by Johnson, Cat
I nodded, and he threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. My eyes fell to his ass.
“I know you’re looking. Perv.”
I laughed. “It’s true.”
He ordered our breakfast, and we took a shower together while we waited for it to arrive. And yes, there was touching. Lots of touching. I figured we had two years to make up for.
The room only had a small table, so we sat on the floor and tucked into breakfast picnic style. I let Booker drink a full cup of coffee, but as he poured the second one, I cleared my throat, sending a message that his time was up.
He added a dash of cream to his coffee, then picked it up without drinking, almost like he needed it as an anchor.
“I’d been feeling unwell for a while, but you know, guys and doctors don’t mix too well. Eventually, my symptoms worried me enough that I made an appointment with our family doctor. He sent me for a barrage of tests, and finally they narrowed it down to stage two bowel cancer.” He caught my gaze, his eyes bleak. “That day, God, Cass, it was awful. I wandered around for hours and hours, yet I have no memory of where I went or what I did. When I returned home, I took one look at you and knew I couldn’t put you through what lay ahead of me. The doctor had laid out the facts in stark reality. Surgery followed by several sessions of chemotherapy. He warned me I’d probably lose my hair, and I’d be pretty sick for months. He was right on both counts.”
He reached for my hand, intertwining our fingers.
“I know how much I hurt you. I replay the look in your eyes every day, and it kills me. I’m so sorry, but at the time, it felt like the right thing to do.”
“And now?”
He pulled his lips to the side. “For the Booker I was then, I stand by my decision. I had to be selfish, to put myself first, and to do that, I had to let you go.”
I got to my feet and wandered over to the window. Sunlight glinted off the glass, and the street teemed with people going about their business. Booker joined me, his arm brushing mine.
“I can’t do this, Booker. Not unless you promise you’ll be one hundred percent honest with me. If the cancer returns, I have to know. It’s the only way we can have a future.”
He knocked my chin up with his thumb, then traced my cheek with his fingertips. “I love you, Cass. So damned much. Instinctively, I want to protect you, to shield you from any demons lurking in the shadows. Intellectually, I know that to have a true partnership, I have to share the bad as well as the good. I promise, Cass, on my life that I’ll never cut you out again. The bad, the good, the downright ugly. I’ll share it all.”
He leaned down and captured my lips in a searing kiss, flooding me with warmth. I sank into him, but too soon, he broke it off.
“On the flight down here, you said out of sight, out of mind. Did you mean that?”
I slipped my arms around his waist and gave his peachy ass a squeeze. “You might’ve been out of sight, Booker, but never, ever, out of mind.”
About the Author
Tracie Delaney is the author of more than twenty contemporary romance novels which she writes from her office in the freezing cold North West of England.
An avid reader for as long as she can remember, Tracie was also a bit of a tomboy back in the day and used to climb trees with her trusty Enid Blyton’s and read for hours, returning home when it was almost dark with a numb bottom and more than a few splinters!
Tracie’s books have a common theme of strong women who aren’t afraid to go after what they want and alpha males who put up a great fight (which they ultimately lose!)
At night she likes to curl up on the sofa with her two Westies, Murphy & Cooper, and binge-watch shows on Netflix. There may be wine involved.
Link to Amazon: www.smarturl.it/traciedelaneyamazon
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The Marriage Pact
Delancey Stewart
A promise made over a Ring Pop seems like a long-ago fantasy, until Camille and Alexander meet again as adults and sparks fly.
1
Camille
Arguments with my father never went especially well. This particular argument had dragged on over the course of our cross-country flight.
"He might be buying the company, but I still have a job to do, and he better not get in the way. He'll probably try to push me out. I'm your daughter, after all. He'll feel threatened." I poked a finger into my father's arm, watching my red nail sink into the pressed wool.
"I feel a little bit threatened right now." Dad joked, but I was beyond laughter. He sighed and took my hand where it still pinned his sleeve. "Sweetheart, Alexander St. Vienne has been a key partner to Ark Systems for a long time now, and this acquisition is good for all of us. Give the guy a chance. When we meet Monday, be friendly," he added. "You were engaged once, remember?" Dad smiled now, and my cheeks flamed.
"I'm not going to chat with my CEO about the goofy Ring Pop he gave me when I was in second grade. Promises made over candy jewelry are not binding."
"I know, sweetheart. It would have made your mother so happy, though," Dad’s voice got softer.
I sighed. “You're not actually suggesting we should get married just because our mothers were best friends, right?"
"It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world," Dad said. "You told me when you were seven that you loved him. He's a good kid, Cami."
"Well, I'm not in love with him now. I don't even remember him. I think I might hate him, actually."
"You don't know him.”
"I've seen his shiny, smug headshot." Alexander St. Vienne had looked serious in his company photo, the only close-up I could find of the guy online. His dark hair was gelled back and his piercing dark stare felt predatory. The picture was a few years old, and I guessed he'd probably gotten more stern and severe with time.
I knew Dad was tired, and I felt guilty for railing at him. He'd been through a lot with the financial crisis at the company, and he just wanted to retire and relax. But when his lawyer made some bad deals behind his back, plans changed, and Dad was lucky to find a buyer to keep us solvent.
He had given me everything my entire life. Who was I to argue with him now?
Still, when it came to some ridiculous expectation that I'd go along with a marriage pact my mother had practically turned into a formal arrangement with her best friend before she died, I felt plenty argumentative.
2
Alexander
"Just for the morning, Xander. I’m desperate. Please?" My older brother Jonah leaned his lanky frame into my side on the couch in the loft we shared and made puppy dog eyes at me, blinking and turning his mouth down in a sad little frown.
I shoved him away. "Seriously? That doesn't work now. I’m not six anymore." I stood, running both hands through my hair. "There's kind of a lot going on this week. I need to go into the office."
Jonah crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes. "I remember. You're so important, Mr. Big Pants CEO. No time to help your family."
"That's not true." I dropped my hands and shook them out at my sides. "I'm just... I'm kind of nervous. It's not just the company, it's—"
"Your marriage spit-pact with an eight-year old girl."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "It was more than that."
"It was seventeen years ago," he said. "You’re insane if you think this woman even remembers it. Does she know who you are?"
"We haven't really discussed it," I said. "There’s been a lot of business to talk about first—with her father at least."
“Look, Mom was a romantic, Xander, and so are you. It’s very sweet. But it doesn’t work in the real world. The world where your brother needs your help at the restaurant this morning.”
"I just have this weird feeling about it all. Like there’s some bigger reason why this is happening now. And I liked Camille," I said, my mind running back over the memories I had of her pert little nose and intense, blue-eyed gaze. "Or I used to."
"So you go
t engaged at eight. That's sane." Jonah did not share my romantic nature. He was more of the bang ‘em and blow town type.
Of course he was right. It wasn't sane, and I doubted Camille even remembered me. Not that I'd done much to maintain the relationship after we'd moved to New York. Keeping in touch isn't necessarily a key strength for pre-adolescent boys. But for that year? Yeah, we were engaged. And I had loved her as much as any eight-year old could.
"Either way, I can't work at the restaurant today," I told him.
Jonah let out a long slow breath. "Oh, I think you can."
"I need to get ready for tomorrow."
He stood up and crossed the space between us, pretending nonchalance, and then he tackled me, trying to pin my arms behind me as he pushed me down to the floor. Forget that Jonah was two years older than I was, I didn't spend all that time in the gym for nothing. I gained the upper hand, rolling him onto a shoulder and throwing a leg over him. I was about to climb on top to deliver the victory cheek slap when he pulled a move I didn't anticipate and instantly, I was on my back. Jonah's hands softly battered my cheeks as he laughed.
"Victory!" He crowed. "Get your apron on, waiter."
I pushed him off. "Fine. But this is it. I'm not going to have time once we absorb Ark Systems."
An hour later, I was wearing a white apron and unlocking the doors to Jonah's bistro, Toast, in Greenwich Village.
As I helped the diners, turning out plate after plate of my brother's incredible food and delivering drinks, my mind was on the next day. Camille would be in the office with her father. We'd finalize details for the acquisition, and I'd show her where she'd be working—just next door to my own office, overlooking the Hudson River.
A little buzz went through me as I thought of the picture I’d seen of her—tall, elegant, with that inquisitive blue-eyed gaze I'd known so well as a kid. She was hot, honestly—not that it made a difference. But I still looked forward to seeing her again.
And to making a very strategic acquisition that would help my company too.
3
Camille
As we settled into our rooms, I was nervous—a little angry maybe. Maybe even scared. My job and this company were my life. And I was willing to move to New York to keep doing it, to forge my own path here. But the idea was unsettling.
“Camille, sit. You’re making me nervous.” Dad sipped a mimosa and gestured to a chair on the other side of the table.
I shook my head and gazed out the window at the busy city beyond. “You know what? I might go out, get a walk in. I need to stretch my legs after the flight, I think. Unwind a bit.”
“You remember your way around? It’s been a while, sweetheart.”
“Luckily, the streets are numbered. I should be fine.” I remembered enough. Park in the middle at the top, village south and west, financial district at the southern tip. What else did I need to know?
“Back by dinner?” he asked.
It wasn’t even noon. “Definitely.”
I went to my room and threw on running tights, a long tank and a hoodie with a pocket where I could stick my phone and a credit card. I grabbed a twenty and folded into my bra strap, just in case. I wasn’t planning to run, but I wanted to be comfortable. “See you in a bit,” I called to Dad as I headed out.
The city thrummed around me as my feet found a natural rhythm on the busy sidewalks, and I headed south, walking without any specific destination. I managed to land in Times Square, full of meandering tourists, street performers, and a wealth of folks in no particular hurry. That was not what I needed. As I neared the southern edge of the crowd, a woman crashed into me, towing a little girl by the hand.
“Note to self. Avoid Times Square at all costs.” I continued south until I found myself in the Greenwich Village, where the orderly numbered streets surrendered to charming little named roads lined with shops. I wandered aimlessly until I came upon a cute bistro tucked into the block between two soaring trees. The smells coming from the place made my stomach growl ambitiously. The place was called Toast, and it was perfect. I just hoped they were still serving lunch.
The hostess showed me to a small table in the corner next to the window and placed a menu in front of me. "Xander will help you in just a moment," she said. "Can I bring you a drink?"
"Chardonnay, please. And water."
"Certainly," she said, and headed to the small wood bar set against the far wall.
The bistro was adorable, no more than fifteen tables inside the space. The walls were paneled with dark wood and there were bright touches—the fabric of the barstools, the French posters hanging on the walls. I was absorbed in looking around the space, and hadn't even opened the menu when a tall, handsome man with dark hair settled my wine glass. "Hello, mademoiselle. How are you today?"
His simple greeting fit perfectly with my mood. I smiled up at him. "Tres bien, merci."
His smile widened, and he leaned closer, conspiratorially. "I don't really speak French," he said in a mock whisper. "Or I'd continue to impress you with my sparkling banter. But we're going to have to move to English for me to have any hope of getting your order correct."
I laughed. There was something so genuine about the way he said it, and the sparkle in his dark eyes as he straightened back up. A dark scruff of beard covered his square chin. "Have you had a chance to look over the menu?"
"I kind of wandered in here in a daze, and I've been so completely charmed by how adorable it all is, I haven't."
"I'm glad you like it. This is my brother's restaurant, and he'll be pleased to hear it. Are you a visitor or a local?"
"Both."
His mouth lifted on one side in surprise. "That's an answer I don't get every day."
I met his dark-eyed gaze, a strange warmth blooming inside me. Get a grip, Camille. Yeah, it’s been a while, but don’t mistake friendliness for something else. "I'm moving here. We've just arrived this morning. Today, I'm a visitor. But once I start work in my new office tomorrow, I'll be a local."
"That's exciting," he said. "Where are you moving from?"
"San Diego."
Something clouded his gaze as he nodded, "I spent some time there as a kid. Great place.” His sculped lips regained their smile. “Would you like to hear the specials?"
I nodded, watching his handsome face as he explained the various options—delicious sounding things with smoked salmon and quail eggs and homemade muffins. I didn't even need to look at the menu, and handed it back to him after agreeing to try one of the delicious-sounding specials. I couldn't have explained why I did it, but just before he moved back toward the kitchen, I added, "I'm Camille, by the way."
He straightened abruptly, and his smile came just a beat too late. "Xander."
4
Alexander
“Shit, shit, shit.” I paced behind my brother as he stirred something in a huge pot on the stove.
“Does this crisis have anything to do with lunch service?” he asked.
"It's her," I hissed over the hum of the fans in the kitchen, leaning into my brother's side.
"Kinda busy here, Xander."
"It's her," I repeated, louder. "She's here. Camille."
He turned to look at me, spatula frozen in mid-air. "Take this," he said to the sous chef.
We crept to the kitchen door together and I pointed through the small window. "There. In the corner."
"How can you be sure? It's been more than a decade. Practically two."
"Her name is Camille, she's from San Diego, and she told me she's moving here for work." I thought about the way my stomach had jittered with nerves when she'd first turned to smile at me. "Plus, I'd know her anywhere. It's her."
We stepped away from the door. "That's going to make things a little awkward tomorrow, right? 'Hi I'm Alexander, waiter and CEO.'" He laughed, and I gave him a dark look.
"I told you I was done here. I can't believe you made me work today."
"You're a nice guy and you knew I needed help. Sh
ould be easy enough to explain."
He had a point. "Okay, but when the lunch rush dies, I'm leaving."
He lifted a shoulder and went back to the cooktop. I returned to the floor, but had a difficult time focusing on anything but the pretty woman in the corner. I wished I could slide into the chair opposite her, be her partner in enjoying a beautiful day instead of being her waiter. I couldn't imagine what her reaction would be the next day when she figured out that her waiter was also her new boss. And her childhood friend. And pre-pubescent fiancé.
I owed her the truth, I decided. Putting it off would only make it look like I was hiding something. I approached her table, but when she turned toward me with a worried expression and the bill in her hand, my intentions faded. "What's wrong?"
She cringed visibly. "I left the hotel with just my phone and a credit card, and I stupidly put them in my pocket here." She indicated a loose pocket on the back of her shirt. "And they're gone." She shook her head. "A woman crashed into me in Times Square. I should have known. I just have this," she said, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from the top of her shirt and smoothing it on the table. "It won't begin to cover lunch."
"It's okay," I said, pretending a that little thrill hadn't just run through me at the idea that a put-together woman like this stashed money in her bra.
"It's not," she insisted, swinging her gaze toward the kitchen. "Do you think I could wash dishes or something?"
I laughed. "I think that's only in movies. Seriously, don't worry about it."
Her beautiful face molded into an expression of pure humiliation. "This is so embarrassing. I can bring money later," she said. "I can leave you my hotel information, my name. I can even tell you where I'll be tomorrow, my new office—"
