweet flavor explodes across my tongue, and I don’t care. The scent fills the cab of the truck, and I can’t help but moan. A moment later, he sips at my lips like they’re fine wine, groaning as I flick the tip of my tongue over his lips. Then his hand fists in my hair and I melt against him as he takes control of my mouth, kissing me so deeply and so thoroughly that by the time he lets me go, I’m dazed and floating.
He swipes his thumb over my lips, and smiles. “Feeling better?”
“Hmmm,” I hum, gazing at him through a haze of desire.
“Now that’s what I call a cherry good time.”
My laughter snaps me out of my lust-filled daze, but it doesn’t erase the relaxed sensation in my limbs, or the smile on my lips as I settle back into the driver’s seat and buckle up.
“One more thing,” he says, as I pull onto the road.
I shoot him a wary glance. “Try to consider that I’m driving, and I don’t want to run poor Bessie into a tree before you make another god awful pun.”
His grin is positively wicked, and I can see him planning out any number of scenarios which would cause exactly that, even in the face of my warning scowl. When he does speak, though, I’m taken completely by surprised.
“I was going to ask if you’d go out with me for dinner tonight.”
It’s so unexpected, I say yes before I’ve really thought about it. I mean, he actually asked. I guess deep down I thought he wasn’t serious earlier, at the Hansen place, that he was just backing me up with Darrell. Then I open my mouth to spill out all the reasons why I shouldn’t, and he holds up a hand.
“Too late. No takesies-backsies.”
I roll my eyes. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to know a good thing when I see it, and to know how to treat that thing right.”
I try to ignore the delighted flush of warmth inside me, and the tingling in my nipples which is echoed between my legs. “I’m just a thing, then?” I ask, with mock severity.
“Oh no, McKenna,” he murmurs. “You’re the best thing.”
It’s only his reflexes, grabbing at the wheel as we leave the road, that save us from taking out two trees and a very surprised groundhog.
Chapter 9
Gibson, old enough to know a good thing when he sees it, and a bad one…
McKenna looks beautiful in anything, and nothing, but I know the restaurant I’m planning to take her to would frown on her showing up naked. What bothers me about that is not her nudity per se, but all the men who’d see her naked. So I take her shopping.
Most women would be happy to be flown to another state by private jet for dinner, preceded by shopping, but it takes some negotiation to get her into the boutique I have in mind.
“This place looks like you need to be on the Forbes Rich List to even go inside.”
“Lucky I’m on the Forbes Rich List, eh?”
She glares at me, and my cock twitches. She’s clearly uncomfortable, though, so I take pity on her.
“Darling, I don’t care what you wear. You can go to L’Arrabiatta in jeans if you like. I just thought you might like to dress up.”
Her eyes widen. “L’Arrabiatta? The Italian place with more stars than Hollywood Boulevard? I can’t go there in jeans!”
I never thought I’d hear McKenna wail about clothes, but she’s pretty close to it. I’m impressed she’s even heard of L’Arrabiatta, but I’m very careful not to let that show. I know she’s still warming up to the idea of my wealth, which makes a nice change for me, and I don’t want to ruin it now, so I just shrug. “They’ll let you in no matter what you wear. I guarantee it.”
They will if they know what’s good for them, anyway.
She scowls, and it’s the prettiest pout I’ve ever seen, then turns around and stomps into the shop. “I’m with him,” she snarls as one of the attendants heads towards her with a haughty expression.
The woman looks over at me, and her eyes widen comically before the professional mask slips into place. “Of course. Would you like some champagne?”
“I need something,” she mutters, glaring at racks of dresses worth more than Cherry Picker Farm makes in a month. Finally she turns around and skewers the attendant with a look. “I need help.”
I hide my smirk, unsuccessfully if the look on McKenna’s face is anything to go by, as the attendant sweeps her off to a changing room and then bustles back and forth, selecting dresses for her to try on.
I sit there, sipping champagne, relaxed in the knowledge that I’m finally able to give McKenna something material. I want my woman to have a real, physical reminder that I’m in her life, beyond the dim and distant possibility that Clive Hansen actually learned his lesson and won’t haggle with her again. I suggest to the attendant that some underwear fit for the occasion would also be a good idea, even though I’m pretty sure McKenna will eviscerate me for it later.
I can’t say I’m not looking forward to spending the rest of the evening with her, knowing that every single thing she’s wearing was bought and paid for by me.
Yes, it’s a ridiculously primitive notion, but I don’t care. I’m a primitive guy, and she already knows that. I want to take care of her, treat her the way she should be treated, make all her problems go away…
Just like that, an idea hits me, and it’s so simple that I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. She has a business problem. I can find a business solution. After all, it’s what I do. And my idea means she can’t possibly be mad at me because I’m not going to solve the problem for her. I’m just going to make it easier for her to solve it on her own. Supporting her. Like a good man should.
Okay, I’m not a good man. Under certain circumstances, I’m very, very bad. But in this, for McKenna, I can be good.
I pull out my cell phone and send a quick text. And then because I’m not always a good man, I send another one. No one messes with my woman and gets away with it.
I put my phone away just as McKenna emerges from the changing room, looking like a devil’s wet dream in bronze silk, shot through with red and gold. It’s a good thing my champagne glass is empty because I would have choked otherwise. My cock slams against my zipper, rock hard in an instant, demanding I drag her back into the dressing room and bury myself inside her until we’ve both come so hard we’re seeing stars. I know I can’t do that, but I’m powerless to do anything else, so I just sit and stare.
“Was the silk and lace panty set really necessary?” says McKenna, with dangerously narrowed eyes, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to embarrass myself in one of the most upscale clothing boutiques in the city.
Silk and lace panties? Holy shit.
“Sir? Is everything okay?” The attendant sounds nervous. Probably worried I’m about to have a heart attack right here in the store, but I can’t look at her. I only have eyes for McKenna, gift-wrapped for me in a dress which follows every line of her stunningly curved body.
“Yes,” I rasp, then clear my throat. “It’s perfect. We’ll take everything. And take the tags off.
She’s wearing it out of here.”
McKenna’s eyes widen. The attendant shoos her back into the dressing room as my beautiful girl looks over her shoulder, almost frantic. “Gibson! I saw the tags! You can’t! The shoes alone are—”
Her words are cut off by the changing room door, and I hand my card to another attendant who’s hovering with more champagne. I don’t need more alcohol. I just need McKenna, next to me, where I can touch her wherever I want, and drive myself crazy with curiosity about what she’s wearing underneath that spectacular dress.
We arrive at L’Arrabiatta and the look I send the valet as he goes to help McKenna out of the car is enough to send him scurrying. I toss him my keys and take her hand. She looks up at me with a look I’ve never seen on her face before. Then she stands, only a few inches shorter than me in her three inch heels, and tilts her head back to look me in the eye.
“You like me,” she says, her tone, like her expression, a combination of amusement, confusion, and sheer wonder.
I raise her hand to my lips, turning it at the last moment to press an open-mouthed kiss to the centre of her palm. “I’ve always liked you, McKenna. I like you very, very much.”
“Not cherry much?” she teases as we head for the entrance.
“I like your cherry too,” I whisper as we go inside, and grip her arm tighter, smirking, as she stumbles.
“Welcome to L’Arrabiatta, Mr. Hall,” says the maitre d’. It’s not surprising he recognizes me, even given my wealth. I’m one of the original investors in the restaurant. I’ve been eating here since before it opened.
“Harry,” I greet him. “This is McKenna Brooks.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Brooks,” says Harry with a warm smile which McKenna returns full force. “Please follow me.”
He leads us across the floor to my favorite table, partially hidden in an alcove, shielded from the rest of the restaurant’s prying eyes. Most of the diners wouldn’t want to sit here. It’s too private. They come to L’Arrabiatta to see and be seen. I come to enjoy excellent food in excellent company, not be ogled like a rare species in a zoo.
Eat Your Heart Out: A Romance Charity Anthology Page 33
