Page 20 of Contingently Yours

Lucas

Getting out of the Uber outside of the Duxbury Bakery, my stomach shouldn’t feel like something is fluttering inside of it.

I’ve had three days to prepare myself mentally for facing Andrew again.

I told myself over and over to forget about that last morning in the Isles.

That it meant nothing. That it was just him screwing with me again.

The fact he acted like nothing happened the entire trip to Boston and even after we landed proves that it certainly meant nothing to him.

He went and bought another Christmas ornament at the airport and then strolled on his merry way toward the car rental counter without so much as a backward glance at me.

However, seeing him through the window of the bakery now, biting into a croissant while he stares down at his phone, I’m finding it difficult to believe it meant nothing to me.

Since when have I found the cut of his jaw and his high cheekbones alluring?

Try as I might to have absorbed myself in prepping things for our showings down in Harlow’s Landing the past few days, I found myself disturbingly distracted.

Especially at night. I’ve slept alone for the last four years.

It shouldn’t have been so difficult to fall asleep without his obnoxious presence next to me in bed.

Without his heat. His clean scent. His peaceful stream of breath.

And without waking up to his wandering hand on my…

“Stop it,” I scold myself.

Shaking my head, I wheel my suitcase toward the bakery door and inhale a deep breath. If I can’t stop thinking about that morning or how I replayed an alternate extended version of it in my head the last few nights, he’ll see right through me. I can act as indifferent and callous as him.

I can.

I should.

I shouldn’t be affected by Andrew Broadhouse.

In any way. I don’t know why my body is having such a difficult time getting that message, but I’m determined to make sure it does.

I mean, he’s not even into me. Even if he does have one or two redeeming qualities, he’s not into me.

So, that’s that. Besides, I can do better than a person whose only redeeming qualities are their command of sales and their good looks.

As I approach the table, I try to convince myself that he isn’t even all that good-looking.

What do I know about whether men are good-looking?

Right? Except when those mischievous green eyes glance up at me, my breath catches in my throat.

A lock of his sandy hair falls over the sun-kissed skin of his forehead.

He brings his coffee cup to his bow-shaped mouth, the hint of a smirk at its corner that registers as one word in my addled brain—sexy.

Crap. I’m failing at this already. Failing and clearly have lost my mind.

He is sexy. For some unearthly reason, he is. No wonder women fall at his feet, and the Hepperlys have seemed charmed by him since day one. He’s just got this charisma about him that makes you stupid in light of his bitchiness and immaturity.

“Wondered if you’d ever show up,” he calls, averting his gaze back to his phone like he couldn’t care less that I’ve arrived.

It shouldn’t hurt. Why does it hurt?

It was just half a hand job, not a declaration of love. I’m too old-fashioned. The girls are always telling me that. Intimacy means something to me, I guess, even if I never intended on being intimate with him.

“I’m ten minutes early,” I say without fanfare, just stating a fact, and take the seat opposite him.

There are two large pastry boxes stacked on the table.

I can only guess they’re either to pacify his high metabolism during our upcoming stay on Clark’s Island, or he was thoughtful enough to acquire them for me and our clients.

I really hate when I notice admirable things he does.

I can’t count how many times he’s opened a door for me, which is completely mind-blowing after once getting stuck in one with him.

Reaching out, he nudges them toward me, again without eye contact. “Here. Eat something. They’re heart-healthy and filling.”

I’m sure that was a dig at my preference for granola bars, but my stupid heart skips a beat like a wistful teen at the thought of him remembering something I said.

That’s the thing that’s so confusing. For someone who acts like he hates me so much, he actually pays a lot of attention to what I do and say.

As the box slides, I notice a smaller one beside it come into view. The front of it is clear, revealing a small ceramic croissant inside with a gold string attached to the top of it. The words Duxbury Bakery are inscribed over the golden finish.

“What’s the deal with all the Christmas ornaments?” I ask.

His gaze flicks to mine, brow furrowed in confusion. My face heats. We’ve never actually had a real conversation about anything other than work or an argument.

“The ornament…you buy one every time we go to an airport or a new city,” I elaborate, opening the pastry box to busy myself.

“They’re for my tree. Why?”

Pulling a flaky roll out of the box, I shrug, at a loss for how to respond.

I assumed they were a gift for someone special.

Like maybe one of his women, his mother, or Aunt Vera.

I wouldn’t have thought he was so sentimental, nor that he cared about his work enough to commemorate each of his stops by buying an ornament.

Will he think of the time he spent with me on this trip when he looks at them?

“Nothing. I just didn’t peg you for a Christmas tree kind of guy.”

It’s true. I didn’t. I always imagined he spent holidays at fancy parties where the drinks were flowing, not at home surrounded by knick-knacks.

Scoffing, he starts scrolling on his phone again, but says, “They’re a giant sparkly night light that radiates the aura of childhood dreams. What kind of person wouldn’t like that? I leave it plugged in day and night for an entire month and just sit under the glow, transfixed. It’s…soothing.”

An image of Andrew in stocking-clad feet on a couch, ogling a Christmas tree with all of his tacky ornaments flitters through my head. It’s oddly endearing.

I tear a few pieces off my roll and eat them. I’m officially out of small talk. There are actually a million questions about Andrew that I’d like to know the answers to, but I’m not brave enough to ask. An exasperated sigh filters across the table, making me forget them.

“Are you going to be fucking weird from now on just because I know you have a crush on me?” he lets out.

“What?”

Throwing up a hand, he gestures to me. “You haven’t argued with me or given me a dirty look since you got here. You’re just sitting there like…”

“Like what?”

“Like some shy virgin who just received their first bouquet.”

Where does he come up with these analogies? “I…What? I’m just being normal. My normal self. And I’m trying not to argue with you because we have to sell properties together, act like we’re a couple, and maybe because I’m just tired of arguing. It’s fucking exhausting.”

He stares at me. Unnervingly. Maybe not unnervingly, but it feels like it because I do feel like a shy virgin who just got flowers. Fuck. I hope he doesn’t see that too.

Quirking his brows, he looks impressed and then returns his attention to his phone. “About fucking time,” he mumbles in agreement.

When he says nothing more, I start to relax. Embarrassment averted. It’s not like he knows my skin feels taut underneath my clothes just from sitting this close to him. It’s not like he knows how good I think he smells right now or how I kind of missed his scent.

“Good. Because I was worried you were going to be all needy after you begged me to jerk you off the other day.”

My hand falls halfway to my mouth, and I drop the piece of roll from my fingers. Begged? I did not beg. Not exactly. He…antagonized me with…with the most blunt bedroom talk I’ve ever heard while he…

Shuddering right now is probably not a good way to convince either him or myself that I didn’t want or initiate whatever happened that morning.

I still can’t believe how practiced his hand felt on my cock.

Each slide, each squeeze, was confident and masterful.

Sinfully breathtaking. I was helpless to the arousal he stirred in me.

Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I reclaim the morsel I dropped and school my features. Indifferent and callous, I remind myself and take a note from the Andrew Broadhouse school of behavior.

“I didn’t beg,” I murmur casually, shrugging. “Not even after you kept stroking my cock and grinding up against me like you couldn’t get enough of me.”

I hold my breath, knowing I probably don’t have anything bolder than that to come at him with.

He’s always been better at the battles of wits than me.

I think that’s what aggravates me the most about him, and in some ways, I’m also kind of in awe of it.

My phone rings, saving me from finding out just how loud the thunder is that I’ve called down, judging by the heated look he’s shooting me from across the table.

“Hello?”

“Hey! You got a second to talk?” Julia’s voice comes over the line.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

Instinct has me wanting to get up and find a private corner away from Andrew, but I fight the instinct. I’ve got nothing to hide and damn if I’m giving him the satisfaction of thinking I’m ever uncomfortable around him for any reason.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about the bachelor party…”

“The bachelor party? You mean the bachelorette party?”

“No,” she laughs. “We’ve got that covered. I don’t think I need my brother’s help to plan a bachelorette party.”

Chuckling with her, I’m relieved to hear there’s one less unpleasant task on my plate. “Good. Glad to hear it. I didn’t feel like shopping for penis headbands or whatever it is women wear for those things. That might kind of ruin the memory of braiding your hair when you were little.”