by Amanda Faye
ONE NIGHT
ONLY
Forbidden Fruit Series, #2
Amanda Faye
Copyright@ 2020 Amanda Faye
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover Design by: Megan Parker-Squiers @ EmCat Designs
Editing by: S. Murra
Library of Congress Control Number:
Printed in the United States of America
Thank you, Thomas, for constantly supporting me and riding my butt to get stuff done. Thank you to Britt, from Red Hatter Book Tours, for being the best PA a girl could ask for. Sade, for answering my messages at 2 am despite how tired you are. Sabrina and Kat, who are my number one supporters, and Amber and Amanda, who keep me company all night while I write and ignore my children.
Prologue
Cristina
2008
I hear the door slam a second before I hear him.
"Mom, do you have any food? I'm starving."
Ryan.
I don't bother to stop what I'm doing. No doubt, he'll breach the sanctity of my bedroom soon enough.
"Of course, sweetie. Check the island. I was at the store yesterday. Your stash is overflowing."
I roll my eyes and resume the sorting of my belongings. You'd think Ryan was her kid the way she dotes on him. The more I complain, though, the more she goes on about how great he is.
Beth's brother is a lot of things; rude, obnoxious, a player. Cute. But ‘great’ isn't a label I'd brand him with.
Sure enough, a few moments later, my door opens, and in he comes. He doesn't bother to knock. He never does; just barges into my house whenever he wants.
"Hey Sugarplum, what's up?"
He's got on board shorts and a tank top, flip flops smacking against his soles with every step. He needs a haircut. Mrs. Thomlinson swore she'd make him get one before he left for college, but time is running out for that particular goal.
He's got an apple in one hand and a Yoo-Hoo in the other. I roll my eyes in disgust. He's the only one who drinks those revolting things. Momma and I hate them. Still, she makes sure we always have them in stock. I can't imagine the money momma will save when he finally leaves for school.
I mean, I eat meals with Beth and her parents as often as they do here, but at least their Mom doesn't buy me snacks.
"What do you want, Ryan? I'm busy."
I turn my back on him, facing the piles on my bed.
Instead of answering me, or better yet, leaving, he kicks his 'shoes' off and climbs from the foot of my bed, stretching out across the length of it.
Toppling half my stacks in the process.
Asshole.
"Dammit, Ryan! Why don't you go bother Beth? Or one of your girlfriends? Leave me alone."
He grins, taking the last bite of his apple before tossing it over my head and landing it in the waste bin. I try to fight it, but I end up smirking back at him.
How does he always do that?
One minute I want to knee him in the balls, the next he makes me smile.
"You know you're the only girl I love."
I roll my eyes but can't help my smile. And the way my heart speeds up in my chest.
"What are you doing?" He asks.
His arms are behind his head, and his shirt has ridden up several inches above his waistband. He's skinny, but track and football gave him muscles in all the right places. I try to keep my eyes on my piles and not the scattering of hair over his abs.
"Deciding what to take with me to school and what to leave here."
"Seriously, Sugarplum? You and Beth are going to school less than an hour away. I don't even know why you're wasting the money staying in a dorm when your Mom is here willing to cook you dinner every night. If I could bring her with me to school, I'd pack her in my suitcase."
I scoff, knowing the truth of it.
"Ask her. She'd probably come with you."
If possible, his smile gets even wider.
"Awww, do I detect some jealousy there? Don't worry, Sugarplum, you're still my number one girl. Forget this stupid stuff. Let's do something, me, and you. I'm going to miss you."
He picks up one of my collections, sets it on the floor, and then swings his legs over another, moving to sit straight in front of me.
"You know you'll miss me too," he says. "Admit it."
His legs spread as he hauls me to him, arms wrapping around my hips. I swallow down the tiny thrill I always get when he gets like this.
Sweet, with a side of douche.
I shove his face away because it wouldn't do to let him get away with this kind of crap unpunished, but then let my forearms rest on his shoulders.
"I have stuff to do, Ryan."
If my fingers play with the ends of his hair, it's just because they're there. Not because I like it.
"Please. Anything you want. I'll even help you organize. But be with me. Because I will miss you."
I'll miss you too.
"Fine, we can hang out. But this is a one night only thing."
His smile would make the Mona Lisa crack, and he tries to sneak a kiss while my defenses are down.
I shove my palm in his face, pushing him away, his laughter coating my hand when my door opens.
If my Mom finds anything inappropriate with me basically sitting in Ryan's lap, she doesn't say anything about it.
Instead, she has this indulgent smile on her face, like she sees something sweet.
"Ryan, honey, can you help me, dear? I just finished that Feng Shui book you bought me, and want to re-decorate my bedroom, but I can't get the bookcase to budge."
"Momma, you should have got me first! I don't want you lifting anything heavier than a frying pan."
He shoves me off him, like I was the one pinning him down, and follows my Mom out of the room, asking her if she'd make pork chops before he leaves for school next week.
I haven't even risen from the bed before he runs back into my room, drops a kiss on my forehead, and bolts back out again.
I smile, raising my hand to my forehead before I remember to yell after him.
"One night only, Ryan! That's all you get."
Chapter One
Ryan
Twelve Years Later…
She doesn't bother with a hello. Nothing so dull as a traditional greeting for my Cristina. No, when I answer the phone, anticipation for this afternoon's verbal give and take surging through me, she acknowledges me with four words I never thought I'd hear.
"Ryan, I need you."
My brain freezes, decades of inappropriate desires flashing through my mind, but luckily my mouth has been preparing for this moment for years.
"Yes, Sugarplum. You know you only have to ask. What'll it be, do you want to be on top, or should I?"
I can physically hear her nose crinkle in that adorable way she has.
"First off, eww. Second off, how many times am I going to have to ask you to stop calling me Sugarplum? People look at us weird when they hear it."
You'd think she was fifteen instead of thirty by the way she grouses at me.
She's been my Sugarplum since we were twelve, and she stole the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy from my sister in the winter ballet. She and Beth didn't talk for weeks after that fiasco. It was said with disdain the first time I let it slip. It became a term of endearment the minute I watched her toe her way onto that stage.
That was the d
ay she stole a piece of my heart.
"Am I on speakerphone?" I ask.
"No," she sulks. It's just so much fun to fuck with her. Honestly, it's my favorite part of the day.
"What do you need, Sugarplum?"
Her sigh is pronounced, and I close my eyes and picture the half-smirk etched across her face. Light brown hair slashed through with golden highlights, her eyes are blue, like the crashing waves of the ocean. Her skin has a honey tone, despise the gobs of sunscreen she wears like a religion. She’s of middling height, which puts her four or five inches below my six-foot one frame.
Right now, she’s rolling her eyes. Trying to look cross but failing; ending with a half-exasperated half-amused smile covering her rosy pink lips.
My pet name doesn't bother her nearly as much as she pretends it does.
"I need you to go to the wedding with me."
I recoil as if she'd shoved a snake in my face.
"What? No! Not just no, but hell no. I thought I told you if I ever saw that asshole again, I was going to break his nose. I don't think that would be a good look on his wedding day. Besides, didn't you already have a date lined up?"
"I did," she growls, and her frustration is palpable. "He had to cancel at the last minute. Gave me some lame-ass reason."
"What excuse could he possibly give for standing you up?"
She hesitates for a second before answering, "His mother fell down the stairs." I can't help but laugh at the disgruntlement in her voice.
"You know, Cris, as far as excuses go, that's a pretty good one."
"I know," she whines, and it brings out another round of chuckles from me.
"I don't understand why you insist on going to this farce anyway—after what the little pissant did, then inviting you to his wedding? I don't think I can do it, Cris. You may be over it, but I'm sure as hell not."
After four years as a couple, one of which she wore his ring, he broke it off by moving out of their apartment while she was at work. She got the invitation for his wedding less than six months later.
"Tom's sister has called me twice to confirm—slash—talk me out of coming. I can't not show up at the last minute, Ryan. You have to come with me."
Dammit, she's right. I do. Or I will, at any rate. If I can't talk her out of it, there's no way in hell I'm letting her go alone.
"Yeah, alright. When is it?"
I've been at my parent's garage, finishing up a repair on the motorcycle that's due to be picked up Monday. I went to school for engineering but took over the family business anyhow after my father had a stroke a few years back. I can't wear gloves when I work—I need to feel the metal under my fingers. Which means I always have a thin layer of grease and car slime coating my hands and forearms. I'm going to have to soak in degreaser tonight to be presentable at a wedding tomorrow.
She hesitates before answering, and a sheet of dread falls on me.
"Five o'clock," she answers in a meek voice.
"Tonight? Shit, Sugarplum. A little more warning would have been nice."
"I told you my date canceled on me at the last minute."
Yeah, no kidding.
I swing my leg off the bike I've been resting on and start to make the rounds on shutting up the shop. I'm the only one here; we're not officially open on weekends. I look at my watch, then set the timer on my phone. I have two and a half hours to get home, get presentable, then get to Cristina to make this stupid wedding on time.
"Tell me what I need to know about this nightmare."
Her relief is unmistakable. "Dress nice. It's at a hotel."
"How nice?" I ask, mind wandering to the back of my closet.
"Well, you don't need a tux or anything, but don't wear your combat boots either. Though—," and when she hesitates, I can hear the wheels turning in her imagination. "Maybe you should wear what you're wearing now. He'd hate it."
I can't help but laugh at that. One of the many things her ex and I disagreed on was my level of cleanliness. Man, is he a snob. She is so much better off without him.
"Nah, Sugarplum. If I'm going to be on your arm tonight, I won't embarrass you. Look, I'm still at the shop. Meet me at my place, and we'll go from there? I have oil up to my elbows."
"Sure, of course," she babbles as I lock up the building and toss on my motorcycle jacket. It's 90 degrees outside, but I won't ride my bike without it.
"You know I'm only doing this ‘cause I love ya," I say as I climb onto the back of my bike, smiling at the little huff of breath she releases.
"Yeah, I know."
"See you soon," I say, before pocketing my phone.
The thing is, I don't think she does know.
I text my sister from a red light, and she's already at my house when I get there. I was at MIT when our dad had his stroke, finishing up my first year of grad school. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to get much better than where he's at now, I moved back home and bought the house for sale three doors down from where we grew up. Cristina's mom lives in between us.
Beth and her husband moved in with our parents after their son Danny was born. She comes into the office three mornings a week to help with the paperwork; otherwise, she takes care of our pops and her son. Once, my dreams were bigger than this. I wanted to work for Google or Apple designing new tech. Now, I can't imagine a time when I can't walk the 500 feet to eat dinner at my mom's kitchen table.
"This is a bad idea," Beth says the minute the door slams shut behind me. I don't bother to stop and humor her warnings, just power on back to the master bathroom, dropping my crap as I go.
She follows me, of course.
"You realize you can't just take her tonight. You have to play the part."
"Whatever that means."
I drop my shirt to the bathroom floor, followed by the tank I have on underneath it. Ignoring my sister hovering two feet from me, I reach into the shower and get it blasting on hot. It takes forever to warm up.
There's an industrial-size bottle of baby oil on the counter, and I pop the lid and start pouring an obscene amount over my hands, rubbing it in up to my elbows. It's an old mechanics trick my father taught me. Like begets like—so the best thing to get oil off is oil. Beth, having spent plenty of her childhood in the engine of a car, tosses me a rag hanging on the towel rack, and I start to scrub the grease off of my arms.
"Everybody at this wedding knows who she is. If they don't yet, they will before the cake is cut. She can't simply walk in with her best friend's brother on her arm and pretend you're a date. They'll look at her like she's pathetic. Worse than pathetic."
"Why is that information they need to know?" I ask, looking at her via the reflection in the mirror.
"Because her ex-fiancée is the groom, and he hates your guts. He'll tell anyone who'll listen, just to prove how pathetic it is she couldn't get a real date and had to take you instead."
It sounds exactly like something Tom would do, wedding day or not, and I have to pull back on my scrubbing before I rip the skin off my hands.
"So, what do you expect me to do, sis? If you can talk her out of going to this mess, then I'm all for it. But I'm not letting her go alone."
"I saw Anthony’s mom this morning at the farmers market, and she mentioned he was in town this weekend. I could probably get him to go with her."
"Anthony Markle? Hell no. I'm going. Get out of my bathroom."
Instead of leaving as she should, she shrugs and hops on the counter. I give her a dirty look, then motion to the sink with my elbow and wait as she turns the water on.
"Then that means you have to play the part. You can't be my brother tonight. You have to be her boyfriend. Kissing, hugging, grabbing her ass in public, boyfriend."
Desire twitches in my pants, but one look at Beth settles that runaway emotion.
"Yeah, I'm still not seeing the issue here, Beth. I've got no problem playing grab-ass in front of Tom."
"I know, and that's the problem."
"I'm getting n
aked. Get out."
"We're twins," she says in a flat voice. Like it gives her carte blanche to be in my shower.
"Huh. Can I see your cock?"
I shove my pants off my hips and wait for her to roll her eyes, then cover them with her hand. Seriously. I pray to the patron saint of aggravated brothers, then jump into the shower while she's still got her face covered. I toss my now wet underwear at her over the shower rod.
I hear her swear when they hit their target and the splat when they hit the ground. Round one to me then.
"What's going to happen, Ryan, when you want to keep kissing on her tomorrow, and she hates your guts again?"
"She doesn't hate me, Beth. It's a game we play. I flirt with her endlessly, and she pretends it drives her nuts. We're a well-oiled machine, no pun intended. I don't know what you're getting your panties in a twist over."
"There’s a reason why none of your relationships have lasted more than a few months. You're in love with her, Ryan," and I can hear her concern even over the pounding of the water.
"So?"
I stick my head out of the curtain, soapy hair dripping down my back. "Cris knows that too. I tell her often enough."
If Beth could figure out how to punch me without getting dragged under the showerhead, I'm sure she would by the look on her face.
