Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Valentina, AKA Landry
“Oh great heavens,” I mutter, surprising even myself when I don’t let out an expletive. I tug at the skin next to my eyes. I look tired. Older. Is this what aging is going to be? Just categorizing all the ways your body is slowly falling apart?
Stepping away from the mirror, I tie the flouncy bow on this floral blouse a little tighter around my neck and decide I don’t care where I’m sprouting wrinkles.
I have a job to do, and I’m going to kick ass doing it.
My A-line skirt perfectly matches the lavender flowers on the blouse and the white sandals with the cork heel aren’t exactly stilettos, but I do like the extra height they give me.
“Deuce!” I holler as I exit my room.
We’ve both been on edge all week, engaging in extra safety precautions and keeping an eye out for that gray sedan.
So far, no other windows have been shattered and there’s been no further word from Bettina about the situation in New York.
Add in copious hours of organization to pull off this Battle of the Boutiques, and we haven’t exactly had any free time for steamier extracurricular activities.
It’s a damn shame.
“You called,” the man drawls from the base of the stairs, looking dapper and fully refreshed in a deep green suit that should look stupid in that vibrant color but absolutely doesn’t.
In fact, as I make my way down the stairs, I realize the suit brings out the color of his eyes to a startling degree.
Why does he have to be so good looking? Why couldn’t he be just a tiny bit trollish?
We could have fucked to scratch the biological itch and then I would have forgotten about him.
Instead, I’ve spent all week obsessing over him while trying to act as unbothered as he’s appeared.
I even pleasured myself late at night, his ethereal eyes staring back at me in my erotic dreams. Twice!
“All these vendors better show up on time,” I growl, breezing past him when what I really want to do is lean into his hard body and breathe in his cologne. I want to feel his arms around me, telling me he’ll take care of everything. Let my muscles relax into his hold, knowing he’s got me.
But he doesn’t got me, because I’ll never allow any man to be a soft resting place for me. Too many ways to get screwed over when you let a man in like that.
“I highly suggest you leave the knife at home.”
I spin and see Deuce standing there at the base of the stairs, arms now folded across his chest, giving me a look like he’s the principal and I’m the naughty student. I’d like to explore that scenario when we have more time.
“I don’t have a knife.”
“Valentina,” he warns.
Oof. I like that growl. It sends a shot of awareness through my whole body. Guess that itch didn’t exactly get scratched. Or maybe it needs further scratching.
I reach down to the hem of my skirt and inch it upwards.
Deuce’s eyes drop, and I watch his jaw go slack.
Aha! So I’m not the only one feeling that need for more.
Pulling the knife out of the strap on my thigh that I keep it in when wearing short skirts, I slap it down on the coffee table and straighten.
“Fine. Satisfied?”
Deuce prowls over the thick carpet and stands so close to me I almost sway forward just to bridge the gap and feel those strong arms against my chest. One eyebrow hikes just the barest bit, his eyes sparkling as he gazes at me.
Deuce emanates a vortex, the bewitching kind that sucks you in before you realize you don’t have your feet planted.
Get too close and there’s no hope of pulling yourself back out.
Not without consequences. I learned that at seventeen when he broke my heart.
“Oh, I’m not satisfied, Valentina,” he growls. “Far from it.”
And then he turns on his heel and walks out of the house, leaving me standing there agape. I have to run my hand along my bottom lip to make sure I’m not drooling. I blink a few times and then smooth my hands down my skirt. See what I mean? Vortex.
I hurry after him, surprised to see him holding the passenger side door, waiting patiently for me to arrive. Why do I find this gentlemanly gesture endearing? I should hate it. I should use it as an opportunity to jab him right in the kidney.
But I don’t.
I slide by him, making sure to brush my breasts against his arm before ducking into the car. He slams the door harder than is necessary, which makes me smile like an idiot. I’m glad I’m not the only one hanging by a thread.
The drive into town isn’t long enough for me to exhaust my list of things I have to accomplish today in order to be ready for the Battle of the Boutiques tomorrow.
Deuce patiently waits for me to finish my list before getting out of the car and taking the binder from me so I’m not weighed down.
Again, I don’t need the assistance—I can open my own doors myself, thank you very much—but I appreciate the gesture just the same.
Deuce has to work in his boutique this morning getting ready for the onslaught of shoppers this weekend for the event, but he promises to come by as soon as possible to help me set up in the Square.
Sounds like a man’s way of conveniently getting out of hard work, so I shrug him off and get to work.
If I want to have good results, I need to do the work my damn self, a lesson I’ve learned all too well over the years.
“Landry?”
A hand lands on my shoulder and I spin around to grab the offending wrist. Betsy is standing there, eyes wide as she takes in the way I’m gripping her arm.
I release her quickly and try to laugh off the over-the-top reaction.
Shit. She must have been calling me for awhile, and I’ve been so stressed, I didn’t hear the fake name.
“Hey, sorry. Scared me. Guess I was in my head.”
Betsy, bless it, doesn’t seem bothered. Instead, she sidles up right next to me and starts stuffing goodie bags with the donated items spread all over this six-foot table. “I’ve got this if you need to be elsewhere.” She lifts her head and shoots me a wink. “I got a babysitter for four hours.”
For the second time today, I feel my jaw dropping. “You…have a babysitter and you’re here?”
Betsy frowns, but doesn’t stop stuffing the goodie bags. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be here helping a friend? I know how crazy this event gets. I’d never leave you by yourself to deal with it.”
Tears burn the back of my eyeballs and I have to start flipping papers on my clipboard just to create some wind to dry them out before I do something stupid like cry in front of this woman.
“That’s so kind of you,” I say when my throat can squeak out words.
She pats my back. “What are friends for, right?”
I smile brightly, but it’s fake. As fake as every “friendship” I’ve ever had in my life up until this point.
No one has ever done manual labor for me unless they were getting paid to do so.
Betsy just wants…well, I don’t know what she wants.
To spend her four hours of freedom working here in the hot summer sun? That can’t be right.
“Hey, sorry I’m late!” Mary London rushes up to me, looking gorgeous in a loose-fitting sundress that highlights her milk-swollen boobs. She’s got the baby strapped to her chest with a little sunhat covering her. “Miss Ophelia’s been feeding ’round the clock lately!”
Betsy snorts. “Oh hell. I can’t say I’m one who likes the whole breastfeeding thing. Can’t believe I’m doing this again.”
She rubs her swollen belly while Mary London is atwitter about the many merits and downsides to breastfeeding. I feel my face take on a pink hue that has nothing to do with the heat. These two are so freely discussing nipples out in public. That’s crazy work right there.
Mary London spins and grabs the clipboard right out of my stunned hands. “I may only be fair to partly middlin’ but I can take on a few tasks before this cherub needs another boob to latch on to.”
I have no idea what she just said, but she takes an entire page of items that need doing and shoves the clipboard back in my hands.
She’s gone in a heartbeat, already calling out good mornings and how’s your mamas to every worker putting together the stage.
I watch her go, shaking my head. I swear Mary London and I are two very different species of humans.
“She’s a lot, but you’ll grow to love her, I promise.” Betsy elbows me, a knowing smile on her pretty face.
I look down at the clipboard. “Anyone who takes the list with the porta-potty inspection is A-okay in my book.”
Betsy laughs so hard she snorts. I leave the goodie bags in her capable hands and march off to see about the tents being set up for our food vendors.
The morning is a bit of a sweaty blur. By the time I get the tents all situated in between where the food trucks will go, Betsy is done with the goodie bags and is helping direct the plants that will create a green backdrop for the fashion show.
The porta-potties have been delivered and positioned, so Mary London must have already seen to all of that.
Two men with their arms loaded down with white folding chairs holler at me about where to start setting up.
I point them in the right direction, but get pulled away by the tech team saying the stage rental company sent the wrong lights for the lighting truss.
Instead of a nice light yellow to make sure every model is highlighted, even in the shade of the trees dotting the Square, they sent bright red lights.
“Futhermucker!” I manage to not curse, rubbing my forehead when an ache starts up in my temple. “This isn’t a strip show. Red lights are the wrong message.”
“Sorry, ma’am. We could go without lights.” The poor guy looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, giving me the news.
“No lights?” I snap before I can moderate my tone. “Do you know your arse from a hole in the ground?”
The man winces. A muscular arm hooks around my waist and pulls me away from the guy before he can start crying.