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“Where exactly are you right now?”
“Nowhere.” Bell drops the towel, smiling over her shoulder. “I gotta go. Thanks for taking care of my cunt.” Bell tilts her head in question, but I don’t answer. Instead, I end the call, toss the phone, and make my way over to the seductress standing naked and wet before me.
“Who was that?” Her voice is breathy as I lick moisture from the valley of her breasts.
“Liz.” I tweak her nipples. She moans.
“Why is… your sister… taking care of… your…?” She gestures rather than say the word.
“Doesn’t matter.” I drop to my knees, pushing her legs farther apart. “What matters is that now I’m going to take care of yours.”
And I do.
Twice.
26
BELL
“Double shot latte, one pump white mocha please.”
The barista smiles, not knowing that the one pump of white mocha in my order is very significant. That single pump of sweetness is the harbinger of good ideas. Whenever I studied in college for a big test, or now, when I’m stuck on a marketing design, that single white mocha infusion makes everything better.
“I’m all shook up…” Screw Chase. I can sing.
The barista falters with the steamer at my “yay, yay, yay.” Okay, maybe I should stick with humming when invoking the power of Elvis.
I’m hoping that the combination of the King’s energizing, jaunty lyrics and the almighty pump of sweet syrup can help me help Chase put Moore’s back on top of New York City retail. And then… global dominance. Or, you know, build an international foundation with a strategic presence in foreign cosmopolitan areas.
I know that seems like a tall order, but the white mocha magic has yet to let me down.
The chirpy young girl in an apron holds out my finished latte. “Here you go, ma’am.”
The warmth from the cup seeps into my skin, and I’m too focused on the delicious combination of caffeine and sugar that’s sure to help me produce a global dominance plan to be mad about being ma’am-ed again.
“Ms. King?”
“Jesus!” My hand squeezes the paper cup, shooting a stream of latte into the air that arcs up over my head before landing on a pair of expensive men’s shoes. Shoes with tassels.
It takes a confident man to pull off tassels.
Traveling up from the shoes, I find pleated-front suit pants, a skinny black belt, a white shirt smoothly tucked in behind said belt, and a maroon argyle silk tie. One perfectly groomed eyebrow rises above a set of serious brown eyes.
Thomas Moore.
What the hell is with the Moore brothers and hot coffee?
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice is deep and steady, in direct opposition to my current frazzled nature.
Clearing my throat, I step back. “No, my fault. I guess I’m a bit jumpy today.”
He pulls a few napkins from the dispenser. I fully expect him to work on saving his expensive shoes from coffee stains, but instead he wipes my fingers, sticky with milk, espresso and sadly, wasted white mocha.
“Oh.” I startle at his touch, almost spilling the tiny remnants of coffee left in the cup, unprepared for his thoughtfulness. “Thanks.” After his parting shot at brunch that Saturday, and everything that Chase told me yesterday, his gesture surprises me.
“No problem.” Once my fingers are clean, he grabs some more napkins before bending down, making sure to clean the floor as well as brush haphazardly at his shoes. From my higher vantage point, I can appreciate his full head of blackish-brown wavy hair and the way his suit pulls across his broad back and shoulders.
What? I can look.
