Playing with Piper (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing for Love Book 3) (8 page)

W
hen the sun
streams into the bedroom, I wake up, my dick uncomfortably hard. My head is filled with images of Piper sandwiched between Owen and I, her head thrown back in abandon as we both touch her, tease her, pleasure her.

She’s not that sort of girl, Lawless.

I throw off the covers and rise to my feet, anxious to banish the fantasies from my mind.

I’ve been attracted to Piper since the moment I met her, but until yesterday, I’d been able to dismiss her as a spoiled rich girl who was used to having everything handed to her.

Now, things are different. She’s had to fight for her dreams, and I respect her for it.

It makes the attraction that much harder to resist.

Last night, her eyes were soft and shining. When she thanked us, there had been such a fervent note of gratitude in her voice that I found myself angry at all the people that have made her doubt herself. Piper’s an excellent chef. Sebastian Ardalan would hire her in a heartbeat, and he’s the pickiest fucking employer in the city. She should be ready to kick ass and take names.

Owen and I had walked her to her apartment. “Are you going to be okay?” I asked her when we got to her front door. “Is your roommate going to be home tonight?”

She had giggled at that. “If she does come back here, I’d question her sanity,” she’d said with an impish grin. “She’s got two hot men at her beck and call. Lucky Bailey.”

Her roommate was in a threesome, and Piper wasn’t freaking out? My cock had gone rock hard at that, and Owen and I had exchanged startled looks. Then Piper had swayed slightly, her eyes closing, and that had dashed my hopes of anything happening. “Thank you for believing in me,” she’d whispered. “I won’t let you down.”

I’d felt like I’d been doused in cold water. I’d been trying to think of ways to get her naked, and she was just grateful she had allies. I felt like a louse. Owen and I had disengaged ourselves as quickly as we could.

It was probably for the best.

She needs us to save her restaurant. We can’t make a pass at her under those circumstances. It wouldn’t be right.

Speaking of saving her restaurant, I need to man up in a hurry. It’s time to call Maisie.

“
M
aisie
, how’s it going? It’s Wyatt.”

We’ve exchanged a couple of polite emails since our break-up nine months ago, but this is the first time we’ve talked. Maisie sounds surprised to hear from me. “What’s up?”

I massage my temples as I consider my words. Our relationship ended on cordial terms, so I don’t really need to tiptoe around her contest, but her rejection had wounded me. I should have never got involved with Maisie Hayes. She was too much of a good girl for someone like me.

“I need a favor.”

“Sure,” she says agreeably. “What is it?”

“I saw your blog post about the contest in Hell’s Kitchen. I’d like to enter a restaurant.”

“Oh.” Her voice is curious. “One of your ventures?”

“Yes, it’s a small restaurant called
Piper’s
.” Or will be as soon as we get the new sign ordered.  “Owen and I just invested in the place.”

“All restaurants that want to be on the show need to submit an application,” she tells me. “The deadline has passed, but I’ll make an exception for an old friend. Get me the details today, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem, Wyatt.”

Maisie broke our relationship off because of my desire for kinky sex. I should have known things wouldn’t work out. She was too concerned about her image, and a threesome would have been bad publicity.

After the break-up, I made myself a promise. I’m not going to look for anything serious anymore. I’ve tried to keep things casual. My needs are incompatible with anything real.

An image of Piper flashes in front of me, her blue eyes hazy with desire. Ruthlessly, I dismiss it. She’s my partner. Nothing else.

T
he next morning
, my head still hurting from the vodka, my heart still stinging from last night’s rejection, I call Wendy. “I need you,” I tell her. “You’re the most sensible person I know. Help me.”

“If you really killed them, you need to give me a retainer,” she quips, her voice amused. “What’d you do, Piper?”

“Not over the phone.” I bang my head against the wall, once, twice, three times for luck. I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe the way I threw myself at Owen and Wyatt last night. I need Wendy to slap some good sense into me.

“Do you have time to come by my office before you open?” she asks. “You can buy me a cup of coffee.”  

“Sounds good. See you in an hour.”

“
I
almost kissed them
.”

Wendy’s perfectly manicured eyebrow rises. “You did?” She sounds more curious than scandalized. “I thought you didn’t like them.”

“They were nice to me yesterday.” Hearing those words spoken out loud, I wince. God, I sound pathetic.

Wendy looks intrigued. “Tell me everything, Piper,” she orders. “Start at the beginning.”

“Owen and Wyatt came into the restaurant last night to taste my signature dishes.” I tell Wendy the entire story. How afraid I’d been that they would back away from their deal, the way they’d apologized for assuming the worst of me, our plans for the reality TV show, and finally, the moment where I almost kissed them. “Damn that vodka,” I mutter. “Tell me something. I’m crazy, right?”

“In what way?”

I flush. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a guy,” I reply, looking down at the table. “And then there’s Bailey with Daniel and Sebastian, and Gabby had that threesome, and all of a sudden, there was a little voice in my head that whispered, ‘
Why not me?’
”

To tell the truth, I can’t even remember the last time I went on a date. Life has become all about work. Working three low-wage jobs to make enough money for culinary school, then slaving away in front of the stoves at
Aladdin’s Lamp
. The idea of getting dressed to go out seems foreign to me.

You love what you do,
I remind myself.
You love the process of creation, of seeing people enjoy your food.
Except the words feel like false comfort after the almost-possibility of last night.

“How long has it been?”

Trust Wendy to hone in on that little detail. “Five years,” I whisper, my cheeks flaming.

She sits up straight. “Five years?” she repeats, her voice aghast. “You’ve been celibate for five years?”

“Will you keep your voice down?” I demand, annoyed. “I’m well aware of how much my life sucks. You think I want this? I work every evening of the week except Mondays. I start work at ten in the morning, and finish at midnight. What guy would want to date me?”

“Owen Lamb and Wyatt Lawless,” she replies. “How did they react?”

I think back to last night. “There were a couple of moments where I thought they wanted me too,” I admit. “But they didn’t make a move.”

“Still,” she points out, “they’re right there. All you have to do is reach out…”

Reach out and touch them. Kiss them. Feel their hands all over me, the press of their bodies against mine…

I set my coffee cup on the table and give Wendy a serious look. “Two guys? Can you imagine my mother’s reaction?”

She shrugs dismissively. “Pardon my French, but your mother has a fucking kitten no matter what you do. You’re an adult. You’re allowed to do the things that make you happy. Running
Aladdin’s Lamp
, kissing Owen and Wyatt, whatever you want.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so,” I say bleakly. “I know my weakness, Wendy. I’m terrible at standing up to my parents. I’ve always been terrible at it. I made one brave move in my life when I turned down Anthony and moved to New York for culinary school. I can’t risk messing up with Wyatt and Owen. They are my partners, and they are investors in my restaurant. I’d be a complete idiot if I let anything happen.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she says reluctantly. “You shouldn’t sleep with your partners. Things can get ugly if it doesn’t work out. Your focus should be on the restaurant.” She smiles at me cheerfully. “There’s a silver lining. When you win the contest and you’re beating away customers at the door, you can always hire a proper sous-chef and start taking some time off. And then, you can date whoever you want.”

Wendy’s right.

I can’t stop thinking about the look in Owen’s eyes last night when he asked me if I would do anything he said. I can still feel Wyatt’s palm over my wrist when he told me to pace myself.

Then, like a bucket of cold water, my mother’s voice sounds in my head.
Well-behaved Southern women do not have threesomes.
Except she’d never say the word
threesome
, because even in her wildest dreams, I wouldn’t do something so self-indulgent and wicked.

T
he next month is hectic
.

Wednesday, after talking to Wendy and resolving to keep things between Owen, Wyatt, and myself professional, I go to Wyatt’s office and sign the contract. “Read the small print,” he says, leaning back in his chair and giving me a dry look. “I don’t want you to regret anything.”

“I don’t make the same mistakes twice,” I reply, pouring over the contract carefully. “I make new ones.”

He laughs. Once I’ve signed the documents, Owen joins us and the three of us look at restaurant signs. “Simple yet classy,” Wyatt decrees. “That’s going to be our brand.”

We pick a design that fits our needs beautifully. The sign itself arrives on Friday. The word
Piper’s
is in italicized cream lettering on a dark grey background. It takes my breath away. It is
gorgeous
.

I watch a worker on a ladder take down the old faded
Aladdin’s Lamp
sign, and put up the new one. I’m not embarrassed to admit there are tears in my eyes.

The day after that, someone arrives to replace the cracked glass in the front window, and a woman with curly brown hair shows up with planters filled with flowers. My restaurant transforms in front of me, going from looking faded and tired to warm and inviting.  

It’s difficult not to hug Wyatt and Owen, but I remind myself of my resolution.

New menus are printed on thick cream paper, tucked inside dark brown leather binders. I can’t stop stroking them; I can’t believe this is actually happening. It is with a huge smile on my face that I feed the worn
Aladdin’s Lamp
menus into a shredder.

There is a metaphor here. I hope I’m destroying my old life in favor of a brighter future.  

On Sunday night, after we’ve closed for the evening, Owen shows up with a drop cloth, brushes, painter's tape and three gallons of charcoal grey paint. “We can’t afford painters,” he says with a grimace. He’s wearing faded khaki shorts and an old grey t-shirt. “So, we paint.”

“Is Wyatt joining us?” I ask curiously. So far, whenever something needs to get done, the three of us have done it together. It feels strange that he isn’t here.

Owen shakes his head. “Wyatt,” he says, “does not deal well with chaos. I don’t think he could cope with the mess we’re going to make.” He moves the tables together in one heap in the middle, away from the walls, then piles the chairs on top of them. “I lucked out and found some chairs in an auction. Good quality dark wood, and they were just seventy bucks each. They’ll arrive sometime during the week.”

I do some math in my head. “Three thousand five hundred dollars,” I conclude.

“Add another two grand for cushions,” Owen advises. “It’s still a steal.”

He’s right, but I can’t stop worrying about money. I give the paint a dubious look. “Will the room become too dark with this grey?”

“We’ll update the lighting as well.” He gives the cheap fluorescent lights a disgusted look. “Wyatt’s taking care of that. He knows a guy.”

“Wyatt knows a guy,” I repeat. Every day they hand me multiple invoices so I can track our spending. It’s nerve-wracking to watch them spend thousands of dollars without blinking an eye.

Owen gives me a reassuring look. “You have to spend money to make money,” he says. “And let’s be honest. A dump like
Aladdin’s Lamp
isn’t going to win
Can You Take the Heat?
But
Piper’s?”
He winks at me. “I have it on good authority that the chef is magnificent. She’s going to blow everyone away.”

I’m warmed by his praise. Picking up a roll of painter’s tape, I smile at him. “Let’s do this.”

There’s a sharp knock at the door, and the handle turns. “We’re closed,” I start to shout out, then stop in surprise as Wyatt walks in. He’s dressed casually as well, and he’s holding two pizza boxes in his hand. “What are you doing here?”

“As tempting as it would be to leave the two of you to deal with this,” Wyatt replies, gesturing to the pile of tables and chairs in the middle of the floor, “I decided that wouldn’t be right. Piper, I assume you haven’t eaten.”

The aroma of the pizza makes my stomach rumble. Wyatt’s right. The new sign and menu have been attracting more walk-in traffic. Over half our tables were full tonight, a first for me. I’ve been on my feet for hours, and I’ve had no time to grab a bite. “You are my hero,” I tell Wyatt fervently, reaching for a slice. “Owen, give me a few minutes to inhale some pizza, then I’ll help.”

Owen sinks to the floor next to me. “There’s no hurry,” he says lazily. “We have all night and all day tomorrow to get this done. Wyatt, you didn’t bring any beer, did you?”

Wyatt laughs. “What kind of friend would I be if I forgot the beer?”

He goes outside, then returns with his arms laden with shopping bags. Owen gets up to help him. “How much beer did you bring?”

“Tile,” Wyatt explains succinctly. “I was worried that the grey paint would make the room look too dark, then I remembered the wallpaper and mirrored tiles and we had left over from
Alessandro’s.
”

My curiosity aroused, I peep in the bags Wyatt has brought. The wallpaper is a bright abstract red and yellow print. “We can tile the back wall,” Wyatt explains. “And frame the wallpaper so it looks like art.” He helps himself to a slice of pizza, and opens a can of beer. “It isn’t fancy, but I think it’ll work.”

“It’ll more than work.” I laugh out loud in glee. “Wyatt, this is perfect. Thank you.”

His gaze lingers on me. In a rush, all my desire comes hurtling back.
Stay away from them,
a sensible, practical voice warns me.
You’re making too much progress to risk it all for one night of pleasure.

But what a night it would be…

He clears his throat and breaks the spell. “You’re welcome, Piper.”  

T
he last four
weeks have been almost too good to be true. In thirty days, the restaurant has been completely transformed. It’s gone from a faded dump to a jewel that shines and sparkles. The food’s changed from hit-or-miss Middle Eastern to a contemporary Southern cuisine. Even Josef and Kimmie seem on board with the transition. Josef has shown up to work on time three days in a row, and yesterday, Kimmie didn’t chew gum once.

It all changes on Thursday.

I should have known there’d be trouble when I mentioned to my parents that I had two new partners. But I’d been focused on saving the restaurant, and I’d failed to notice their reaction.

When I get into work Thursday morning, I find a notice waiting for me. It’s from Grant & Thornton, the law firm that are the executors of Aunt Vera’s will.

I read their letter with nerveless fingers. It states that they have reason to believe the terms of the will aren’t being complied with. They’re going to send an accountant to do a full audit of my books on Tuesday. And, if that’s not enough, until the three year probationary period is over, I’ll be expected to open my books for a monthly audit.

Damn it. This is nothing other than thinly disguised harassment. When we signed the paperwork to make Wyatt and Owen partners in my restaurant, I’d dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s, and I’d sent Grant & Thornton a copy of all the paperwork.

The timing couldn’t be worse. Owen, Wyatt, and I have been spending every waking moment at
Aladdin’s Lamp
, getting it ready for the contest. I’ve been cooking the new dishes we’ve concocted, again and again, until I can make them in my sleep. We’ve found a new meat supplier, we’re auditioning two vegetable suppliers and we’re getting new appliances in the kitchen. Next week is also the first round of the contest.

Already I’m stretched to the max. Now I have to deal with my parent’s latest passive-aggressive move? I slump into a chair and rest my head on the table, and I struggle not to burst into tears.