CHAPTER ONE
JASON
SITTING IN THE BACK OFFICE, I look over the financial papers my accountant sent over and smile. Relief flows through my veins. The Meat Market, which has been in my family since the nineteen hundreds, is safe from bankruptcy and finally financially sound.
Inheriting it from my grandfather hadn’t been part of my plan, but life has a way of throwing you curveballs and leaving you blindsided. I was raised by a single mom and my grandfather was the closest thing I had to a dad, since my sperm donor couldn’t seem to stay in our lives longer than a couple months at a time. That is, until Mom told him she was expecting my little brother Jax, and he went out for milk one day and never came back.
Lucky for my sorry ass, the old man was one of the best men I’ve had the honor of knowing.
The frame sitting on my desk next to my laptop catches my attention. I pick it up and stare, tempted to talk to it. The frame and the picture came with the shop, along with more debt and headaches than I knew what to do with. But the image I hold in my hands helped make the decisions I felt I needed to at the time. All to make the man in it proud. It was my attempt at making up for all the times I let him down while he had been alive.
The picture reminds me of a great moment in time. We went on a family vacation to the lake, and my mom snapped the shot without either of us noticing. We’re laughing at something, his arm draped over my shoulder despite the fact I was taller by three inches.
Every time I look at the photograph, a knot forms in my throat.
Regret is a hideous thing, to say the least. After college, I started working, paving my own way on Wall Street. Too young and too hungry to make a buck, I became a man I hardly recognized, taking whatever shortcuts and using whatever connections I could to get ahead.
I broke so many promises to the old guy, I lost count and knew, without anyone telling me, I let him down.
The call from my broken-hearted mother ten years ago changed the course of my life, and I knew I wouldn’t be returning to New York.
Sighing as I continue to stare at the photo, my thumb grazes the deep lines on his face before I place the frame down. No matter what happens in life, Jason, find someone who can make you laugh, his voice reminds me. His words of wisdom had been replaying constantly in my head recently. Hell. More than just recently, only one face came to mind as the answer to his words.
Rocio.
But between the bad economy and the debt my grandfather had accumulated, I was over my head with the shop and about to call it quits on a place that meant so much to our family. Then an idea hit—an idea that made having her impossible.
My younger brother was in the shop, when I overheard two women talking about how they would happily buy “his meat” for the night. Since I dabbled one summer, escorting and keeping older women at a country club company, I already knew it was an easy way to make quick cash. I wasn’t ashamed of my past at the time—a young, twenty-something guy getting laid and paid. But now older, and what I hoped was wiser, I helped create a whole other side to my grandfather’s business, and just like that, The Meat Market was reborn.
And it had been a lot more successful than any of my wildest dreams. It helped not only myself but each of the men who put themselves out there as one of the meaty specials offered to our female clientele.
But it has served its purpose, and the doors to that side of the business are now closed. For good.
Not only had my guys all dropped like flies—one by one, willingly handing their balls over to their women, leaving me with one less “special” to serve—but financially, I had The Meat Market where I needed it to move forward. So, I wasn’t complaining.
Between us, I was relieved.
I even traded my butcher’s apron in to play matchmaker for some of my guys, happily setting them up with women they’d quietly had their eye on, but for whatever reason, hadn’t had the balls to take a chance on.
Now, maybe I can take a chance on the one woman I’ve always compared everyone else to.
My phone rings, and I grin at the image of her smiling face flashing on my screen.
Rocio Padilla.
“Hey, Row your boat,” I answer, calling her the nickname I like to tease her with.
“You know you’re forty now. Right?” she asks, full of sass. I must be a sick fucker for liking it.
“I remember someone sneaking around, helping my mom throw a surprise party and there being a cake that should have had the fire department on standby,” I tell her, leaning back on my desk chair, unable to hide the smile on my face. Fuck, she’s perfect.
“Glad in your old age you aren’t forgetting much other than acting your age, not your shoe size.”
“Cute.” I chuckle.
“I try.” And she more than succeeds, but I can’t straight-up say that. Not yet. But I will. Soon.
“What’s up? There’s a reason you called more than to remind me of how old I am?”
“Shut up, you’re not old. And yes, I called for more than to tease you.” I know by the tone of her voice, I’m starting to frustrate her.
“So?”
“What are you doing tonight?” If I’m lucky, you.
“Umm.” I clear my throat at the images bombarding me. “Nothing planned, what’s up?”
“Can you meet me at The Brown Bottle?”
“Sure.” I’d meet her at the ends of the Earth. “Any reason in particular?”
“Kind of,” she responds hesitantly. Not liking the uncertainty in her tone, a frown covers my face.
“Kind of? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just…we need to umm…talk.” Talk. That was never good.
“Talk about?”
“Brown Bottle. Tonight. Whenever you can get here.” Something about her tone is off.
“You’re already there?” I ask, looking up at the clock on the wall. “Babe—”.
“And Jason?”
“Yeah?” I ask, wondering what the hell is up with her.
“Don’t let me chicken out,” she whispers, and I frown.
“Chicken out?” I ask. But she’s already hung up.
I step into The Brown Bottle and immediately spot her sitting at the bar.
Ink black hair whispers across her bare shoulders, and I take a long moment to soak in the beautiful sight. I can tell by her outfit that she came straight from the jewelry store where she works. Her emerald green satin tank flows down her torso, accentuating every perfect curve as do the black dress pants hugging her long legs and perfect ass. If I know her, she’s switched whatever sexy-as-hell high heels for strappy sandals that shows off her petite painted toes. Next to Rocio is her huge purse, where I know she has everything she could ever need and then some, making it weigh a ton, and her signature black blazer.
She shifts slightly, and I get a peek of her profile, and fuck me, without fail, it’s like seeing her for the first time all over again.
She is breathtaking.
ROCIO
Sipping my beer, I try to relax, but I can’t. Now or never, I remind myself, but it does nothing to help the nerves that settled into the pit of my stomach the moment I ended the call.
With my fortieth birthday on the horizon, it’s time to put it all on the table. I’ve tried to ignore the way I feel about him throughout the years. Dating other men, some great, some not so much, never helped. Jason Somers is the one no one else could ever measure up to. Not that my lifelong buddy is perfect, by any means. He isn’t. The heart wants what it wants, my mother’s voice rings in my head and makes me want to laugh.
At my age, I’m a realist. Any fairytale notions about the man who had been my best friend for over half my life were gone. The thing about him is that I know him. I really know him. I know the bad, the good, the ugly, and then some. Yet, I still find myself in love with him. In love.
I’ve always been in love with him, no matter how much I tried to talk myself out of it. But something about this milestone birthday makes me feel like I’m at a point in my life where I should take a chance. I refuse to waste any more time, waiting for him to see me as more than a friend.
I glance at my wrist watch, then immediately look around to the front of the bar. I try to stop my heart from going into overdrive at the sight of the man who unknowingly owns my heart—never even had one inkling of it.
God, I’m pathetic.
Jason Somers. My best friend.
One of the easiest-going, down to Earth, kindest men I have ever known. He’s also the one man who doesn’t seem to bother caring I’m a woman.
I had a foolish schoolgirl crush on him in high school and the first couple of years in college. But when he confessed, in more details than I needed, about his summer job his sophomore year and how he was entertaining women right and left, hope died inside me. I was the one he always went to, yet he didn’t see me. That was the green light I needed to start dating, and I did.
I threw myself into making something out of my life. I went to school, I tried to find someone else. Before I knew it, life ticked by, and now I find myself here. Still in love with the same boy, now a man.
Though, around the same time I declared I was done dating six months ago, something changed between us. There has been a shift from Jason’s end. He’s touchy-feely, almost flirtatious.
Watching him walk into the Brown Bottle, I try to dig deep into myself and find the courage I’m going to need. I take in the way he moves. His casual, calm demeanor is there, but there’s something else. He’s steadier, more confident, as he swerves and smiles at the people he passes, as if there is a huge weight off his shoulders.
He’s gorgeous, and I’m not the only one who has noticed. Women, young and old, all do a double-take whenever he’s around. Tall, an even six feet, he is solidly built. Always has been. Packed muscles without being overly beefy or overwhelming, simply perfect. Masculine perfection. Perfection that, no matter who you were, makes your mouth water at the idea of skimming his body with your hands to memorize every dip and edge until your dying day. Dark hair that curls when wet or too long. Bright blue eyes that give Caribbean waters a run for their money. A classic masculine face with a slight edge of ruggedness thrown in, just enough so you wouldn’t think of him as a pretty boy. He’s also a man who time has been extremely kind to. At forty, he’s better looking than when we first met.
He’s also the main reason my heart plays patty cake with my rib cage and every nerve in my body does jumping jacks.
I manage to tear my eyes away from him and get the attention of the bartender and quickly order two beers. I’m going to need more than beer for liquid courage.
The green glass bottles are set in front of me. With a smile, I thank the easygoing bartender before I take a long pull. As the cool liquid runs down my throat, I pray I find the inner courage to ask for what I want.
It’s time to do something about the way I feel about him. My fortieth birthday is only days away and the perfect reason to treat myself. He doesn’t see me the way I wish and dream of, but maybe I could pay him to. Just for a night.
“Hey,” his deep voice rumbles in my ear and drapes over my skin like smooth velvet. I turn toward the voice that turns me on and am surprised to find him standing so close.
“Hey,” I breathe out, a little too huskily, and I’m taken aback when he doesn’t move, crowding me slightly.
“This mine?” he asks without taking his eyes off me, and just like that, my mouth runs dry. With him looking at me like that, asking if what was his? Me? God, I would be. I’m willing to even pay him to let me be his for a couple hours.
“Wh…what?” I stutter, trying to not to wince at how stupid I sound.
“Row, is this mine?” he asks again, bringing the extra beer bottle to my sightline, crushing my heart like a bug.
I can’t ask him.
“Yeah,” I clip harshly, feeling stupid. Here I am daydreaming about what being his could be like and all because he’s asking me if the beer is his?
It’s time to move on.
Not that I’ve been holding my breath for him for the past twenty-three years. I haven’t. I just need to find a way to forget how being around Jason Somers makes me feel. I need to put some space between us.
Infinite space.
I take a long swig of my beer and pretend the Cubs game is captivating. What was I thinking? How can I ask if it would be okay to pay him to fuck me like crazy?
He sits down at the barstool next to mine. His thick muscular thigh brushes against mine, and the heat his body radiates drives me crazy.
Maybe I can ask?
“You asked me to meet you.”
“Yeah.” I shrug, not bothering to look at him, trying to figure out my next step.
“So we could watch the game?” He leans toward me playfully and gently bumps his shoulder against mine.
“No.” I wanted to see if I could pay you for sex. My eyes narrow at how ridiculous it sounds. Never mind the fact he was the man in charge of what used to be our town’s dirty secret escort service, dubbed The Meat Market. It has women all over in a tizzy. And I’m about to place my own order.
“Then?” he presses, and I shake my head.
“Forget it.” There is no way I can ask. Would he laugh or simply feel disgusted at the idea of taking me to bed?
“So you asked me to meet you here for no reason?”
“Look,” I turn to stare at him, and my breath catches in my throat. God, he’s handsome. Closing my eyes, I shake my head. I can’t. No way.
He’s never seen me as more than one of the guys, permanently benched in the friend-zone, and it’s time to let it go. A guy like him would probably end up with a twenty-something perky, bubble of energy who could be his arm candy and give him a family. At almost forty, that’s a door closed to me. My eyes sting at how stupid I’ve been…pining away for the impossible.
Why didn’t I take a risk with someone else years ago? I could have made a life with my ex, Brad. It wouldn’t have been with the man of my dreams, but I would have something more than a small, empty house waiting for me at the end of a work day. I shake the thoughts away because I know myself. There’s no way anyone else would have done. I won’t be able to stop the tears about to plop out.
“I gotta go,” I blurt, hopping off the stool and grabbing my purse. “What was I thinking?” I mutter to myself, searching for my wallet, and then placing a couple bills on the bar top to cover our beers and tip.
“What?”
“I have to go,” I repeat, not looking at him, feeling like a complete moron.
“Row, row, row your boat, what’s going on?” I scowl, my eyes pinned on the man of my dreams. My poor, pathetic dreams. God, I’m an idiot. Pinning my heart to a man who still has a stupid, silly little nursery rhyme nickname for me so he can tease me.
His words are like an ice-cold pail of water over my head.
“You’re forty.” I point out, poking his hard, muscly chest, trying to ignore the images of him shirtless. His eyes widen in surprise. “Can you knock it off with the teasing?”
“Babe—”
“I gotta go. I’m sorry I wasted your time, Somers,” I clip, knowing he hates when I call him by his last name. I turn around and walk right to the exit.
“Rocio!” he calls out, but I ignore him.
It’s past time to move on. I let myself believe something was changing between us, but that’s all it was. I let myself think that hugs that lasted a little longer than usual and sweet baby’s and babes meant more than they did.
For all I know, it’s his own personal practice for how to be with strange women when he wines and dines them for “work.” Not that I’m even sure he offers himself up as a “special,” but I wouldn’t be surprised if he does.
Hell, he is probably his own best seller. Though the way he’s been talking, his guys retiring, I wonder if that side of his business is actually over. Obviously, he doesn’t think it’s any of my business or else he would have shared.
I reach my car and search for my keys when two strong hands gently grab my shoulders.
“Rocio,” he whispers in my ear, and I hate how much I like his hands on me. How much my name on his lips awakens my body.
I can never have more than what I have from him, I remind myself, and my eyes burn with frustration.
“Honey, talk to me,” he gently pushes, and my shoulders slump forward.
“Nothing—” Except I have to move my ass across the country so I’m not pining away for you like some crazy schoolgirl instead of the grown, confident woman I am.
“I know you, Row. Talk to me, baby.” Baby. One stupid, four-letter word takes my breath away and makes me cling to hope.
“I’m tired.” I lie.
“Row, look at me,” he pleads; his scent surrounds me. It’s woodsy and slightly citrusy from the soap he uses constantly to wash his hands at work. Being this close to him makes me feel safe and like I can have a small glimpse of what I want from him, so I turn.
Staring at him under the moonlight, while pressed so close to his body, makes my knees weak. “You’re sad,” he points out, and I laugh. I am sad. Sad and pathetic, not that I would admit that to him.
“I’m not. I’m just—”
“Don’t lie to me. What’s going on?” His hands rub up and down my shoulders.
“I…”
“You look like you’re going to cry.” His eyes fill with worry. “Jesus, babe, is it your mom?” I smile weakly at how sweet he can be without realizing it. My mom suffered a heart attack last year and has been having a hard time recovering.
“No Jay, she’s fine.” I put his mind at rest.
“Then talk to me…what is it?” he presses, leaning closer, and my heart goes from fast into overdrive.
“What are you doing?” I ask a little too harshly.
“Asking my best friend what’s making her upset.”
“Is that what I am to you?” I ask, searching his eyes, trying to find any indication that maybe, just maybe, he cares a little more.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I sigh and take a deep breath.
Fuck it, it’s now or never.
“Is it true the meat shop is closed?” Not the smoothest way to bring up the subject.
“What?” he frowns and releases my shoulders, making me instantly miss his touch.
“You know, the after-hours meat shop,” I ask again. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Why?” His arms cross over his delicious chest, only defining the muscles tugging his shirt, and I shake my head so I can focus on what’s at stake.
Screw his meaty choices, for me, only the butcher would do.