Unlikely Allies (22 page)

Sensual—no.

Provocative—not even close.

Sizzling—warmer, but still far, far off.

“Oh shit. Fuck. Damn. Uh, sorry.” Matt’s outburst and quick retreat got a similar result from them.

As Rick stormed out of her office, his departing claim promised, “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

She realized he might be right—this time.

T
HERE WASN’T ANY REASON TO
stick around because Rick’s appointments were finished for the day. Besides a certain freckle-faced, drive-him-insane Irish cook, whose gingersnap cookie, apple blossom, lemon drop, ever-evolving fragrance wouldn’t let him concentrate on anything else but her. He had to clear his head and ran toward the emergency exit. His cantering descent down twenty flights of stairs did nothing to vanquish the demons chasing him.

Arriving home before six thirty, a rarity for him, he stripped away the suit that smelled like Maggie and threw on shorts and a T-shirt. The intent: exercise the hell out of his unresolved lust, mind-blowing confusion, and rid himself of the growing-exponentially-by-the-second affection.

When the doorbell rang an hour later, he jabbed the off button on the treadmill and lumbered his tired ass toward the entry of his brownstone.

“Mr. Stone, delivery for you.” A messenger extended a Kensington Foundation embossed envelope toward him. “Can you sign, sir?”

After initialing the pad, he tossed the package on the sideboard. “Hold on, I need to get you a tip.” He turned around to run upstairs for his wallet.

“I got it.” The next to the last person he wanted to see called out from behind him. Matt shuffled inside once he paid the messenger and leaned against the closed door.

“I’m in the middle of a run. See ya. Don’t come back.” He charged toward his gym, ignoring Matt hot on his tail.

“Too bad. I got a lot to say.”

Resetting the digital reader for the two-mile indicator, Rick picked up where he left off, at a steady pace, but his tightening gut told him otherwise.

Matt whipped off his T-shirt, lay on the bench, and lifted the two-hundred-pound weights on the bar. The massive bulk he hefted didn’t deter his mouth muscles though. “I’d like to say I’m happy you got your head out of your ass and took my advice, but I’d be lying.” A few raises later he added, “You got the wrong message, bud. Maggie isn’t one of your bimbos, and I don’t appreciate you treating her that way.”

“When exhaustion sets in from your ‘I know better than you’ attitude, and the weight crashes and strangles you, don’t look at me for any help after that bullshit remark. Your ass can stay stuck on that bench for all I care, and I might throw on another hundred pounds or two.” He’d amped up the incline to mountain trekking mode; sweat poured down his back and rage rolled over his skin with it.

The muscles in Matt’s arms twitched as his hands clasped and unclasped between his parted knees. Matt shook his head. “How’d you get so fucked up? There’s a difference between hot and heavy one-night stands, and you’ll regret it if you fuck it up, mind-numbing, throw me down, tie me up, do whatever the fuck you
please
love. In case you haven’t figured it out, Maggie deserves the please-me type. I thought you had that in you, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe you’re just a minute man.”

Rick dove off the treadmill, tackling Matt. Fists swung at jaws, cheeks, and ribs. Rage ripped through him, and each shot landed released his pent-up frustration, which should have empowered him. Instead, it exhausted him. They both collapsed at almost the same time, lying on their backs with their arms stretched across the carpet, neither admitting defeat. They were too old for this shit.

“So what are you gonna do?” Matt’s question stuttered between his prolonged inhales and exhales.

Battered and bone-weary, Rick slung an arm across his sweaty brow, and his stammered reply mimicked Matt’s. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”

“I could’ve told you that.”

“I believe you already did, a few times now.” They chuckled as Rick rolled onto his side and propped his chin in his hand. After several unraveling breaths, he admitted, “How am I supposed to make any sense out of this?”

Matt looked him in the eyes; pissed-off tension disappeared and sympathy replaced it. “You don’t. You go with the flow. One day at a time, buddy. She swings, you duck. She says jump, just do it, don’t bother asking how high. She wants a rabbit pulled out of a hat, don’t stop until you find it and give her everything she wants. Because I’ll tell you, her rewards will be so damn sweet. You won’t be able to crave anybody else. Your body won’t want to see, smell, or taste anyone but her.”

Overwhelmed by that insight, Rick’s mind whirled, and he collapsed onto the carpet. He covered his eyes with his arms, while a sour taste flooded his stomach and bile surged through his throat. “Dammit.”

“I know, buddy. Believe me, I feel your pain.”

“Fuck.”

“Mm hmm. That’s the good part though.”

Unable to contain his laughter, Rick let it roll. “You know that security app you installed on my cell? The panic button I told you I’d never use in a million years.”

“Yep.”

“You better answer when I do.”

Matt’s humored reply came in a split second. “I have your back, bud. Never doubt it.”

With his workout complete and fatigue setting in, Rick consumed a half gallon of water in the time it took him to walk Matt from the gym to the front door. On the way out, Matt glanced at the sideboard. “How’d the fundraiser go?”

“Oh, yeah. Hold on a sec.” Rick grabbed the envelope and tore it open, flashing the tickets. “I got these for us. For the twenty-first. You up for it? Treat Lizbeth and Harley.”

Matt removed
The
Lion King
stubs from his hand, reading them. When he looked up, he asked, “Sure, but there’s five. What are you doin’ with the other one?”

Rick rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, his nerves hopping all over again. He wanted to buy time and think through his plans. Since he brought up the subject, he couldn’t stall and ended up spitting his thoughts out. “I wanna take Cece.”

A gradual smile appeared and Matt waved the tickets. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You’re teachable after all.”

“Shut up.” The girls’ surprise got stuffed into the envelope, and he set it on the table, running his thumb along the edge. “I just think she’d like it, that’s all.”

“You realize what day that is, right?”

Rick glanced toward the envelope again, checking his mental calendar. Nothing coming to mind, he asked, “What?”

Matt squeezed Rick’s shoulder and smashed his lips together, repressing a smirk. “Oh, buddy, you are goin’ down the
hard
way.”

“Come on, knock it off.” He laughed at Matt’s ridiculous prodding and keen ability to point out when he screwed up. “What did I do wrong now?” He considered for a brief second the possibility of groveling, but he’d never give him that advantage. It went against his belief: never let them see you sweat.

Taking a deep breath, Matt burst out on an exhale, “Father’s Day.”

Rick stared and stared, waiting for him to change the answer. Since Mighty Matt couldn’t do that, he took his exhausted ass over to the couch and collapsed instead. Damn. He forgot. Thirteen years since he’d been able to spend that special time with his dad. Four thousand, seven hundred and forty-eight days and counting since they’d gone fishing. Their customary Father’s Day outing.

“Hey, I’m sorry, man. I can be a shit sometimes.” Seated in a chair next to him, Matt flicked his gaze to the bookshelf and TV stand, where photographs of him and his dad were lined up, a remembrance of the good times.

“Just sometimes?” he reminded.

“Yeah, I have an off day every decade or so.”

Rick appreciated the attempt at humor, but he wasn’t in the mood. “You think Maggie will let me take her?” The change of subject might help distract him.

“You’ve got a good excuse at least.”

Not sure what Matt meant, he thought about it while picking up a couple pillows and propping them behind his head. After he got somewhat comfortable on his rock-hard sofa, he asked, “What’s that?”

Matt leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. “It’s Cece’s birthday this weekend, on the thirteenth.” He shrugged, relaxing back into his seat. “You could tell Maggie it’s her gift. What mom would refuse a present for her daughter? Besides, dude, it’s
Lion King.
Cece would love Simba.”

“Damn, that’s right. I lost track of the dates.” Unable to relax, Rick sat up.

“Well, I’m outta here. Sophia’s probably wondering where the heck I am.” At the door, Matt turned around. “However you spring it on her, don’t screw it up.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Hey, that’s what I’m here for. I’d rather point out your faults since I’m so damn perfect.”

Rick whipped a pillow toward Matt. Good aim, but horrible timing.

Matt ducked outside and slammed the door before Rick could get another shot at him. He peeked his head back inside. “So damn sad. You need to work on your technique, my man.” Then slammed the door again, his roaring laughter heard through solid steel.

“That’s not my problem,” he grumbled to the empty room. Grimy and sticky, he needed a shower and leapt upstairs two steps at a time. Maybe he’d come up with some ingenuity while washing the dried sweat off his body.

The goal: get Maggie to allow Cece to go with him.

He should’ve anticipated his condition and what arose. Any time he showered and had Maggie on his mind, his situation never turned out satisfactory. Stripped bare and hot water on full blast, pounding against him, he envisioned Maggie sprawled in her office chair, nipples he hadn’t licked yet, her legs spread wide, pants unzipped, and peach panties he wanted to bite off. He would’ve slicked his tongue along her smooth mound, dipping between the folds, sucking, tasting, and savoring every bit of her sweetness.

Since that strategy failed along with several attempts to have sex with random hook-ups weeks ago, it left him with one choice—another hand job. Which deserved its own honorary title since it worked long hours and so damn hard.

“I brought coffee. Wanted to talk before you left,” Grandfather greeted him first thing in the morning on the front stoop of his home. Rick had opened the door with his briefcase in hand to find the grump with his knuckles poised, ready to knock him in the head. His arrival a surprise, but his hard-hitting position not unexpected.

“This isn’t a good time.” Rick stood in the doorway, blocking his entry.

“It’s important. I don’t want to discuss this at Gateway.”

Well, Rick didn’t want to either, here or there. Left with few choices, he stepped back and let him in. Better to have it out here than in front of his employees. No telling what his grandfather thought important enough to come by at seven a.m.

Seated in opposing chairs, a coffee table between them, Rick situated himself on the edge of his chair, another uncomfortable place to be. Since he flat-out despised wasting his time in stores, he furnished his house through online purchases. The only task in his life that could be accomplished by a simple click of a computer mouse, a virtual finger snap. But the problem with taking short cuts and hedging his bets on the images alone, his choices were a lot like gambling. He lost more than fifty percent of the time. Unable to test out the furniture in advance, he got stuck with cement encased in overpriced leather.

“So what’s up?” Rick sipped his coffee, taking the offensive, figuring the sooner he got this meet and greet started, the quicker he could leave it behind him and get to work.

Grandfather tossed a folder onto the table. As an active member of and contributor to numerous charity organizations, the senior got his rocks off on sticking his nose in other people’s business and often carried around files. It slid toward him, but he didn’t touch it. “What’s that?”

“I think you should read it.” Grandfather leaned his back along the cushions, but his stiff posture didn’t look relaxed.

Rick pulled the folder toward him and flicked it open. He got halfway down the page and figured out his grandfather’s intentions. Flipping the cover shut, he sat back too, masking his face. He needed to shore up his defense. The muscles in his thighs bunched, and he squeezed the armrests so hard, he could’ve been an astronaut preparing for blastoff. He stared into space at the bare white walls, a mental countdown ticking. After several calculated breaths, he launched, “So?”