Chapter 15
Tuck
- 4 Years Ago-
Pen had sworn, clearly and defiantly, if I went ahead with the Taylor Napp takeover, she’d want nothing to do with me.
No argument. She didn’t even raise her voice. But she was practically vibrating with concentrated emotion. She had worked with Taylor since before graduating from the Fashion Institute. I knew how dedicated she was, how committed and focused.
But I thought I knew better. Thought I could call her bluff. That once it was all over, once she had moved on from that fashion house and expanded her horizons, she’d realize it wasn’t such a big deal. That she’d see the bigger picture.
She made me suffer for one year, two months, ten days. Basically a lifetime.
A whole year of being ignored. Through both Mason’s and Brady’s milestone 30th birthday bashes. Of her pretending not to see the invitation to mine. Of getting no invitation to hers. Of crossing paths at industry events only for her to act as if I were invisible.
Yeah, it cut deep.
Then came the opening of Brady’s first New York restaurant. He’d won MasterChef , launched a string of successful West Coast venues. This was his big moment in the Big Apple. Of course, I was there to support him.
But I was really there for her.
After living in purgatory so long, I was primed for the moment Pen would finally step back into my orbit. Our rift had exceeded its use-by date, and I was determined to win her back.
She arrived late. The rest of us were half a dozen drinks and maybe a couple of other substances in, since Brady’s appetite for partying knew no bounds. But I sobered up the second I spotted Pen.
After a year spent trying to convince myself I’d moved on, that she wasn’t a ghost pressing on my ribs every time I heard her name, she walked into the room. And all the air got sucked out of it.
A striking blur of blue and red, a dress so bold it looked painted on.
Latex, clinging like a second layer of flesh, that forced every set of eyes to follow the smooth curve of her hips, the dip of her waist. The neckline was off her shoulders, leaving her collarbones and the slope of her neck bare…like a dare, a challenge. Appliquéd flowers trailed across her bust and along the hem, sweet and delicate against the high-shine material.
Then her hair—a glossy mass pinned into a high pony and tucked into a floral hairpiece, matching the bouquet on her dress. It was as if she planned every detail, knowing she’d be a walking contradiction—soft and sharp, sweet and dangerous, utterly unforgettable.
My gaze dropped, because I’m a masochist, to her legs: bare, toned, and ending in a pair of patent red heels, sharp enough to puncture a rogue admirer’s eyeball.
She turned her head, and the world receded.
And I knew: I’d do anything to make her forgive me.
By then, she’d made her name. Awards, headlines, accolades: “Fashion’s fastest-rising star”, “The industry’s most cutting-edge designer”, “The boldest and most original talent this decade.” Blah, blah, blah. She deserved every bit of it.
And would any of that have happened if she hadn’t been forced out of the uncredited, unrecognized role she played at Taylor Napp? I think not.
I waited. Through the frenzy of her arrival, the fawning of admirers and industry climbers. Through the speeches, the toasts, the obligatory flattery from people who suddenly acted like they’d seen her potential all along.
Then Brady pulled us together for photos—his oldest friends, reunited.
And that’s when I got my first clue that the ice princess had thawed.
She planted a pointed heel smack-bang in the center of my foot—her spiked, patent-red stiletto sinking painfully into my handcrafted Berluti shoes.
Then she flicked her hair over her shoulder and pretended it never happened.
The night unfolded.
From across the circular marble bar, in a room that looked straight out of a Baz Luhrmann movie set, I watched her shut some guy down with a single, withering glance. Whatever weak line he’d mustered, it clearly hadn’t landed. His shoulders hunched, his head dropped, and he slunk away in silent defeat.
I took my shot. Sidling up beside her, I threw a glance at the departing casualty.
“Let me guess,” I mused. “Was it: ‘It’s hot in here—or is that just you?’ Or maybe the lame one about falling from heaven?”
She didn’t look at me right away. Just hitched a half-smile at the bartender as he slid a dirty martini her way. Even that—her friendly gesture to a stranger, made jealousy flare in my chest.
Then came the sigh. Low, resigned.
“Listen, Tuck—”
“Oh, so you do remember my name.”
Her kohl-darkened eyes lifted irritably to me.
“Oh yes. All of them. Where should we even start? With traitor ? Ruthless opportunist ? Selfish asshole ?”
She paused, taking a slow, deliberate sip, as if the vodka might inspire further insults. “Huh. Maybe your name was an acronym all along: Traitor. Unscrupulous. Cold-hearted —”
“Okay, okay, I get the idea,” I interrupted, secretly pleased she was speaking to me at all instead of upending her drink in my face.
She studied me a moment longer, eyes slitted in assessment. “ Knucklehead .”
Though she seemed less satisfied with the K option.
“I’ll take it,” I said, as I flagged down the bartender for a beer.
It was as if the world had shifted—dimensions expanding beyond the usual length, width, and time into some new, charged reality. A world where Pen was standing next to me again, warping everything dull into something neon bright.
She scanned the glitzy room.
Then, to my surprise, she muttered: “Let’s blow this popsicle stand—I got the wheels, and you got me in high gear, baby.”
I froze, my beer halfway to my lips, processing her words.
She exhaled, shaking her head. “Relax, Romeo. That was his pick-up line.”
I nearly choked. “No way.”
“Oh yeah.” She lifted a manicured finger and signaled the bartender for another. “And would you believe it’s far from the worst I’ve heard?”
“I believe it,” I said, leaning on the bar. “How about: ‘They say dating is a numbers game—so can I get yours?’”
She pointed her glass at me in dry confirmation. “Yup. At least a dozen times.”
“Tragic.”
Pen propped her elbows on the bar top behind her, crossed her ankles, somehow turning casual elegance into something lethal.
Every tilt of her chin, every lazy shift of her weight, raised my internal temperature another degree. She was effortlessly the most stunning person in the room—not that I could say that without sounding like yet another desperate pickup artist.
She pursed her lips. “They’re never good. Although—” A smile curved her lips at some memory, and I immediately hated whoever it involved. “There was one guy. He told me I had the ‘allure of temptation.’”
I shrugged, unimpressed. “Sounds like a line from a perfume commercial.”
She smirked. “Then let’s hear better, Tuck. What ya got?”
I let my gaze slowly drag over her.
“Within forty minutes, you’re going to need a rescue plan. And I volunteer for the mission.”
She arched a brow. “What rescue?”
“You’re on your what—fourth or fifth drink? Have you had to pee yet, Pen?” I asked, cocking my head. “Because it’s not gonna be easy in that vice-like dress. But don’t worry—I would sacrifice a finger and several teeth to pry you out of it.”
She swirled her martini. “My hero.”
“No, seriously,” I pressed. “How did you get into that? Baby powder? Coconut oil?”
She tipped her glass toward me, deadpan. “Latex lube. Duh. ”
I stilled. Squinted. “You lubed your whole body?”
She lifted her drink to her lips, voice smooth as silk. “Every inch.”
Jesus Christ.
The chemistry. The sex. That was always what pulled us back together—as irresistible as gravity.
Through the night, we got separated and reunited in the ebb and flow of the party, each time tossing out a fresh pickup line as we passed in the crowd. The more we drank, the bolder we got—lame humor giving way to something filthier, filthier giving way to downright sinful.
At one point, I caught her by the wrist, leaning in close. “My tongue is a sherpa…and the contours of your body, Mount Everest. ”
“Hope you brought oxygen,” she murmured, slipping away into the crowd.
Later, as she brushed past me, she tugged my sleeve. “I’m too drunk to drive—can I ride you home?”
When I caught up to her again, my hand finding her waist, I whispered, “I’ve built a monument to your hotness…in my pants.”
Passing me as I talked to a couple of Brady’s restaurant backers, her low voice scorched my neck. “There’s nowhere to sit—can I use your face?”
Later, I tossed out: “I’m a romantic. I’ll even hold back your ponytail while you eat my dick.”
Her follow-up, voice like a purr: “I’m a magician…got something hard I can make disappear?”
The night blurred with alcohol, tension, and words that kept pushing boundaries.
Then I spotted Pen laughing with some big-shot developer, Richard Allstein. Too long. Her body language was open, interested. The curve of her throat as she tilted her head brought to mind the freckle under her jaw, the swell of her ear lobe…the glorious hollows of her collarbones—all the details of her body I knew so intimately. Everything I missed.
I moved. Steered the guy aside, clamping a hand on his shoulder.
“About that apartment complex you’ve been pestering me about? Send me the details now. Let’s set a viewing. Monday.”
Pen’s eyes darkened as her wannabe lover stood aside, his head in his phone.
“Follow me.” I crooked a finger.
She folded her arms, voice tight. “You asshole. He was actually nice. Maybe I wanted to get to know him better.”
I leaned in, close enough to feel her breath. “Pen, you’re the most gorgeous woman here. You can have anyone you want,” I let my voice drop low. “I can see it in your eyes. You need to be fucked. And it should be with someone who knows exactly what you need. Me .”
We barely made it to the secluded service elevator located at the end of a corridor, stacked with glassware crates and an empty food cart. I backed her onto the cart, her legs scissoring the air as I slid up her dress and got to work.
Her taste on my tongue, her moans in my ears—time fell away like we’d never been apart. And when I got her to her feet, spun her around, bent her over the cart, and buried myself inside her, it was a perfect fit. Her body gripping mine like she’d been made for this, for me. Heat, friction, pressure pulsing through my spine, into every nerve.
I had her. She was mine.
I wasn’t letting her go again.
When it was over, I almost said something. Something meaningful. About how we were better together, how we were like the final pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place. Instead, I pulled her into my chest and mumbled something about being glad we’d mended things.
She looked up, tossed her ponytail, eyes sharp.
“Don’t kid yourself, Tuck. What friendship ? You’ve competed with me our whole lives. You screwed me over to expand your business. And this?” She smirked, stepping back, straightening her dress. “I was just using you for sex.”
Two weeks later, she had some Brazilian model boyfriend.
A few months after that, I met Stella.
So I did the only thing I could—I worked on actually becoming her friend.
No sex. We grabbed food at her favorite spots, coffee runs, even a round of bowling. When I was in town, I made time for her. If she was too busy, I went to her studio. I suppose it was an unplanned experiment…figuring out what we could be together.
Because I knew our connection had to mean something.
It sure as hell did to me.