SEVEN
LUCY
"What exactly do you mean when you say he makes sex toys?" Jamie asks. "Like things that go buzz in the night? I thought you said he was a welder."
I hadn't planned to go out today—preparing for my workweek on Sundays has always been a ritual for me—but I laid awake for far too long last night because all I could think about was my new boss. My very sexy and verifiably kinky new boss. When Jamie texted this morning asking if I would meet her halfway in Framingham for breakfast at a place called Planet of the Cakes, a restaurant she'd randomly picked because the Yelp reviews called them pancake connoisseurs, I jumped at the chance. I needed to get out of the house before my mother had the opportunity to grill me about my evening.
I still haven't figured out what the hell I'll say to her. Mom can see right through bullshit better than anyone I've ever met, and I don’t think I can bear the disapproving smile that will greet me if I tell her I accepted a position marketing kink. Or what she’ll say.
“Three degrees, Lucinda, and a job history at one of the best marketing firms in San Francisco, and you're pitching … intercourse toys?” Mom would demand and then I would question all my life decisions up until this point. Again.
"What I mean by sex toys," I start softly, leaning in to Jamie so the couple with their teenage kids at the next table won't hear me, "is metal cages and chrome butt plugs and spinning stainless steel tables."
"Oh my," she says with an enormous grin.
"I can't believe you're smiling and making The Wizard of Oz jokes when I'm sitting right in front of you telling you my new job is marketing sex toys!"
"Calm down," she says in the same voice she uses on newborns at work. She takes a bite of her eggs, chews them slowly as she gathers her thoughts. "What's so bad about promoting ... toys?” She dabs at the corners of her mouth with her paper napkin. “You've done it before—granted those were building blocks and Jack-In-A-Boxes—but now you have a chance to broaden your horizon. You can sell ... other jacks."
I fist my hands around my own napkin, twisting until it tears.
"What's wrong is that he took me to a party where they were being used right in front of me. He didn't say a damn word—" The mother at the next table over shoots me a lethal glare, and I mouth sorry before lowering my voice and continuing. "He didn't say a word about where we were going or what we would be doing because he wanted to see my reaction. I felt like a complete dumbass because I'd been too eager about finally being offered a job to see the signs."
My best friend sighs and lowers her fork to her plate. "You're not a dumbass, Luce." She examines the front of her Victoria’s Secret sweatshirt to make sure she hasn't spilled any food. "You're the smartest person I know, and that's saying something because I'm effing brilliant."
I don't feel smart. Not even close to it. Despite a lifetime of stellar grades and several degrees, I feel like I’ve hit another all-time low.
"I mean, yeah,” Jamie says. “I thought about asking if he at least took you to dinner first, but then I figured you'd just punch me in the throat. And since we’re on throat punches … I’ve got to ask. What was it like?”
Like nothing I ever imagined. Like the most erotic moment I’ve ever experienced—only it wasn’t happening to me. Like I should probably start looking for a new job. I release a noise that borders a hysterical sob. “Does it matter?”
“Umm, yes. You went to an adult slumber party and didn’t even think to send your best friend a text or a snap or anything.” I tilt my head to one side and give her an incredulous look. She lifts her hands defensively and laughs. “Fine. I’ll stop. Look, Luce, I think you should calm down and—ohhh shit."
Her brown eyes are intently focused over my shoulder, trailing someone or something across the restaurant. "Let me guess, cute, squishy baby?"
I flinch at the apologetic expression she sends my way. I've seen that look before, and it's always followed with a dose of horrible news. Sure enough, I twist around in my seat and nearly fall out of my chair. It’s Mr. Extreme himself, being led to a seat by the windows. He's not alone—there's a petite woman and a big muscular guy towering over them who reminds me of The Rock with a mohawk. When the woman pulls her slouchy gray beanie off and shakes out her short platinum hair, I realize it’s Daisy.
"Why is he here?" I hiss aloud. I feel the color leech from my face when slate-blue eyes lock on mine. A grin slinks across his devilishly handsome face. That smug, evil bastard. Daisy and The Rock 2.0 also turn to stare. The receptionist lifts her hand in a cheerful wave, so I raise my chin in acknowledgment before I face Jamie.
"What are the odds?" I whisper, breathless and hating the way my heart thunders so intensely at the mere glimpse of that asshole.
Jamie starts to say something but then flicks another glance at Jace and company. Her dark, curly hair swishes around her cheeks as she moves her head from side to side. "Honestly, I have no words. And you know I don’t run out of things to say very often."
No, she doesn't, and I find that I'm also at a loss for words. How on earth did Jace end up in the same restaurant as me on a Sunday morning? Why the hell isn’t he sleeping in until noon with whatever woman he took home after I left him last night?
Unless, Daisy is that woman.
A tremor surges through my hands as I bring my coffee to my lips, and I barely register the liquid is so hot it singes my tongue. Jamie plays with the prongs of her fork, and once again, she stares behind me wearing an astonished expression.
"Your eyes are wide," I point out robotically. "He's coming over here, isn't he?"
"And smiling like the delicious deviant that he is," she confirms.
I don't have to turn around to know the precise moment he arrives—I can smell him. My body automatically reacts to the tantalizing earthiness that is Jace Exley. Although I'm prepared for it, a shock still rips through me when he clears his throat.
"Morning, Williams," he says. "Mind if I sit?"
I'm a split second away from telling Jace to piss off, but then, without an invitation, he pulls out one of the extra chairs and turns it so the cushion faces the front of his body. He sits down, casually draping one leg over either side. I drink in a mouthful of air when his foot bumps the side of mine.
It’s not fair that the slightest touch from this man has the power to electrify my heart and body and mind. He obviously notices that I snatch my foot from his because he gives me a dazzling grin before he darts it in Jamie’s direction. "Armstrong, right?"
"Jamie," she says then skims her tongue over the tiny space between her two front teeth. "We had chorus together senior year." I already know this. In fact, I vividly remember her complaining about his awful singing whenever we passed him in the hallway. Then she'd make a comment about how she forgave him for his terrible voice because he was so beautiful and hearing him speak made up for him being tone-deaf. My best friend's weakness for beautiful men is almost greater than her penchant for fawning over squirming newborns.
"Right." His mouth widens as it finally clicks exactly who she is. "Yeah, yeah, I used to party with your sister. Becca or—"
"Bella," she corrects, resting her elbow on the table and leaning forward. Holy shit, can she stare at the man any harder? Doesn’t she know that giving him this type of attention is like feeding a mogwai after midnight?
"Yeah, Bella." The corners of his lips curve into a smile that makes me draw in my cheeks. It doesn't make any sense that the gorgeous ones always have to be complete dicks. "She was always fun."
Knowing the type of parties Jace is into, I wonder what kind of fun he's talking about. Jamie must be thinking the same thing because she glances at her phone lying face down in the center of the table. It's almost a given she'll send a text the moment he leaves just so she can ask her twin about her affiliation with Mr. Extreme.
He turns to focus his undivided attention on me, and I narrow my hazel eyes. Dressed in black leggings, rain boots, and an old Brown t-shirt, I look like ass ran over. Skimming his eyes from the top of my messy black bun to the swell of my breasts beneath my shirt, he gives me a satisfied look.
"What are you doing here, Jace?" I ask, my voice deflated.
"Eating breakfast. That's what most normal people do in the morning, isn't it?" After I twist my lips to one side, he throws his head back and laughs, giving Jamie and I an excellent view of the tattoo on his neck and another peeking out of the neckline of his tee shirt.
Tom always hated tattoos—he called any form of body art ridiculous and had given me hell about the tiny lime green ribbon I got on my shoulder in honor of my father. The thing is, I don’t want to imagine Jace Exley without the ink that covers his bronze skin. Even when I’m furious at him, I can’t deny that they make him so much more irresistible.
"I'm staying five minutes away from here. I come here most Sundays, so I guess the question is, what are you doing here?"
"Eating ... pancakes." Jesus that sounds so lame, and I make a mental note never to come back to this restaurant. I don’t give a damn how good their red velvet and cream cheese flapjacks taste.
"I sent you a text earlier," he says. Jamie's perfect eyebrows shoot straight up because I hadn't mentioned that fact. After she gave me the rundown on her disaster of a date last night—the PA she went out with flat out told her she had an ass made for screwing on the first date—I had launched into my own sex-related nightmare. "If you're going to ignore text messages at least disable your Read Receipts because it's rude to ignore your boss."
His text wasn't like anything I've ever received from any other employer; well, except for Tom, who doesn't count since I used to sleep with the man. All Jace's three AM message said is “Are you still upset, Williams?”
Since I was—I still am—and I didn't want to come off as a bitch, I deleted it.
"I wasn't ignoring you," I explain through clenched teeth. "I just didn't have anything to say. I would’ve responded to you."
Eventually.
Maybe.
Jace runs the tip of his tongue over the corner of his lips and then inclines his head toward me. "Oh, I'm sure you had plenty to say." He stretches out his legs beneath the table, and this time, his knee bumps mine.
Dear heart, calm the hell down and resist this terrible, awful bastard.
"What exactly is it you need?" I gesture down at my plate. I've already downed most of my pancakes. I decided I was finished ten minutes earlier, toward the end of Jamie's PA story, but he doesn't need to know that. "We're in the middle of breakfast, and it looks like Daisy and…"
"Theo," he informs me, giving The Rock 2.0 a name. "He works with you."
I wish he’d move his leg already. The only way I’ll escape his touch and get back to breathing properly is if he A) scoots away from me or if I B) get up and finish this conversation standing. Since he’s probably basking in my reaction, and I refuse to admit I’m actually reacting, we both stay put, our gazes at war.
"He works for you is what you're saying, right?"
"Are you quitting already, love?" he demands. Across the table, I hear Jamie fidget, but I don't turn to look at her. I know I'll only see a giddy grin and that look will turn me into a red-faced mess. I keep my attention firmly on Jace, who's tapping the beat of what I'm guessing is some rock song with suggestive lyrics on the surface of our table.
"You know, I didn't take you for a quitter." He scratches his dark stubble that only looks even more enticing thanks to an extra several hours of growth. "Despite what your arse of an ex said."
Wonderful. My husband has no place in this conversation, and the fact Jace would toss that piece of history in my face to win an argument is like a fist to my chest. "Leave him out of this." I toss the napkin I've shredded to bits on the table and pick up my fork, spearing it into the rest of my pancakes. "And besides, I never said I was quitting."
"Hmm, I don't know, Williams, that sounded like a verbal resignation."
"Well, it wasn't."
"Children, calm down," Jamie says exasperatedly, her voice cutting through the tension. I drag my eyes from Jace's to see she's leaned in close to us with her slim fingers grasping the corners of the table. She gives me a serious look. "Luce, are you quitting?" I shake my head, so she studies Jace's features and somehow manages not to swoon under his smoldering gaze. "Are you asking her to quit?"
"Absolutely not," he drawls.
"Then there's no point for an argument, is there?"
"No," I whisper, ashamed of myself for getting sucked in by his words and derisive expression. I've always been known to be passionate about my work—but outside of promoting my products, I try to avoid conflict. Yet here I am, sitting in a pancake restaurant and wishing my glare were powerful enough to shoot flames at my boss.
"I apologize," I say, and he shrugs as he rises from the table.
"I've told you before, don't say sorry." His self-assured grin makes my nostrils flare, but I bite my tongue. Returning his seat to its rightful position, he splays his large hands on the back of the chair. He bends forward until his face is close to mine. "Guess I really will see you tomorrow at nine."
"Eight-thirty," I confirm frostily. He shifts an eyebrow, so I add, "Since I like to show up thirty minutes early for everything."
He's chuckling as he heads back to his table, and there's an evil, awful part of myself that hopes he trips right over his own damn feet. I quickly learn that not only is he talented with his hands, he's also graceful in boots. Ridiculously so. "This will be good for you, Williams," he calls out, earning several appreciative stares from waitresses and other women around the restaurant.
"Promising me free samples?"
He waggles his brows, and his grin goes from cocky to corrupt in a heartbeat. "If that's what you're into."
When he finally sits down in his own space, Jamie clears her throat, drawing my attention her way. She’s clutching her napkin. "If that’s what you’re into?” she asks excitedly. “Okay, what the fuck just happened?”
"Jace Exley showed up and hijacked our breakfast."
She purses her glossy lips together. "I'm talking about all that sexual—"
"Don't say it."
"Friction," she finishes with a satisfied simper. Grabbing a slice of bacon, she nibbles on the end as she continues to clutch her napkin in the other hand. "I could've had triple Ds for eyeballs and the guy wouldn't have been able to stop looking at you."
"Because he wanted to make me uncomfortable."
"Yeah, well, he accomplished that." I squeeze my eyes together, and she laughs. "What? I speak nothing but the truth. He made you uncomfortable and looked at you like ... damn, I don't even know how to describe it. All I know is it made me hot, and I wasn't even the one on the receiving end. And"—she lets out another airy breath and when she speaks again, she's adopted a faint British accent—"Love?”
I part my lashes just enough to glare at her out of thin slits. "I'm sure he calls everyone that." Still, hearing it does crazy, stupid things to my body.
"Of course he does." She casts one more look past my shoulder then grabs her phone from the table, probably to text Bella. "These next several months are going to be interesting."
That is most certainly a damn understatement.