Chapter Nine

Reagan

I’m barely back in my suite when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Excellent. I hope Taryn changed her mind about coming up. I could chase away her exhaustion better than a nap.

“Hello?”

“It’s Taryn,” she says, and I can sense her barely controlled rage. My mind races, wondering what I could have possibly done in the last thirty minutes. “I’m coming up to your room. What’s the number again?”

I frown, not sure I’m ready for another confrontation with her. When I want her all soft and lush in her feminine energy, she wants to constantly stand rigid like she’s trying to out-man me. Maybe I’ve read her completely wrong, but even though her personality is forceful, she doesn’t exactly seem…volatile. Then again, I’ve just been introduced to this new version of my old Taryn. My crush. Just because we went to college together, and I’ve imagined her naked and underneath me every day since, doesn’t mean a damn thing.

“Everything okay? Tell me what happened.”

“No, everything is not okay. Dante just came and threatened me, financially and physically. He booked the model I’ve been promoting for the Strict Nécessaire show! If you’re such a hotshot lawyer, why the hell does this stuff keep happening? Can’t you put a fucking stop to him?”

I groan, knowing my hands are probably going to be tied. With a greaser like Giovanetti, it’s a long-term game. “It’s the presidential suite.”

“What?”

“My suite. It’s the presidential. Pun intended. Nixon thought it would be funny since we’re all named after dead presidents and all that.”

“I’ll be right there,” Taryn snaps, not even gracing me with a pity chuckle. She hangs up before I can say goodbye, and I’m left standing there with my phone in my hand. Suddenly, an idea springs into my mind. Lifting the room’s landline, I sit down on the bed and dial zero. Dante could try the patience of Job, but I know how to put that smile back on her face. Maybe she’ll soften after a little practical joke.

“Room service, how may I help you?”

“This is Reagan Caldwell in the presidential suite. Can you send up a birthday cake and candles in about twenty minutes? A bunch of candles.”

“Of course, Mr. Caldwell, will there be anything else?”

“A bottle of Kristal and two toasting flutes,” I say, still grinning. “Just in case. That’ll be all. Thanks so much.”

Hanging up the phone, I rub my hands together. I’ve loved jokes since I was a little kid, and sometimes, they’re just the right things to make people relax and laugh. I had nothing to do with the birthday cake accidentally delivered to Taryn back at La Casa Mirabelle, but it did give me a certain idea.

And now it’s on.

Walking over to the bar, I pour myself a drink. After dinner, I felt a little tipsy…but dealing with Taryn’s whiplash of emotions sobered me right up. After pouring some bourbon on the rocks, I pace around the suite like a caged animal, willing my eager cock to stand down.

The last time we were alone together, she came apart under my tongue. I look at the bed and picture Taryn writhing and moaning beneath me. My cock refuses to comply, twitching in my slacks.

Somehow, I doubt that will happen again, but it can’t hurt to hope. I pull out my wallet, making sure the two foil-wrapped condoms I have stowed inside haven’t expired yet. They’re close – which means I bought them ages ago.

I wince. For a successful lawyer, I’m kind of a loser in love. I look in the mirror and frown. I just hope no one sees it but me.

When a loud pounding nearly breaks down the door, I open it, and Taryn pushes past me, stalking inside. I wait for her to settle on one of the couches or a table, but she stalks back and forth. Her bun’s gone, and her hands tangle in her chestnut mane, green eyes flashing with an angry fire. I can practically feel the flames coming off her heated breath.

“Whoa, calm down. It’s okay. I promise we’ll get everything worked out. Dante can’t hurt you. Not on my watch. I’m here now.”

Taryn gives me a murderous look. “Will we?” I can’t believe the look on her face because I’ve never seen it before. What in the hell did Dante do to her? I want so bad to gather her into my arms and protect her. Calm her. But she’s so caught up in her own head, brimming with rage and indignation, she’s not really even seeing me. “Because I really don’t think so. He fucking stole my model! He stole Fernanda Maxwell!”

“Who’s he?” I ask, wondering why she booked a male model.

“Fernanda,” Taryn spits. “You know. The current ‘it’ girl? The one with the killer resting bitch face?”

Right now, Taryn’s RBF could rival it. “Oh, yeah. Wow, you were able to book her? That’s impressive. I’ll add that to the rapidly growing list of your accomplishments.”

Taryn presses her fingers to her temples. “Past tense. I was able to book her until that asshole bastard stole her away. He forced her to put herself in breach of contract. I’m not sure how, but I am sure why.” She rolls her eyes and throws her hands into the air. “She apparently represents Armani, and Dante gets his suits custom made by them. He pays them over six figures a year just to look like a greasy piece of shit.”

I stare at her, absorbing all the information she’s just given me. It suddenly occurs to me that she’s in a much worse mood than I’d thought. There’s no way she’s going to think my stupid cake joke is funny. I have to call it off somehow.

Shit.

“Reagan? Earth to Reagan,” Taryn says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Did you already space out and forget I exist?”

“Uh, no. Can you give me a minute?”

“For what?” Taryn looks disgusted as she puts her hands on her hips. “I thought you were a good lawyer. Nixon says you’re the best in the business. Especially when it comes to contracts because they’re your specialty. Can’t you do anything to help me?”

That pisses me off. “I am. In fact, I’m the best, which means you’ll give me a second to deal with something right now.”

Taryn shakes her head and slouches, sinking down so far into the heirloom sofa that she practically disappears into the cushions. A piece of my heart chips off. She’s come to me in her hour of need. Me. Someone she barely knows, and she already feels like I’ve let her down.

“Whatever,” she mumbles.

Heading back to the phone, I curse my need to be funny. It’s always been my fallback to resort to comedy and practical jokes when I feel out of control. And wanting Taryn to soften toward me makes me feel like I’m a runaway train careening toward a cliff. But I misjudged the situation, and I might have to pay for my mistake.

“Room service, how may I help you?” This time, the voice on the other end isn’t a native English speaker. This man’s accent is so thick I can barely make out his words.

Shit, what if he doesn’t understand what I want and I can’t stop the delivery in time?

“This is Reagan Caldwell,” I say, glancing in Taryn’s direction, trying to think of a way to somehow cancel the cake order without letting Taryn know what I’ve done.

“Hello, sir, what can I get for you tonight?”

“I need to cancel the order I placed a few minutes ago.”

“Hold on, sir.”

I groan as insipid Muzak fills my ear, making me want to yank the cord out of the wall to get the annoying strains of ‘Tie A Yellow Ribbon’ to stop. I’m not even sure if Tony Orlando is still alive. Or Dawn. And I might not see another one if I can’t cancel this damn order in time.

“What are you doing?” Taryn asks, walking closer. “Reagan, can’t this wait? Whatever it is?”

I hold up a finger. “Just another minute.”

“Allo, sir, you still in there?”

“Yeah. Has the order been canceled?”

“Is so sorry, sir. Not see order for Mr. Coller.”

I groan. “It’s Caldwell.”

“A Mr. Coddler?”

“No!” I snap into the phone.

Taryn gives me a strange look. “Reagan, what the hell is going on? Is ordering room service more important than my physical safety? What happened to the gentleman I admired earlier?”

“Hello? Hello?” I yell into the receiver. “Are you there?”

A dial tone buzzes in my ears, and I slump my shoulders in defeat.

Fuck. This isn’t going to end well. I might finish my evening with my face full of frosting and my tail dangling between my legs, keeping my dick company.

“Reagan, tell me,” Taryn says. “And hurry up, we really need to deal with this Dante thing. Tonight!”

“I, uh, ordered this stupid watch on QVC,” I lie. “I must’ve done it last night, when I was drinking scotch or something. It’s really ugly, and I don’t want it.”

Taryn gives me a weird look. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t you just cancel it online? Besides, how expensive can a QVC watch be? It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you had to donate it instead of wearing it.”

“My laptop isn’t working at the moment,” I say in a rush. Lame ass. “Uh, dead battery.”

“What about your phone or your iPad? And you said you just called a few minutes ago,” Taryn adds, frowning. “Reagan, what’s going on? Did you order a hooker or something, and you don’t want her to show up while I’m here?”

She starts pacing the room, looking under cushions and opening drawers. So much for my nearly expired prophylactics.

“Oh, my god, no! Nothing like that.”

Taryn frowns with a saucy hand on each hip, and I feel like melting into the carpet. Good job, asshole. Now she thinks you’re a perv and a complete spaz.

“I’m going to make you a drink,” I say, deflecting. “You look pretty upset. What would you like?”

“Anything,” Taryn says, still glaring at me like I’ve morphed into Pee Wee Herman on a felony bender. She sits down at the edge of the bed and crosses her legs, looking tense and very upset. My world starts to lurch out of control. And I hate feeling out of control.

Fucking hate it.

I pour her a glass of bourbon. “Here. That should take some of the edge off.”

Taryn takes the glass. “What would take some of the edge off would be getting Fernanda Maxwell back,” she mutters under her breath before draining the tumbler and handing it back to me. “Can I have a refill?”

Just as I’m about to go to the bar, there’s a loud knock at the door.

“Your hooker’s here,” Taryn says, rolling her eyes. “Want me to leave? Or did you want me to watch?”

“No,” I say, a little too loudly for comfort. My voice reeks of desperation. A dipshit trying to save his own ass. “Just, um, wait here.”

When I open the door, I see a short man standing next to a giant tray. Thankfully, there’s a silver dome on top. Leaning in close, I reach for my wallet and palm the man a twenty-dollar bill.

“Hey, thanks for this,” I say, shoving him backward but he’s built like a tree trunk, and he doesn’t really budge. “But I don’t need it anymore.”

The man blinks and narrows his eyes into confused slits. “Sir, I bring you luscious dessert,” he says in his thick accent that I can’t place. “And Kristal. You call for it, remember? Pastry chef bake it up special.”

“Yeah,” I say through gritted teeth. Special in twenty minutes? “But I told you – I don’t want it.”

The man chuckles. “I understand. It’s joke.” To my irritation, he begins to push the cart into the center of the room, hitting my shin in the process. I lean down to rub it, and my heart sinks as Taryn stares at the cart with obvious interest. The man reaches for the dome.

“No!” I yell. “Don’t do that!”

The man turns to me and frowns. “But, sir…”

“Enough,” I snap, slamming my hand down on top of the dome. “You’re not needed. Thanks but no thanks.”

With both hands, I gently push the man toward the door. He glares at me before leaving. Fucker. I just gave you twenty bucks for nothing. That’s like, the biggest tip you’ll get all day. And you can’t even work with me a little?

Taryn laughs and exhales. “Okay, I was wrong about the hooker, but did you get an apple pie? We haven’t been that long from dinner and birthday cake. Do you have some kind of closet sugar habit I should know about? If you do, I could easily bribe you to help me with Dante. I make a mean scratch blueberry pie, being from South Dakota and all.”

What?” I squint at her. “What are you talking about?”

Taryn chuckles, looking smug. “An apple pie. Like from American Pie. Remember?”

I groan and roll my eyes. “No. I did not get a pie. I…got dessert, though. For later, I guess.”

“Oh.” She perks up, standing, and walking closer to the cart. “Can I have some? I should’ve had that stupid cake back at the restaurant, but I was too full. Now I’m down for some sweet refreshment…anger always does that. I think the adrenaline flows straight to the stomach and empties it right out.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Um, I think they sent the wrong thing.”

Taryn frowns. “Reagan…you haven’t even looked at it yet. What in the hell are you hiding?”

“I know, but you saw the room service employee. English wasn’t his native language. How could he be expected to understand Bananas Foster?”

She gives me a look and claps her hands together. “I love Bananas Foster. It’s my favorite. Let’s dig in before it gets cold.”

“Taryn, he could barely understand me. I told him to send it back to the kitchen, but he wouldn’t.”

“I just want a little,” she says. “Come on, don’t be selfish. You already paid for it, right? You might as well share. With me.”

I sigh, the deep heaving breath of a man grasping at straws and fractured hope. A man ready to fall to his doom. “Let’s just go out, okay? Frozen yogurt sound good? Walking is good for reducing anger. I just read it in the Huffington.”

“Yeah, but I still don’t understand why you won’t just eat what just got delivered. We’re right here. It’s late. I still need to talk to you about Dante.”

I open the door and gesture for her to come with me. “I hate eating in my suite. They never come this late to take the dirty dishes back, and I hate shoving them out into the hallway.”

Taryn gives me a smoldering look that sets my cock twitching. “Good to know you’re a little anal,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll have to remember that for the future.”

As I follow her out of the room, it’s all I can do not to sigh in relief and give myself away.

Catastrophe averted.