Dirty Bad Boy, Page 2

  “Be better than good, Hastings. This deal goes south again and it’s over.”

  I grind my molars.

  This won’t be our first go-round with the notorious Edith Humphries. It’s not even our second or third. No, this is the fourth time the ballbuster has dangled the Devenport property every developer in Chicago has been salivating over for thirty years in front of us. My dad wants it. Maybe because it was one of the last deals he worked on with his father before Gramps died. The only thing I know for sure is that my dad is retiring, and I want to give him this one thing before he does.

  The door is opened by a stocky older woman with a pitying expression who leads us back through the ornately decorated home to Mrs. Humphries’s office.

  Damask-papered walls in silver and gray line the room. The centerpiece to the office is one of those imposing mahogany desks designed for the sole purpose of intimidating anyone on the wrong side.

  I don’t want to be a dick, but it would be more effective with literally anyone other than the ancient little bird grinning delightedly from behind it. Mrs. Humphries doesn’t look a day over ninety-two. I can see her bones through the prim white blouse she’s wearing with a brooch the size of her fist at her neck. A sapphire-encrusted barrette dangles precariously in the snow-white wisps of her hair. Honestly, she looks like she’d have a hard time managing the antique style rotary phone beside her.

  This is the “ballbuster” who, fifteen years ago, had my dad, an imposing guy by most standards, jumping through hoops and bellowing into phones on the other side of his private office door?

  “Come in, come in, boys. Let me have a look at you,” she chirps, waving an arm laden with glittering hardware. “Well, look at you, Jackson Hastings, all grown up!”

  Taking a big breath, she clutches her hands in front of her. “Your father used to show me pictures of you as a toddler when we first began negotiations over Devenport. Adorable.” She beams at me, eyes glittering. “One look at that smile, and I told him you’d be beating the girls off with a stick.” Waving me closer, she clutches my arm and pulls me down so she can mock-whisper in my ear. “No ring, I see. Still managing to hold them off, are you?”

  Like a pro.

  There’s a gleam in her eyes, a kind of mischief I imagine would have been something else when she was my age. Or maybe she’s matured into it. But I can tell already that I like her.

  Chuckling, I shake my head and guide her back to her chair. We’re about to get down to business when a woman with a neat bob and glasses too big for her face bustles into the office with a small pet carrier in hand.

  “Sorry, sorry I’m late,” she says meekly, then brushes a kiss across Edith’s cheek and whispers, “Dr. Doris wants to see Whiskers again next week. It’s in the calendar.”

  Lips pursed, Edith nods, and returns her attention to us. “Diabetes,” she offers by way of explanation. Then, “Jack, you and Cecile are about the same age. Have you met my niece before?”

  “I don’t believe so.” Harry and I are already on our feet, offering our hands to shake. “Jack Hastings and Harry Bajorek. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Cecile blushes and takes a seat beside her aunt, or more specifically great-great-aunt, who’s watching us with a look I hope I’m misreading. “You two youngsters have so much in common, I thought you might have.”

  I can practically hear Harry’s inward groan. Because yeah, I’m not misreading anything. Shit. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’ve got someone throwing a daughter, granddaughter, niece, or cousin at me at a rate that’s pretty fucking disconcerting when you think about it.

  “Cecile graduated at the top of her class, just like you, dear. And she’s quite the athlete, too. I read that article where you were interviewed about the triathlons you participate in each year—you know my Cecile did her first race this year. I wonder if you might be able to give her some pointers.”

  Cecile is shifting uncomfortably in her seat, looking anywhere but at me, when she laughs nervously. “Edith, he does the Olympic-length races. I didn’t even finish the sprint.”

  Yeah, and I’m not missing the fact that these details aren’t really applicable to the business at hand. “Fantastic that you gave it a try. And there’s always next year.”

  I’m polite, encouraging as we talk briefly about the course and the crowds. But if putting her niece in my path was the reason behind Edith’s resurgence of interest, we need to nip any hopes of advantageous matches in the bud, and fast. We need to know whether it’s a deal breaker—before we sink any more money or resources into moving forward.

  I turn my head, giving Cecile a practiced double take. “Wait. Cecile Phines? I swear I know your name.” Of course I know it. Because I’ve done my research on Edith Humphries and all the potential players in this deal. There’s a nephew from another branch of the family tree as well, Donald Anderson, and honestly, with his recent investment history, I thought he would be the one sitting in today. But no. Edith’s got her own agenda.

  There are probably a million different ways I could play this, but only one that has my smile cranking up as I ask, “I’m sorry, but don’t you know my girlfriend, Laurel Matthews?”

  3

  Laurel

  Ring, ring, ring.

  No flipping way. Jack’s name lights up my phone and my blood starts to hiss and pop.

  “You programmed yourself into my phone?” I screech, from the lobby of my apartment building.

  “Hello to you too, beautiful.” His voice is deep and smooth, and he sounds like he’s smiling. “You should probably be more careful with your phone. And you should definitely change your password. Seriously, you’ve been using the same one since high school.”

  I cough out my indignation, sputtering for a moment as I storm across the charcoal carpet and jam my key into my mailbox, cranking it harder than strictly necessary. “You have some nerve.”

  He laughs, the sound so familiar, so low and rich. So annoying. “How’s that?”

  I close my eyes, praying for patience. When it doesn’t come, I let loose. “Where do I even start with all the bullshit you pulled last night?”

  I relock the box and flip through the stack of mail. The cable company wants me back, and the place where I got my nightstand is having a sale on lamps.

  “That bullshit, Laurel, was me in white-knight mode.” I hear the hiss and whine of a city bus in the background. A horn. He must be driving. “And by the way, you’re welcome.”

  I blink. Maybe I heard him wrong. I had to. “You’re welcome?”

  “Yeah, for saving your ass. After more than a decade without a word, you come blazing into my bar, barge in on my friends, interrupt my night… and all but beg me to act like I know you better than anyone else in the city. I owed it to Law to do the best I could.”

  “You told my coworker I was incontinent!”

  The low rumble of Jack’s laugh has me thinking he’s damned lucky he’s not standing in front of me.

  “I told him you were managing it. And as I remember, that’s not a lie.”

  “One time!” I shout into the phone, the mail crumpling in my fist. “I was eight, Jackass!”

  “Wow, that’s original. And what are you, still eight, with that name calling? Besides… you told him I couldn’t swim.”

  I open my mouth, only to close it again, a satisfied smile pushing at my lips. I knew that would drive him nuts.

  “Look, Laurel, you needed a bailout. I did the best I could.”

  “That was the best you could do?”

  I can hear the smile through the phone. “For you, with no notice? Yes.”

  At least he’s honest. I cross to the elevators, punching the button. After listening to C-man wax poetic about Jack all day, I’ve had enough nonsense. I’m ready to decompress with a glass of Chardonnay and a hot bath.

  “So here’s the thing, Elle. Now you owe me. And, turns out, I need a favor.”

  Make that two glasses. “What?”

&
nbsp; Through the line, a car door closes. Then, “Hold the elevator.”

  I frown at the device in my hand, not sure I understand, until the lobby doors open behind me with a whoosh and Jack strolls in, hair windblown and tie askew in a way women who don’t know him like I do might appreciate.

  “Jack, wh-what are you doing here?”

  Dropping his phone into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he nods toward the open elevator doors and, when I’m still too stunned to move, catches me with a hand at my back to usher me into the waiting car. I can smell his cologne. It’s different from what he wore in high school. Expensive. Dang it… effective.

  His eyes flick over me, and he takes my messenger bag off my shoulder with a look that dares me to take it back. “I need a girlfriend.”

  I cross my arms. “Out of the blue? Just like that?”

  He’s playing me. He has to be.

  “Actually, yes. Just like that. There’s a property my dad’s wanted to develop for as long as I’ve been alive, and we’ve got an opportunity. Thing is, looks like the owner sees an opportunity too.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I’m the whole package, Laurel. People get ideas.”

  That cocky smirk.

  I look him over, wanting to laugh in his face, but damn it, I remember how girls got around him. How their parents would get. How my parents got. There’s no ignoring those pronounced cheekbones or his solid jaw. The physique. Add to that the generations-deep wealth, and yeah, Jack’s quite the package—if you’re superficial enough to stop looking there.

  We step out on my floor, and I hesitate. I live in a newer but not brand-new building. And from the first day I came to look at it, I’ve loved the cozy space and felt lucky to live there. But now all I can do is watch as Jack takes in the carpet and halls, and wonder if he’s making a list of all the ways they’re lacking.

  Inside my apartment, Jack continues his silent scrutiny. Those intense eyes of his moving over the deep sage walls I painted myself, the IKEA coffee and end tables, and the broken-in leather couch and chair I bought secondhand from a friend. It’s clean and modern, but nothing like the homes we grew up in. Nothing like Law’s Streeterville condo or the showplace Jack built himself—I saw the magazine spread when I was waiting at the dentist.

  But this space is mine. Bought and paid for through my hard work and savings, like everything else since I turned eighteen, and I’m proud of it. What Jack Hastings thinks of my home doesn’t matter one iota.

  The sooner I find out what he needs, the sooner I can get him out of here.

  “So what exactly are you talking about, Jack?” I ask from the kitchen, pulling the Chardonnay from the fridge. When Jack glances back from where he’s stopped by the front windows, I grudgingly hold up the bottle in offer.

  He shakes his head. “Two months will do it.”

  I almost drop the bottle. “Excuse me?”

  “Two months. That’s how long we’re expecting it to take to close the deal.” He heads back my way, one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side. “Relax, Laurel, I’m not talking about moving in together. Just a few social engagements. Dinners mostly. Enough to keep the waters from getting muddied with hopes for a merger that most definitely won’t be coming.”

  Pouring the wine, I shake my head. “Jack, I’m not dating you for two months.” I can barely stand the way he’s sucking up half the oxygen in my apartment, and he’s been here for less than ten minutes.

  He steps closer and takes the bottle from my hand, the brush of his fingers against mine warm. Annoying. Even if my glass was about to overflow the brim.

  He leans back against the counter so he’s facing me, those long legs crossed at the ankles. Casual as can be. Comfortable in a way only I should be in this space. Handsome. Obnoxious.

  “Why not? I’d think you’d jump at the chance to solidify your lack of availability with Clarence.”

  It’s a nice thought, but at the cost of spending two months with Jack? I’m not sure.

  “Why me?” I ask. “Seems like you might have any number of women better suited to faking it with you.”

  There’s that smile again. The one that suggests Jack might actually like going a few rounds from time to time.

  He leans forward, his voice going low. “That’s the thing, Laurel. All those other women? I can’t be certain they’ll remember to fake anything.” He reaches for the hair that’s fallen over my shoulder, wrapping the ends around his fingers and giving it a gentle tug. “You’ll never forget what we are and what we aren’t.”

  When his eyes come up to mine, I have to force the air to move through my lungs.

  He’s right.

  I would never mistake Jack Hastings’s attention as real. Not again.

  Swatting his hand away, I cross my arms. The corporate picnic is at the end of July. It would certainly be easier to have Jack on my arm than have to explain why he isn’t there. “How many dates are we talking about?”

  He mimics my stance. “As many as it takes.”

  Douche.

  I heave out a disgruntled breath. “Fine. But you have to do better than you did at the bar last night. No more screwing with me.”

  He straightens, rolling those steely eyes. “Trust me, you’re the last woman I’m interested in screwing.”

  My hackles are already up. Why does this guy get to me so much? Why do I let him? “Likewise.”

  “So we’ve got a deal?”

  I reach for the wine, bypassing my glass and going straight for the bottle. “Deal.”

  4

  Laurel

  The gym in Margo’s building is thankfully empty when she smacks the stop button on her treadmill and shouts, “You totally want to ride his pony!”

  Unfortunately, I don’t hit the stop on mine and trip on my own feet. Stumbling off the machine, I shake my head. “No. I don’t.”

  “You do.”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “Not ever?” She props her hands on her lean hips. “Not even once? Eighteen years of that boy a few houses down and you’ve never thought about it?”

  Eesh.

  Her brows snap up and my shoulders drop.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Eyes wide, perspiration dotting her brow, she grabs my hand and pulls me to the floor so we’re sitting cross-legged facing each other. “Tell.”

  God, I don’t want to. But in all the years of friendship, this is the one secret between us. Or part of it anyway, and as much as I don’t want to lie to Margo, there’s only a small part of the truth I’m willing to share. “It was winter break junior year, Law was an exchange student in Germany, and it was around the same time the stuff with my parents was coming to a head. I was having a tough time and Jack was just… there.”

  “Like there, willing and able?” she asks hopefully.

  “Like there, probably missing his buddy, and for once trying not to fight with me. We were spending time together and one thing led to another.”

  “Shut up,” she gasps. “You’ve already ridden his pony.”

  “You’re disgusting.” I laugh, pulling her into a hug. “And it never went that far.”

  She doesn’t know about what happened with Jack, or she’d never push this. She doesn’t know how easily I slid into his arms, how eagerly I took his kiss. Even now I can still remember that dark look in his eyes as they shifted between mine. That beat of breath-held silence and anticipation when they dropped to my mouth. How my heart felt like it was going to burst through my chest, it was beating so hard. And then how he bowed his head, sealing his lips over mine in a kiss so sweet and right and perfect I actually wondered if I was already in love with him… With Jack Hastings, the boy who had been tormenting me, teasing me, taking up all my spare thoughts for as long as I’d known him.

  I wasn’t in love.

  And he wasn’t all the things I’d started to believe he might be.

  He was just a horny seventeen-year-ol
d with his eyes on a conquest he couldn’t pass up.

  Either that or he was just bored.

  But for as much of an ass as Jack was, at least there were some rules he wouldn’t break. And apparently sleeping with his buddy’s sister was one.

  I should be relieved, I guess. Grateful, maybe.

  What happened between us was humiliating enough. If I’d actually given him my virginity… I don’t know if I’d ever have been able to look him in the eye again. Who am I kidding—I was barely able to look at myself in the mirror when I realized how easily he’d played me.

  What the hell am I thinking with this fake-dating thing with Jack?

  Jack

  After I left Laurel swilling a midrange white straight from the bottle last night, I texted, letting her know I’d pick her up for dinner tonight, to wear a dress, and to bring her calendar. It’s not a surprise when she texts me twenty minutes before our “date” to tell me she’ll meet me at the restaurant.

  Because she’s Laurel. And not one fucking thing can be easy with her.

  A fact I’m reminded of when I look up from the drink I’ve just ordered at the restaurant bar and find her swanning into the place, looking like… that.

  In the past ten years, my access to Laurel has been limited to snapshots taken from her brother’s phone—where she’s kicking around in chunky sweaters and jeans or shorts and T-shirts—and our interactions over the last two days—where she’s been neat as a pin in her pretty little work getups. So for this, I’m not prepared.

  I take a deep swallow, the burn of the aged bourbon the only thing grounding me as I look her over. Red lips, red shoes. Red dress, cut deep down the front and fitted, Christ, everywhere else.

  Not easy.

  I can feel the heads turning, the eyes moving over her. I can sense all these assholes behind me in the bar sizing up their chances with her.

  Zero.

  She’s with me.

  She scans the seating area before turning to the bar. No smile. Just the sharp arch of her brow.