Sweet Temptation / A Private Affair. Lauren Hawkeye

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      SHE NEEDED HER catering van, but every time she tried to park it she wished she drove something smaller. This driveway wasn’t big to begin with. Add in the various vehicles jammed like sardines in the driveway of the house she’d grown up in, and it was like squeezing ten pounds of potatoes into an eight-pound sack.

      She managed to eke out a sliver of space behind a maroon sedan. From the garage she heard Metallica, volume turned up high, and knew that the full driveway meant that Beth was powering through an equally full day of repairs and maintenance in the mechanic shop she ran out of their garage.

      She wouldn’t bother her. Instead, she grabbed the heavy rubber tote from the back of her van, arm muscles straining as she closed the van doors with her foot. Lugging it to the house, she set it down with relief, then dragged it through the front door and into the kitchen.

      Prying off the lid, she started to remove the Tupperware cartons of leftovers from her commercial kitchen. She jumped when a voice came from behind her.

      “A delivery came for you.” Meg squeaked with alarm, whirling to find Amy standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Gasping, she clasped a hand to her heart.

      “You startled me.” She eyed the bottle of whiskey in Amy’s hands—the same kind she’d brought to John’s hotel room last night. The pear one. When hope sprouted in her chest, she tried to pull it out, but like a weed, it wouldn’t be uprooted. “Are you home for lunch? Good timing.”

      Checking one of the containers she was unpacking, she slid it across the kitchen island to her sister, who placed the bottle of whiskey in front of Meg before checking out the contents of the Tupperware.

      “Vietnamese dumplings?” Amy cooed with approval as she opened a drawer and pulled out a fork. “Come to me, my precious.”

      “Aren’t you going to heat those up?” Meg grimaced as her sister speared a cold dumpling on her fork and shoved it into her mouth.

      “Aren’t you going to check out your delivery?” Amy replied with her mouth full. She poked at the ribbon around the neck of the bottle. “There’s a card.”

      Sighing, Meg traced fingers over the paper, then looked at her sister with narrowed eyes. “The envelope is open.”

      “Is it?” Amy blinked at her innocently as she chose another dumpling. “I wonder how that happened.”

      “Dude.” Meg frowned at her sister but ultimately was too tired to lecture her. She hadn’t slept well. She probably shouldn’t have even been driving; she was still so keyed up.

      She was irritated at John’s high-handedness. But most of her anger was at herself.

      She knew the score—he was leaving. She shouldn’t have had to keep reminding herself of this, but her traitorous emotions weren’t listening.

      Tugging the card off the ribbon, she pulled the small note out of the envelope, keeping it angled away from Amy. Why, she wasn’t sure, since the knowing smirk on her sister’s face confirmed that she’d already read it.

      I’m sorry. A fresh bottle for a fresh start? —J.

      Huffing out a breath, she shoved the note into her pocket, then turned away from the bottle to finish loading the leftovers into the fridge.

      “You should call him,” Amy offered as she chucked her empty container and fork in the sink. “I don’t think he’s a man who says sorry easily.”

      “You should mind your own business.” She jabbed a finger in the air in Amy’s general direction. “And put your dishes in the damn dishwasher.”

      “Is that minding your own business?” Amy asked innocently, though she did as requested.

      “Brat,” Meg muttered as she sealed her now-empty tote back up and carried it to the front door.

      “Call him!” Amy shouted after her. Meg slammed the front door in response.

      Back at her van, she wrenched the back doors open and loaded the tote in. Perching on the edge for a moment to catch her breath, she ran her fingers over the pocket that held John’s note.

      She was at a crossroads here. He’d stepped way out of line, and yet she knew he wouldn’t make that mistake again—he was a smart man. Did she really need to punish him, to punish them both, when she’d already proved her point?

      Pulling up his contact on her phone, she called him, nerves flaring as she listened to it ring.

      “How’s the whiskey?” he answered, and just hearing that voice of his, deep and rich and so damn sexy, made her a little bit weak in the knees. “Is it as juicy as a ripe pear?”

      “I’m doing deliveries, so I wouldn’t know,” she retorted, her sharpness a last line of defense. “I don’t drink and drive.”

      “That’s wise,” he replied dryly, not commenting on the fact that she was snippy. “Maybe you should continue to refrain so you can drive to the hotel later.”

      “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” She should say no. She knew she should say no. She shouldn’t want to be with someone who’d pulled what he had with Aaron, should she? Someone so controlling?

       But isn’t that exactly what you want?

      “Why don’t I tell you what I have planned?” His voice deepened, sending a shiver through her. “Then you can decide.”

      She was silent for so long that he cleared his throat.

      “There’s a bar a few doors down from my hotel. I’ll be there at seven sharp.” He paused, and she heard the sexy rasp of his breath in her ear. “You’ll come sit beside me. You won’t know me, and I won’t know you until you introduce yourself. You can be Meg, or you can be someone else entirely if that makes it easier for you to accept what you want from me.”

      “And what if I decide I don’t want to be myself?” Meg swallowed thickly, envisioning the scene.

      “No matter who you are, I’ll want you.”

      John was propped against the scarred wooden surface of the bar in the dive he’d directed Meg to earlier when she walked in. His fingers clenched around his glass of neat whiskey, anticipation tightening his gut.

      He wasn’t used to having to woo a woman. Wasn’t used to apologizing. Hell, he’d never cared enough about anyone to have a jealous fit to apologize for.

      But the way she responded to him was like a drug. She wasn’t one of many women who’d read Fifty Shades and wanted to play at kink—she wanted, on a visceral level, to submit.

      He pressed his lips together as he watched her scan the bar, her gaze coming to rest on him. Emotions flickered over her face for just a fraction of a second before she’d hidden them away again, and his spirits sank.

      She wanted what he could do to her, but she wasn’t overly pleased to want him.

      And why did he care? This was just a fling, an affair, right? They were scratching their mutual itch.

      Except that he actually liked her. More than liked her. And he wanted to ruin her for everyone and anyone who dared to touch her after he was gone.

      As he’d instructed, she made her way across the room, closing the distance between them until she could lean against the bar next to him. He lifted a hand to signal the bartender, but she batted it away, catching the woman’s attention herself. He watched, bemused, as she ordered the same thing he was drinking, though she hadn’t yet glanced at him or his drink. Only once it had arrived and she’d paid for it with cash, did