1. “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ‘BOUT MY BAD REPUTATION” #2
Olivia’s pale eyes widened. “Four.” Her gaze shifted as she silently considered the damages, probably already planning her mommy makeover.
She deserved better than his transactional apathy, but somewhere between the appetizer and the main course, his patience for niceties had waned.
“I guess four isn’t much different than two. ”
For a half-second, her practiced poise slipped, and he caught something calculating underneath, but it vanished before he could fully decide if it was a superficial loyalty to her figure or a longing for something lost in her own childhood.
“I suppose a big family—”
“It’s getting late.” He unintentionally cut her off. “Sorry. Go on.”
“No, no. It’s fine.” Agreeable as always, she deferred to his lead if only to appear polite.
Good enough.
He slugged down the last of his drink and stood, adjusting his French cuffs. “Shall we?”
“Of course.” She stood and neatly set her napkin on the seat. “Did you want to—”
“I have an early morning.”
Disappointment flashed in her blue eyes. “Maybe next week.”
“Sure.” Soren retrieved her wrap from the coat check and held her arm as they exited the restaurant.
Salt & Ember sprawled like a gilded fortress on the coast. Its stone facade carried decades of sea spray and winter storms without surrendering an inch.
The harbor lighthouse swept its beam across the rocky banks in slow, patient arcs as he led Olivia to his car.
Her arm rested on his with the emotional impact of a baguette.
He could take her home. The invitation had sat on the table since the second course, open and wanting, yet his cock couldn’t be less interested.
“Dinner was lovely, Soren.”
“The chef does a nice job,” he agreed, leading her to the passenger door of his black Escalade. When he reached for the handle, she turned, putting her back against the tinted glass and looking up at him.
“I know you said you have an early morning, but we don’t have to make it a late night. If you want, we can still go back to my place. Or yours.”
He forced a smile. “I wish I could, but I still have some paperwork to review in preparation for my meeting tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Her lashes lowered.
“Hey.” Soren lifted her chin. “Believe me, if it was something I could ignore, I might take you up on the offer, but I can’t. Not tonight.”
Her smile returned. “Rain check, then.”
He nodded, and she rose to press her lips to his jaw. He pulled back before she got carried away, opening the car door to guide her inside.
The September chill had chased away the last of the summer tourists, leaving the lot slightly empty for a Friday in Hideaway Bay.
Tucked neatly off the rocky coast of Maine, their little coastal town embraced every festive season of the year, so it was only a matter of days before the fall festivities kicked in and the next crowd shuffled through.
Soon, beach-goers and coconut breezes would give way to pumpkin-spiced everything and leaf-peeping visitors. But during these rare weeks when seasons transitioned, the town was quieter than a mausoleum.
He preferred the distracting vibe, the seasonal hustle and bustle that came with hot coastal summers, festive autumns, and some of the best Christmas chaos on the East Coast. The current low murmur of locals alone left too much room for his mind to wander.
As he pulled onto the road, passing Salt & Ember once more, the lanterns along the cliff reflected into the black water below. Olivia would only be here for a few more weeks. Then she would return to her regularly scheduled life back in Connecticut.
Her seasonal presence used to intrigue him. He’d purposely see that he was in Hideaway whenever she visited. Now, it made him crave his condo in Portland, Maine, a place he typically only stayed when he got hung up at work.
When they reached Olivia’s summer house, a charming cedar shake estate perched on the bluff above the harbor, Soren tried to picture himself there, but preferred the contemporary style of his newly built home.
The bones of the Aldrich estate were old, the kind of old that predated money and outlasted time.
Hydrangeas lined the long porch as the crushed oyster shell drive crunched under the tires of his luxury Cadillac.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come in.”
“Another time.” Speeding this along, he hopped out to grab her door.
The walk to her porch was uneventful, the kiss goodnight even more so.
When he got back into the car, his chest lightened. Olivia waved, and he nodded, backing out before she even made it through the front door.
Once he reached the main drag along the sea wall, his chest loosened. The sense of freedom should have told him everything about the date he needed to know, but it would have meant facing other truths he’d rather not confront.
The faster he drove, the harder his heart beat. By the time he made it back to town, his dick awoke from its coma. His blood pumped harder, and his pulse ripped like a giddy current through his veins.
Driving on autopilot, he tried not to overthink the last few hours, but struggled with the pinch of guilt that followed. He shouldn’t have lied to Olivia, but something inside of him warned him to play it safe with her.
He had no excuse for blowing her off other than his recent pattern of horny stupidity. Every time he gave in to his impulses like this, he swore it was the last, yet here he was again, rushing off to the one place he had no business going.
There was no logical explanation. This addictive fixation was becoming a disruption to his well-ordered life.
He knew better. Yet his foot pressed the gas pedal harder, driving the speedometer fifty miles past the speed limit on a dark back road at ten-thirty at night.
Puddles sprayed under his tires as he rounded the curves, his pulse intensifying with each closing mile.
There was no meeting tomorrow. He should have gone home. Either that, or tested the sexual chemistry with Olivia. She was the sensible diet of refinement and class he told himself to order, yet he was racing towards a drive-through of indulgence that would end in familiar regret.
“Shit,” he cursed in the silence of the car, his hands tight on the wheel and his eyes focused on the dark road.
No matter how much he knew what was better for him, he couldn’t pull himself off this course. What the hell was wrong with him?
One was messy peanut butter and jelly. The other caviar.
He knew the right choice, yet still wanted the taste of sloppy indulgence.
Eventually, he’d satisfy the craving and move on.
He had to get it out of his system because, inevitably, he’d settle down, and marriage was not a casual agreement to him.
He wanted class and sophistication, and he required fidelity.
Something that started as a sinful secret affair would not suit his future situation, and he planned to end it as soon as he found the right woman to marry.
Olivia had an agenda as detailed as his own. Neither of them was pushed by fleeting emotions or carnal cravings, nor did they expect an impassioned kind of love. They moved like nobility, strategic and always focused on the outcome.
Maybe his erratic addiction to a woman so unsuited for his goals came from the sense that he was running out of time. His brother Greyson was now married to Wren and expecting his first child.
Soren wanted his own children close in age to his brothers’ kids, which was why he had to buckle down on a plan. Tonight could have moved the needle forward. Instead, he found himself on another self-sabotaging detour.
He considered turning around.
No, his body instantly objected.
Just one more night, one more taste, then he’d get serious about settling down.
Turning onto a quiet back road, Soren slowed his speed. The streets were dark. Gravel popped under his tires like a warning system as he parked behind the two-story saltbox house. The SUV softly settled into darkness as he killed the engine.
He could still go home.
He could make a drink, relax by the fire, and call it an early night. That was the wise move.
He glanced at the back porch. That wine glass with lipstick on the rim still sat forgotten on the top step. It had been there since early August, collecting rainwater that evaporated every afternoon in the summer heat, and dead gnats at the base throughout the day.
He shouldn’t know any of that. But he did. He walked past the damn glass more times than he could count. He even knew what kind of wine filled it. He could still taste the blend on her tongue.
“Fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
His cock twitched, and the car door popped open.
Gravel crunched under Soren’s feet as he unlocked the gate. The motion-sensor lights behind the saltbox home kicked on, and the back door opened the second he climbed the first step.
“If it isn’t his royal high maintenance.” Jocelyn braced one bare foot across the threshold and lifted her chin.
Her yippity demon chihuahua erupted into a barking fit at her ankles.
“Cordelia, hush,” she ordered, and the gremlin dressed in a plush unicorn hoodie bared its teeth at Soren.
Used to the erratic seven-pound security system, he rolled his eyes until his gaze fell on the new addition to the porch.
A fat pumpkin sat cockeyed by the door. A shining example of why they were incompatible.
Who starts decorating for the next season without even cleaning up the festering wine glass from the last? She was a mess.
Cordelia, the little rat, charged the threshold—ready to maim.
Since the day they met, the dog had decided they were sworn enemies. Something it had in common with its moody mother, who still hadn’t invited him in.
“You need to get that thing a muzzle,” Soren said, raising his voice over the vicious yipping and snapping.