Skylar
A-n-d that was the absolutely wrong thing to say. No one insults my baby—my bakery, my dream—and gets away unscathed.
"I can assure you; they are popular amongst my customers."
He turns those searing eyes on me, and it feels like I’m looking into the depths of a frozen lake. The surface seems able to bear my weight, but one wrong step, and I’m going to fall right through and find myself trapped. I try to breathe, but all of the oxygen in the room has been sucked out by his presence. My pulse crashes in my ears, and my nerve endings are so tightly stretched, I fear they’ll snap any second. And when he shoves a hand in his pocket, pulling the fabric of his pants taut over that bulge between his legs, a slow thud flares to life between mine.
I cannot find him attractive. Cannot risk acknowledging this chemistry that thickens the air between us. Not when I need his help to save my business. Not when I know who he is, and he’s definitely out-of-bounds. Forbidden. Sirens go off in my mind. Back away. It’s not worth taking on the humungous backlog of complications that are going to come with having anything to do with him.
Then a look of boredom crosses his face. He yawns, and my pulse rate shoots up.
Strike out everything I felt earlier. It’s definitely worth taking on every challenge that comes with getting him to cough up money, because by God, he needs to realize the world doesn’t revolve around him. How can anyone be this full of himself? This insensitive?
Anger squeezes my chest. Adrenaline laces my blood. And how dare he turn the most important meeting of my life into… into… something that doesn’t merit even a few seconds of his attention?
"I’ve seen everything I need to see. Goodbye." He turns to leave.
What the—? He’s leaving? Does that mean he’s decided against investing in the bakery? Think! You need to say something to stop him. You cannot afford to piss off the one guy who might be able to help save your bakery.
"Wait, don’t you want to taste my wares?" I burst out.
He freezes mid-step. His shoulders seem to swell. The planes of his back rise and fall, and the jacket pulls even tighter. Is he going to burst out of his skin and go all Hulk on me? I swallow. And when he turns slowly and makes a growling sound at the back of his throat, I have to stop the yelp that almost spills from my mouth. Every single cell in my body has woken up and is doing the hula. Stop that. You can’t feel this drawn to this… To this arrogant beast who rejected you.
But I also need his help. I have to save my business from going bust. And if that means swallowing my pride, then so be it. I tip up my chin and straighten my back. "I… I mean, maybe you want to taste my Honey Pot?" Ugh. Didn’t mean it to come out like that.
His left eyelid, the one covering his blue eye, twitches, and he seems one step closer to either having a breakdown or walking away. Neither of which is desirable.
"Oh, Fraggle Rock . What I meant to say is, you’ll definitely like the Purple Patches." I point to the range of cupcakes showcased under the counter.
"Did you use Fraggle Rock as a swear word?" He stares.
"I did. It’s because my mother hated me swearing—being a girl, and all that." I roll my eyes. That condition had not applied to my brother. "So instead, I began to use names of TV series as swear words. Also, you could try the C!itasaurus?" I look at him hopefully.
"The whatasaurus?" He tilts his head. His gaze is, once again, fixed on my mouth. My thighs clench, and moisture laces the flesh between my legs. I push away the burst of awareness which seems to have stuck its claws into my skin. No way am I going to succumb to his magnetism, which has multiplied in the years since I last saw him. Especially not when his jerkhole factor hasn’t reduced, either.
It's always been a mystery to me why I found his arrogance such a turn on. Now, I’m also reminded of how he always managed to get on my nerves. Not that it stopped me from throwing myself at him. A mistake I’m not going to make again. When I named that cupcake, it seemed like a stroke of genius. Having to pronounce it aloud in front of the Hulk, however, negates any laughs I’ve had about it so far.
"Uh, you know what I mean?" The color of my cheeks deepens and spreads to my chest. My entire body seems like it’s on fire.
"No, I don’t," he says in a low, hard voice.
I shiver. "You know that…that…pink pastry between the blue cakes that looks like…" I glance around, then slide open the glass door to the under-counter area. I pull on a pair of disposable gloves, reach in and, instead of the C!itasaurus, slide one of the fig-shaped desserts onto a plate. I place it on the counter. "Actually, I think you should eat my Moist Goodness, and everything will be clear to you, and?—"
I hear a gnashing sound, and when I dare to peek at Mr. Grouchy Face, I see the muscles of his jaw ripple. Oh no, at this rate, he’s going to crack a molar. Or two.
I blink rapidly. “Maybe we should start afresh?”
“Start afresh?” he asks in a tone that implies he’d rather have never met me.
Yeah, me, too. Unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury. “You know, pretend we don’t know each other. Pretend the last few minutes never happened?” Pretend that kiss is not seared into my brain, and into other parts of my body I’m not going to think about.
I pull off my gloves and hold out my hand. “Skylar Potter.” Then, because I hate my life and because, apparently, the connection between my brain and my mouth has been lost under the force of his glower, I smile. "No relation to Harry, as you’re aware."
"Harry?" He looks at my slim, pink-tipped fingers, then back at my face, and makes no move to shake my hand.
I set my jaw. Oh, my god, he’s so rude, I should slap one of the pies baking in my oven into his face. Only, they’re too good to waste. Also, I can’t risk messing up a pie when I need every sale I can get. Every part of me wants to turn and run out of here. But I can’t. I owe it to myself, to my dream, to give this one last shot. I will not give up easily. I will not. I will stay polite, even if it kills me. I manage to bare my teeth in the resemblance of a smile. "You know, Harry Potter? Boy wizard? Evanesco. " I pretend to flick my wand in his direction.
His jaw hardens further.
Ooh, he looks pissed. The tips of his ears have turned white. Also, the end of his nose. Also, the vanishing spell on him didn’t work. His Royal Dickness is still here, larger than life and glowering at me.
"I’m sooo immersed in the Potterverse. Oh, and Taylor Swift. I love Taylor Swift.” I beam at him.
His frown deepens.
“I’m guessing you’re not a Swiftie?” I nod.
“What’s that?” he asks in a contemptuous tone.
“Those of us who love Taylor Swift call ourselves Swifties.”
“Sounds contagious,” he sneers.
I ignore his cantankerous attitude because I need to charm him. And because I desperately need him to fork over the money I need. “I love her songs, don’t you?" I chirrup.
His fingers curl into fists at his sides. Which is not a good sign. Then, because I love to go from the sublime to the surreal, I smile even wider. "Guess which Hogwarts’ house Taylor Swift belongs to?" I toss my hair over my shoulder.
“Hogwhat?" He seems like he’s about to have a cardiac event. Or like he went to sleep and woke up in an alternate reality. This is bad. So bad.
And I have to go and put my foot in it by prompting him, "Hogwarts."
"Hogwhat?" he snaps again.
This time, the light goes on in my brain. "Oh, you haven’t heard of Hogwarts?" I titter. "That’s okay. I wasn’t alive when Titanic hit the cinemas, either…" Don’t say it, don’t say it. "Unlike you."
He blinks slowly.
“I meant the movie, not the actual event when the Titanic hit an iceberg and sank.”
His jaw tics.
“Not that you were alive when the Titanic sank.” I cough. “Even I know you’re not that ancient.”
A nerve pops at his temple. That’s not a good sign, is it? Zip your lips. Just shut up already.
"Not that I'm implying you're old or anything.” I try to contain my laughter and end up snorting—ugh, bad habit. “The grey in your hair adds to your distinguished appearance. Besides, you’re only fifteen years older than me." Oh no, I don’t think that makes it better.
The veins on his throat stand out in relief. I try to swallow, but my throat is so dry, it feels like sharp knives line my gullet. I flick out a tongue to wet my lips, and his eyes gleam. He watches my mouth with a rapacious gaze. Every part of his body seems to have turned to stone. Watching me with such intensity, he seems to have turned into a predator who’s planning every possible way to jump me. If he had a tail, I think it’d be swishing from side to side.
The silence deepens. It doesn’t stop me from shaking a finger at him. "You, mister, need a crash course in pop culture. Although, I suppose, I shouldn’t expect someone who has grey at his temples to have a sense of the zeitgeist."
"The fuck you prattling on about?" he bites out through gritted teeth.
"Whoa, hold on, no need to show me your horns." Although, I’d love to see the one between your legs. "In fact, you look so angry, I'm expecting you to breathe fire at any moment." You can turn into a dragon and carry me away anytime. "And seriously, you should taste this." I push the plate with the moist, pink-and-white, fig-shaped shortbread in his direction. It has a button between the lips made of edible silver leaf and there’s glitter around it.
"My desserts are awesome; one bite, and you’ll be a convert." I nod.
He stares.
"Unless you’re worried you’ll get addicted to my Sweet Bits." I tip up my chin.
Did I say my sweet bits? I did say my sweet bits. "I meant the dessert that I’ve named Sweet Bits, not my sweet bits." I hear my words, and argh, didn’t mean for them to sound so… provocative. But I’m not going to apologize for that. Hell no.
"Well? You going to taste it or what?" I scowl.
He must see the challenge in my eyes and, alpha male that he is, of course, he doesn’t back down. Without taking his gaze off of my face, he licks the cream from the hollow in the center. A thousand little fires flare to life under my skin. I swallow; my breath grows shallow. He bites down on one of the plump lips, and a shiver grips me. I clutch at the edge of the counter. The pulse at the base of my throat speeds up. And when he pops the other lip into his mouth, I gulp. He brings his thumb and forefinger to his mouth and sucks on them, and a breathy moan leaves my lips.
"Not bad." He shrugs.
I stare. "What do you mean, not bad?! That is my best-seller.”
"It was okay.” He looks down his nose from his superior height. “I admit, the names you give your baked goods are creative, but I’m not sure that’s enough for me to approve the takeover."
"Takeover?" I stiffen. "Who’s talking about a takeover?"
“It’s the only way I’d consider investing in your business.”
“I only need help,” I say through gritted teeth.
“That’s putting it mildly. I reached out to the bank you took the loan from?—”
“You reached out to my bank?” I burst out.
“You don’t think I’d be here without due diligence?—”
I cut in, “The terms of my deal with them are confidential.” I lock my fingers together.
“Not when you’re about to go bankrupt. When they realized the Davenport Group was considering an acquisition?—”
“An investment; a loan; that’s all I’m looking for. Something to tide me over and buy me some time until I get back on my feet.”
“Keep fooling yourself. You might be a good baker?—”
“So you did like my dessert,” I declare in a triumphant voice.
“—but you’re not a businessperson, by any stretch of the imagination.”
Oh, my god! What I wouldn’t give to wipe that smug look off his face.
“There are ups and downs in any business.” I lock my fingers together. “Things will bounce back.”
“There are ups and downs, and then, there are downs and more downs,” he drawls.
Anger thuds at my temples. I will not lose my temper. I will not.
He slides his hand into his pocket. “Not that I don’t understand your reluctance to sell out.”
“You do?”
“Of course. You’ve invested your sweat and blood, and likely, your entire savings into the venture. Too bad you didn’t have a financial person advising you.”
Of course, he’d say that. Nate’s always been a numbers whiz. I heard that from Ben. It’s why, even when they were in the Marines together, Nate oversaw strategy. He was the person coming up with the game plan for their team. It was Nate’s sharp brain which helped them both stay ahead of the enemy; or so my brother informed me over the years. Too bad his best friend’s temperament leaves much to be desired.
“I would be willing to consider a merger instead of an acquisition of your little business.” His gaze flicks about the place and back at me.
“ Little business?” I curl my fingers into fists. Breathe, count back from ten. Do not give into the impulsive need to throw a pie in his face.
He wipes his thumb under his lip, a considering look in his eyes. “Of course, I don’t have to do anything. But given you’re Ben’s little sister, and he wouldn’t want me to leave you in the lurch, I might have a proposition that could help both of us.”
“Of course you do.”
My sarcasm is lost on him, for he looks me up and down. “Marry me.”
To find out what happens next read Skylar a one-directional focus to prove myself and nurture his legacy. To make my group of companies the leader, in its own right. To make so much money and amass so much power, I’d be a force to be reckoned with.
I tackled each business meeting with a zeal that none of my opponents were able to withstand. But with each passing year—as I crossed the benchmarks I’d set myself, as my bottom line grew healthier, my cash reserves engorged, and the people working for me began treating me with the kind of respect normally reserved for larger-than-life icons—some of that enthusiasm waned. Oh, I still wake up ready to give my best to my job every day, but the zest that once fired me up faded, leaving a sense of purposelessness behind.
The one thing that has kept me going is to lock down my legacy. To ensure the business I’ve built will finally be transferred to my name. For which my father informed me I would need to marry. Which is why, after much research, I tracked down Lila Kumar, wooed her, and proposed to her. And then, her meddling wedding planner came along and turned all of my plans upside down.
Now, that same sense of purpose grips me. That laser focus I’ve been lacking envelops me and fills my being. All of my senses sharpen as I shove the door of her office open and stalk in.
The scent envelops me first. The lush notes of violets and peaches. Evocative and fruity. Complex, yet with a core of mystery that begs to be unraveled. Huh? I’m not the kind to be affected by the scent of a woman, but this... Her scent... It’s always chafed at my nerve endings. The hair on my forearms straightens.
My guts tie themselves up in knots, and my heart pounds in my chest. It’s not comfortable. The kind of feeling I got the first time I went white-water rafting. A combination of nervousness and excitement as I faced my first rapids. A sensation that had since ebbed. One I’d been chasing ever since, pushing myself to take on extreme sports. One I hadn’t thought I’d find in the office of a wedding planner.
My feet thud on the wooden floor, and I get a good look at the space which is one-fourth the size of my own office. In the far corner is a bookcase packed with books. On the opposite side is a comfortable settee packed with cushions women seem to like so much. There’s a colorful patchwork quilt thrown over it, and behind that, a window that looks onto the back of the adjacent office building. On the coffee table in front of the settee is a bowl with crystal-like objects that reflect the light from the floor lamps. There are paintings on the wall that depict scenes from beaches. No doubt, the kind she’d point to and sell the idea of a honeymoon to gullible brides. I suppose the entire space would appeal to women. With its mood lighting and homey feel, the space invites you to kick back, relax and pour out your problems. A ruse I’m not going to fall for.
"You!" I stab my finger in the direction of the woman seated behind the antique desk straight ahead. "Call Lila, right now, and tell her she needs to go through with the wedding. Tell her she can’t back out. Tell her I‘m the right choice for her."
She peers up at me from behind large, black horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. "No."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
She leans back in her chair. "I’m not going to do that."
"Why the hell not?"
"Are you the right choice for her?
"Of course, I am." I glare at her.
Some of the color fades from her cheeks. She taps her pen on the table, then juts out her chin. "What makes you think you’re the right choice of husband for her?"
"What makes you think I’m not."
"Do you love her?"
"That’s no one’s problem except mine and hers."
"You don’t love her."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Excuse me?" She pushes the glasses further up her nose. "Are you seriously asking what loving the woman you’re going to marry has to do with actually marrying her?" Her voice pulses with fury.
"Yes, exactly. Why don’t you explain it to me?" The sarcasm in my tone is impossible to miss.
She stares at me from behind those large glasses that should make her look owlish and studious, but only add an edge of what I can only describe as quirky-sexiness. The few times I’ve met her before, she’s gotten on my nerves so much, I couldn’t wait to get the hell away from her. Now, giving her the full benefit of my attention, I realize, she’s actually quite striking. And the addition of those spectacles? Fuck me—I never thought I had a weakness for women wearing glasses. Maybe I was wrong. Or maybe it’s specifically this woman wearing glasses… Preferably only glasses and nothing else.
Hmm. Interesting. This reaction to her. It’s unwarranted and not something I planned for. I widen my stance, mainly to accommodate the thickness between my legs. An inconvenience… which perhaps I can use to my benefit? I drag my thumb under my lower lip.
Her gaze drops to my mouth, and if I’m not mistaken, her breath hitches. Very interesting. Has she always reacted to me like that in the past? Nope, I would’ve noticed. We’ve always tried to have as little as possible to do with each other. Like I said, interesting. And unusual.
"First," —she drums her fingers on the table— "are you going to answer my question?"
I tilt my head, the makings of an idea buzzing through my synapses. I need a little time to flesh things out though. It’s the only reason I deign to answer her question which, let’s face it, I have no obligation to respond to. But for the moment, it’s in my interest to humor her and buy myself a little time.
"Lila and I are well-matched in every way. We come from good families?—"
"You mean rich families?"
"That, too. Our families move in the same circles."
"Don’t you mean boring country clubs?" she says in a voice that drips with distaste.
I frown. "Among other places. We have the pedigree, the bloodline, our backgrounds are congruent, and we’d be able to fold into an arrangement of coexistence with the least amount of disruption on either side."
"Sounds like you’re arranging a merger."
"A takeover, but what-fucking-ever." I raise a shoulder.
Her scowl deepens. "This is how you approached the upcoming wedding... And you wonder why Lila left you?"
"I gave her the biggest ring money could buy?—"
"You didn’t make an appearance at the engagement party."
"I signed off on all the costs related to the upcoming nuptials?—"
"Your own engagement party. You didn’t come to it. You left her alone to face her family and friends." Her tone rises. Her cheeks are flushed. You’d think she was talking about her own wedding, not that of her friend. In fact, it’s more entertaining to talk to her than discuss business matters with my employees. How interesting.
"You also didn’t show up for most of the rehearsals." She glowers.
"I did show up for the last one."
"Not that it made any difference. You were either checking your watch and indicating that it was time for you to leave, or you were glowering at the plans being discussed."
"I still agreed to that god-awful wedding cake, didn’t I?
"On the other hand, it’s probably good you didn’t come for the previous rehearsals. If you had, Lila and I might have had this conversation earlier?—"
"Aha!" I straighten. "So, you confess that it’s because of you Lila walked away from this wedding."
She tips her head back. "Hardly. It’s because of you."
"So you say, but your guilt is written large on your face."
"Guilt?" Her features flush. The color brings out the dewy hue of her skin, and the blue of her eyes deepens until they remind me of forget-me-nots. No, more like the royal blue of the ink that spilled onto my paper the first time I attempted to write with a fountain pen.
"The only person here who should feel guilty is you, for attempting to coerce an innocent, young woman into an arrangement that would have trapped her for life."
Anger thuds at my temples. My pulse begins to race. "I never have to coerce women. And what you call being trapped is what most women call security. But clearly, you wouldn’t know that, considering" —I wave my hand in the air— "you prefer to run your kitchen-table business which, no doubt, barely makes ends meet."
She loosens her grip on her pencil, and it falls to the table with a clatter. Sparks flash deep in her eyes.
You know what I said earlier about the royal blue? Strike that. There are flickers of silver hidden in the depths of her gaze. Flickers that blaze when she’s upset. How would it be to push her over the edge? To be at the receiving end of all that passion, that fervor, that ardor… that absolute avidness of existence when she’s one with the moment? How would it feel to rein in her spirit, absorb it, drink from it, revel in it, and use it to spark color into my life?
"Kitchen-table business?" She makes a growling sound under her breath. "You dare come into my office and insult my enterprise? The company I have grown all by myself?—"
"And outside of your assistant" —I nod toward the door I came through— "you’re the sole employee, I take it?"
Her color deepens. "I work with a group of vendors?—"
I scoff, "None of whom you could hold accountable when they don’t deliver."
"—who have been carefully vetted to ensure that they always deliver," she says at the same time. "Anyway, why do you care, since you don’t have a wedding to go to?"
"That’s where you’re wrong." I peel back my lips. "I’m not going to be labeled as the joke of the century. Not after all the media has labelled it 'the wedding of the century’." I make air quotes with my fingers.
It was Isla’s idea to build up the wedding with the media. She also wanted to invite influencers from all walks of life to attend, but I have no interest in turning my nuptials into a circus. So, I vetoed the idea of journalists attending in person. I have, however, agreed to the event being recorded by professionals and exclusive clips being shared with the media and the influencers. This way, we’ll get the necessary PR coverage, without the media being physically present.
In all fairness, the publicity generated by the upcoming nuptials has already been beneficial. It’s not like I’ll ever tell her, but Isla was right to feed the public’s interest in the upcoming event. Apparently, not even the most hard-nosed investors can resist the warm, fuzzy feelings that a marriage invokes. And this can only help with the IPO I have planned for the most important company in my portfolio. "I have a lot riding on this wedding."
"Too bad you don’t have a bride."
"Ah," —I smirk— "but I do."
She scowls. "No, you don’t. Lila?—"
"I’m not talking about her."
"Then who are you talking about?"
"You."
To find out what happens next read Liam and Isla’s marriage of convenience romance where the bridegroom marries the wedding planner in, The Proposal, here.
Here’s a Reading Order Bingo card of the Primrose Hill universe so you can cross off books as you read them, here