Bad Love (Modern Romance Book 2)

by Piper Lawson

  As far as my grandmother’s concerned, he’s a line item providing occasional support. Not a full-time workhorse.

  Somewhere deep down, I suspect Monty’s right. It’s not a permanent solution.

  But telling my mother or grandmother I haven’t been doing what they think I have isn’t an option.

  Not because they’d chew me out. No. Their nuanced disapproval would be far worse than anything they’d say. What they wouldn’t understand is it’s in their best interests. This company needs the right kind of leadership.

  My entire family has built castles out of sand, but mine never stick. I can make a video or a campaign, but I’m not built for the kind of day-in-day-out responsibility that it takes to run a company or even a department.

  That’s why after college, modeling was a beautiful escape. A chance to see the world and find my place in it. It was hard fucking work, long days and demanding brands and arrogant photographers.

  But the jobs have a start and an end, and you get to fly to incredible locations and experience things most people only dream of.

  You can’t do that forever though, and as the gigs slowed down, I returned to New York. Which was when I agreed to take on the role with Hunter’s Cross.

  Where I’m currently kicking ass at selling beer, I remind myself as I see the entire cast and crew of the ad packing up ahead of schedule.

  An exotic-looking dark-haired woman dashes down the hall after me. "That was inspired, Hunter."

  "Thanks." I hold the elevator door for her—it shut on my hand on the way to the basement for poker last week and doesn't seem to have been fixed since—and try to remember her name from the call sheet. "Maria, right?"

  She nods, smiling. "I've done a lot of commercials, and things are so scripted. I love how you roll with it.”

  "It's the only way to be."

  The doors open at the plush lobby, and as we go to step out, I feel her warm hand on my arm.

  "Hey. What're you doing right now? We could grab a drink. Hunter’s Cross or something else." She laughs. The glint in her dark eyes tells me she's interested in more than a drink.

  It wasn't in my plans for the day, but it's way better than calling Monty to talk about Deacon.

  Before I can answer, a woman's voice at the concierge desk has me looking over.

  Red hair. Black pencil skirt fitted to a curvy ass.

  My gaze drags down her shapely legs, and…

  Yup. Flat shoes.

  I can’t decide whether to groan or curse.

  Never knew I was an ankle guy. But as the concierge points her toward the elevator and she starts this way, I’m forced to admit my supposed salvation comes in an attractive, if unorthodox, package.

  Kendall flicks a cursory glance my way before doing a double take. She pulls up so fast her computer bag hits her in the ass. "Hunter."

  "Kendall.” A hit of satisfaction works through me that she’s dropped the “Mister.” “You’re the last person I expected to see today."

  “Likewise.”

  I look between the women. "This is Maria."

  The women check each other out. Kendall offers a simple, “Hi,” while Maria's hello is cooler.

  I turn to Maria. "Give me a few minutes? You can start without me."

  She shoots Kendall a pointed look before heading to the bar.

  Kendall’s tongue darts out to wet her lips as she follows the other woman’s departure, and my gaze lingers on the curve of that mouth.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask when she turns back.

  Kendall adjusts the computer bag over her shoulder with a fleeting grimace. "I'm setting up for a client event tonight."

  "You have other clients?" I ask, mockingly shocked.

  Kendall blinks. "You think I was just sitting at my desk waiting for you to walk in the other day?"

  I cock my head. "Kinda."

  "I have lots of clients. I'm oversubscribed at the moment. Which is a good problem to have," she rushes, as if realizing she shouldn't be telling me.

  I shove my hands in my pockets, studying her. “So, why’re you helping me?”

  “Daisy made it worth my while.”

  “Dammit. I thought it was my charm and good looks.” She rolls her eyes, and it’s as unexpected as it is cute. I run a rough hand through my damp hair. “So, what’s your event tonight? Sex therapist convention? Dominatrixes Anonymous?”

  This time I get a full smile, and I feel as though I should document it. She looks even younger and fresher, and I might have to spend more time provoking her because the curve of her lips is really fucking pretty.

  "It’s a counseling client. But we had a bunch of last-minute signups and I'm not sure how we're going to make it work."

  I walk Kendall to the elevator and watch her chew on her lip. "You shouldn't carry that yourself." I wedge a finger between the strap and her shoulder before she can protest. "It's heavy."

  "I'm strong."

  "I wasn't questioning your strength. It's basic comparative economics." She raises a brow. "I'm stronger. It makes more sense for me to carry it."

  "Comparative economics," Kendall prompts, ignoring my offer to take the bag.

  “That’s all I learned in four years of economics classes. One concept.”

  “You’re marketing director at Hunter’s Cross, one of the premier family-owned breweries in the country. I suspect you know a lot."

  "You've been looking me up?" I murmur, pleased.

  There's an express elevator, but I hit the button on the slower public bank.

  Her chin lifts. "I need to know where my clients are coming from, and you're not the most forthcoming."

  I spread my hands. "I'm an open book."

  "All it takes is a drink?" Kendall's gaze flicks pointedly toward the bar.

  The elevator opens, and I’m surprised to find myself following her onto it.

  “If you need more space for your event," I say before she can protest me going with her, "you can use the ballroom. It’s paid until five. We were shooting a commercial and finished early."

  "Seriously?" Her eyes widen in surprise and something I haven’t seen from her yet. Hope. Eagerness.

  I like that she wants something from me other than the sales numbers on Nellie’s dumb-ass Rocket II. "It's yours."

  Two men come on after us. I hit the button for the floor in question and stand next to her.

  From the intent way she’s studying the ornate panel of buttons, there’s something on her mind. "If you finished three hours early,” she says at last, “it seems you're comparatively good at a few things."

  I lean in to keep our voices low. “Careful, your other clients might get jealous.”

  The elevator stops for more people. I step back to let them on, and my hip brushes hers.

  “What, no comeback?” I tease lightly.

  She sucks in a breath but doesn’t move. “No. It sounds like the marketing director of Hunter’s Cross saved my ass today. So, thank you.”

  The elevator continues, slow and jerky, stopping at floors on its ascent.

  On an impulse I’m not sure of, I blurt, “I’m not the marketing director at Hunter’s Cross.”

  When it’s just us, she turns back to me fully, her brows pulling together. “What do you mean?”

  “I do advertising. Social. Product development. Someone else does the logistics.” Her gaze searches mine as though she’s not sure why I told her. That makes two of us. For some fucking reason, I can’t stop now. This gilded elevator is my confessional, and she’s my priest. “My family doesn’t know. I’ve been keeping it from them. And now I just told you.”

  Her expression softens.

  I’m not sure what I expect her to say, but it’s not, “I’ve been told I have a very trustworthy face.”

  I half laugh. “Must be it.”

  The elevator draws to a slow stop, and she turns toward the doors—and me. We both realize we’re inches apart, and I can smell her body wash again.


  Some kind of flowers and herbs with—judging by my reaction—a dash of crack.

  I clear my throat. "Anyway. I hope you can set aside our obvious chemistry to help me sell vibrators."

  “Right.” Kendall nods quickly, dragging my attention to all that red hair spilling over her shoulders. My fingers itch. “We need to meet about that."

  "You have recommendations for me in less than a week?"

  "I had recommendations in forty-eight hours. It's my job, Hunter. I'm good, and I'm fast."

  Jesus. Those words drop me right out of the hotel and into some limbo dimension where it's me and her and that mouth telling me how good and fast she is while I wrap that gorgeous hair around my hand and find out firsthand if those freckles extend to other parts of her body.

  I love women who aren't afraid to admit they're awesome. Kendall moves from impressing me to turning me on so quickly it's hard to keep up.

  "I look forward to it,” I murmur, my voice lower than it was a minute ago. Whatever expression is on my face has her eyes flashing and lips parting as the elevator doors open.

  This is business, I remind myself. I know I can win this bet, but the last thing I should be doing is distracting the woman who’s going to take care of it for me.

  Of the ten thousand women I need to please, Kendall Sullivan isn’t one of them.

  Besides. With my luck, she’ll fall for me. Starry-eyed, cock-struck.

  Because the things I’d do to every inch of her body—from those sexy ankles to those small breasts to her full lips—would ruin her for anyone else.

  Kendall steps out of the elevator but trips, the computer bag slingshotting forward and throwing her off balance. Her notebook slips out and lands on the floor. She's picking it up when the elevator doors close. I move quickly, my body colliding with hers.

  With a strangled noise, she falls into the hallway, and I land on top of her, bracing just in time to avoid crushing her.

  Kendall stares up from under me. "What the hell?"

  “Nineteen-twenties elevator," I rasp. “Good for transporting prohibition brews and flappers faster than stairs. Less good for modern requirements. You okay?”

  She looks as if she's trying to decide if I'm full of shit, at least until I hold up the notebook. “Takes more than an elevator to knock me down.”

  The steel edge to her voice has me curious what other shit life has thrown at her. But then Kendall reaches for the notebook, our fingers meeting on the crumpled cover over the “LIVE YOUR DREAMS.”

  Her body wash seeps into my brain again, and suddenly all I want is to drop my face to her neck to get more of it. Maybe brush my lips along her collarbone to see if she's as soft as she looks.

  “Hunter?” she whispers, her wide-eyed gaze inches from mine.

  My voice is rough. “Yeah.”

  “You can get up now.”

  I shift back, my knees still straddling her hips as I glance down at the notebook. “You’re saying ‘living your dreams’ doesn’t include me on top of you in a hotel hallway?”

  The breathy laugh and flushed cheeks have my abs flexing. “It’s not on my list, no.”

  I let go of the notebook, and she scrambles out from underneath me. “Wait. You have a list?”

  “Of course. Technically it’s a list of adventures, not dreams.”

  “And what’s on this list?”

  Kendall swallows as she straightens in front of me. “The usual. Salsa class. Origami. Taxidermy.”

  My eyes bug out of my head. “Taxidermy?!”

  “Animals are beautiful. It’s a way of preserving them for education, like in museums,” she says, defensive.

  God, this woman’s like no one I’ve ever met.

  It's habit, an impulse that slips past my guard, that has me saying, "Give me your number."

  "For work?"

  Maybe the air is dry up here, because my throat has become a desert. “Because I want it.”

  Her eyes warm on mine, then flick past my shoulder to the elevator.

  Reminding me, whether on purpose or not, that another woman's waiting for me at the bar.

  I have zero interest in that drink. I have a great deal of interest in Kendall.

  I can’t explain why, but I want to talk to her. Ask why she likes those dumb notebooks. If the gold cross peeking out from under the neckline of her blouse has anything to do with why she sweats when she talks about vibrators or if there’s some other reason.

  With a long, unreadable look, she takes my phone and punches something into it.

  The satisfaction that roars through me is out of line. She's working for me. She would've given me her number anyway.

  But this way, it feels as if I won it.

  “Good luck with your event,” I tell her, riding a wave of cockiness.

  I turn away as I type a few words into a text window and hit Send.

  Hearing nothing, I stop. Pivot. “Did you give me a fake number?” I call down the hall.

  Even at ten paces, I see her indignant brows rise as she shoves hair out of her face. “That’s my office line.”

  I blink. “An office line? Attached to what, a rotary phone?”

  “It forwards the voicemails after hours. So, you can’t text it, but if you leave me a message, I will get back to you.”

  I rub a hand over my face. “That’s cold.”

  Her eyes spark as the bell dings and the elevator doors open behind me. “I like to keep my work and personal lives separate. I’ll see you Monday, Hunter.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  As I walk back onto the elevator, I glance back to see her watching me with an expression that looks a hell of a lot like the mix of desire and confusion I'm dealing with.

  I'm still thinking about it when I notice a single sheet of lined paper on the elevator floor.

  6

  "You look nice today,” says the guy who runs the little café Rena and I frequent a block from our office. He’s got dimples and always wears button-down shirts in a shade of blue that brings out his eyes.

  Eyes that hold mine a little longer than necessary to make a coffee.

  Some days, we even flirt. It’s cute and harmless, and it makes me feel as if someone notices me.

  "Thanks." I brush a hand down my hot-pink dress. I bought it on sale, and I've been waiting for an excuse to wear it. "I have a presentation at work. For a client.”

  "Must be an important client.” He winks, but my stomach goes tight at his words.

  "No. Small, insignificant client. Unattractive client." He lifts a brow at my sudden craziness, and I shake my head. “Sorry. Didn’t sleep well.”

  “Maybe this’ll help.” He finishes the coffee and hands it to me.

  “Thanks.” I paste on a smile, practically snatch the coffee from him, and turn on my heel before jogging out the door.

  If I'm dressed up, it has nothing to do with Logan Hunter.

  Or bumping into him at the Charlotte.

  Or that when I’m within ten feet of him, I stare at his mouth as if his tongue ring’s a rock star and I’m a desperate fan lined up for a fleeting glimpse of it.

  My phone buzzes in my hand.

  Unknown: You must have had fun in the ballroom. There was a twenty-G bar bill.

  I type back as fast as I can. Hunter?? How did you get this number?!

  Unknown: So, you DID run up the bar bill.

  Kendall: There wasn’t any alcohol at the event!

  Unknown: I know. I like to see you riled up.

  The sudden tightness in my chest eases as I realize he’s pushing my buttons.

  An image comes through with a notebook on a wire rack. It says, “KEEP CALM AND DRINK MORE BEER.”

  My eyes flutter closed. And now he’s making fun of my notebook.

  He probably got the number from Daisy. And it’s not like he’s being out of line. Unprofessional, maybe. But it was unprofessional for me to not have the right amount of space for my event, and he saved my ass on that.

 
Hunter knows how to provoke me, and for whatever reason, he seems to like doing it.

  The smug, cocky version of lumberjack frat boy I can handle.

  His blurted confession in the elevator on the other hand… that bugged me all night.

  All through the event for my other client, then while heating up the eggplant parmigiana Rory and his babysitter saved me for when I got home.

  Why would Hunter tell me something so personal? I don’t chalk it up to my trustworthy face. It’s as if he’s been walking around with that and needed to get it off his chest.

  The weirder part was I liked that he was telling me something he hadn’t told anyone. Including that woman at the bar.

  Especially the woman at the bar.

  Being confided in by an attractive man wasn’t something I knew I was holding out for, but damn did it hook me. I want to know more.

  After today, I'll probably never get that chance.

  Disappointment tickles my stomach.

  "You coming to this meeting?" I ask Rena when I get to our office.

  "Wouldn't miss it.”

  I glance toward the staircase when I hear male voices.

  My breath sticks in my throat when I see him. Today Hunter's wearing jeans and a button-down fitted enough to follow each muscle and hard plane of his torso. His hair is dry, instead of damp like it was at the Charlotte, and I can't decide which way it looks better.

  They head into the conference room, and I blow out a long breath.

  "See you in there?" Rena prods, looking amused.

  "Yeah."

  When I do walk into the conference room, my hands are full with a file box topped by my coffee. My gaze meets Hunter's.

  "Need a hand?" he murmurs, and I nearly stumble.

  He's gorgeous, sure. But I've seen other men as attractive as Hunter. It's not his lines and angles. It's the flesh and blood. It's what puts him together. His energy, his humor, his unstoppableness.

  He looked sexy yesterday in the hoodie and jeans, those knowing brown eyes lightening to caramel as if they could see every guilty thought in my head. But forget the clothes. They're like wrapping paper at Christmas. Distracting but meaningless.