Chapter One #2
Nick’s brows drove into a frown. “I’d be careful dealing with Cavaletti. He has—”
Avery held up a hand. “It’s just whiskey,” he grumbled, “and I made sure the sale was legitimate.”
When would his family stop treating him like a child? Okay, so maybe he’d gone a little crazy in college, done some stupid shit. But he’d pulled himself together, hadn’t he? Mostly, anyway.
“You know,” Nick said after a moment, “an alliance with Rutherford isn’t a bad idea.”
Avery scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” Nick said. “Just thinking out loud.”
“You marry her then.”
A shadow fell over Nick’s eyes—grief polished into habit rather than real pain, but still there—and regret sliced through Avery.
It had been almost three years, three long years, since Julie was killed with her lover in a train vs.
auto crash, and his brother didn’t seem any closer to healing than the day it happened.
And with the anniversary of her death on the horizon, he’d only get worse.
Awkward silence settled over the table until Spencer sat forward. “You mean to tell me, out of all the girls you’ve dated—”
“Fucked,” Avery corrected, grateful for the change in subject, but damn, this one was getting old.
“—there’s not one you’d call a friend?”
Nick scoffed. “Men and women can’t be friends.”
“What he said.” Avery shrugged. “Besides, dating takes too much effort.” And always leads to complications I’d rather avoid. “It’s easier to get what I need and get out before they catch feelings.”
Spencer shook his head. “Maybe you do need an intervention.”
“Speaking of interventions,” Nick said, glancing over Avery’s shoulder, “Mom’s on your six and closing in fast.”
Avery’s spine stiffened. Vaulting out of his chair, he squeezed Nick’s shoulder. “Thanks, man. I knew you’d have my back.”
“Always.”
Avery slipped into the crowd and followed the edge of the dance floor, circling out of his mother’s sight. He didn’t need any more of her machinations or lectures about finding happiness. He was happy. At least, he would be with another drink. And a soft willing woman.
In that order.
But his steps slowed as he neared the bar. Althea Rutherford stood in line with Melody.
Oh, hell no.
The buzz of the Macallan dissipating, he veered left, fingering the keys in his pocket, the exit sign above the door beckoning.
Fuck it.
He quickened his strides. He’d suffer the consequences of leaving early tomorrow.
“Hello, Avery,” a sultry feminine voice reached out to him, and without permission, his feet veered toward it, his dick doing the navigating, his brain happily conceding.
Fuck, who was he kidding? His brain had taken up residence with his dick the day puberty struck, no eviction date in sight.
Ah, Tits.
She hovered next to the dessert table. And the closer he got, the bigger they grew. His mouth watered, and heat curled low in his gut.
“Hey, beautiful.” Why couldn’t he remember them, er, her? He might not be good with faces and names, but melons like those… He forced his gaze higher. Nope. Nothing. “I almost didn’t recognize you—a sweet among sweets.”
Cheesy as hell, but whatever.
A snort from behind the table pulled his gaze over Tits’ shoulder.
Legs was on her knees with that hip-smacking ass in the air. White linen severed her at the waist, hiding her upper half as she rummaged under the table. Fuck, he’d like to be doing her just like that right now.
But what was that old saying? A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush? Yeah, better to go with the sure bush.
He glanced around, then back to the one in front of him. “Where’s your date?”
“Don’t know.” She lifted a delicate shoulder, her tits jiggled, and there went his fucking focus again. “I’m really bored.”
“Then I’ve failed at my job as host.” He shifted closer and ran a finger up her arm. “It’s my duty to cater to your every need.”
The words rolled off his tongue, easy, smooth, practiced. He could do charm in his sleep.
Another snort. And when he glanced over Tits’ shoulder, he caught an eyeroll. Legs’ was upright, thick black lashes fluttering, then lifting to reveal a shock of piercing blue that scrutinized plates of various desserts she kept rearranging.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Tits asked, a pout in her voice. “If you did, you’d know what I need.”
He could deny his lapse in memory, but sometimes, the truth was the best way to go. Girls liked it when he admitted his faults. They all wanted to fix him.
“I’m sorry. I’m terrible with names, but I don’t know how I could ever forget a woman as lovely as you. I guess I’m hopeless.” He traced the line of her collarbone and relished her shiver. “But if you’ll give me another chance, I could refresh both our memories.”
Legs stuck out her tongue, poked a finger in her mouth, and made a gagging sound.
Yeah, baby, I’ve got something for you to gag on.
He sighed, not lost on the irony of the moment. Here he was up to his eyeballs in Tits and Legs—a position he normally enjoyed—and it looked like he wasn’t getting either tonight.
“You were pretty drunk.” Tits offered him an out and a sliver of hope. “I might be persuaded to forgive you.”
Avery shrugged mentally. That he might have been drunk was entirely possible, though he didn’t remember a lot of the girls he fucked. But did he want to be forgiven? Or…
He flicked a glance at Legs. Hmm, she was fucking hot.
Nah, two tits in my hands are worth more than a bush I might not get to plow.
“How can I earn your forgiveness?” he asked Tits. “Can I get you a drink?”
“I’ve had a drink.” She fingered his loose tie. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. If you can remember my name by the time I get back…”
With a saucy flip of his tie, she turned away, ass swinging as she left him to an impossible task.
So much for that bird.
With a mental sigh, he turned toward Legs. Fuck, she was gone.
Searching the area, he caught a glimpse of her slipping through the back exit. His feet took flight. He might like a sure thing, but he loved a good chase.
A cool, crisp breeze whispered over Avery’s face as he ducked out of the ballroom onto the veranda. Gravel crunched below, drawing him to the stone rail. He spotted her, strides long and sure on sexy black stilts. When he stripped her bare, those heels would be the only thing he left on her.
Taking the steps two at a time, Avery vaulted down the concrete stairs to follow her across the brightly lit parking lot.
He rubbed his hands together, his gaze glued to her swaying ass until she climbed two steps into a bus-size catering van.
The side panel marked Giselle’s Catering slid shut behind her.
You’re mine now, Legs.
He stopped outside the van, ready to rap his knuckles against it. Raised voices from inside made him hesitate. Fuck, she wasn’t alone.
Shifting to one side of the door, he leaned against the van to wait. She’d been flitting around all night, so maybe she wouldn’t linger too long.
“…warned you about altering my recipes.”
“Sorry.” The apology held more attitude than remorse, but the soft, raspy cadence rippled over his balls like the first lick of a hot velvety tongue before a much-needed blow job. Please be Legs. “I only added a little raspberry—”
“I know perfectly well what you added,” the harridan ranted on, and Avery’s shoulders hunched toward his ears at the shrill ass-chewing that nearly sent said balls into hiding.
Talk about a mood killer. “Imagine my surprise when Mrs. Preston expressed her delight with the tart raspberry flavor of my petit fours when my petit fours are vanilla!”
“It’s my fault, G,” another girl jumped in, her voice thick with a silky Southeast Texas drawl. He could get into that, too. “Miz Reese called back after the tastin’ to ask if we could spice up the petit fours—said they were a tad bland—and I forgot to tell you.”
“It wasn’t your responsibility to tell me. As my patissier, Jo, it was yours. Instead, you deliberately went behind my back, and your little experiment could have cost me my reputation.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” Jo said with a little less defiance, making Avery want to jump to her defense. It was a mix up, for fuck’s sake.
“See that it doesn’t, or the only work you’ll find is in the bakery of your local grocery store.”
The rear door opened and slammed, and footsteps on gravel had him peeking around the corner. Definitely not Legs. Platinum blonde and bony as fuck. He shuddered.
“I’m sorry ’bout gettin’ you in trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it, Viv,” Jo’s sultry voice drew him closer. “She’s just looking for an excuse to fire me.”
“’Cuz you make everythin’ taste like heaven, and hers tastes like shit.”
“That’s not true. Giselle’s a top-notch chef. She wouldn’t be booking gigs like this if she wasn’t. And you know you love her Beef Bourguignon.”
Both girls groaned, their stomachs growled, and Avery’s joined in. He hadn’t eaten much at dinner, couldn’t even describe what was on his plate. Not with Althea sitting expectantly beside him and her father dissecting him with razor-sharp eyes from across the table.
“She just needs a little help with her confectioneries,” Jo said. “I thought that’s why she hired me.”
“She’s jealous,” Viv soothed. “Like I said, Gruella doesn’t like knowing you’re better than her. She’ll really freak when she finds out your tryin’ to open a patisserie.”
What the fuck is a patisserie?
Shuffling and clattering halted the conversation, and the minutes dragged by with no hope of getting Legs alone. He slumped against the van.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
With a sigh, he glanced at his watch. He could have already made it to Pulse by now and been balls-deep in the backseat of his car. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but he’d at least have been surrounded by women eager to get him there.
Tits—what the fuck was her name?—was eager. And probably looking for him, right now. Maybe he could sweet talk his way past her damn name.