Begonia is staring again.
It should be annoying, but instead, it’s making me examine every bit of my life with fresh eyes.
Again.
We’re sitting before the wall-mounted fireplace in the den of my private suite, her lounging in a black silk robe and white terrycloth slippers from my closet, her hair once again wrapped in a towel, me in jeans and a Henley after both of us showered—separately, at her insistence, as though she was afraid I would suggest joining her, which I would’ve done in a heartbeat if she looked any less worn down and unable to resist the charms of anyone with half the personality of a garden troll—and she’s staring at the candlelit tray of food on the table between us the way I wish she’d stare at me.
I’m reasonably certain it’s not the black cloth napkins, the china, the crystal wine goblets, the candles, or the silver that have her captivated, her hand hovering above the serving tray piled with a dwindling supply of sliced roasted sirloin cap, thick asparagus spears, caramelized bananas, and cheese rolls.
No, my question is which food is so enthralling that she can’t stop staring.
I’ve had this meal many times myself, but tonight, it’s oddly more delicious.
Probably because I’m paying attention to the food instead of taking it for granted. I can honestly understand her fascination, and I don’t believe I could pick a favorite.
She doesn’t leave me to wonder long, as she finally plucks a roll from the spread and holds it up to examine the soft puff of cheesy bread in the glow from the fireplace.
“That is not a simple cheese roll. Did the chef put magic in it? Pixie dust? Sprinkles of awesome? How does it taste so good?”
“Essence of magic mushrooms,” I deadpan.
“No! Oh my gosh, you really do get to try things that normal people—wait. You’re joking. Hayes Rutherford. Warn me before you make a joke. It actually made you attractive this time.”
I jerk my head toward her, but she’s already moved past the compliment, and she’s sealing her lips around the cheese roll, moaning softly, and thinking is suddenly difficult.
As is sitting still.
And being in fucking jeans.
“I’ll have sex with you,” I announce.
She inhales sharply, makes a noise that has both me and Marshmallow leaping to our feet, and then she’s coughing.
I hover while she coughs.
And coughs.
And coughs more, holding up a finger as if to say I’m okay, this happens all the time, don’t worry about it, which is exactly what Begonia would say if she could talk.
I hand her my glass of wine, and she gulps it, then coughs again.
“I’m okay,” she rasps out.
Naturally.
Marshmallow has crawled into her lap and is head-butting her in the chest like the damn dog knows CPR.
“I’m okay,” she repeats.
Her hoarse voice hits me right in the testicles and makes me ache.
It shouldn’t—she could’ve choked for real—but I’m rapidly discovering there’s little Begonia can do that I don’t find attractive.
Hence my incredibly awkward proposition.
Billions of dollars in the bank, growing up in the most elite of societies, nannies and manners lessons and all but going to a damn finishing school, and here I am, being rendered awkward as a middle-schooler by a high school art teacher.
“Thank god I didn’t choke in front of Angie,” she says, a twinkle coming back to her bright eyes as she completely dodges the subject. “She’s not the real Angie and probably would’ve let me die.”
I ease back into my chair, afraid if I touch her, I won’t stop, and that was not the reaction of a woman wanting to take me up on my offer.
Of course it isn’t.
She hasn’t said another damn word about having sex with me since she first brought it up, and I’m nothing if not effective at shutting down passes.
I’ve had regrets before, but rejecting her might take top honors as the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
And why would she want to have sex with me as anything other than a last resort of convenience?
Even at my best, I’m a terrible option for her. And she’s seen me not at my worst, but not anywhere near my best either.
“Marshmallow would’ve saved you,” I offer, trying for a joke again.
She doesn’t laugh, but instead, nods thoughtfully. “Or Nikolay, I’m sure. He’s very nice for being such a terrifying-looking man. Are you ever alone? Honestly? Do you use other people’s houses when you’re in the area and want a comfortable place to crash but don’t have your own nearby? Is that a thing in your crowd? Is that why this is your house but everyone else just seems to make themselves at home regardless of what you want? Hyacinth and I would totally share vacation houses all over the world if we didn’t have to worry about paying the bills, but then, we share half a brain and we get along better than most families. I think. And really, we’d share summer camps all over the world before we’d share houses, because summer camp is way better than a house.”
“Real estate is complicated, and I didn’t realize Uncle Antonio would be throwing a party.” I was counting on Uncle Antonio doing what he does best and telling everyone that he was headed to my house to take care of what the family says needs taking care of.
Namely, getting me an appropriate wife.
Otherwise, Begonia would’ve taken one look at this house, realized seven families could live here without seeing one another for at least half a year, and ignored my request for her to stay in my bedroom.
Having an ambush upon arrival?
She didn’t even question the size of the house.
Merely the number of inhabitants and their likelihood to be nosy.
As suspected.
I am a bad, bad man, taking advantage of a woman who might not actually have a devious bone in her body, which, again, is highly suspicious. “Why did you abandon your other plans to come interview fifty women for the position of my executive assistant?” I ask her.
It’s suddenly imperative to know.
And Begonia doesn’t disappoint. “Because the idea of you calling your mother instead was horrifying. She would’ve had you hitched to one of them by this time tonight.”
I grimace.
She does too. “Sorry. That was rude.”
“No, it was accurate. And I’m not convinced it was an accidental glitch in the human resources system. Which is neither here nor there. It happened, and I still don’t know why you took that on.”
She’s rubbing her chest as she leans back into the easy chair and stares at the fire, and I want to be her hand.
I want to be her hand, rubbing her chest.
What has this woman done to me, and why don’t I care?
“I like to help people,” she says with a shrug. “You needed help.”
Ah.
That’s what she’s done to me.
She’s been nice.
My standards are awful. I should probably see the family physician about that. “A chief financial officer should also be able to handle interviews and sorting applicants by himself.”
“No, Hayes—the world doesn’t work like that. I mean, it does, but it shouldn’t. You’re not the CFO of Razzle Dazzle because you have good people skills. Your people skills aren’t all that great.”
“Thank you.”
She gives me the don’t sarcasm me when you know I have more to say look. “And that’s totally fine. Not everyone is a people person, nor should they be. You’re the CFO because you have other strengths. And you can’t shine at what you’re best at if you’re spending all of your time and putting all of your energy into the things that drain you. Like interviewing fifty applicants when you should’ve been choosing among four already pre-screened for you. Chad had to interview new assistants all the time. Believe me, I know the process.”
I hate Chad, and I want to punch him on principle. “Did you help him narrow his options?”
She snorts. “Mr. Big-Shot Financial Planner asking his art teacher wife for help? Um, no.”
I don’t even know what Chad looks like, but I’m picturing him bloody and missing a few teeth, with his arm in a sling and both legs in casts, and it’s the only thing keeping my blood pressure in check. “While your ex-husband is clearly a twatwaffle, that’s exactly the issue. Any other CFO would not have called in a woman he blackmailed into pretending to be his girlfriend to handle that mess either.”
“You should say twatwaffle more often. It sounds so distinguished when you do it. Also, you’re not any other CFO. You’re you, and I’m honored that you trusted me to help.” She sighs in utter bliss as she bites into another cheese roll. “It says a lot about your good judgment that you know when to ask for help, and a lot about your luck that I just happened to be there.”
“I don’t want to not be good at the things I’m supposed to be good at.”
She shifts in her chair, frowning at me. “I’ve been teaching high schoolers for about ten years. Every semester, out of all of my students, there are always a handful who walk in with the most amazing talent for painting, or drawing, or sculpting, or studying, but rarely do I see all of those skills together. No one has them all. They’re not supposed to. I don’t have all of those skills, either, and I don’t expect myself to.” She tilts her head. “Anymore. I used to think I could do it all, but I’ve learned to be kind to myself and celebrate my gifts and the things in my control and accept the rest for what they are.”
“I rather doubt I have enough of any of the right skills to do the job.” I need to shut up. I need to shut up, but she makes it so damn easy to admit to my fears.
“Your family believes in you.”
“They believe in what they want to believe in.”
“You know, every semester, I also have a handful of students walk in and tell me they suck at art, and they’re only there because they need an easy A. And every year, every last one of those kids walks out of my classroom at the end of the semester still believing they suck at art, but I have yet to find one who didn’t have a piece they’d made that they were extraordinarily proud of, and several more that are amazing but that they judge too harshly because we’re our own worst critics.”
“They make good art because you’re a good teacher.”
“I’m a terrible teacher. I’m always late turning in grades, I make lesson plans last-minute, and I spend parent-teacher conferences gossiping about old Golden Girls episodes instead of talking about how Kelsey or Aiden got a C in drawing for lack of trying.”
“You don’t give C’s.”
“Guilty. I’m an easy A. All I ask for is effort. But I have given six B’s, and it was all about attitude, and I made sure there was nothing going on at home or in their personal lives first, and I finally realized some people are just shits, which makes me sad, so I don’t like to dwell on it. But you, Hayes, are not a shit. You’re a good man who loves his family but wants them to not badger you to death about getting married. They should trust your instincts.”
I snort. They should not trust my instincts. On investments and math? Yes. On people issues and relationships? No. Been there, done that, have the ex-girlfriend married to my mortal enemy to prove it.
Begonia glares at me again as only Begonia can—in that special way that makes me feel like it’s a glare-hug. There’s no heat in it, no matter how much she tries, and I have every last ounce of her focus aimed at me, which should be uncomfortable but isn’t, because it’s Begonia. “There’s nothing wrong with you, and whatever it is you think you’ve failed at in the past, you didn’t fail. You experienced life. You’ll do a great job as CFO, with great people supporting you, and if this is truly not what you’re meant to do, or if it’s not what you want to do, you’ll figure that out and move on to what makes you happy.”
“You believe that.”
“I do. I believe in everyone.”
“But why? And why do you drop everything to help people even when they don’t deserve it?” I can’t let it go. Maybe I want her to tell me I’m awful so that I’ll quit being unexpectedly attracted to her. Maybe I want to find the chink in her armor so that I can prove to myself that she’s not the goddess I’m beginning to suspect she is. Or maybe I don’t understand how one person can believe in so much goodness even after being married to a twatwaffle who clearly tried to destroy her spark. Whatever it is, I can’t let it go.
“What do you get out of it?” I ask. “I know what I got out of today. I know what your students get out of an easy class, and even out of learning to enjoy some form of art. What do you, Begonia Fairchild, get out of doing so much for everyone else?”
“Joy,” she says quietly. “I get joy out of knowing I’ve brightened the world by brightening someone’s world.”
I’ve spent my life serving my family in one way or another. And I know Razzle Dazzle’s entire mission is to entertain people, and thus to also spread their own kind of joy. But I don’t get it. I don’t understand how so much giving can be anything but a drain. “Who makes your world better?”
She peers at me, squints one eyelid, then takes my wine and drains the last of my glass.
I lift a brow.
She tries to scowl. “I really don’t like when you throw my weaknesses in my face.”
I’m so startled that it takes me a moment to find a retort. “Heaven forbid you have a taste of your own medicine.”
No one makes her world better.
Jesus.
I need to make her world better. Someone needs to make her world better.
She points at me with the wine glass. “I can take my medicine just fine. But I’m still working on the right dosage, and I might need to try a different kind of medicine.”
“Are you tipsy?”
“No. I’m just a little sleepy, and I can’t remember what my medicine is supposed to be, besides leaving Chad, which I did, and I’m happier now, but I’m still…missing something.”
If this is Begonia missing something in life, I’ve been missing many, many somethings since I was born. “At least you’re looking for yourself.”
“It’s hard to balance getting enough for yourself when your default is to give to everyone else. Which you have so brutally reminded me.”
“That was brutal?”
“It seared my soul, Hayes. Seared. My. Soul.”
I can’t decide if she’s being serious or joking, but I want to smile, and it’s difficult to keep my expression straight.
She sighs. “I hate disappointing people, and I disappointed my therapist every time I told her that I’d put someone else’s needs above my own since they needed whatever more than I did. That’s the real reason why I’m not in therapy anymore. I failed. I mean, I didn’t. I was projecting. My therapist wasn’t really disappointed in me. She was pretty good. But I felt like I failed. And I hate failing at making myself happy when I’m an expert at making people happy except when it comes to me. I’m a person. I should be able to make me happy too so that my friends don’t have to do it for me. Is there more wine?”
I reach behind the tray to the wine bucket and top her off. “You should be more discerning in picking your friends. Only associate with the ones who appreciate what you do.”
“Is that how you pick friends?”
“Yes.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Unexpectedly well at the moment. I’ve finally found one who doesn’t seem to want me for anything more than my charming company, even if she should have higher standards for herself.”
Those big eyes blink at me, surprise flashing across her face as she starts to point to herself, as if she’s asking if I mean her.
And the fact that I’ve left her with any doubt makes me want to punch myself in the face. “Dog. Down,” I order.
Marshmallow leaps off Begonia’s lap, sits at attention, and pants happily at me.
“What—” she starts, but she cuts herself off when I drop to my knees in front of her chair, grip her chin, and hold her face close to mine.
“I appreciate you.”
“Um, thank you, Hayes. I appreciate you too.”
“No, Begonia. I appreciate you.” Fuck. I’m doing this wrong. “You don’t make me feel like the rich, powerful catch of the century.”
Her eyebrows do a weird little jig over her eyes, and fuck again.
I growl. “I’m not saying this right. I’m trying to say thank you, but thank you isn’t sufficient, because—fuck.”
Fuck the words. Fuck talking.
I need to kiss her.
I need to kiss her, and touch her, and taste her, and show her.
Our relationship?
Outside these doors, it’s pretend. It’s fake.
But when I’m with her?
When I’m with her, it feels so very, very real. And I want it to be real.
I want to trust this.
I want to trust her. I want to believe people like Begonia truly exist in the world, and that this isn’t a cruel hoax, that she won’t move on to shagging my neighbor or the next executive or artist or snake oil salesman who makes her feel wanted more than I do whenever she’s gotten what she wants out of this.
But even if my trust is misplaced, she’s still done enough for me that I want to give her something in return.
She doesn’t resist when I touch my lips to hers.
No, not Begonia.
She leans into me, welcoming my touch, my kiss, me.
I know she makes everyone feel this glow, this peace, this sense of happiness just by being near her—it’s not something she’s doing just for me—but god, it’s a high I can’t get enough of.
She fists my shirt in her hands and holds on as though she’s afraid I’ll stop. I don’t know if she wants me or if she’d take anyone, but I know I want to be the one to give her what she wants.
And I won’t ask myself if she’s thinking of someone else while she’s kissing me.
If she’d respond like this for anyone who kissed her when she wanted a kiss.
What the fuck was her ex-husband thinking, letting go of a woman who can kiss like this, who can make a man feel alive like this, who puts all of herself into everything she does?
Of all the women I could’ve found in my private sanctuary last week, thank god it was Begonia.
She breaks free of the kiss with a soft whimper, her gaze falling to her lap, hands still clenching my shirt. “Hayes, you don’t have to—”
“Do you want me?”
The towel has fallen off her hair and her robe is gaping open, giving me a glimpse of the curve of her full breasts, rising and falling with her rapid breath. “Of course I do,” she whispers.
“Do not tell me what you think I want to hear. Tell me what you want. Do. You. Want. Me?”
Those gorgeous eyes connect with mine, and it kills me that I can’t read people the way she can.
Does that nod mean yes, I want you, or does that nod mean yes, I want you because you’re convenient and I want people who want me?
Do I fucking care?
“This is not a revolving hotel that I keep for my family,” I murmur. “I had my staff insist Uncle Antonio come and stay here so you’d have to stay in my bedroom with me under the guise of appearances.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver, though her lips tip up at the corners. “You want me.”
“I want you.”
“I like being wanted.”
“But what do you want, Begonia? What do you want?”
She studies me, her eyes flickering over my face as her fingers thread into my hair. “This,” she whispers.
And then she’s kissing me, slow and cautious turning into desperate and reckless, and I’m wearing too many damn clothes.
She nips at my lower lip. I untie her robe and let my hands explore the smooth skin around her ribs. She fists my hair and holds me tighter while she devours my mouth, her eager little tongue hot and slick and perfect, those whimpery moans in the back of her throat making me hard as steel.
It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed a woman I was this attracted to, and there’s a whisper in the back of my brain that I can’t shut off.
You don’t know her. Can you truly trust her?
I tell it to fuck off as her legs wrap around my middle, tugging me closer.
This wasn’t in the contract.
I growl and cup her breasts, finding the tight nubs of her nipples with my thumbs, and she breaks the kiss with a gasp. “Oh my god, that feels so—so good.”
“You like me touching your breasts?”
“So—sensitive.”
I bend and suck one sweet nipple into my mouth.
“Yes,” she moans. Her head drops back, and she tightens her legs around me while she holds me to her chest. “More, please.”
The dog tries to nose in, and I shove him away with my elbow. The scent of her arousal hits me and makes my mouth water.
If she’s faking—no.
Not Begonia.
And even if she is, I’ll make certain she’s not for long.
I lick the underside of her breast, and when she squirms and writhes with that panting, breathy yes yes yes, I repeat it for the other breast. I suckle and lick and tease, worshipping her breasts and telling all of my internal doubts to go to hell, her gasps and moans the soundtrack that I want playing on repeat every night for the rest of my life.
My family name, my heritage, my bank account, my job—they make me powerful by default, and they’re nothing I’ve earned on my own.
Begonia’s reaction to my touch makes me feel like a fucking god.
And that is all me.
The dog nudges me again.
I nudge him right back. Not hard, but firm.
“Please, Hayes,” she gasps, and that’s all it takes for me to sink back into the moment.
I don’t know what the please is for, but I know her robe has fallen off her shoulders, leaving her bare from neck to toes, her skin bathed in candlelight, lips parted, eyes dark and hungry, hair loose and wild, and I want this woman.
I want her in my bed. I want her in my shower. I want her in my office.
I want her in my limo. In my helicopter. On my boat.
And I want to deserve her.
My lips slide down her sternum, kissing and licking lower, over her belly, until I reach her exposed pussy.
“Yes,” she moans when I lick at the wetness between her legs. “Please, yes.”
“You’re exquisite,” I murmur against her exposed flesh.
Her body trembles, and she tilts her hips into my mouth.
“And eager.” I lick her.
“Oh, god, so good.”
“How about here?” I twirl my tongue around her clit, and she doesn’t reply.
Not with words, that is.
But her high-pitched moan of approval tells me everything I need to know.
For all that I got wrong today, this, I’m doing right, and so I lick and tease her again, inhaling her scent, tasting her, pleasing her.
She’s not quiet as I devour her pussy, nor is she still, and I love it.
Mind your manners, Hayes. A Rutherford is circumspect.
Fuck that too.
I want her screaming my name.
I want the whole damn household to know she’s satisfied.
No, not satisfied.
Mindlessly, bonelessly, wholly sated.
My cock aches. My balls ache. She’s delicious, and she’s writhing in her chair, head back, arms flinging about until she settles with one hand gripping my hair, the other pinching her own nipple as she rides my face and I eat her like I’ve never eaten another woman in my life.
I want her to come.
I want her to come all over my face, and then all over my dick. I want to watch her fall dead asleep in that coma that comes after a good, hard fuck, then feel her reach for me in the middle of the night, hungry for more.
“Oh, god, Hayes, I’m—”
Her words are cut off by the splintering shriek of the smoke alarm.
I register the bitter taste of smoke, sense heat, and then—
And then my sprinkler system explodes all over my bedroom.
