by Devney Perry
“How did you end up with it?”
“It’s on its way across the country, starting in Boston. Clara is going to drive it to California.”
“She is? When?”
Aria laughed. “I don’t think she’s planned it yet. Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll plan her trip to coincide with your calendar and clear it first.”
“If you actually think she’d ask me, then you don’t know who’s really in charge. Your sister is the boss. And if you tell her I said that, I’ll deny it to the grave.”
“My lips are sealed.” She smiled, drawing a line across those lips. She hadn’t gone for a dark lipstick. They were a natural rose, shiny with gloss.
Her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip before she took another pull from her flute.
My mouth went dry. My focus was glued to the long, lickable column of her throat as she swallowed.
Back away. Join the crowd. Survive tonight and forget Aria Saint-James.
That was what I should have done.
Yet when she looked up at me, with those beautiful eyes and tempting lips, every reasonable thought went out the window.
“What would you say to stealing a tray of champagne and getting very, very drunk?” I asked.
Aria smiled. “I’d say you were reading my mind.”
Chapter Five
Aria
“I cannot believe you stole those flowers.”
I giggled and set the vase on Brody’s kitchen counter, then touched the tip of a calla lily. “Look how beautiful they are. And they smell so good. I couldn’t leave them behind to be tossed out.”
“They’ll die,” Brody said.
“Eventually. But not tonight.”
First, they’d brighten Brody’s concrete home.
I’d been obsessed with the flowers at the reception. Whenever the party had shifted to a new ballroom, the centerpieces had changed to match the space. I’d dragged Brody from vase to vase so I could inspect the arrangements, smell their sweet perfumes and touch their silky petals.
On the way out, the temptation to swipe one had been too much. We’d been alone in the hallway and an elegant vase on one of the tables had called my name. So I’d carried it out the door.
Brody might tease, but I could have sworn I’d heard his kitchen whisper thank you.
The room was dim. When we’d come inside, Brody had only flipped on the blue-white lights beneath the cabinets. But it was enough to see that the inside of Brody’s home matched the outside. Cold. Drab. Hard. Everything here was a shade of white or gray or black.
The cabinets were a modern style with sleek silver pulls. The floors were wood but the planks had been bleached so the grains and striations were muted. The windows were so clean that the black night seeped through their panes.
The only warmth came from my flowers, my green dress and Brody himself.
In my champagne haze, I studied him with a smile as he walked to the fridge. His polished shoes clicked on the floor and the stainless-steel door opened with a puff.
“We’re in luck.” He pulled out a bottle of champagne. The glass was a green so dark it was nearly black. The gold foil label screamed expensive. Not that I was a champagne connoisseur.
Though I suspected I’d consumed my annual salary’s worth of bubbly tonight. The wedding had been an eye-opening study of extravagance. Not even the fanciest of weddings I’d seen at The Gallaway could compare.
The ballrooms alone had wowed. The flowers I’d taken were likely a thousand-dollar arrangement. It wasn’t the season for peonies and tulips. And Juliet roses were pricey no matter the time of year.
There’d been hundreds. Thousands. The plates at dinner, all six varying sizes, had been trimmed in gold. Every glass had been crystal. The food itself had been delish, course after course, every bite decadent.
And the champagne had flowed in rivers. The servers, dressed in crisp white shirts and sharp black vests, had never let my flute go dry.
A dream wedding.
I was still dreaming. Because only in sleep could Brody be so . . . fun.
We’d laughed and talked and ignored the other guests at our table. He’d told me stories about people at the wedding. He’d entertained me with tales of blind dates with a few women in attendance. He’d laughed along as I’d impersonated his stuffy grandmother. And together, we’d heckled and teased every one of the toast makers. Twenty-eight in total. Why someone needed to have twenty-eight toasts at their wedding I would never comprehend.
Brody and I had been that couple, the annoying one who’d had fun despite being miserable, and yes, it had been at the expense of some others. I’d never see those people again and couldn’t find the motivation to feel guilty.
The champagne bottle hissed before the cork loosened with a pop. It flew across the room and bounced off a wall. A spray of foam splattered the floor.
“Whoops.” Brody ignored it and walked to a cabinet, opening it to pull out two flutes. They clinked on the silver-veined white granite counters. The champagne fizzed as he filled the glasses to nearly overflowing.
He handed me one, then lifted his own. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” My cheeks pinched from so much smiling.
My head was fuzzy and tomorrow I’d have a bitch of a hangover. I drained my flute regardless. More alcohol wasn’t the responsible choice, except it was delicious and I wasn’t ready to go home yet.
Clara and August were asleep. By all rights, I should be dead on my bare feet—my shoes had lasted until the flight home, then I’d kicked them off and left them forgotten on the plane. Maybe Ron, the bowing butler, had picked them up when he’d collected us from the Welcome airport in a town car and driven us home.
It was two o’clock in the morning, well past my normal bedtime, but my body pulsed with restless energy. It was adrenaline from the party. A buzz from the champagne. And a high from Brody.
His aura was invigorating, his grin charming. His quick wit and dry sense of humor had kept a smile on my face all night. The brooding, grumpy billionaire would likely surface tomorrow, but tonight, I was enjoying this version of Brody. The version with a personality.
Maybe this was why Clara had worked for him after these many years. Maybe when Brody let his guard down, he was actually . . . nice.
“Thank you, Aria.” He set his glass down and hopped up to sit on the edge of the massive island.
“You’re welcome.” I set my own flute on the counter at my back, planting my hands on the edge and hopping up too. The gown’s skirt swished over my toes, the satin cool and smooth against my skin.
“Tonight was . . . unexpected.” The rich baritone of his rugged voice warmed the lifeless room. It was as intoxicating as the champagne. More than once tonight, I’d let him lean in close and whisper in my ear.
More than once, I’d pretended the flirts were real. “Quite unexpected. And fun. Do you ever have fun?”
He chuckled and a shiver rolled down my spine. “Not often. I certainly hadn’t planned on fun tonight.”
“Does it bother you? Heather and Alastair?” I’d wanted to ask all night but had restrained myself until now. Did he still love her?
“Yes,” he admitted. “But not for the reason you think. I don’t like that Alastair won.”
“Ah. Then it’s a competition.”
“Between us, yes.” He lifted his glass to those soft lips for another sip. “We’re not like you and Clara. We never have been. He’s five years younger than I am, and I swear we’ve been battling since the day he was born.”
Clara was my best friend. My confidant. My sister of blood and soul. Warring with a sibling seemed unnecessarily sad. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, then he lifted a hand to touch the bouquet. “These are wasted on me. You should take them to Clara.”
“No. Leave them here. This place is in desperate need of color.” Even though the flowers were all pale shades of pink and peach and cream, at least they were warm.
“
You don’t like my house?”
“Not especially.”
A grin spread across his handsome face. “What would you change?”
“Oh . . . everything. But mostly, I’d add some life. Color. Texture. You do know they make paint in actual shades besides greige, right?”
“Do they?” he teased. “I’ll be sure to tell my interior designer. I bet your home is full of life.”
“You’d hate it. There are colors everywhere. And plants. Lots and lots of plants.”
He chuckled again, draining the rest of his glass. “Do you like your job?”
“I love my job. I like working with my hands and seeing things grow under my care. It’s satisfying, seeing a flower blossom and knowing I’m the one who planted the seed.”
“How did it start? How did you become interested in gardening?” He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on me. Brody had been like that all night. When I spoke, he listened. Intently. It had been unnerving at first. Now, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from talking because his attention was addictive.
“It started at the junkyard. It was so . . . dead.”
“Like my home.”
I laughed. “Yes, but in a different shade. Dirt and rust. Everything had this reddish-orange tinge. I don’t know why I got the impulse, but I was at the grocery store one day buying a loaf of bread, and beside the checkout stand, they had this display of packets. You know, the metal stand with all the seeds?”
He shook his head. “No, but I believe you.”
“Have you ever been inside a grocery store?”
“Once or twice.”
I shook my head and laughed. “God, our lives are different. Anyway, the packets were only thirty cents, so I bought three of them. I wanted to do something to make my little world prettier. I planted the seeds in an old egg carton and prayed they’d grow.”
“You gave it life.”
“I tried.” I gave him a sad smile. “It was a hobby. Tending my plants and flowers gave me something to do. By the time I left, Lou had enough to start a greenhouse if he wanted.”
“Lou?”
“The owner of the junkyard,” I said. “He let us stay there.”
“Right. The recluse. Clara never told me his name.”
“Lou Miley. I think I only spoke to him once or twice during the years we were there. He let us be. We did the same for him. But there was a fondness there, even from a distance.”
When Clara and I had left the junkyard, I’d replanted everything I’d grown and staged it closer to his home. I’d never forget the look on Lou’s face when he spotted the pink flowers I’d left right outside his door. He gaped at them, shocked, and maybe a little bit proud.
I liked to think that he’d watered those flowers after I’d left. That he’d realized it had been the only thing I could give him as a token of my appreciation.
I’d given him the lives I’d grown as thanks for saving mine.
“Enough about that.” I waved the topic away. I didn’t think about the junkyard often or, even more rarely, the miserable years before. And tonight, I was enjoying myself too much to rehash the past.
Besides, it wasn’t like Brody actually cared. I suspected this charm was his way of humoring me. His own token of appreciation for accompanying him tonight.
“You work at a hotel,” he said.
“I do.” I nodded. “The Gallaway. It’s beautiful. Different than the hotel we were at tonight, but no less exquisite. It’s right on the coast. I get to work with the ocean waves as my soundtrack and the smell of salt and sand in the air.”
“You love your home. You love your job. What else should I know about you, Aria Saint-James?”
That maybe I don’t hate you. “One day, I’d like to have a flower shop and a greenhouse of my own. I’d like to make bouquets like that one and keep growing plants.”
It was a secret I hadn’t told anyone, not even Clara. I didn’t set many goals. I didn’t think too far into the future. Because it was too easy for dreams to be stolen. Better they stay locked away.
“I don’t know why I just told you that,” I admitted.
“Probably the champagne.”
I lifted my glass for another sip. “Probably. And tomorrow, I’ll regret confiding in the enemy.”
“I’m still the enemy?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Good.” He grinned, hopping off the counter. “Come tomorrow, there will be no more need for a truce.”
“Agreed.” The word sounded breathy as he crossed the space between us.
There was hunger in his green eyes. It had been there for hours. If he pulled a mirror from his tux pocket, I’d likely see that same desire in my own gaze. He walked closer, his gait easy and confident. Each step was a seduction, like the one and only dance we’d shared at the wedding.
Brody had held me tight, his grip on my waist firm. And he’d given me that attention, that undivided attention. The spice of his cologne filled my nose as he closed the gap. With me seated on the counter, our eyes were nearly level. Not quite. He stood a few inches over six feet, and even with my perch, he had me beat.
His beard seemed thicker in the muted light and my fingers itched to touch the strands. His hair was combed so well, it needed a good tousle.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he inched closer, pressing into the skirt of my gown.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
My heart skipped. Yes. That was the champagne talking. I didn’t care. “What if I don’t want you to kiss me?”
He leaned in close, the warmth of his breath caressing my cheek. “What if you do?”
What if I did?
I took his face in my hands, letting the scratch of his beard scrape against my palms, and I pulled his mouth down to mine.
Then I kissed him.
“Hey,” Clara said, walking into the living room.
“Shhhh.” I held up a finger from my spot on the couch. “Not so loud.”
“Headache?”
I groaned. “I’ll never drink champagne again.”
She laughed and plopped down by my feet, taking my legs and pulling them over her lap. Then she massaged the arch of a foot. “How was it?”
“Fine.” I closed my eyes and did my best to block out the image of last night. Not of the wedding.
Of Brody’s bed.
God, what the hell had I been thinking? Why? Why had I slept with him? Sex with Clara’s boss was the worst decision I’d made in years. Worse than the time I’d cut my own bangs seven years ago.
Brody was . . . irresistible. Damn him for being so. I didn’t even like him. Did I?
He’d been out cold this morning when I’d woken up early. It was the lifelong habit of a groundskeeper to rise before dawn and prune and water before hotel guests made their way outside and tripped over my hoses.
So as he’d slumbered, I’d silently slipped out of his bed and into my dress, then raced from his bedroom. I’d hoped to save myself from the walk of shame, but butler Ron had been in the kitchen, washing last night’s champagne flutes.
He’d given me another goddamn bow just before I’d made it to the door. Then I’d hustled to Clara’s, hoping not to wake her or Gus as I’d showered, dressed in sweats and crashed here on the couch.
“Thank you for going,” Clara said, her foot massage saving my life.
“Sure. How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Good.” I closed my eyes. Bad idea. The image of Brody’s naked body—muscled arms, washboard abs, impressive arousal—popped into my mind.
I groaned. Such. An. Idiot. This was his fault. Why did he have to have such an amazing body? Why was he so handsome? Why did he have to be such a good kisser?
That first kiss had been my downfall. His tongue had slid between my teeth and goodbye common sense.
My body ached, not just from the hangover, but from being used. Incredibly, sinfully used. Brody Carmichael knew how to give a woman an orgasm. With
his fingers. With his tongue. With his thick, long, talented—
I groaned again. Curse you, Brody. It would have been so much easier to keep hating him if he hadn’t been so . . . perfect.
“Are you getting sick?” Clara asked. “Oh, no. I hope you don’t have what I had.”
“I’m sure it’s just the hangover.” The sex hangover.
“Tell me about the wedding.”
“It was beautiful. Expensive. They spent more money on a party than I’ve made in three years. Or more.”
“Strange, aren’t they?” Clara asked. “Rich people.”
“Strange what they think is important.”
“Brody gets it,” she said. “Even though he has more money than is healthy, he gets it.”
Yesterday, I would have argued. Yesterday, I would have told her that when it came to her boss, she was delusional. But yesterday, I hadn’t known Brody.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. Maybe that was me wanting to believe that I hadn’t let a rich jerk seduce me into a one-night stand.
I hated the idea that it all might have been a game. That he’d used me for sex. That I’d fallen for a trick.
“You aren’t arguing with me,” Clara said. “That means you really are hungover.”
I forced a smile. “Do my other foot. And stop talking so loud.”
She giggled and continued my massage.
We sat there, in comfortable companionship and quiet, until Gus woke up and, headache or not, I roused from the couch to spend time with my family.
We were outside on the front lawn when I heard a door close.
I looked down the driveway just in time to see Brody carry a duffel bag to his Jag.
He was wearing sunglasses. A suit, per usual. He looked striking and every bit a polished billionaire. The champagne didn’t seem to have paled his skin like it had mine.
Brody got into his car and drove away without a word. Without a glance.
