Love is a Game (Blue Mountain Lake #4)
Chapter 1
Tuck
I take my seat on the low stage, spotlight drilling my face.
Across from me, my opponent’s neon green heels bounce just enough to betray the tension beneath her jeweled corset and faux leather skirt.
Penelope Miller. The only person who could make an outfit so fiercely alternative look effortlessly Avant-Garde. Complete with a brass neck cuff and toy army men swinging as earrings.
The nervous energy is evident in her vibrant brown eyes as she surveys the cavernous expanse of the old linen factory.
This venue, deep in the Bronx, is a flimsy effort to evoke nostalgia for fashion’s industrial past. Statuesque models in sustainably sourced fabrics, including Penelope’s endorsed MuSkin mushroom leather, pose with expressions as solemn as a UN summit. Flashy banners plaster the walls, blaring slogans about diversity, inclusion, and authenticity—the prerequisites to street cred these days.
It all bores me stupid. Casting fashion as the hero of social change while unapologetically fueling consumerism.
And the headline act of today’s propaganda?
Our debate topic: “The Future of Fashion: Slaves to Trends or Warriors of Sustainability?”
I return my attention to the one person who could attract me to this event—and suddenly catch the glaring hole in her glossy facade.
Just as Penelope shifts in her seat, recrossing her legs, a flash of creamy skin appears against the gaping zipper of her fitted skirt.
I drop my hand behind the cubed statement table, snapping my fingers to catch her attention.
Nope. Oblivious.
“ Pen— ” I try again.
She hits me with an impatient glare. I raise my eyebrows in warning and gesture to the enticing sliver of her exposed skin.
Meanwhile, our moderator steps up to address the audience. Ingrid Lin’s architecturally severe gray bob and fearsome reputation pull everyone’s attention while Penelope cautiously explores her side-hip region.
As Ingrid reads out the rules of the debate, Penelope angles her thighs, leans forward, and inches the zipper back in place. Then she glances my way, a frown etched between her dark brows. She taps a finger against her right cheek.
I follow her prompt, wipe my face—and come away with a smudge of deep plum lipstick.
Huh. It seems I bare the evidence of our backstage tryst too.
And what would they all say, this self-righteous crowd, if they knew? That this woman—always so passionately and vocally appalled by my unethical business empire—almost didn’t make it to the stage because she was spread-eagled, ass to the ceiling, begging me for more? Those three long years of self-denial had us going at it in the dressing room like feral cats at dawn?
Yep. A whole three years of not giving in to my primal urges whenever I’m caught in Penelope’s tumultuous orbit. Three years of her relationship pileups as she did her usual crush-burn-dump of lovers while I shacked up with my girlfriend, Stella.
It was inevitable. From the moment my relationship imploded, all I could think of was seeing Pen again. Every step toward her dressing room drilled home the evidence—that as much as I truly cared for Stella, the compulsive craving for Penelope is always there. Like a riptide in my veins.
One knock was all it took. The door cracked open like an invitation to Eden, teasing me with her seductive scent, her untamed energy. Those luminous eyes with the power to freeze my balls in icy restraint or melt me with urgent desire.
Then her voice—low and silky, poised to reward or withdraw.
“Tuck?” Her eyes drilled mine, followed by a furtive glance down the hall. “Where’s your Palm-oil Heiress?”
“We broke up,” I answered flatly.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Pen’s eyes flashed wickedly, her fist already at my shirtfront, dragging me across the threshold.
Our kiss was white-hot urgency. Her mouth angry with lust, hands clawing at my clothes. But that was nothing against my rock-hard need. I took over, gripping her wrists and bending her face-first over the makeup chair.
The brightly lit vanity mirror captured it all. Makeup bottles, hair products, and water bottles upended and crashing to the floor along with our discarded clothing. Pen gripping the arms of the chair, her tits spilling over the confines of the corset.
I ripped away her skirt and panties. And I took her, hard and deep, her ass cheeks welted red with the friction. Her heaving breasts, dark eyes dreamy with lust, lips parting as she panted my name…I was torn apart and mended back together all at once.
Her wild beauty, her blissful moans, her hot, wet hunger engulfing my cock. I was lost to her power, like a river submitting to the sea. Lost to another world…of Penelope’s parted thighs, her lips sucking at my fingers, my dick expanding inside her. Just as fierce and consuming as it always was.
I couldn’t count how many times we’ve fucked. From our first clumsy pubescent games, arousing feelings we hardly knew how to handle, to secretive teenage hookups. Athletic adventures in our twenties. And our more recent passionate reunions. Every time is more achingly raw than before.
Just like it was this time—right up until an urgent voice at the door drew us back to reality—and to this stage. Now, as Penelope carefully smooths her hair, my eyes roam the contours of her body.
No way I could resist the chance to take her on in a public debate. Winning this thing will give me eternal bragging rights that will have her practically foaming at the mouth with contempt.
And there’s nothing sexier than Pen riled up with rage. Especially since I know the perfect way to temper it.
“Let’s meet our panelists.” Ingrid’s tone is as crisp as a sharply pressed pleat. “First, Tuck Allen. CEO and mastermind behind Veloci—the global fashion powerhouse known for its relentless efficiency and budget-conscious approach.”
Yep, that’s me. The supposed villain of the narrative. The man who dared to make a fortune off affordable fashion. At least I don’t pretend my fashion brands will save the planet. I’m a realist. And no matter what the people in this room spout as truth, I know no amount of biodegradable cotton, MuSkin, or rPET fabrics can hide the industry’s insatiable need for more excess.
Ingrid pauses, giving a razor-thin smile. I lean back in my chair as if her words don’t land. After all, I’m used to this kind of shade. Budget-conscious might as well be a four-letter word in a room like this.
The audience is evidence of that: a mix of the impeccably tailored and the fashionably disheveled. High-powered buyers, celebrities, and designers peacocking in couture creations, and press members starving for a scoop.
They’re all here for the same reason—to see sparks fly. After all, the woman opposite me loves nothing more than to flout social norms and stir controversy. Pen’s always had a knack for commanding attention. Her casual brazenness is unforced, as natural to her as breathing. And she carries a wild, kinetic energy…as if her high creativity keeps her buzzing on an eternal high.
Ingrid continues her spiel.
“Tuck is a man who doesn’t just predict trends; he manufactures them at lightning speed. A visionary with a ruthless streak, he scours the globe for the best producers—at prices that keep competitors awake at night. Some call it genius, others…” her gaze flits to Penelope, “prefer more colorful adjectives.”
The crowd titters, all eyes shifting to Penelope. Despite their scrutiny, no one else would catch it—the barely-there flicker of discomfort I’ve come to know. The slight squaring of her shoulders as she sets her defenses, the habitual tug at the woven string on her wrist to appease her nerves.
Ingrid goes on, emphasizing Penelope’s “uncompromising commitment to sustainability and craftsmanship.”
The praise ramps up another notch as she neatly pits us at odds.
“If Veloci is a well-oiled machine, Carousel Studio is a living, breathing work of art. Penelope’s designs are bold, daring and—like the woman herself—impossible to ignore. She passionately shirks trends and packs her creations with enough contradictions to rival even the great Vivienne Westwood, though Ms. Miller vehemently rejects comparisons.”
There’s warm applause. Then Ingrid invites Penelope to kick off the debate.
Pen stretches out a moment of silence as she clasps her hands at the podium. Then she clears her throat and launches into her argument with all the fiery conviction I’ve come to expect.
Her words slice through the air with precision and passion. Yet all I can think about is how, just minutes ago, she was unraveling beneath me.
But if I was naive enough to think what happened between us backstage might soften Pen’s approach, I’m quickly set straight. Her eyes flare as she narrows her argument—to personally attack my company.
Her voice cuts through the room without mercy.
“Veloci posts five hundred new items to Instagram every single day, churning out clothes so cheap they are practically disposable. And at what environmental cost? Natural resources drained, fifteen to forty-five billion garments never sold, and three out of five tossed within a year.”
She lets that sink in before piling on more stats.
“That’s ninety-two million tons of textile waste—one garbage truck of clothes dumped every second! Picture it—it’s the equivalent of filling a two-car garage from floor to ceiling! Tick-tock, another truckload to bury. Tick-tock—more pollution!”
She turns, directing her gaze to me, her deliberate pause compelling the room to silence.
“ And that’s what your entire empire is built on, Tuck Allen,” she snarls, “the production of trash! ”
Right. So that’s how she’s gonna play it?
Game on , Penelope. Let’s see who wins this round.