Bad Love (Modern Romance Book 2)

by Piper Lawson

  I'm instantly reminded of his body over of me when he knocked me out of the way of the elevator.

  Not meaningless.

  Hard and real and strong and unlocking cravings I’d thought I’d tucked away a long time ago.

  Cravings that are rising up as if they’ve been denied for far too long.

  Heat rises in my cheeks. "I'm fine. Thank you."

  I feel Daisy's eyes on us.

  "Kendall, this is Nelson,” Hunter says, switching into business mode. “He can get the historical data you need."

  The man in question smirks, and I get the impression he doesn't care if we succeed. "Nice plants," he says flatly, looking at the green wall.

  If Hunter looks like how I’d picture the president of a frat, this man looks like their mascot.

  Are they friends? What does Hunter see in him?

  Not your problem. "Right. Let's get started."

  This isn’t about Hunter or Nelson. It’s about selling vibrators.

  I reach into the box, grab something, and thunk it on the table. "Here's your product. The Red Rocket II.”

  The men's smirks falter. Every pair of eyes goes to the vibrator standing on the middle of the conference table, the tip waving as if there’s a breeze from the door.

  "And the competition in the same market."

  Ten more follow until there's a line of pink, purple, and black sex toys down the table. Long ones, longer ones. Smooth ones, ribbed ones. Ones that look like cocks—a word I’ve never said in my life, but after reading hundreds of reviews over the past few days, I almost feel like I could utter without stammering—and ones that look like flowers.

  Yeah. If I felt out of control a second ago, I'm back in charge.

  "Do you notice anything similar between these products?" I go on.

  "Um. That one has balls?" Nelson suggests.

  "They’re all designed for female pleasure. And your product isn't cutting it.”

  "Is that your professional opinion?"

  This is from Hunter.

  "It's the only opinion that matters—the opinion of your customers." I hit a button on the center of the table, and a screen comes down, connecting immediately to my laptop. I press a few keys, and a website pops up.

  "Your product has few reviews, and the ones it has aren't good.” I scroll through the list. “By contrast, the best-selling products in this market are raved about. Worshipped. Shared.”

  A cough has me looking over at my audience. “By ‘shared’ I mean the word,” I add quickly, but I swear Hunter’s brow twitches. “Customers tell their friends. Their colleagues. Everyone. The bottom line is…Don Draper couldn't sell ten thousand Red Rocket II’s in ninety days. Not unless he bought them himself."

  Nelson's chuckling, but Hunter's thoughtful, his fingers bridged in front of his face.

  "All right, Nellie, you’ve outlived your usefulness,” Hunter says at last. “Get out."

  The other man leaves with a look of triumph. Now I'm alone with Hunter and Daisy and Rena.

  I wish I knew what he was thinking. If he's pissed or disappointed or what.

  "We could look at changing the target to something more reasonable," I say, but he holds up a hand.

  "No." The words are uttered with a finality that shocks me.

  I need this to work out. My son’s camp and my ability to pick my clients are on the line.

  Hunter reaches for the vibe and switches it on. “This all it does?” he asks the room.

  “Ah. There’s a switch for another setting.” I gesture to the base, and he presses it. The sound changes from low pitched to higher.

  I force my gaze away from Hunter holding the vibrator, using the excuse of clicking off the screen and shutting my laptop. "It's a growing market, and there are possibilities. But the competition's fierce. We can put together a marketing plan and copy and drive traffic, but the product has to be great. That said, we may be able to reach a lower sales volume, or—"

  I let out a squeak as something hits my hand. It takes a second to realize Hunter dropped the vibe on the table and sent it rolling across the surface to its final resting place against the back of my hand.

  I swallow, refusing to cringe as I reach for the vibe and switch it off, standing it on end and setting it back in the center of the table. My fist barely wraps around it.

  "No.” His voice is commanding. Not the usual Hunter, like the cocky kid used to getting his way. This is a boardroom version that's sexy and maddening at once. “If the product won’t work, we’ll pick another one. But we’re going to sell ten thousand vibes in ninety days."

  I cut a look at Daisy to see if she’s following this, but she’s checking the time on her phone before shifting out of her chair. "Something’s come up. Rena?”

  My colleague nods, then Daisy turns back to Hunter and me. “I agree the current product has limitations,” she says, meeting each of our gazes in turn. “I trust you two can agree on the right approach."

  She's out the door with Rena before Hunter turns back to me.

  “What do you mean we’ll pick another one?”

  He stares me down. “There’re a dozen others from the company website. Choose another vibe. Sell ten thousand of it.”

  I blink at him.

  I feel as if I’m in some alternate universe. All my other clients treat their work with seriousness, but with this man, it’s as if our entire project is a joke. Until his goal comes up, and the deadline. Then he’s more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever worked with.

  “What’s really going on here, Hunter?”

  His jaw twitches. “What’s going on is I need you to help me sell vibrators. And I’m sparing no expense to do it.”

  I square my shoulders even though I want to shake him. But he’s just reminded me of the boundaries of our relationship. “I’ll do some research. But it’s going to take time to get up to speed on the alternatives. Based on the sales numbers you provided, the timeline is already extremely tight. Maybe impossible.” I’m being a little peevish, but I don’t care. I can’t keep up with his wild mood swings and crazy demands.

  Hunter spins the task chair around, straddling it. "Don’t tell me you're tapping out."

  His posture might say casual, but every muscle in his body is on edge.

  When I’d asked the Charlotte about using the ballroom and dropped his name, it was as if I’d said God wanted me to have it. Logan Hunter’s used to getting his way.

  If I didn’t know it before, I know it now. The easy frat boy is gone, and there’s an iron-willed man underneath.

  "It’s not tapping out. But I can’t do my job if I don’t know the situation.” I uncross my legs, lean closer. “This might be some kind of a joke to you, but it’s serious to me. This is my career, Hunter. I need some indication you’re going to be straight with me.”

  Hunter slides his task chair closer until our knees brush and my breath hitches. “You’re not the only one with something at stake here. Trust me. I will do everything in my power to make this campaign a success.

  “And don’t pretend all you are is a brain.”

  My throat dries. “What are you talking about?”

  He reaches for my coffee cup without breaking my gaze, holding it up between us. Now I'm watching those hands again. They're big and strong and beautiful.

  That devastating gaze meets mine. "Hearts on your coffee cup.” Hunter sets the cup down hard enough to make me jump. "I'd guess he likes your smile, your ass, and how cheery you are, which happens because he's the one serving up your caffeine. And it bothers you that he doesn't know who you are, and if he did, he wouldn't like you or you wouldn't like him.

  "Especially," he goes on, lowering his voice to a purr, "because under those sweaters and pencil skirts? I think you're a wild thing waiting to get out."

  My breath sticks in my chest. "You're wrong."

  He shifts closer. "Then stop checking out my tongue ring like you're wondering how it would feel on every inch of your body."r />
  I’m on fire.

  I’m so distracted by his caramel eyes, his mouth, I don’t notice him reach into his pocket and produce a sheet of paper as if he’s playing a trump card.

  My heart pounds as I reach for it, but I can already see the "My Adventures" header through the paper. The outline of the mountains.

  "You dropped this in the elevator yesterday,” he says, the words ringing in my ears.

  "I see." I tuck it into my notebook without looking at it.

  “Don’t you want to know what it is?” His quiet drawl punishes me with every syllable.

  “I know what it is. Thank you.”

  I can’t meet Hunter’s gaze.

  “I assume the coffee guy is the hot stranger you’re fantasizing about.”

  "Not that it’s any of your business. But yes.”

  “What’s his name?” he murmurs. A shiver tracks down my spine at the heat in his expression.

  “I…” I want to squeeze my knees together, but I can’t. His knees are just inside mine. They weren't pressing a second ago, but the way my thighs squeezed, they are now. “That would wreck the fantasy.” I try for the dismissive cool I’ve seen other women pull off. The kind I’ve never been able to master.

  “Right.” Hunter nods, folding his muscled arms over the back of the chair. “Tell me what kind of fantasies you have about this hot stranger.” He pauses on a wicked grin, and it’s all I can do to keep breathing. “Extra foam? More pumps?”

  His voice is a raw seam dragging across my skin, pulling every ounce of my attention to the friction between us.

  A noise—tapping on glass—has both of us jerking our heads toward the door.

  One of my colleagues is there, waiting. I check my watch, realizing our time is up, and I hold up two fingers. Two minutes.

  Hunter rises, the spell broken as he takes in the set of bright-colored pleasure vehicles on the table.

  "Pick another toy from the website,” he commands softly. “Then you and I are going to do this thing.”

  Hunter holds out the Rocket, and I take it, my fingers curling around it on instinct.

  It’s a mistake because now I’m wondering what it would be like to curl my fingers around him. If he’d be this big and hard, only better. “Do what?”

  His expression is full of intent as he leans in, close enough I can smell his aftershave. “Make them all want what we have.”

  I know he’s talking about the vibe, but for a moment it sounds as if he means what’s between us.

  Which is why I’m wet.

  Because God’s truth is I’ve been fantasizing about Logan Hunter. A man who understands his effect on women. A man who’s my client and, even if he wasn’t, isn’t dating material.

  And now he knows I’ve been fantasizing about him.

  "Enjoy your coffee,” Hunter offers with a smirk before starting for the door.

  It takes every ounce of grace in me to resist hurling the Rocket at his head.

  7

  "Four iPhones, a watch, and"—Monty lifts a shoe with a finger—"a stiletto."

  I pull my mouthpiece out as I drip my way onto the deck of my twenty-eight-foot Parker Sport in the East River. It’s not the cleanest body of water I ever dove in, but the fishing boat feels like home. The sun warms my face after the water, which is cool even with the wetsuit.

  "Nice haul for a Wednesday."

  Monty shakes his head. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  We strip out of our suits. Equipment falls to the whitewashed deck piece by piece in a rhythm we’ve been repeating for years.

  Monty and I dive together at least once a week. We started in high school but stopped abruptly senior year of college—my idea.

  We resumed once I returned to New York two years ago—his idea.

  I was reluctant to agree, though now I’ll admit it feels good to be back at it.

  No. It feels great. Aside from flying, it’s the best feeling you could have.

  Under the surface, no one’s expecting things from you or telling you what to do. The rules you follow aren’t man-made. They’re basic physics. Follow them and you’re free to explore, to play, to enjoy a world few human beings get to witness.

  "The director sent over a raw cut of your commercial," Monty says. "Did he jerk you off while you were there too?"

  “Not my type. I like muscles.” I pull out my phone and lean in. "Smile, Montgomery."

  I snap the picture of the two of us, then hit a few keystrokes to put it on the Hunter’s Cross social.

  "We should do a wreck dive again."

  My neck stiffens, and I cut a surprised look at Monty, whose hair springs out like a caged animal as he shoves back the hood of the wetsuit.

  "We haven’t done one since senior year. I’d like another challenge,” he says.

  I adjust the wetsuit, shoving a hand through my hair and retrieving my sunglasses from one of the lounger seats.

  I should remind him of the last time we dove a wreck together.

  But that’s buried as deep as the ships off the coast, and I’m not about to bring that up to the daylight.

  “I don’t get the appeal,” I say instead. “Even if you find something on a dive, it’s all old shit. New is more interesting." I nod at the iPhone.

  Monty stares at me a minute, then shakes his head and ducks into the cabin, claiming the passenger seat.

  I draw up the anchor before returning to the cabin, grabbing the captain’s hat.

  “Don Giovanni was incredible,” he comments as I drop into the captain’s seat and start the boat.

  “Knew it would be.” I’m glad he took the time out. Especially because today I need to talk to him about something.

  “You talk to Deacon yet?”

  I wince. “I’m getting to it. Been a busy few days.”

  I get the paranoia. Monty comes from nothing; he knows what it’s like not to have enough. It’s like he needs to be twice as good as the next guy in the room just to prove he belongs there.

  My parents are wealthy and generous. They never made my trust fund conditional upon performance. All they wanted was for me to be happy.

  And I was. Traveling the world for modeling not only helped me see some incredible places, it gave me spending cash on top of my trust fund—which I’m proud to say sits untouched in the bank, where it’s grown thanks to investments I monitor regularly.

  Though lately, it's starting to feel as though something's missing. Objectively, nothing has changed. I'm getting the same invitations. Have the same friends. Maybe I've been in New York for too long, but the outside world doesn't have as much pull as it used to.

  "I’ll smooth it over with him,” I say at last, navigating the familiar waters without help from the GPS.

  "Or you can tell your grandmother everything. Make the marketing director a real job with actual recognition." I wince because that’s a terrible idea. "There's a third option,” Monty says. “You could actually do the fucking job."

  “Did you get bubbles in your tank?”

  "Hunter, you have a business degree. Don't tell me you're afraid of hard work. You put in sixteen-hour days on the fishing boats and at the docks for fun in high school when they were shorthanded during the summer. You’ve managed two hundred people at one of your family's parties without breaking a sweat."

  "We've had this conversation," I say tightly. "It's not my speed."

  I know what I’m capable of, and I stick to that. If I ventured into uncharted territory, spreadsheets and HR and all that bullshit, I'd fuck it up, and then where would we be? Far worse than the little white lie with Deacon would be me falling short and not only disappointing my family but actually fucking over the company my grandmother spent her lifetime building.

  The bottom line is every time I’m on the hook for being responsible, I fuck it up.

  In elementary school, I lost the family dog.

  In high school, in an effort to impres
s people, I signed up as treasurer of student council, and we promptly went bankrupt.

  In college, I nearly lost my best friend on account of my own recklessness.

  That was when I decided old-fashioned responsibility wasn’t my thing. It was when I suggested to my grandmother that Monty might be groomed to take the reins of Hunter’s Cross instead of me. I called my agent and said I’d look for international modeling opportunities. With me out of the picture, it made everything simpler.

  "You going to poker tomorrow?" I ask Monty.

  “I might squeeze it in.”

  I nod. “I need to tell you something. You should sit down."

  “I am sitting down.”

  I blow out a rough breath. "I wagered my stake in Hunter’s Cross with Nellie."

  His face doesn't change. "You what?"

  "I bet Nellie I could sell vibrators through his tax-shelter sex toy company."

  He shoves himself out of his seat, returning a moment later. "Take it back." His low, flat tone is barely audible over the boat’s engine.

  "I can't."

  After the meeting with Kendall, I’d felt the first sliver of doubt. That maybe this isn’t just another of our reckless bets I’ll win like all the others.

  The way she talked about the market, the competition, and Nellie’s products gave me a sinking feeling that shit just got real.

  I called Nellie and tried to make light of things.

  “It was a dumb wager. The penthouse isn’t even yours to give.”

  “Actually, the penthouse is in my name, so I can do whatever the fuck I want with it.” My stomach sank. “Come on, Hunter. We’ve been escalating for years. You never had a problem taking what was mine. You can’t back down the moment I have a chance to take what’s yours.”

  He’s right. I can’t back down.

  I’ve smugly accepted the winnings for our last dozen bets.

  And he’s always seen them through.

  It’s something all of us have held to over the years: a sense of integrity, even if it’s warped. If everyone follows the rules, we honor our word to each other.

  Monty grabs a life preserver off the desk, twisting it in his hands until the seal pops and the air deflates with a whine. "You have twenty percent of the company, Logan. And a board seat. You can't gamble away a board seat."