I never ever cross that line. I’ve seen workplace romances end badly at every single restaurant and bar I’ve worked at.
Those romances end especially badly for women. I can’t tell you how many times my male colleagues stopped taking a woman seriously after discovering an indiscretion. Many of those women wound up leaving or getting fired, their reputations irreparably damaged.
But dammit, I am curious. The world knows Samuel as this flashy ex-athlete with a big smile and bigger bank account. You look at his Instagram, and that’s what you’ll see. He surrounds himself with wealth and beauty and success.
That sigh tells a different story.
Those eyes tell a really different story.
I can’t stop staring at his back. An image materializes inside my head: the bunching of those back muscles as he works over me. Gliding his lubed-up cock up and down between my breasts. Lips parted, eyes vulnerable, he loses himself to me. I dig my fingernails into his shoulder blades and drag them down the length of his spine. He hisses. I smile. He half grunts, half speaks.
I. Thrust. Appreciate. Thrust. Who you. Thrust. Really are.
This bone-deep yearning settles in the center of my being. Samuel never said those words. But God, if he did—if he was that ardent, that open, that real with me—I’m not sure I could handle it.
The sound of a twig snapping startles me out of my reverie. To my horror, I look down to see I’m the one who made that noise—my foot rests on a broken branch.
Shit.
I look up to see Samuel glaring in my direction.
“Is someone there?” he calls, standing. A sheet of water glides down his chest, plastering the dark hair there to his skin. His nipples are erect. “This is private property.”
I whirl around, back against the tree, and glue my arms to my sides. Oh, God, not only am I peeping my fellow employee like a total perv, but I’m also trespassing.
My heart nearly explodes when I hear Samuel climb out of the pool. He approaches, footsteps slapping against the wet concrete.
“Hello?” he calls, much closer than before.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pray like hell he turns back around.
After several excruciating beats, he does. Thank God. Pulse hammering, I listen to him pad up the steps back to the house.
I need to get out of here. Stat. But apparently, I have no self-control when it comes to finding large men hanging out in pools at night because I glance toward the house one last time.
My pulse—it stops working.
Samuel is naked and turned away from me so I get a good view of his bare ass as he climbs the steps, using a towel to wipe his face. Like the rest of him, his ass is big and muscular. Two pale white globes that flex as he climbs, creating these delicious little indents just below his hip bones.
The whole thing is downright biteable. I imagine that’s how the muscles flex when he fucks. He’d be athletic in bed, the kind of sex that’d have you down a few pounds after a weekend marathon of it.
He shoots one last look over his shoulder. This time, I don’t take any chances. I scurry off, quiet as a mouse, careful to keep to places where pine needles cover the ground so they muffle the sound of my steps.
I’m out of breath by the time I get to my cottage. Closing the door behind me, I lean against it, struggling to get a grip on my runaway pulse.
I’m shaking, and I don’t know why.
Thankfully, I have my phone to distract me. It’s chiming from its perch on my nightstand.
My stomach dips the way it always does when I see a notification from Instagram, telling me my sister just posted a photo.
For a split second, I close my eyes. Overall, it’s been a decent night. I bested Samuel at a tasting and had probably the best cybersex of my life. Why ruin it by hate scrolling through my feed?
But like the social-media-addicted millennial I am, I scroll anyway. Lindsey’s is the first photo that pops up. Her feed is a beautifully curated collection of perfect images of her perfect life with her perfect husband, Palmer. Fabulous trips, fun-filled weekends, bright, sweaty smiles after a #Crossfit workout.
This particular post is a bright, cheery photo of her and Palmer, the two of them smiling on the sun-drenched patio of their beautiful home in Raleigh. My sister is, as always, impeccably put together, from her fashionable balloon-sleeved maxi dress to the stack of Cartier bracelets crowding her arm. She and Palmer are holding up flutes of sparkling wine. They’re clearly celebrating something, and I have a sudden, almost panicky need to know what that something is.
Cheers to my promotion to partner! Ever since I was a little girl, I’d watch my dad come home from a day of work at the law firm bearing his name. For years, I’ve dreamed of following in his footsteps, and as of today, I’ve officially done it! No better way to celebrate than with the dude who makes my heart sing. @PalmerK I wouldn’t have made it without you #BottomsUp #GirlBoss
Hashtag gross. Shit, I knew there had to be a reason she called earlier today. I haven’t had a chance to call her back.
I’m still shaking as I type a quick text to Lindsey, congratulating her. Honestly, I’m glad I missed her call, and that it’s too late to try chatting tonight. I’m happy for my sister. I’m proud of all that she’s accomplished; making partner at a law firm is a big deal. But seeing her hit overachiever milestone after overachiever milestone while I’m over here trading dirty puns with coworkers in an effort to keep my first salaried position is…
Yeah, it’s humbling to say the least.
A sharp-edged ache replaces the yearning in my center.
Envy.
And you know, I used to believe it was an unworthy emotion. But lately, I’ve come to realize that this particular kind of envy can actually be instructive.
It can show me what I want, and what I’m missing.
I don’t want to be on the partner track, and I definitely don’t want Lindsey’s Cartier jewelry.
It’s the success, the stability, the happiness that comes from making a good living doing something I love.
I try hard not to think about what my life would be like if I’d followed a similar path to Lindsey’s. Back in college, we were both pre-law. But a lot changed for me my senior year, and while my mom and dad really wanted me to toe the family line—they’re both attorneys—my heart led me elsewhere.
I don’t regret becoming a sommelier. But I do wish I had more to show for all the hard work I’ve put in over the past ten years.
I do wish I didn’t allow the world to make me feel like a joke as often as I do. I’m a lot less insecure than I used to be, but every so often, I can’t help but think no one would ever give Lindsey the side-eye for her career choice.
I crawl into bed, tired but unable to sleep.
I really, really want to make this job work. Not to compete with or impress my sister, although maybe she’ll finally stop looking at me with that condescending sympathy in her eyes every time I talk about my job.
I want to make it work for me. Because my gut is telling me that this is the one—the dream job that will give me the stability I want and the creative freedom I crave.
For a long time, I thought that was too much to ask. I know how the world works, and I realize how privileged I am to even be considering these goals, much less going after them.
But I figured hey, if I can imagine it, maybe I can make it happen.
So here I am. And unfortunately, I don’t have a boss who believes in me. In fact, I have to prove my worth to him every damn minute of every damn day.
I think about Lindsey again, living in her perfect world. I don’t need perfect. I don’t need to be perfect. But I do have to find success in reaching my goals.
I’ve come this far. And I’m not going to let Samuel Beauregard keep me from making my dreams come true.
Chapter Eight
Samuel
I wake up with a woody.
What am I, a goddamn teenager?
Running a hand dow
n my overgrown stubble, I blink the sleep from my eyes. I had dreams last night.
Vivid, explicit dreams. Someone’s dark arts at work, no doubt.
Might as well revisit them this morning. Maybe starting the day with an orgasm will make it a little less miserable. The internet sex—it’s been liberating.
Too often, I find myself playing into the fantasy of who my hookups think I am—the guy with the smile and the swagger—rather than just being myself. Almost makes me think I don’t want them to know who I am.
Keeping girls at arm’s-length gives me control over the situation. And I like control.
Only yielding that control, in certain situations anyway, has turned out to be the biggest fucking turn-on ever. For the first time in forever, I’m letting someone else take the lead, and I’m legit surprised it hasn’t blown up in my face yet.
I’m not gonna begin to unpack what that says about me. There’s a lesson here, I know, but it’s early days yet. Still, I like the sense of freedom I feel when I’m connecting with this girl. She’s uncovered a side of me I’ve never shown to anyone else, and it’s fun just being who I am with her. No expectations. No fear.
Reaching down, I grab my dick, hissing when I thumb the slit on the underside of my crown, and squeeze my eyes shut.
I fucked her tits last night. So this morning, I imagine I’m rocking into that pretty little cunt of hers as I start to give myself slow, lazy tugs, the heels of those wicked shoes digging into my bare ass.
It hurts.
I like it.
Goddammit, I like her.
My strokes become harder, more urgent. She knows I like it when she takes charge—she knows me—and I surrender when she pushes me off her, rough and raw and hot as hell. I land on my back, and she climbs onto my dick, reverse cowgirl style.
I can see the tops of her bent knees spreading as she rides me. This angle is deep, and I can tell she’s adjusting to it because she goes slowly.
She feels so good. Tight, soft. Vulnerable. She’s equal parts alpha and beta this way. Dominator and doe.
“My hair,” she breathes, her head falling back. “Pull it.”
Only then do I realize her hair is coiled tightly in a bun.
A bun I know well.
When I hesitate, she glances at me over her shoulder, and our eyes lock. Hers are light brown. They’re heavy lidded, but they still burn with honesty. Real need, vulnerability.
My eyes fly open, my hand going still.
What the fuck?
How did Emma end up there? And why does my dick throb urgently at the idea that it’s her fucking me?
I need a cold shower. Immediately. This is a dangerous road, one that leads nowhere.
But my cock is hard in my hand and my balls are screaming bloody murder, and something about the thought of leaving this unfinished is infinitely depressing.
I close my eyes. Working myself harder, faster, I imagine pulling the bobby pins out of her bun. Her hair cascades down her bare back, loose and wild, and when I wrap it around my fist and give it a tug, her pussy tightens around my cock.
No greater satisfaction than making a girl come on your dick.
She digs her fingernails into my thigh. “Harder,” she pants. I can just glimpse her nipples as she arches her back. Pink. Puffy. Perfect. “Deeper. I know you can go deeper, Samuel. Do it.”
I’m sweating now. Squeezing my cock so hard it hurts. I don’t know if I can keep going like this.
“Yes, you can,” she says, reading my thoughts. Her voice is breathy. Nothing held back. Nothing smoothed over. She rolls her hips, milking me and taking me deeper. “Follow me. Yes. Just like that.”
It takes me a beat to get it. But then we fall into a deep, punishing, soul-baring rhythm, speaking our own language without saying a word. I read her: bucking my hips, I spear her on the crest of her thrust, making her whole body jerk. She slaps my thigh in approval. She reads me: noticing how I like it when she plays with my balls, she reaches between her legs and cups them. I pull her hair, lost in pleasure.
“Come with me, Samuel. Right. Now.”
She clamps down on me, going still, and I come.
Hell, I fucking roar, sending the birds outside my window scattering. I jerk the sheets away, narrowly avoiding covering them in ropes of cum.
I climb out of bed on unsteady legs. I’m hollowed out.
I’m one sick bastard.
Hanging my head in the shower, I try to rationalize. Calm down. That weird fantasy—it was just my imagination going into overdrive. Doesn’t help that I’m stressed as hell at work.
I have to get rid of Emma. She’s fucking with my head, and now is not the time to lose my shit. I know what I’m doing. I don’t need her and her lofty ideas.
I can do this job well without help. Because once that help takes over, I’m a goner.
This morning’s fantasy is just me crushing on my new fuck buddy. I just—
Why can’t I find that brand of fearless authenticity before now? Why don’t I ever connect with anyone the way I connect with her?
Really, what the fuck am I doing wrong?
* * *
Bang.
Daddy’s cast-iron skillet makes a loud noise as I drop it onto the burner. I should be more careful, but I’m feeling off-kilter today. My hands are unsteady. My entire body is unsteady, as evidenced by the way I keep tripping over my own damn feet.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” a voice behind me says. “Samuel, are you rage cooking?”
I glance over my shoulder to see Hank standing beside my kitchen island. Beau is with him—they must’ve come in through the side door. My siblings and I stopped knocking on each other's doors years ago. It was a trend I started.
I regret that now.
“No,” I grunt, turning back to the onions and asparagus tips I got going. They pop, and I give the skillet a shove. “Maybe.”
“Definitely,” says another voice. “Whatcha makin’?”
“A frittata, asshole.” I cut Beau a glance. “Better question: what happened to you? You look like hell. Insomnia strike again? Or something happen with Annabel?”
“I saw y’all dancing at the bonfire the other night,” Hank says. “Looked awful cozy together.”
My older brother flips his hat off his head and tugs a hand through his hair. Beau was recently diagnosed with CTE, the same degenerative brain disease that Daddy suffered from. One of the unfortunate symptoms is trouble sleeping. He always looks tired. But now he looks strung out too.
It’s a feeling I know well.
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s nothing. So, this rage cooking—”
“I’ll save you the trouble.” I pour a bowl of whisked eggs into the skillet, along with a handful of freshly grated white cheddar cheese. I put the skillet in the oven, then I throw the whisk and wooden spoon I’ve been using into the sink. Hank jumps at the clatter. “Yes, I’m pissed, and yes, it has to do with Emma. She’s gotta go.”
Beau’s shoulders rise on an aggrieved inhale. Remorse arrows through my chest. The man’s got a lot on his plate. It’s one reason I’m so adamant about maintaining control over my little corner of the Blue Mountain universe. I want to help as much as I can.
“Why?” Hank asks. “I think she’s great.”
“Not helping,” I say.
Beau crosses his arms. “Why not Emma? The staff at The Barn Door said she’s been a total dream so far.”
My hands tighten on the chair. “You really think someone as ambitious as that is going to be content as a co-head? She wants the whole damn thing.”
“Did she say as much?”
“Well, no, but I know when—”
“This have anything to do with the blind tasting y’all did last night? Heard you panned one of your favorite trophy wines.”
“What? No. No, that’s not—Good Lord.” I run a hand down my face, cradling my jaw in my hand. “Rumors sure do fly up here.”
Beau tilts his head. “You getting smo
ked at a blind tasting is not a rumor. It’s a fact. C’mon. You should know how to have your ass handed to you with a little more grace.”
“Ouch.”
Beau’s expression softens. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. But she stays, Samuel. As a matter of fact, I have a project for y’all to work on together.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure I can do it myself.”
Hank wrinkles his brow. “She’s really got your panties in a bunch, huh? You didn’t, like, sleep with her or anything, did you?”
“Jesus Christ!” Beau stares at me. “Samuel, you promised—”
“I did promise. And I’m offended you’d assume I’d break that promise. I’m a man of my word, same as you are, brother, so you best believe me when I say I haven’t laid a fucking finger on that girl. I’m not stupid.”
“Good.” Hank looks relieved. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“What, you got a crush on her or something?” I spit out.
Hank just looks at me sideways. “You really are raging today, huh?”
“Y’all.” Beau slaps his hand against the counter. “Emma is staying, no one is sleeping with her or crushing on her, and you two are gonna work together in goddamn peace and harmony or I’ll be firing both your asses. Got it?”
“Got it,” I grumble.
“Good. So, the project. We have Chef Elijah Jackson—yes, that Eli Jackson—coming into town with some of his buddies for a guys’ weekend. He requested a boozy lunch on Saturday, family style, preferably outside. Thought you and Emma could put together a wine tasting and food menu for them.”
I scoff. “No pressure or anything.”
Eli Jackson is Charleston’s most famous chef at its most famous restaurant, The Pearl. He’s one of the greats who put Southern cuisine on the map. Serving him is the equivalent of me picking up a guitar and playing for Eddie Van Halen (RIP to that dude, he is missed).
To be fair, I do have a bit more experience putting together a meal than I do playing eighties rock. But still. This luncheon’s a tall order.
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