Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(36)

I swallow roughly. Okay. So, fine. Christopher isn’t a completely evil capitalist. But he’s still definitely a capitalist.

With an amazing chest.

Who tangos like a fucking god.

And smells so damn good.

Gah, the inside of my brain is bumper cars this morning.

“Well, that’s great,” I force out. “I’ll be sure to send you this photo soon as I’m off work.”

“Look at those flowers,” Tia says, as she and Jack rejoin us, Jack bringing himself to a bouncing stop beside me. “Such a gorgeous bouquet.”

I glance over my shoulder, my stomach knotting. Velvety peach ranunculus stand tall, wedged against sunbursts of yellow dahlias. Tall, willowy delphinium petals spill down their stalks in a violet-blue waterfall. Scattered throughout are splashes of blush-pink roses and lacelike baby’s breath. It is a beautiful bouquet.

“Who’s Katerina?” Jack says, pointing to the card I set against it when they entered the store.

“That’s me,” I admit. “My full name.”

Jack frowns. “Do you like it?”

I bite my cheek, hearing in my head Christopher’s deep voice, the way he says Katerina that makes the hairs on my neck stand on end, that sends heat searing through my veins. “It’s complicated.”

“Well,” Tia says on a smile, “whoever sent them must be quite the admirer.”

“Or they’ve got quite the apology to make.” Hugh throws his wife a look. “Not that I have any experience needing a bouquet like that to make amends, right, baby?”

“Bleh,” Jack says as his parents link their fingers together and Hugh kisses Tia’s hand.

“When you have,” she says, “it always worked.”

“Think it’ll work for you?” Jack asks.

I peer at the bouquet, a weird, woozy feeling in my limbs that has nothing to do with last night’s poor decisions lingering in my system.

I don’t begin to know how to answer his question.





? TWELVE ?


    Christopher


I’m tired, on edge, and shaky, after riding a rough migraine through most of the night and suffering through what little sleep I did get, which was tortured by dreams I can’t admit or let myself dwell on.

Because they were straight from hell.

A long, willowy body pressed against mine. None of the curves my hands typically seek, nothing soft or yielding—just sharp angles, blissful bite marks, ruthless nails scraping down my back. A hoarse, smoky voice crying my name while I sucked and licked, dragged her legs wide open and—

The ding of my laptop announcing a calendar reminder abruptly ends those thoughts. I press my palms to my eyes and breathe deeply, envisioning a slow, painful walk into a frigid lake.

I need to get laid.

The past two weeks since Kate came home and upended everything, I’ve abandoned my routine—a meal at the bar, a flirtatious conversation and then a frank one (I’m yours all night. Only one night. No repeats.), then a hotel room, the exhilarating challenge of a new body to learn and become an expert of, the thrill of wrenching orgasm after orgasm from her, the blissful mindlessness of my own release.

I don’t care to examine why the past few weeks have gone the way they have. No matter why I haven’t been getting out and getting laid—given my foul mood, my hopelessly erotic dreams—that needs to change.

I need a good hard night of fucking. A luxurious meal. One nice glass of red wine. And a beautiful woman by 10 p.m. beneath me, on top of me, beside me—hell, whatever way she wants it. I’ll get back into my routine and reset. No problem. Easy.

This is what I always do.

Which is why it makes no sense that when I start to draft an email to Curtis, my assistant, to clear my schedule after five and make a reservation at one of my favorite places, I can’t seem to make myself do it.

Shit. Shit.

This is bad.

I push back from my desk, reaching for my coat.

“Curtis!” I bark. “Going for a walk.”

“You’re due back in thirty,” he calls as I storm by.

“Got it.”

I nod politely to Luz at the front desk, then take the stairs, because fuck elevators, jogging down, pushing open the door into the cool air. The sky is cloudless, the sun a pale lemon yellow squeezing drops of light between tall buildings. I start to walk, hands in my pockets, and try to clear my head.

For a while it works, as I soak up the ambient sounds of traffic, the steady stream of people going about their lives, until I realize where I’ve ended up and slow to a stop.

Bello’s.

I stare at the familiar sign on the Italian restaurant I haven’t been to in twenty years. I can tell the place has hardly changed when someone with a food order rushes out to a delivery bike waiting for them and acoustic guitar music floats out in their wake.

The door eases shut, but slowly, giving me time to soak up its ambience. The clink of plates and glasses, the melodic lilt of spoken Italian, sharpens memories that have faded at the edges, fuzzy and softened by time. Plates of pasta swirled with Parmesan and cracked black pepper, tall glasses of deep red wine. Mom’s bright laugh and Dad’s warm smile. Old music, flickering candlelight, my belly full of too much frittelle.

The memory expands, like a widening lens. Bill’s deep chuckle. Maureen’s rosy-cheeked grin. Bea doodling on a napkin, Jules with her nose in a book.