Bad Love Read online

  “I’m serious,” Rena goes on. “You need a man. Someone hot who’ll give it to you good enough you can forget your life for a few minutes. Big and strong and with scruff that gives you rug burn on your thighs."

  My body twitches at her description, but I shake my head. "No way. I’m not spreading my legs for some careless player, no matter how good-looking he—"

  "Am I interrupting?"

  The low voice has me whirling toward the door.

  The man in the doorway looks like a hot lumberjack who decided to pledge a frat. He’s built broadly, with shoulders that could probably carry anything I’ve ever owned. His fitted T-shirt is somehow too small and the perfect size at once, hugging his muscled chest in that not-tacky way only expensive T-shirts can manage. Dark jeans worship his lean hips, his strong legs.

  His face is even better. The jaw under model scruff is square enough you could grate cheese on the edge. His light brown hair stands up as if some woman just finished running her fingers through it.

  His arms are tan. His hands…

  He has beautiful hands. Big and perfectly shaped.

  Eyes and smiles can lie, but hands? They tell you how a person interacts with the world.

  I'm sure the rear view is terrible because God wouldn’t have allowed any one person to have that much attractiveness.

  My gaze drags up to find knowing eyes the color of dark chocolate, as if he’s caught me checking him out. Or maybe he heard us talking about my lack of sex life.

  No. He can't have been standing there that long.

  But there's no time to consider because on his heels is our boss.

  Daisy rounds the hot lumberjack, her spike heels clicking on the floor. Tight ripped jeans under a midnight silk blouse should look casual, but you’d mistake her for royalty trying to go incognito. Her dark angled bob swings. That and her black-rimmed glasses make her pink lipstick pop. "Kendall. Rena. This is Logan Hunter."

  Daisy pulls out a task chair for the man, but he insists she take it. The frat-boy lumberjack grabs one at the end of the table, sinking into the seat as if he’s heavy enough to crush the air from your lungs if he lay on top of you.

  "Are you going to sit?" he asks, amused.

  The flush starts up my face again, and I realize I'm the only one standing. "Yes. I was just… watering."

  “And I’m sure your wall forest is very grateful.” At his deadpan, I hang up the water bottle and grab a chair next to Daisy at the birch table.

  My boss doesn't seem perturbed, but frat-lumberjack Logan looks entertained.

  "Hunter needs our help with a new product," Daisy tells Rena and me.

  "I need to sell ten thousand vibrators.”

  I snap to attention because as distracting as this man—this whole situation—is, this is business. But at his words, I cough, my lungs suddenly unable to complete the exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide they’ve developed such competence for in the last twenty-six years. "Excuse me?"

  "Vibrators," he repeats, pronouncing each syllable in a smooth, warm voice that drags my gaze to full lips. "Sex toys. Used primarily by women for manual stim—"

  "Got it." I hold up a hand because if the hot lumberjack doesn’t stop talking, the world will explode.

  At Closer, we handle lots of relationship products, but my clients lean more toward dating apps. Personal support stuffed animals. A psychologist-informed communications app as an alternative for couples’ therapy.

  I don’t do sex.

  Not that I’m ignorant about it, but I’d cop to naïve.

  I grew up in a religious family, but we had the internet, and I've lived in New York for several years.

  That doesn’t mean I’m ready to talk straight-faced about sex toys with a lumberjack with beautiful hands.

  "I have ninety days," he goes on.

  I flip open my notebook, half to write things down and half to bury my face. "Ninety days to sell ten thousand…”

  “Vibrators,” he repeats, and I think I twitch again.

  “Right. What are sales now?"

  "No idea."

  I look up, and for the first time, I’m distracted by something other than this man or his product. "How can you have no idea?"

  “Rena,” Daisy cuts in, “I know you have personal commitments over the next couple of months, so I’m hoping you’ll help if needed, but I’d like Kendall to take the lead.”

  "There's no one better to handle you," Rena tells the lumberjack, completely straight-faced.

  I kick her under the table.

  But it's Hunter who flinches, and I sink lower in my chair.

  "Daisy, could I have a quick word?" I request.

  Rena and I follow my boss out of the conference room and pull the door behind me. Rena passes us, shooting me a wink as she does.

  I narrow my gaze at her, but I can’t protest the assignment. Rena is going to be the maid of honor at a rock star’s wedding. Hard to argue with that.

  I turn back to my boss. "Daisy, I’d love to help with this. But my client roster is pretty robust at the moment.” Which is French for “I’m working sixty hours a week thanks to a couple of clients who won’t be told no.”

  "I know you’re slammed, Kendall. But we’re a small firm.”

  “And I’m committed to helping you grow this company.” I mean it. Daisy’s amazing, and I love what she’s doing. I’m honored that I get to get up in the morning and work here. “But I'm not sure I’m the right person for this assignment. Lust is not my specialty."

  Her gaze works over me, and I wonder what she sees. "You’ve been here for years. You work extremely hard, you're capable, and I want to see you grow. This product may be a stretch.”

  You think? I’ve never even owned a vibrator.

  “But the best marketing isn’t about selling things you love. It’s about getting inside your client’s head and their clients’. It’ll make you better at your job.” As if sensing my hesitation, she goes on. “There’s a bonus in this if we can meet Hunter’s goal. Five thousand dollars, which I will hand over to you in full.”

  My breath hitches. I could send Rory to camp this summer. He’d be ecstatic.

  “And,” she goes on, “I know you’ve been absorbing a lot of client work. If you take care of this, I’ll give you the ability to choose your clients going forward.”

  Choosing my own clients would mean I could work with people who are more flexible in understanding my schedule.

  But if the price is selling sex toys for the hot lumberjack… it feels impossible.

  What would Nadine do?

  She’d say yes. No questions asked.

  “All right,” I say, straightening. “I’ll do it.”

  Relief etches itself onto her face. "Good. Get Hunter whatever he needs. He's an old school friend."

  That revelation surprises me. Daisy’s built this business from nothing, so my respect for her transfers to my new client.

  "Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

  "Hunter is enthusiastic and charming. He's like a dog with a bone." She looks through the glass, and I follow her gaze to where Logan's inspecting the plant wall. Is he… sniffing it? "In fact, he's kind of like a dog generally."

  The fondness in her voice has me deciding that maybe this can be a good experience. A challenge. There’s no reason working with this man has to be difficult…

  My thoughts end in silence as he turns away, because…whoa.

  The rear view might be as good as the front.

  "I'll take care of him." I clear my throat. "Professionally."

  Relief crosses Daisy's face. "Thank you."

  I go back into the room, and the man in question turns to face me. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, angling his chin up. The posture should make him look reserved, but he's cocky.

  I clear my throat. "Mr. Hunter."

  "Just Hunter."

  "Hunter." His name makes the hairs rise on my arms under my sweater. "I look forward to
helping you with this project. Let’s set up a meeting to review your goals. If you can send me a description of the product and current sales figures in advance—"

  "No."

  I freeze. "Excuse me?"

  He closes the distance between us and slides the pen from behind my ear in a way that has me feeling as if he just dragged the tip down my spine. "Let’s start now."

  I clutch my notebook to my chest. Not because of his proximity, but because my new vantage point has me realizing something profoundly disturbing and fascinating in equal measure.

  Logan Hunter has a tongue ring.

  I swallow, thick, as if it’s my own flesh that’s pierced. "I'm not prepared."

  The pen’s held out to me, but I'm drawn back to those eyes, lightened to caramel in amusement, and the mocking curve of his lips.

  "Then prepare yourself."

  3

  Certainty’s always come easy for me. I take bets I can win…at the poker table and in life.

  Now, in a pink meeting room with a jungle wall, staring down Kimmy Schmidt—who apparently holds the key to my salvation—I’m feeling less than sure.

  This morning delivered me into the world with the kind of hangover that reminds you the night before was either the best or worst of your life.

  Took me two minutes to remember the bet I made with Nellie. It was stupid, but I’ve never lost and I’m not about to start.

  Which is why it took another three minutes to get Daisy on the phone.

  She’s not the only classmate from college who built a company, but she’s the only one whose company gets people to buy shit to feel more connected.

  Daisy sold Kendall Sullivan as some kind of guru. But the woman who’s supposed to save my ass is a full head shorter than me. If it wasn’t for her resume, and the hazel eyes radiating intelligence and awareness, I would’ve sworn I had a decade on her.

  Kendall’s not hard on the eyes, but she’s dressed as if fashion causes friction. The sweater and skirt ride that elusive line between conservatively stylish and unobjectionably plain. Her oval face is pale, but the few freckles across her cheeks and nose tell me she gets outside the office.

  Her best feature might be her red hair that stops short of her breasts. It falls in slow, simple waves that make you want to sift your fingers through them.

  Come to think of it, her breasts aren’t bad either. They look small enough to fit in my hands, high enough I bet she’d look better naked than in that sweater.

  None of which matters because I’m here to win a bet. Of the ten thousand women I need to get off in the next ninety days? Kendall Sullivan is not one of them.

  I tell her I have a meeting in Midtown and she can ride with me, take the car back after. On the way downstairs, I study her legs.

  It takes balls not to wear heels in New York. I wonder whether she does it to be practical or as a “fuck you” to guys and convention.

  “So, what’s in the scouting report?” I ask as she shifts into the car, clutching her notebook, plus a sleek leather backpack she insisted on grabbing on the way down.

  Those eyes turn more brown than green in the car. “Scouting report?”

  I settle in next to her. “What’d Daisy tell you about me?” I pull the sunglasses down my nose. “Let me guess. She said I’m contagious. The life of the party.” I lean in and flash the most charming smile I own. “She said I’m reckless.”

  The woman lifts her chin, and I swear that intelligent gaze goes from assessing the situation to assessing me. It has me resisting the urge to shift in my seat.

  “She said you were a friend. And I don’t believe in judging people based on their past. Every day is the chance to make a new decision.”

  The reply comes out of left field, and I frown. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning if you don’t want to be reckless, don’t act reckless.” For the first time, her voice is level. Confident. "Now let's talk about your marketing goals."

  The limo's back seat isn't small, but neither am I. Plus, she has her bag wedged between us like a shield, her phone and the notebook on her lap.

  I shift to get comfortable, my legs stretching in front of me. "One goal. Ten thousand vibes. Ninety days."

  “Is this a new product? An upgrade to a bestseller? How does it fit with your corporate strategy?"

  The questions are rattled off one after another.

  A hint of irritation makes my back itch. But that’s not what’s bugging me, I realize, as she sets down her pen with slim fingers.

  I love strong women, but I’m beginning to feel as if I’m on trial. I huff out a breath.

  "Give me your phone.” I grab it from her hand. There’s a little noise of protest low in her throat that distracts me for the briefest second—because that sound does not belong in a business meeting—but I refocus, pull up the page of the product I picked from a list when I got home drunk this morning, and hold it out.

  “Behold. The Red Rocket II.”

  “Holy…”

  We stare at the big, red phallus together.

  “Can we change the name?”

  “Why?”

  “Because sticking a rocket inside your body seems like the worst idea since the zeppelin.”

  I don’t try to hold in the chuckle at her dry muttering as I pass the phone back.

  She scrolls through the webpage and writes some shorthand notes in her notebook while I watch.

  Kendall Sullivan’s a puzzle. A hand of cards that doesn’t make sense but hints at greatness, if you can only coax it into the right form.

  She’s clearly smart. Younger than me, but older than she looks. A strange combination of awkward and pretty. The copper hair that I’m betting is natural slides over the shoulders of her tidy sweater. But her notebook is pure whimsy. Live your dreams? I didn’t know anyone over the age of twelve actually bought that shit.

  "You don't make notes on your phone," I observe.

  Kendall shakes her head, not lifting her gaze. "Writing things down activates critical pathways in the brain."

  "Know what else activates those pathways? Sex."

  Kendall's pen freezes on the page, and I swallow the grin.

  She’s had the upper hand since we slid into this limo.

  I’m taking it back.

  “What matters is the build-up. The tease. It’s not about giving someone pleasure. It's making them want it."

  Kendall’s gaze lifts, lingers on my mouth a beat as if my low tone is affecting her in a way that’s not completely professional.

  Good. I always sucked at completely professional.

  Still, when it comes, her answer is cool. “If you know so much about marketing, I’m surprised you need my help.”

  I fold my arms over my chest, my shirt stretching tight across my shoulders. "I can sell a good time. But fake cocks aren't my wheelhouse. You’re the sex toy expert." She clicks off her phone and slides it into her backpack. “I’m sorry, you prefer 'alternative penis connoisseur'?"

  A flush creeps up her pale cheeks, but her lips curve at the same time.

  And shit.

  The joke’s on me because her whole face opens up as if someone turned a light on inside her. I’m dumbstruck by the way her skin glows, her eyes dancing. I can’t tell if she’s laughing at me or at herself, which turns the whole experience from silver to gold.

  The tension in my gut doesn’t release as our laughter fades.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s my first time." The words slip out. “Selling sex toys, I mean.”

  God, she’s awkward. I want to drag her into my arms and tickle her just to see what happens.

  I should be pulling out my phone and hitting Daisy’s number, asking what the hell she’s gotten me into with some novice. But I’m lost in a pair of rapidly darkening hazel eyes.

  I can’t be attracted to Kendall Sullivan. She’s the kind of woman I avoid, and it has nothing to do with her looks. It’s because she’s serious and smart and knows what she w
ants. And what she wants is someone like her.

  Still…A thousand replies to that, each more blatantly sexual than the last, parade through my head. But for some reason, I reject them all. “It’s my first time too.”

  I reach over her for a bottle of water in the car door, which brings us into contact. Her scent surprises me. It's fresh but with an edge underneath.

  "What's that perfume?" I ask because I can't help it.

  "It's not perfume. It's body wash. I order it online.” Her low admission makes me wonder if she feels guilty for ordering it.

  It's sexy, and I resist the urge to shake my head to get rid of her smell as the car pulls to a smooth halt.

  She repacks her bag, and when she looks up, she’s all business. "I need to do some research. Give me a few days to review the—ah, Rocket.”

  “Rocket II,” I correct solemnly. “With Roman numerals.”

  “Of course,” she replies, straight-faced as she holds up two fingers. “Send me sales info. Rolling twelve-month. Any seasonality."

  "I'll see what I can do." I hold out a hand, and with the slightest hesitation, she takes it.

  Hell, that little spot between her thumb and forefinger is smooth. I wonder if she’s that soft everywhere as tingling runs up my arm and has my abs clenching under my shirt. “I look forward to selling fake cocks with you, Kendall.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Just Hunter,” I remind her.

  “Just Hunter.” Kendall says my name as if she's weighing it every time it crosses her full lips.

  I open the door and shift out.

  I should walk away. As a show of good faith and professionalism.

  But I can’t resist…

  "And Kendall?" I turn and lean my elbows against the window, bringing our faces a few inches apart.

  “Yes.”

  "Sorry you’re having trouble getting fucked.” Her mouth falls open, and I wonder how her dark lashes would feel against my abs. “A gentleman never leaves a woman hanging."

  That pretty shade creeps up her cheeks, and I enjoy the wave of satisfaction that washes over me before I turn my back on the car.

  "Are you calling yourself a gentleman, Mr. Hunter?" Her voice, full and confident, stops me in my tracks.