Heart's a Mess

  Heart's a Mess

  Kylie Scott

  Violet is a woman on a mission to get her life in order. Or she was supposed to be. Sleeping with her smokin' hot new boss, however, definitely counts as a mistake. One she has no intention of repeating.

  Bar owner Alex has finally got his libido back following a crushing divorce. No way is he letting the curvaceous object of his lustful affections get away. They can have a relationship without it spilling over into the workplace. Of course they can. Because he most certainly won't be putting his hands on her in the back office, and getting busy in the storage room is definitely out...

  Violet may be reluctant to repeat the past--but she's not the only one on a mission.

  A Romantica(r) contemporary erotic romance from Ellora's Cave

  Heart's a Mess

  Kylie Scott

  Chapter One

  Brisbane, Australia

  The sun was shining and birds were singing. And maybe, just maybe, if Alex pressed his face hard enough into the pillow, he'd be able to suffocate himself and put an end to the pounding inside his head. It was worth a try.

  Such a pity, because the rest of him felt fan-fucking-tastic, oddly enough. But sweet merciful mother did his brain hurt. It easily drowned out all the bliss and happy emanating from the neck down. Those sensations barely registered, apart from a certain lethargy in his muscles. It might have been relaxation, hard to tell.

  He knew better than to let his little brother talk him into throwing a party. Sure as shit he knew better than to drink that much. Thirty-seven was too old to be acting the ass, a freshly divorced thirty-seven at that. No matter how cranky he might still be about that whole situation he had no excuse.

  Alex rolled onto his back, throwing an arm across his face to ward off the searing brilliance of the day. Something silky soft slid across his chin, catching on his stubble. He dared a peek, flinching at the blinding brightness. But it didn't stop him from noticing the dark gray satin and lace beside him. A bra. In fact, one strap had wrapped itself tightly around his wrist.

  What the fuck?

  There'd been no cross-dressing. He'd remember that. He'd definitely remember that.

  The bed held no one but him, now. Sometime during the night he'd rolled into the middle of the mattress. He always started on the right-hand side out of habit. Jane had liked the left. But he'd wake up spread across the middle every morning, alone as ever.

  Last night's events were a haze past a certain point, about when the shots of vodka started. Ciroc, his favorite. Such a damn good drop. Come closing time, people had flooded the Southern Cross Bar and the private upstairs apartment. Seems word of Duncan's afterhours party had magically spread far and wide. Instead of kicking people out at the end of the night, they'd wound up letting them in. Upon reflection, not the best idea they'd ever had. He'd blame it on the shots.

  He and his two brothers had inherited the Southern Cross Bar and Restaurant from their parents a decade back. Alex had been sharing the apartment with his younger brother and fellow bartender, Duncan, for the past year. Ever since he'd found his beloved wife blowing someone in their bed. He slapped the thought aside before the memory could take root in his mind and mess with him again.

  What happened last night?

  Duncan enjoyed partying a bit too much, truth be told. He wasn't the best choice of flatmate. Their elder brother and head cook, John, had a house a few blocks away but he made obsessive-compulsive control freaks look liberal. No way could Alex stay there without fratricide being committed. Surviving childhood with the uptight idiot had been hard enough. Usually he managed to avoid Duncan's parties but last night, he'd succumbed. Something about receiving the final papers had done him in. There'd been relief, but other stuff too. Letting loose had made perfect sense at the time.

  But how the hell had he ended up covered in lingerie?

  Alex turned onto his side and sniffed the nearest pillow. Some faint flowery scent rose up to greet him and his heart jumped about in his chest.

  No. Not possible. Or was it?

  Rising up on one elbow, he looked around. An open empty condom wrapper sat on the bedside table.

  Huh. Wow.

  "Yes!" He punched the air, bra swinging wildly about. His cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. Fuck, he felt like he could sing. The evidence was irrefutable and the joy in his heart unending. His ex hadn't managed to neuter him after all. The drought was broken but his dick was not.

  Oh, thank God for that.

  He'd been worried. Hell, he'd been scared. There'd been no signs of life from his libido in over a year. Blonde, brunette, tall or short, didn't matter. No reaction. Nil. Nothing, up until now.

  He sagged back against the mattress with an almighty sigh. What a wonderful day.

  If his mystery bed buddy had stayed he'd have sucked on her toes, licked her pussy and done her all over again, twice. Then he'd have cooked her breakfast and written her bad poetry.

  He held the bra up, inspecting it carefully. Judging by the size, his mystery lady most definitely had curves. It smelt faintly of feminine sweat and the same soft, floral perfume. He tested the flimsy material between his fingers. It looked expensive, well made. Any money there was matching panties to go with it. Thong or bikini? Boy-leg perhaps?

  Just the thought sent his blood surging south. He wrapped a hand around his hard-on and gave it a squeeze. Damn that felt good. Ah, virility. He remembered it well. Never again would he take it for granted.

  Man, he loved her, whoever she was. He wanted more. He needed it.

  And clearly, no one else would do.

  *

  What the fuck had she done?

  Violet Moore shoved her handbag into one of the staff lockers and slammed the door shut with more zest than necessary. Fury didn't cover it and frustration barely skirted the edges. She had only herself to blame.

  She'd made promises, lots of them. And she'd meant every last one, damn it.

  No more stupidity, time to start behaving like an adult. She'd enrolled in a long-distance education course and stopped sharing an apartment with Sarah the stoner. She'd gotten a mortgage and stopped dating bad boys. Her shit had officially been gotten together. It had. Everything had been going great. Dumb-ass decisions made in the spur of the moment were done with, totally.

  Except they weren't, were they?

  Because here she stood, third day on the job and about to get her ample ass fired. Her parents would be so proud, thirty-one years old and still fucking things up with aplomb.

  Not that she'd ever tell them. She'd had enough of their disappointed looks to last her a lifetime.

  Fuck it.

  She smacked the flat of her hand against the locker door. A zing of pain ripped through her palm. It suited her mood to perfection.

  There'd be other jobs, other opportunities, sure. But she'd wanted this one, damn it. The Southern Cross had a reputation as one of the best bars in the area and its clientele and conditions reflected it. Marie, the restaurant manager, had wanted to train her to take over and Nicole had been so excited. God, it had all sounded so great.

  Her heart took a dive for the dozenth time. Had, past tense.

  And there was no one to blame but her own sweet self.

  She paused in front of the mirror to straighten her favorite black pencil skirt and pat down the fringe of her straight red hair. At least she'd go out with style. Wearing the black suede heels decorated with little white skulls might have been overkill, but frankly, she'd needed the boost in confidence if not in height. The thought of calling in sick had occurred to her more than a dozen times. But Violet version 2.0, the good girl, didn't do that sort of thing.

  Of course, good girls also didn't screw their bosses second day on the job, did they? No
.

  Enough evading, it was time to face her doom.

  Down the back hallway and out into the bar room she strode, shoes click-clacking alarmingly loudly across the wooden floor. Nerves rioted in her belly. Her breakfast churned. It was barely eleven, and already customers sat at tables. A song by the Jezabels hummed through the sound system. But no one spoke, bizarrely enough. In fact, no one even seemed to move. It felt as if she'd wandered into the twilight zone. The bar had somehow become a frozen tableau, stuck in time. Every eye in the place was fixed upon the couple standing in the front doorway.

  The woman was petite, pretty. When Violet had been little, she'd pretended she looked like that. Even back then men's preferences had been glaringly obvious. Big with bouncy bits almost always lost out to tiny and trim. But fuck that. She was fine with her own skin and all the flesh beneath. No more apologizing.

  The other component of the couple was him, of course. Her nemesis. Her downfall. Her destruction. Six foot plus worth of ridiculously hot and handsome that she should have walked away from but hadn't. God help her. Her body took immediate attention, irritatingly enough. Between her legs awoke instantly. The man packed the punch of a double espresso so far as her sex was concerned. Stupid, stupid sex.

  But hell, look at him. She bit back a heartfelt sigh. Who was she kidding? Given the chance to do it all again, she'd take nothing back. Last night had been the best sex of her life. Climbing all over him had been a dream come true.

  So, given her dreams had a tendency to turn into nightmares, this must be the girlfriend. They certainly looked perfect together. And like everyone else gathered, she stopped, watched and waited, caught up in the picture-perfect moment.

  In something akin to slow motion, the woman in the doorway raised her hand high. Dazzling sunlight glinted off the rings on her fingers. Her hand flew and the flat of her palm struck the man hard across the face. The sharp sound of impact cut straight through the crowd.

  Somebody gasped.

  Someone else dropped a teaspoon. It clattered on the floor.

  Without further ado, the woman turned on her heel and stalked out of the bar.

  No one even dared breathe.

  Slowly, the man, Alex Stuart, turned to face the assembled crowd. The imprint of the woman's hand was emblazoned bright red across his cheek. He glared at his younger brother. His shoulders shook and his eyes spoke of murder.

  "I'm going to fucking kill you," he growled.

  Duncan, the youngest of the three-brother management team and a pretty party boy if she'd ever seen one, took one look at the enraged man, turned and fled.

  Alex's head filled with a red haze, the thumping headache long forgotten. His face felt on fire, mostly from embarrassment. Mary or Meredith or whatever the hell her name was--what the hell did he care? She wasn't the woman who'd gotten him going--hadn't really hit him all that hard. If he remembered right, the woman had a temper. She'd been less than impressed when he'd bailed on her offer of hot sex a few months back. Little wonder his text message had set her off.

  Correction. Duncan's text message on Alex's phone.

  He caught up with his brother in the back office and tackled the fucker, taking him down to the ground. Doing as much damage as he could.

  "Shit. I'm sorry," Dunc said between bursts of laughter. A well-placed blow to the bastard's ribs stopped that.

  Duncan grunted and twisted, maneuvering around to face him. Before Alex knew it, they were a tangle of flying fists on the floor, just the same as when they were kids. An elbow caught him in the shoulder and knuckles grazed his mouth. They were pretty evenly matched in height and weight these days but anger gave him a clear advantage. He was fucking furious.

  "I told you not to do it!" Alex raged. "Why don't you ever listen?"

  Duncan panted and blocked another jab to his ribs. "It was just a joke. Calm down."

  Everything was a joke to the asshole. If anything, the piss-poor excuse made Alex wilder. He snarled, his fist landing square in his brother's eye.

  Duncan howled and kneed him in the guts in return, making his belly cramp in pain.

  "You said you had to find her!" Duncan yelled.

  "Not by sending random fucking texts to every woman on my phone!"

  Hair pulling was soon involved, as was biting. They fought brutally dirty, with all the familiarity only brothers could muster. No weak spot was left unexploited.

  Until someone let loose a whistle shrill enough to break even their concentration.

  Hell, it sounded loud enough to shatter glass. It echoed through the confined space and bashed around inside his skull until his frontal lobe felt as though it would implode.

  His ears rung and rung, the pain was indescribable.

  "Holy shit," Duncan whispered eventually.

  Alex looked up to find his older brother John standing over them. Marie and the new girl, Violet, stood alongside him. Two fingers were tucked between Violet's shiny red lips.

  "Wow," said John, fingers still embedded in his ears.

  "Uh, thanks, Vi." Marie gave the woman a squinty, pained smile. "That's impressive."

  Violet shrugged and put her hands by her sides, thankfully removing the threat of an immediate repeat of the noise. Her gaze stayed firmly off him and his brother. He couldn't blame the girl. How bloody embarrassing, watching your bosses beat the shit out of each other on the floor. Damn it.

  "Why don't I just get back to work?" she said.

  Yes, he and Duncan must look highly unprofessional.

  From where he lay, Alex had an awesome view as she about-turned in her high-high heels and walked toward the door. He'd always made a point of not noticing members of staff, curves or no. Just then, however? Fucking impossible.

  Holy shit, the girl had been made stacked in all the right places. The glory of an hourglass figure couldn't really be underestimated. She didn't fit his usual choice, but his hands would look perfect wrapped around her waist. And those spectacular tits would overflow his fingers for sure. Not that he would ever go there because she was staff. They had rules, standards, but damned if he could look away. A neat ponytail of shiny, improbably colored red hair slid across her back, and she stopped dead in place. As if she could read his mind and was giving him just a little longer to stare at her ass, bless her, but no.

  "You did a flow chart of women's breast sizes?" she asked. Because she'd stopped to stare at the whiteboard hanging on the wall, hadn't she?

  Oh, holy fucking shit.

  Alex closed his eyes as his world crashed around him.

  The board was covered in Duncan's scribble, but still perfectly, horribly legible. The woman cocked her head and stepped closer. Of course she did. Alex could just feel the lawsuit creeping up on him like a sucker punch waiting to happen. All those years of hard work, undone in one stupid moment. He couldn't bear to watch.

  "Please don't look at that," he said softly.

  "And a bar graph too," she noted.

  "Please. Violet..." What could he possibly say? He braved opening his eyes. Damn it, she was still looking.

  "Huh," she said. "That's really detailed."

  "What?" Marie turned, taking in all of it, no doubt. "You idiots."

  Their restaurant manager of ten years gave them a sweeping, scalding glance. Marie had been with them so long, she'd become a part of the family, a sister almost. Well, to him and Duncan. How John felt about her, who knew? John often had all the emotional responses of a rock.

  Marie swept out without further word. Violet, sadly, stayed in place, staring at all the damning evidence. "Well, at least my name's not on there."

  "It's kind of a funny story." Duncan rolled to his feet, one hand covering his burgeoning black eye. "A-actually."

  "Don't," Alex warned, climbing back into the upright position a little more slowly. He hurt in more ways than one. His whole world had filled with pain. No hangover could compare.

  "Fix this," his brother John ground out, then left.

  Dunca
n wandered out after him. "I'm gonna go get some ice."

  "Yeah, you do that," Alex muttered, wandering over to stand beside the stunned woman. What the hell must she think? He cleared his throat and gathered his excuses. They didn't come easy. "I'm so sorry about all this, Violet. You should never have been exposed to such unprofessional behavior, let alone this."

  He waved a hand at the whiteboard. Fuck. It got worse every time he saw it, especially considering how it must seem from her perspective. The jazzy little doodle of lacy lingerie Duncan had done in the corner just compounded the issue. His brother had quite the artistic streak. "Umm, listen, you're new here so you don't know us very well yet. But we would never--"

  "It's fine." Green eyes stared back at him, wide and unblinking. She had the strangest expression on her face. He couldn't read her at all. In her high heels they stood almost eye to eye, but it didn't help one iota. It felt as if she looked right through him. "Really, Alex."

  "It is?" he asked.

  "Yep." Her smile had sharp edges. "Boys will be boys. Let's pretend this never happened."

  "But--"

  "I really should get to work. You should probably mop up your face. Your lip's bleeding a little there, in the corner." The woman started backing away as though she couldn't get out of there fast enough. As if he were poison. "And we'll just forget this ever happened. Okay? Great."

  "Great?"

  "Great," she confirmed with that uneasy smile. Then she left. Warp speed couldn't compare.

  For minutes he watched the doorway, waiting. Nothing happened. He was too stunned to be relieved. That and he hurt. His knuckles ached and his lip, as told, was indeed bleeding from one corner. But the major catastrophe had been diverted, somehow. Everything had turned out fine. Huh.

  Excellent. Great.

  Alex put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath, first one and then another, searching for some calm. Yep, a nice, big inhalation, straight through his nose...

  It sent the faint floral scent rushing through him. Pouring in and filling every atom of his being, better than any drug.

  His head shot up. "Fuck me."

  *

  Violet limped to the staff room at the end of her shift, more Band-Aids than she'd ever imagined possible adhered to her feet. Damn those sexy, confidence-enhancing shoes. Kill them in a fire. Being sacked would have been preferable to spending ten hours standing up in them. Never, ever again.