Page 29 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)

Tristan

I strode away from that courtyard like my life depended on a hasty escape. My hands shook as I adjusted my jacket, tugging the tailored fabric down to hide any evidence that Juniper and Marco’s flirting had turned me on.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

The image burned behind my eyelids—Juniper Torres in my crochet top, the delicate yarn work I'd crafted with my own hands clinging to her curves, supporting and presenting her breasts like a goddamn gift.

The creamy white yarn contrasted so perfectly with her skin, which was the color of rich mahogany. And her husband had watched her, hunger naked in his dark eyes, while also stealing glances at me with something that looked disturbingly like appreciation.

Fortunately, he had not been wearing the shorts, but his tight athletic T-shirt had left little to the imagination. His upper body was all lean muscle, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Not that I’d looked.

My cock throbbed painfully against my boxer briefs, and I gritted my teeth against the sensation. This wasn't supposed to happen. My crochet wasn't for other people—it was mine.

A private ritual my therapist had suggested when the panic attacks had taken over, when the weight of running the Bancroft legacy without my brother by my side threatened to crush me entirely.

I couldn’t explain why the rhythmic motion of a hook through yarn, the careful counting of stitches, the way complex patterns demanded complete focus had quieted the constant noise in my head.

Juniper Torres was wearing something I'd made in the depths of anxiety and loneliness. Its only purpose had been to bring me that little spark of joy that came from creating something beautiful. And though I’d imagined how it might fit a woman, selling my crafts wasn’t in the cards. My work was supposed to be invisible, locked away where no one could see it.

I forced myself to walk normally through the guest corridors, nodding at staff members who greeted me with polite deference. My reflection in a window caught my eye—flushed cheeks, slightly disheveled hair, and a tie that had somehow worked loose at my collar. I looked like a man coming apart at the seams, which was exactly what I couldn't afford to be.

The Bancroft Resort demanded perfection. Our guests expected flawless service from a flawless establishment run by flawless people.

I ducked into a service corridor and leaned against the wall, fumbling to loosen my tie properly. Sweat beaded at my collar despite the cool air conditioning, and my breathing was still too fast, too shallow.

The service corridor was mercifully empty, and I took advantage of that rare moment of quiet and forced my breathing back under control. My erection was finally beginning to subside. I needed to focus on work and pretend this whole mortifying episode had never happened.

The corporate wing of the hotel was a different world from the guest areas—all clean lines and efficient lighting, designed for productivity rather than luxury.

Gemma's office door was closed, which meant she was probably buried in quarterly reports or budget projections—my cousin's idea of light recreational reading. I should knock. I should wait for permission to enter like a civilized human being.

Instead, I gripped the door handle and shoved it open hard enough that it banged against the wall.

Gemma looked up from her laptop with that perfectly arched eyebrow that had been intimidating people since we were children. Her ash-blonde hair was in its usual severe bob, and her green eyes—so like mine, so like Caleb's—assessed me with clinical detachment.

"Who authorized the sale of those items from the conference room closet?"

The words came out tight and higher than usual, my carefully modulated voice cracking like a teenager's.

She set down her tablet with deliberate precision, giving me her full attention in a way that made me feel like I was about to be dissected by a sharp scalpel.

"Good morning to you too, cousin. Lovely weather we're having."

Heat flooded my cheeks.

"This isn't a social call, Gemma. I want to know who gave permission for my—for those items to be sold to guests. The crochet tops and shorts."

"Your items?"

Her voice carried just a hint of curiosity, like she was filing away information for later use.

"I wasn't aware you'd stored anything in Conference Room B."

The trap closed around me with surgical precision. Of course, she hadn't known they were mine. When I’d hidden them there, I’d never imagined that my efficient cousin was about to transform the space into some sort of craft fair.

"That's not the point,"

I said, scrambling for solid ground.

"Personal items shouldn't be—"

"I have to say, whoever made those pieces has extraordinary technical skill. The construction was remarkable."

"The point,"

I said, fighting to keep my voice level.

"is that you should have checked before appropriating items from storage. They were mine."

Gemma leaned back in her chair, and I could practically see her mental filing system clicking into place.

"Tristan, why would you put those things in a conference room closet if they were so private? It was only logical for me to assume that someone had left them for the craft fair."

She had me, and we both knew it. There was no logical explanation for storing deeply personal items in a semi-public space except panic and poor judgment—two things I wasn't supposed to possess.

"That's not the point.”

I desperately needed to pivot, or she’d find out about my disaster of a date, too. About the woman I’d hoped to bring back to my apartment, before realizing my space contained more skeins of yarn and knitwear than a grandmother’s craft room.

"This entire craft fair concept is inappropriate. We're running a luxury resort, not a village jumble sale. Our focus is on providing impeccable service to our guests, not... not hawking homemade trinkets in conference rooms."

My cousin's eyes went arctic cold. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees as she rose from her chair with the fluid grace of a predator. All five feet eight inches of her radiated the kind of fury that had once made hostile investors retreat with their tails between their legs.

"Inappropriate?"

Her voice was silk wrapped around steel.

"Let me tell you what's inappropriate, cousin. Employee turnover running at thirty percent. Productivity dropping because people are miserable dealing with the entitled assholes who come to stay here."

She moved around her desk to stand in front of me, and despite our family connection, despite years of working together, I took a step back. Gemma, in full corporate warrior mode, was a sight to behold and a force to fear.

"The craft fair,"

she continued.

"has brought employee satisfaction scores to the highest levels we've seen in five years. Productivity is up. Turnover is down. Guest feedback specifically mentions how genuine and happy and engaged our staff is. So forgive me if I'm not concerned about the sensibilities of a CEO who stores his secret hobbies in random closets. This is my hotel, too, Tristan. Sometimes I think you forget that Caleb and I each own an equal share."

"But I am the CEO,"

I started, but she cut me off with a laugh that had nothing warm in it.

"Yes. But as Chief Operating Officer, employee satisfaction falls squarely within my purview. I’ve made my decision."

Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass.

"The employees love it, the bottom line loves it, and frankly, I love it too. It's staying. I’m genuinely sorry that your work was sold without your permission, but that’s the only concession you’ll be getting, Tristan. "

The finality in her voice stopped me from responding. Gemma and I might be family, but we were also business partners. She was right, and we both knew it. The numbers didn't lie, and the Bancroft Group had always been about results above all else.

"Next time,"

she said, returning to her desk with dismissive calm.

"Store your personal items in your office or at home. Unless, of course, you want them featured in our next craft fair.”

Unwilling to admit that I’d stashed my things in that stupid closet in case a date had wanted to come to my apartment, I turned and walked out of her office without another word, stalking down the corridor, past my assistant, and into my office.

My office was a sanctuary of minimalist efficiency—floor-to-ceiling windows, a desk the size of a small aircraft carrier, and absolutely nothing personal that might suggest Tristan Bancroft had interests beyond quarterly profits and guest satisfaction scores. I slammed the door behind me hard enough to rattle the glass, then engaged the lock with shaking fingers.

The moment I was alone, I slumped into my leather executive chair and buried my face in my hands. And the moment I closed my eyes, I saw Juniper Torres again, arms stretched above her head, back arched in a graceful curve.

The scene had been so close to what I’d imagined when I’d first made the piece she was wearing. I sat back in my chair, feeling my shoulders relax as I thought about a pattern that would look even better on her. Perhaps yellow to bring out the gold undertones in her skin. And perhaps something even more risqué. Something that revealed the most delicious part of her.

I ran my hand down between my legs, feeling myself go hard again.

I lived by very strict rules, but today, they’d gone out the window. My hand slid over my stomach toward my belt buckle. Every rational thought screamed at me to stop. I couldn’t jerk off at work. But I needed relief, needed to let myself imagine fucking Juniper as her husband watched, eyes alight with interest and lust.

I closed my eyes and immediately saw her again. Her beautiful brown skin was visible through carefully crafted openings, full breasts moving beneath delicate yarn work, like I’d bound them, putting them on display, cradling them in knots and ropes I’d crafted myself.

She would watch me with something that looked dangerously like understanding. And Marco beside her, all warm appreciation and barely contained hunger, stealing glances at me like he wanted a taste, too.

Sliding my zipper down gave my aching cock some relief. The rules said I didn't do this during business hours, said I maintained perfect control at all times, said Tristan Bancroft, CEO, was above base physical needs.

But as I came all over my stomach, it was very difficult to remember why I’d made those rules.