The Sextet - Dirty Dancing [The Sextet Anthology, Volume 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (21 page)

“Of course. I realize you don’t want to seem too excited. People might accuse you of marrying me for my money.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I know better. I must be off. The limo is waiting, and I have a lunch meeting with the governor.”

He swept out the door as dramatically as he swept in, leaving her with who knew how many thousands of dollars worth of gifts. She didn’t need this headache in her life.

“Ms. Donahue, your visitor is gone. Shall I put the bouquet in a vase, or two? I’m quite certain I don’t have anything large enough in the cabinet for two dozen long-stemmed roses.”

Sinking into her desk chair, Julayne huffed out a breath. “Would you wrap them in tissue or newspaper, Edwin? I’ll drop them off at the nursing home this morning before my appointment. What do you think? The Alzheimer’s ward or the terminal care center this time?”

“Terminal care will do.” He gathered the flowers. “Did you really date that man? He hardly seems your type.”

“Twice. I went out with him two times, and he wanted me to tell his friends I was from Boston, the oldest daughter of a politician with the same last name.” She rubbed her temples. “Like his boarding school buddies wouldn’t figure that out when they heard my Midwest accent.”

“Will he trouble you any further?”

“No. His grandfather probably threatened to cut him out of his will again if he didn’t find a Stepford wife by the end of the first quarter. I can’t believe he bought me a three-carat ring, like I can be bribed into marrying him.”
I’d rather have takeout, an inexpensive bottle of wine, and a box of truffles.

“Poor young man is in denial. I’ll marry you myself if he’s straight.”

“Westin’s
gay
?” That would explain why he’d spent their first meeting complimenting her on her designer shoes and clothes. Hell, his hands and lips were softer than hers.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so.” Edwin shook his head. “More so than I. He really should come out of that glass closet he’s living in. Everyone can see he’s inside.”

She waited until he closed the door behind him to laugh. The first giggle led to another, and another. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and still she laughed. Could her life get any more hysterical?
I’ve dated a gay man without knowing it, he won't admit it to himself, and now I want to have sex with two men. What’s next? That’s right. I want to live happily ever after with those same two men.

Closing her laptop, she swapped her shoes for boots and checked her portfolio for the file containing information about her services and prices. She made a quick trip to the bathroom to touch up her makeup then tucked the Tiffany’s box in her coat pocket and headed for the reception area.

“You’ll need your scarf and gloves, Ms. Donahue. The temperature is twenty-two degrees, with an expected high of twenty-four.” Edwin held the bundled flowers out of reach until she obeyed his instructions.

Yes, Mother.
She took the roses and turned toward the door. “Thank you, Edwin. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d do quite well on your own. I wouldn’t work for you if I didn’t think you capable of taking care of yourself.”

Another compliment. She’d accept all the positive vibes she could get.

Chapter 4

Brand checked the clock on the dash as he left the Hemlock Ridge job to get some lunch. Almost eleven. He’d finished putting the hardware on the cabinet doors and drawers, installing the faucet and supply lines, and applying a bead of sealant around the new countertop. Cleanup had taken another twenty minutes, and the job was done. Better run to the bank to deposit the check before stopping at the deli for an Italian sub combo.

Turning left into the drive-thru entrance, he waited for the car ahead of him to send the cylinder through the tube to the teller. He had a clear view of the door to Donahue Accounting Services. How long could he procrastinate where Laynie was concerned? As much as he’d loved having his hands on her, he wouldn’t let it happen again. Reese was his brother, first in importance.

A black limo parked along the street in front of her office. Did she have a wealthy new client? The driver climbed out, opening the rear door. A man got out, a huge bunch of white flowers in his hand. Everything about him screamed
money
. He leaned back into the car for a moment. When he stood again, he held a small box. He strode to Laynie’s business and went inside.

Brand’s stomach cramped.
Flowers, and a fucking ring box.
Had she been playing them all along? Hell, hadn’t he told Reese last night she deserved roses, jewelry, and dinner at an expensive restaurant for her birthday? They’d blown their opportunity to impress her, and they hadn’t even known yesterday was her birthday until after she told them at the studio last night. Of course, she seemed to be in a relationship with Mr. Limo already. Had she let him touch her? Shit, sharing her with Reese would beat having another guy fuck her beautiful body.

Honk!

He glanced back at the line in front of him. No wonder the car behind him had gotten impatient. He was next. Pulling up to the tube, he forced his attention on the deposit. He couldn’t do anything to stop Laynie from marrying the guy. Telling her they’d made a mistake wouldn’t make any difference.

The container whooshed through the clear tube toward him then popped out his end. He took the receipt and glanced at Donahue Accounting in time to see Mr. Limo exit her office with a smile on his face.

He should be happy she wouldn’t come between Reese and him, but he wasn’t. Knowing they’d lost her to someone else sucked.

* * * *

Glad she left a full hour before her appointment, Julayne smiled and waved at the gray-haired man in the wheelchair as she exited the activity room and headed down the hall toward the lobby of the rehabilitation wing. Thirty minutes with people who knew they were dying made her problems small and insignificant. They also reminded her to grab life by the
cojones
and enjoy it. Or, in her case, grab the Hilliard brothers by the balls and enjoy them.

Slipping on her gloves, she picked up her pace. With fifteen minutes to walk the three-quarters of a mile from the nursing home to the bookstore, her legs needed to work a bit harder than her normal leisurely walk. The sidewalks slowed her down in places, but she arrived exactly at noon. After a last check of her messages, she frowned and turned off her cell phone. Shoving it in her pocket, she entered College Avenue Bookshop. No time to pout. She had a job to do.

Exiting her new client’s business thirty minutes later, she rushed to check for new texts. Nothing. Her chest tightened. Reese had always come to her rescue. He’d never
not
responded to her calls for help.

But that was before she’d kissed Brand.

Now she had to deal with Westin’s nonsense. God, three carats. The damn thing had to be bigger than her hand—not that she’d looked at the monster token of wife buying. Well, she wasn’t for sale. Too bad she had to wait until four-thirty to decline his proposal.
Why can’t I write the email now and send it later?
At least that would lift the awful burden from her thoughts.

Walking along College Avenue, she thumbed in the message.

Westin, I haven’t changed my mind. My answer is still no—for some very good reasons. Number one. I don’t love you. Number two. You don’t love me. Number three. I’m in love with someone else. Number four. My office manager says you’re living in a glass closet. Everyone can see in, but you refuse to come out. Yes, Westin, he's certain you’re gay—and he, of all people, should know. He thinks you’ll be much happier if you acknowledge it. Then maybe you’ll find the right person to share your life with. Best Wishes, Julayne

Firm but polite. She saved the draft in her email account and stopped outside the jewelry store. Westin and his flowers were handled, now to deal with his other outrageous gift. Tucking her phone back into her coat pocket, she marched through the double doors.

“Ms. Donahue, welcome.” ,” Frank smiled at her from behind the counter. “Edwin called to say you’d like an appraisal.”

She returned his smile. “Yes. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“No problem.” He gestured her toward the back of the store. “Let’s go to the workroom. I understand you have a Tiffany’s piece. We’ll need a hand lens at the very least to determine the value. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Frank should’ve asked if she’d like a shot of bourbon with a chaser of Scotch. Sure, she’d expected the ring’s worth to reach over ten thousand dollars. Westin had money to burn, after all—but
tens
of thousands? The man was an idiot to spend that much to begin with, let alone tell her to keep the damn thing whether she chose to marry him or not. She’d carried it around town in her pocket like some worthless trinket. Thank God, the jeweler had offered to store it in his safe until he found a buyer. Even minus the commission she’d insisted paying him, the Children’s Home could buy and install the new playground they’d put on their wish list last fall. Replace the roof. Maybe renovate the kitchen.

She checked her messages again as she hiked to the office. Nothing. How could she fix things with Reese if he wouldn’t talk to her? She’d had enough fantasizing with Ted. She wanted to be the cream filling in the Hilliard brothers cookie. Would they consider her proposition or laugh their asses off at her audacity?

Bzzzz.
She jumped at the vibration against her hip. Her heart stuttered.
Reese?
Shoving her gloved hand in her pocket, she extracted her phone.
Deep breath.
She tapped the screen to view the message.
Penny.
Her stomach twisted.

Your class was a hit! Three more calls today. May have to make two classes
:>)

So maybe she’d spend all her free time teaching other women how to drive their men crazy with desire. Her plan to share and conquer seemed doomed to failure.

* * * *

Four o’clock came and went. Still no text. No less than she deserved.

She emailed her answer to Westin at four-thirty then shut down her computer in case he responded.

At five, she wished Edwin a good weekend, climbing the stairs to her private studio above the office. A couple hours of practice might temporarily ease the pain of losing Reese’s friendship and any shot she might have had for more.

She dropped her purse on the bathroom counter to change clothes and wash the makeup from her face. Twisting the hot water handle, spray squirted her sweater and the mirror. She squealed and jumped back from the counter to avoid the geyser.

“Shit, shit, shit!”
Serves you right for lying to Reese.
Now, how to stop the water?
The valve. Turn off the valve.
Reese had told her to go to the source if she had a problem with her plumbing.

She dropped to her knees, reaching into the cabinet.
Right-y, tight-y. Left-y, loose-y.
A few turns to the right brought an end to the spray, but not before water dripped from the ceiling and counter, and her, to puddle on the floor. Pulling a couple towels from the closet, she spread one over the tile floor and used the other to dry the ceiling, mirror, and vanity. She stripped out of her soaked clothes, hanging them on the shower rod and wiggling her moist self into a sports bra and dance shorts.

Time to send a message to Brand.

Major plumbing problems in the bathroom over my office. Help!!!

She set the phone on the now dry counter to ponytail her damp hair. Leaning forward, she finger-combed the long strands toward the top of her head.

Bzzzz!

She jerked up at the buzzing of the vibrating phone.
Thwack!
Her elbow connected with the corner of the vanity, sending ripples of tickling agony to her fingertips. “Ow, ow, ow! Damn it! Stupid funny bone.”

Grabbing her cell, she opened the text. Reese? No, Brand. Her stomach twisted.

Writing up an estimate. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Forty minutes?

Still no answer from Reese. Breathing through the stinging tears, she responded to his brother’s message.

Thanks.

Could she live with having only one of them? Or worse, had she caused a rift between them? God, her personal life sucked.

Julayne walked across the studio to the stereo, selecting classical for her warm-up. Fifteen minutes of
pliés
and
relevés
for her legs. Ten minutes of curls and extensions with free weights. Fifty crunches and thirty obliques. Switching to jazz, she grasped the pole, starting with several circuits of floor spins. She closed her eyes, absorbing the music, allowing it to clear her mind and free her body. Her hand slid up the smooth cool metal. Reaching for the pole with her other hand, she opened her eyes to spot while she worked her way down and around.