Bad Love (Modern Romance Book 2)

by Piper Lawson

  I bite my tongue because I’m too tired to rehash old ground, and I know it serves no purpose. The fact that he’s behind on payments. That he hasn’t sent Rory so much as a card in a year.

  "I know exactly what it’s like to juggle responsibilities, Blake. I’ve been doing it for eight years. Now, I need to get home. You can see Rory in a few weeks when we’re here next."

  I don’t say, “If you’re still here.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Blake shifts off the car door and lets me go.

  When I get home after eleven—after returning the car I rented and taking the subway from the rental place—I'm exhausted. I drag my heavy feet up the stairs and unlock my front door. I'm ready to pass out.

  What greets me is a disaster zone.

  In my kitchen, pots and pans are everywhere, piled high in the sink. “What the…?”

  Hunter appears in the hallway, his dress shirt rolled up to the elbows and unbuttoned halfway down. His hair’s flattened from its usual mussed perfection.

  "What happened here?" I ask, bewildered. "It looks like a hurricane hit.”

  He looks around as if seeing the mess for the first time. "We got a bit carried away."

  My next inhale seems to take every ounce of energy left in my body. "It’s fine. Thank you for keeping my son alive."

  “No problem. Better than poker anyway.” He crosses to the kitchen, stacks a few of the bowls before meeting my gaze again. “How’s Orange? I had to look it up after you told me that’s where you were from. Still don’t know shit about it.”

  “Not much to know.” It’s a cop-out, and we both know it. The decent thing would be to talk to him, but I’m drained and I’m shutting down. “Thank you for tonight. I should let you go.”

  He looks as if he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t. “Sure.”

  Part of me wants to go to him, to ask him to fold me in his arms. Instead, I force myself down the hall.

  When I crack the door, Rory shifts sleepily in his bed. "Hi, Mom."

  "Hi, sweetie.” I perch on the corner of his bed. “Grandma had an accident, but she's going to be fine. I'm sorry I wasn't here for you tonight."

  “We had homework.”

  The reminder makes my chest twinge. I press a quick kiss to Rory's cool forehead. "We'll figure it out tomorrow."

  "We already figured it out. Me and Logan." He's slurring his words.

  "Okay. Go back to sleep, honey."

  I sit with him a few minutes, stroking his hair until he drifts off.

  When I go back out to the kitchen, I head for the fridge to see if I can scrounge up something for dinner but pull up halfway.

  The dishes are sitting on a clean towel next to the sink to dry. Hunter must’ve done them while I was with Rory. Gratitude washes over me.

  I open the fridge. Inside is a casserole dish filled with pasta. Pipe cleaners are wound around the handles, and stickers decorate the outside. What the…?

  My gaze cuts to the counter, landing on a slip of paper with the school’s logo on it. The school assignment that didn’t get done.

  I look between the fridge and the slip. Again.

  Damn it.

  I leave the fridge door ajar and dash out to the hall. "Hunter!"

  There’s no sign of him.

  No. He can’t be gone.

  I run down the steps to the front foyer.

  His tall, broad frame is a shadow receding in the darkness, but he stops at the sound of my voice calling his name again.

  I cross the cement walkway, pulling up breathless with inches between us and wrapping my sweater around me. "What's in the fridge?"

  Hunter’s face is all angles in the darkness, the floodlight from the building catching on his cheekbones and nose and leaving his eyes and mouth in shadows.

  "We freestyled the assignment. I almost called you when he got to dumping Gruyère in there like a mad man."

  My whole body tingles as I’m flooded with new emotions. Gratitude, desire, and need tumble in an indefinable mass. Logan Hunter's standing on my sidewalk in a bomber jacket, talking about making a casserole with my kid.

  I shift up on my toes, pressing my lips to his cheek as the backs of my eyes burn.

  When I pull back, he stares.

  I’m too tired to be embarrassed. But before I can decide whether to turn tail and go back inside, he closes the distance between us and lowers his mouth to mine.

  It’s the opposite of our kiss in the car. That was about my gratitude for what he’d done and the frustration I feel every time I turn him away.

  This is all Hunter.

  You can’t hold me at a distance.

  At least that’s how I read the controlled slide of his mouth over mine, the patient but insistent way he forces my lips apart.

  Fine. My fingers stretch up, thread into his hair, and tug on the ends.

  He obliges, slanting his lips across mine at a new angle. I twist my tongue around the barbell in his, tasting metal.

  Tonight, in the dark, I want him to have all of it. My honesty. My mess. My fear and uncertainty about my past and future.

  My fingers drag down his chest, feeling every hard ridge of muscle through the soft fabric on the way down to his belt.

  But his big hand closes over mine. I pull back, a sound of frustration escaping my throat. He's right. We’re in front of my damn building, and it’s all I can do not to ask him to take me right there in the shadows.

  "Pez,” I tell him when I can catch my breath.

  Hunter's eyes glitter in the dark with barely leashed desire. “Huh?”

  “You asked me about Orange. It’s the North American headquarters of the Pez corporation. The state fair’s a pretty big deal too.”

  He chuckles as his lips graze my forehead. I love their curve against my skin almost as much as I love how he drags me into his arms. I huff out a breath against his shoulder, loving the smell of his jacket and of him.

  "You want me to stay?"

  I let out a shaky breath against the leather, stretching out the moment as if I could actually entertain the thought of a whole night feeling like this.

  "No,” I say at last.

  He can't stay the night. Not in my bed or out of it.

  He stares at me for a long moment. "Take care of yourself, Peach. And Rory. He’s a damn fine cook. Pretty good kid too."

  I reach for the handle of the building’s front door and slide out from between him and the wall. The handle gives, and the second I get inside, my knees melt.

  17

  Traveling the world for a few years made me a fan of reading. Sci-fi to classics, I’d try anything once.

  In The Art of War, Sun Tzu said, “Know thy enemy.”

  Mine is math.

  Sunday afternoon, nothing in the spreadsheets spread across my granite kitchen island adds up. I shift off the bar stool, going to refill my water and tugging at the waistband of my sweatpants. After my workout and shower this morning, I figured I might as well be comfortable for the brutality I was going to face.

  I know what makes for great beer. How to run social media accounts, interact with customers and fans, and build a following people want to be part of.

  But looking at budgets and variances is making my eyes cross.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Monty’s gruff voice says when I break down and call him.

  "I've been reading the shit from Deacon’s files for three hours,” I gripe. The sound coming down the line has me frowning. “It’s not funny.”

  “It’s a little funny. I like seeing you apply yourself to something other than poker and women.”

  I grab one of the sheets and pad across my apartment past my bookcases. I lean a hip against the floor-to-ceiling windows to read the paper in the sunlight. “Okay, for one, it looks like it says our profits aren’t growing this quarter."

  "That’s correct."

  I stare out the window at the street below. "Why the fuck not? The craft brew industry is growing, taking a bite out
of the big producers all across the country."

  "Sales are rising. Profits aren’t. The economy has been tough, and distributors are squeezing our margins. It’s happening in all of manufacturing, Logan. Every product industry is facing this."

  I'm pacing before he finishes. "That's unacceptable."

  There’s a long pause before he answers, voice laced with disbelief. "You've been working here a week—you agreed to fill in only until the board meeting, I might add—and you're going to fix every problem we have?"

  "Come on, Monty.” I rub a hand over my scruff. I haven’t trimmed it in a few days and probably won’t for a few more. “We’re not just some manufacturer. We create something inspired that people love having with friends and in their homes. With the new beers we introduced, we should be in our prime. Not bitching about margins."

  A pause. “Is this her influence?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The woman who’s helping you. The one you bailed on poker for Thursday.”

  I shake my head, thinking back to the evening I spent at Kendall’s. “I’m not under anyone’s influence, Montgomery.”

  “I’m just saying I’ve never seen you quite so… invested in the company.”

  “Desperate times. Don’t get used to it.”

  But as I hang up with Monty, I’m not sure that’s true. I want to make things right. I also want to make things better.

  A text comes through. It’s a pic of a familiar face and nearly bare head with a gold smile and sunglasses, the man making an obscene gesture into the camera, and the sun.

  Nellie: Just got to the Riviera! Can't believe you turned this down, bro.

  I shake my head and text back.

  Hunter: Put some sunscreen on that bald spot.

  Nellie had called my ass Thursday night when it was clear I wasn’t making it to poker to ask why the fuck I hadn’t booked my ticket to Ibiza. I gave him the easiest answer.

  I wasn’t interested.

  In truth, I need to be here for Hunter’s Cross. But if I’d thought passing on a trip I've been on every year for the last ten would be painful, I was wrong.

  What does bother me is I'm in my apartment staring at these bullshit spreadsheets as though they're Latin.

  Latin, incidentally, I was better in than math.

  I stalk back to the island and brace my bare elbows on the smooth surface as I stare at the printouts. It’s maddening. I can work my own budget, but these categories and projections won’t make sense.

  I'm not walking away from my family's company if there's anything I can do to fix this.

  But I am willing to admit that I need help.

  "I come bearing a computer." Kendall’s bright face at the door of my condo makes my whole day better.

  When her smile freezes as she takes in the fact that I’m half dressed, her gaze dragging down my chest and lingering on the waistline of my low sweatpants, that’s a bonus.

  I was grateful Kendall had agreed to come over. But now, as it’s my turn to take in her simple tank top and yoga pants and ponytail and—yup—flats, I’m thinking this might’ve been a bad idea.

  How the fuck I degenerated to the point where a pair of flats gives me a hard on is beyond me.

  "What's in your hand?" I eye up the Tupperware container.

  Kendall holds it out of my reach, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Rory made scones. He’s at a friend’s for the afternoon."

  I have to hold in the groan. "Get your ass in here."

  She trails me to my dining room and passes me the Tupperware.

  “Damn, Hunter. What is that?!”

  I follow her gaze to the corner of my living room and the bronze elephant statue that’s taller than me. “Winnings of another bet with Nellie.”

  She rounds it, inspecting every inch before turning back. “Do you have a harem I don’t know about?”

  “No space after the elephant,” I explain.

  “Right.” With a bemused shake of her head, Kendall sets up on the only remaining corner of the island.

  "How'd Rory’s pasta project work out?" I set the scones down on an edge of the granite.

  "Oh, man. He was so proud of it. No one's ever done that for him before."

  "Not a big deal." Though I’m really glad it worked out. The kid had seemed so pumped once I showed him there was a way to blend the assignment with his love of food.

  "It was to him. He keeps talking about doing things the ‘Logan Way.’ As if it's trademarked."

  I grin. "What's your opinion of the Logan Way?"

  She meets my gaze. "From what I've seen, it's definitely destructive. Often impressive. One hundred percent original. You always surprise me, Hunter."

  I’d been teasing, but the sincerity in her voice hits me in the chest. It takes me a minute to regain my composure.

  "So, um, let me start by saying this is all confidential. Do I need to have you sign an NDA?"

  Kendall holds up a hand. "I swear I won't tell anyone. If I do, the lawyers can punish me."

  “Fuck the lawyers. I’ll punish you,” I promise.

  Her eyes darken, and desire drags down my spine.

  Since last week in the car, I keep thinking about what it was like to be inside her.

  Thinking is the wrong word.

  Let’s go with obsessing. Fantasizing. I want her in every depraved way there is. The fact that she doesn’t do casual, that she’s probably never participated in half the things I’m imagining, only makes me want her more.

  Though we haven’t been together since, we’ve been texting. I keep looking for funny notebooks and sending her pictures of ones I find, with covers like “I’M COMING UNDONE” and “FUCK MY LIFE” and “KEEP CALM AND ORIGAMI.” (Even though the last one was Photoshopped to make her smile.)

  Although I love the joking, I can’t forget I want her. From the way Kendall’s running her hand over the smooth top of the island, I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.

  “Logan?” Her voice is as low as mine.

  “Yeah?”

  “That look you’re giving me is definitely not professional.”

  “We’re selling sexual gratification. That’s exactly what I’m thinking about.”

  Her throat bobs as if maybe she’s been obsessing and fantasizing about me all week too. “But today we’re working on something else.”

  “Right.” Damn it. “You want a drink?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.” She flashes a smile, then leans over the island as I point out the highlights. When I finish, she takes her time reading through on her own, tracing a pen along the rows and columns.

  I go to fill a glass from the fridge, adding ice from the dispenser. Then I reach for a scone. When I bite into it, I make a sound of satisfaction.

  Jesus, I think I died.

  “What is this, raspberry?”

  “With white chocolate. I think he threw in a little lime zest,” she answers without looking up.

  “Holy fuck.” I shift back to watch her as I chew.

  That’s when I realize I can see down the front of her tank top.

  I should look away. But the curve of her breasts is so enticing, reminding me how they felt the other night, pressed against me outside her building.

  When I felt something shift between us. Something not entirely physical, and—

  “You okay?” Kendall’s head snaps up, a curious expression on her face.

  I swallow the last of my scone. “Yeah. Why?”

  “You groaned.”

  “Did not.”

  “I think I know your groan when I hear it.” Her teasing smile fades, and she goes back to the spreadsheets before I can comment. “These look like projections. You can't get access to the person who made them?" Her forehead wrinkles. "Or is that he who shall not be named?"

  I blow out a breath. "It wasn’t Voldemort, Peach. The guy’s name is Deacon. And he’s not answering his phone at the moment."

  Kendall’s brows draw toge
ther. “Okay. We’ll figure this out ourselves. Let’s go over these budget categories."

  Her confidence is contagious, and I’m grateful as she motions me over. I set up shop next to her, our hips brushing, my bare side touching her arm.

  “Um. Logan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think you could put a shirt on?”

  I turn toward her, thrilled to see the flush crawling up her throat. “Your ‘professional’ thoughts getting in the way?”

  “Do you want to bankrupt your brewery?”

  I pad to my bedroom, letting out a noise of protest on the way. “That was a groan,” I toss over my shoulder.

  When I’m back in a tight, white T-shirt—I didn’t want to let her completely off the hook—we go over some more numbers, and I ask her questions.

  “The numbers don’t have to drive everything. But they should be part of the same story as your products and your marketing strategy. I like to start with the ideas, then back in the numbers afterward. Run a sensitivity analysis, which sounds complicated, but it’s really just a few different scenarios to see what’s possible with a limited budget or a bigger one. Like you might have if sales start slow versus grow fast. Or in your case, if your margins change.”

  “Makes sense.”

  I like starting with the ideas because staring at these numbers does to my creativity what a photo of Margaret Thatcher does to my hard-on.

  "You need something for your ideas." She fishes in her bag and produces a notebook that says “YOU CAN DO ANYTHING” on the front.

  I take it, turn it over to look at the blue cover with a ribbon of gold running through it. "For me?"

  "Yes. For all your great ideas. Of which I know from experience you have many."

  I grin, my heart kicking in a way that’s way out of line given the ten-dollar notebook she’s handed me. "I do have some ideas, but they’re half-baked. I'll keep you posted."

  Her brows shoot up. "Has anyone told you you're a tease?"

  "Has anyone told you you’re the best?”

  Her face flushes with pleasure. "Lately it doesn't feel like it. I've been trying to sell tickets for this talent show, and I’m barely halfway there. Nadine wants me to move two hundred, so I’ve been emailing like crazy, plus finding new parent groups I can reach out to. The thing is there aren’t that many parents.”