Chapter Twenty-Two
Lemon
Annoyance is what I feel right now. At Papa.
How dare he send me off to live with another family to save his company’s reputation when he’s singlehandedly destroying it for the sake of a love affair with his competition?
I knew I sensed a snake in the grass the first time she slid into our lives, but coming back after breaking his heart and taking the summer chart-toppers with her?
My fingers curl into my fists. She’s taking advantage of him. Nobody loves people like us for anything but money. Hasn’t he learned this by now?
My hair hangs around my face, the loose bun I fashioned disheveled from the car ride, the library search, or maybe the way I shook it in time to Oliver’s song.
Oliver Love Nashville and those motherfucking fingers. I stare him up and down just before Amelia breaks our privacy.
“Sorry to interrupt, dears, but it is within the hour of the event. If you plan to be punctual, you need to be leaving shortly.” She taps her glasses back up her nose and scuttles away with what looks very much like a smirk.
As much as I want to find the love note that proves to Papa how persuasive she can be, to remind him how easily she lied to him last time, we have a tight schedule to keep.
And I have a bet that a lot of Pine Forest families are counting on me to win, whether they know it or not. I’ve been careless, and I won’t let them down because I was drunk and competitive. See what competition does?
“I’ll circle back to this when I have more time.” I flick my eyes down his body, the abs I know to be solid and cut beneath his shirt an insane distraction. “Jacket.” I remind myself. “You need the jacket.”
I shake my head, and all images of his naked shirtless body away as I lead us to my bedroom. “Don’t laugh. Nothing has changed in there since I was a teenager, okay?”
“You don’t live here anymore.”
It’s a question, I think, but he says it like he already knows the answer.
I study him, the bad liar that he is, but I trust him, so I throw open the door and close my eyes to avoid his reaction to the—
“Chandelier? In your bedroom? Sour Patch, I had ideas, but…is that a three-panel mirror? And a stage?”
I deflate, meandering past him to hide in the closet until he’s done marveling. You get used to reactions. It’s the judgement that truly stings.
The assumptions.
My heart sits lodged in the back of my throat, waiting for his, only they don’t come. Instead, I meet the eyes of a man who understands me on a level nobody tried to reach me on before.
“Your father did all this, didn’t he?”
I could kiss this man right now.
Our eyes dance together briefly, and I have to remind mine not to send fuck-me signals to his because, despite the way I want to hold him inside me more than anything right now, we’re on a schedule.
“I want to give you something.”
He grins. “I don’t think we have time for that.”
“A jacket.” I swat him, smiling, too. “We can get Amelia to steam it up real fast while we scarf down some sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches? Isn’t there food at the event?”
He has so much to learn. “You don’t have time to eat the food if you’re working the floor.”
“I’m not gonna like you working the floor any more than casting couches, am I?” I think he’s serious at first, but as my eyes meet his, I see a spark lighting them, one that doesn’t come out often with this curious old grump.
I like it.
“Usually, you can’t take your eyes off me while I work a floor.”
He looks like he may kiss me again, but his eyes drop to the jacket and widen. “This is too nice.” He thumbs the fabric, handstitched by the best in the industry.
“It’s not too nice. It will fit you flawlessly, I know.”
He raises a brow, and I shift from heel to heel uncomfortably.
“It was meant for someone a long time ago who is very similar to your build, and it was custom fit, so you know, I thought you might want the super expensive, never-worn, one-of-a-kind, designer suit jacket I have no use for. Any more questions, or do you want ham or turkey? I’m gonna let Amelia know. ”
I pick up the intercom, no longer making eye contact because I’d rather not discuss ex boyfriends. If I get a choice on the matter, it feels like a later kind of conversation.
Or never.
The jacket is a flawless fit. He moves toward me, every bit as rich in personality as he always has been, but now his wrappings match.
It’s sexy sure, but I never understood the hype of class.
He could be naked before me, and I’d prefer the wealth of his mind and his actions more than any of the physical attributes he has to offer.
He could be in nothing more than a plain black Perkins Global tee and a pair of jeans, yesterday’s five-o’clock shadow darkening his chin, and fuck, I think I’d prefer that man to this thousand-dollar version before me.
Doesn’t mean my mouth doesn’t water as he approaches.
He gets close.
Then closer.
Until we’re flush, my body pressing into his, pinned between two sets of wood, the closet door and the one growing harder under my wandering hand.
I want to curse at his ignorance in himself, how he has no idea what he looks like right now.
How I’d drop to my knees for so little as the way he narrows his eyes.
As if he reads my mind, he works his fingers, the ones I became mesmerized by only moments ago, wrapping them around my neck, a warm cradling of my flesh beneath his, and I catch my breath under the pressure as his lips brush mine.
“Tell me,” he whispers against them. “Tell me what I did to earn another man’s jacket.”
My eyes lower.
“You don’t have to explain why he left. Just tell me what I need to keep doing so he never earns it back.”
I blush at his honesty.
“You remember Andrew?”
He thinks for a moment, then cocks his head with a wry smile. “No. You don’t mean that med student who came on tour with his uncle…who was that?”“The drummer from Stereo Vine.”
“That’s it!” He wags his finger in the air. “That kid was a piece of something.”
“Yeah.” I wrinkle my nose, less impressed with past Lemon than I remember. “Well, I almost married that piece of something. I can’t even believe I’m saying that sentence.”
“And this was his?” He starts to remove it.
“No.” I hold my hands over his shoulders, preventing him from removing the stupid expensive garment I wish I never even purchased. Just think of all the charities I could have boosted instead of that asshole’s vanity. “It was never his.”
I hold my breath inside my lungs before professing the rest of that secret to Oliver.
The one where my eyes searched for his at every VIP party that same summer Andrew joined us on tour.
The one where I couldn’t even orgasm unless I closed those same fucked-up eyes and imagined Oliver pounding into me instead of the man I was to marry in a few short months.
The one where my infatuation with teasing him became more than a habit, but a need.
Over a man I never thought unattainable until now.
“Andrew was a douche,” I say. “Point blank. And this was the jacket he wanted. I bought it as an engagement gift.” I pause to meet his eyes, relieved that I only see support there and not anger or jealousy.
“But he was a shit, as you pretty much stated, and I knew it. Too bad the other girl didn’t, because now he’s shit at the bottom of her shoe instead of mine. ”
He laughs when I shake off the heebie-jeebies lingering in the air from discussing my past. But I ease when his arm wraps around my waist, letting me know he’s still here.
I run my hand over the jacket, perfectly fit to Oliver’s chest, and I throw him a wink in the three-panel mirror. “It’s ironic how much I want to rip this right back off you. It was made for your body type.”
“I do look regal.” He wiggles his eyebrows in the most dad way possible, and we both laugh. “Still sort of thrown off that you’re out here dating guys with the same body type.”
“Are we dating?”
“I don’t think we’re not.” I bite my lip as he kisses me, and it soothes every nerve I had about sharing this part of my past with someone I’d very much like to see in my future.
“Thank you for not freaking out. You can donate it later if you want, I don’t care, but please wear it tonight. It looks amazing on you, and it saved you from needing to buy one for all the events that come with your important new promotion.”
He quirks a brow. “I could have bought twenty for the price of this one at the outlet mall.”
“You’re probably right, but keep in mind that you wouldn’t look near as fuckable to trust fund debutantes.”
“I didn’t mean what that sounded like, Lem. When I said that before, I didn’t know…well…”
“You didn’t know I was a good person,” I finish. “Just a slut worth millions.”
“You’re not, you know. A slut. Women can fuck whomever and whenever they please, you know. At least, someone sexy and citrusy told me that.” He cups my cheek with his hand. “And as for worth, Lemon Perkins, you’ll always be one in a million to me.”
Oliver follows me out of my frilly pink nightmare of a past and into the oak shading of my father’s master suite, stopping just before he toes the threshold.
“What are you doing? C’mon.”
“It’s not professional for me to enter your father’s room without his permission. It crosses a line.”
“And?” I yank him into the room. “I cross those little shits all the time. Makes life more sparkly.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t,” he hisses, and it’s so cute to see him tiptoeing around as if someone who is clearly not home would ever catch him. “I’m gonna go back to the hallway until you find what you need.”
“I’m looking for keys, and so are you,” I inform him. It’s good for his character. “Rules are meant to be misinterpreted occasionally, Oliver. Stop being a baby. You’re sweating worse than when you work out.”
“You would know,” he quips. “You stalk my workouts.”
A laugh bubble from my throat. “Touché.” I like this spicy side of him that bites back.
I pull open Papa’s side drawer after having checked every other possible spot in the room. It’s the last place I want to go wandering, but he knows it’s the one place I won’t look.
“Fuck it.” I yank it open. He can take my money, but he can’t take my freedom. My chest rises with triumph when my ’Stang keys are right there where I suspected, but my eyes snag on something else while I’m there.
Something sealed with a red, lipstick kiss.
A note from the heartbreaker herself.
Only it’s not what I expected.
Emil,
I’m glad we finally did this.
Retirement has felt empty without you in my inbox.
Now that our interests don’t conflict, I hope for more use of this shade of red on my lips…and hopefully yours, too.
-Slyvie
In her inbox? His lips, too?
If that isn’t kinky old people sexting, I don’t know what is. Gross, gross, gross! It’s Papa.
And yet, it’s Papa. I want him to have love.
Could Sylvia be truthful?
I glance at Oliver Love Nashville, this man I never imagined I’d be involving myself with seriously. Maybe it already is serious.
Maybe it is with Papa and Sylvia, too.
“She’s retired.” I scan the lipstick line with confusion. “I was wrong.”
I slam the drawer shut, grabbing my keys and turning to face him for the embarrassment that will be his I-told-you-so. I completely spiraled over this thing that wasn’t even a thing. But he doesn’t say I told you so; he takes my hand and squeezes it instead.
“I guess you can trust your father’s judgement, after all. That’s a relief to know because I was beginning to wonder, on my account with you and all,” he teases, dragging me along with zero mention of how crazy I became in my moment of need to prove something—
how I jumped to the negative on instinct. He winks when all I can do is stare unfaltering beams of swoon into his eyes.
“Come on, Nancy Drew, you have a bet to lie in, remember?”
“How could I forget.” I click open the garage door and nod my head to the rows of sports cars lining the expanse.
“I’m the billionaire, after all.” I puff my chest out and drag my fake cigar, waving it in the air at Oliver’s shocked face.
“Just get in and look pretty for me while I do important man stuff, won’t ya, babe? ”
He laughs. “You do that really well.”
“You don’t live this life as long as I have and not learn from the worst.” I shrug, beeping my baby alive. The lights flash on my bright yellow, 1967 Shelby GT500, and his jaw drops.
“That’s your ride?” He shakes his head, descending the steps into the six-car garage and circling the body, running his hand over the exterior as he kneels to check out the custom, spinning rims. “Amelia made it seem like you don’t spend your money, but I see what this is here. You do have your vices.”
I gasp. “That old narc told you about my apartment, didn’t she?
” I shake my head in disbelief. “You can’t get good secret keepers these days.
I could tell you knew, you know. When you asked if I still lived in the princess palace from hell.
You’re a bad liar.” He rolls his eyes, and I mimic his movement until we’re laughing again.
“Papa was going to get me a much more expensive car. You have no idea how much negotiating I did for anything less than a jewel-encrusted one of a kind.”
“I guess I’m not upset about that.” He clicks his jaw, still staring at me like that same puzzle he pulled out and started several weeks ago, the pieces scattered to different corners now, like he might pick me up and turn me all the way upside down to get perspective.
I want to let him. That’s the scarier part.
The part where I gave him that jacket, one I thought symbolized the solitude I’d always feel.
The fact I’m falling for his kids, living beings I said I’d never want or have.
Or that I care what he knows and thinks about me, and what he thinks about that same stuff once he knows.
The fact I love him.
And it’s the most terrifying adventure I’ve ever had.
“I suppose we should be going, then,” Oliver says, opening the passenger door.
“What are you doing? You’re driving. I have six-inch heels on.”
“You chose them. And I don’t feel comfortable driving a car that costs more than my house.”
“It’s probably only a third of your house.”
“Sour Patch! I can’t drive this.”
“Yes,” I shove into the passenger seat and hand him the keys, “you can. Stop being a scaredy-cat and live a little.”