Sway (Landry Family #1) (8 page)

She slings an arm around my shoulder and rests the side of her head against mine. "I'll give you triple," she whispers. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Alison

I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE
I'm at.

I drive past the entrance three times before I even realize it’s an entrance at all. The gate is on the other side of the tree line, and a security guard, dressed in a navy blue suit, greets me with a scowl. He wants to see my credentials, so I show him my Hillary's shirt and the large box in the back with food. After a couple of calls, he waves me in, and I start my trek down the mile-long driveway to the impressive home sitting at the end.

It's a three-story plantation-style house with black shutters and ferns hanging from hooks on the wrap-around porch. There are rocking chairs spaced evenly across the right side and a large table with what appears to be an oversized checkerboard to the left of the front door. A yellow dog comes running slo-mo from the side, his tail wagging and tongue sticking out. Another security guy, this one in a black suit and black tie, is waiting for me.

"Can I help you?" he asks. His eyes are a wicked shade of grey, his hair cropped close to his head. His skin is a smooth, olive-y color that's to die for.

"I'm here to deliver food," I say, letting my eyes sweep around the property. It's gorgeous and simple and quiet—the house of my dreams, basically. I can imagine myself sitting on one of the rockers on the porch with a glass of lemonade watching the sun set.

"Your name?"

"Alison Baker."

He steps out of my way. "I’m Troy. Go on in, Miss Baker. You don't need to knock."

I smile back, getting one final look at those beautiful eyes, and head inside. I would be more annoyed at the inconvenience of this little adventure if my curiosity weren’t at an all-time high.
Who lives here? With security? And has lunch delivered by Hillary's?
I'd be a little concerned being so far out, but Hillary knows where I am and the security guy gives me a little peace that an axe murderer isn't going to jump out of the woods.

I'm wondering if Dylan comes here regularly as I push open the front door and step inside. It's as charming as the outside. Wooden floors and dark trim set off bright white walls, royal blue décor and dark brown accent pieces adding pops of color. There's a white desk in the corner with neatly-piled files and folders and a sofa to my other side.

No one comes to greet me, no one seems to even know I'm here besides security. I can't tell if this is a house or some kind of office.

The sound of footsteps against the hardwood makes me whirl around to see a grey-haired lady looking as surprised to see me as I am to see her.

"Well, hello," she says, taking the eyeglasses off her face. "Who might you be?"

"I'm Alison from Hillary's." I gesture with the box of food in my arms and shrug.

She smiles and it reminds me of my grandmother. Her face is calm and kind, her blush a little too heavy. She nods and takes the smaller box from me. "Take that one up the stairs, to the right, and to the door at the end of the hall, please."

"I . . .” I start to speak, to ask why she can't take it considering she knows where she's going, but the smile on her face stops me. I suddenly feel disrespectful. "Sure thing."

I shuffle past her and make my way up the stairs. My steps echo as I clamor to the top and take a right.

If I weren’t so in love with the house, I'd probably be more nervous. I have no idea where I'm going or who is awaiting me. I just hope it isn't a dying old woman like in an old movie because that's exactly what this reminds me of.

The door facing me at the end is closed and I glance around, but there's no one to be seen. All of the other doors are closed. There’s just a table sitting on a white rug and a vase full of multicolored marbles on top.

I take a deep breath and knock, hoping this doesn't take long. There’s still hope for that bath if I can get out of here in a snap.

"Come in," a man's voice barks from the other side. It's low with a touch of authority dripping from it in such a familiar way.

My stomach somersaults and I pull my hand away from the door. I stare at it like it's going to give me the answer to the question running through my mind—
why do I know that voice?

Before the door can tell me like in a Disney movie, it swings wide. And there Barrett stands, poised like he's ready to have his picture taken.

Oh. Fuck.

One hand in the pocket of his dark grey pants, one resting against the door frame, his eyes shimmer as they wait for my reaction.

My reaction . . .

I start to speak but can only sort of laugh, the words stolen by the sight of him. A crimson-and-white gingham shirt, buttons open at the top to expose a tiny sliver of tanned chest, is nearly my undoing. How he can look better than he did in a suit and tie is beyond me, but it's clearly possible. He's standing in front of me, smirk deepening by the second, gaze dancing across my flushed skin.

Waiting for my reaction . . .

"You ordered food?" My head bobs with the words, my voice much cheerier than I intend it to be. It seems like such a strange question because obviously he did or security wouldn't have let me in here. But the odds of Barrett ordering food from Hillary's by chance and me ending up here are what? Zero? Negative three?

And then it hits me.

“You’re the Mayor. Figure it out.”

My words from last night ring through my head and my cheeks flush in remembrance. Figure it out he did, but did he have to do it when I smell like a deep fryer and he looks like a fashion model?

He grins, flashing his perfectly white teeth, and takes a step away from the door. His shoulders seem to fall, a wash of relaxation waving across his features. "I believe Rose ordered it, but yes, I'm expecting lunch."

The gruffness in his tone from before is suddenly gone.

I take a few steps into his office. Barrett removes some papers from a table beneath a window and then leans against it. He crosses his arms, and much to my dismay, doesn't say a word. It's like he wants me to break the ice, but that fucking grin on his face is melting me faster than I can think.

"How are you today?" he asks carefully, feeling me out.

I consider the inappropriateness of my
real
answer. Telling him that my body is tingling, that the flame that's just been ignited in my core is smoldering, that the way he touched me in my dreams last night was the best I've ever felt would probably not be the right conversation opener.

"Where would you like me to set this?" I ask instead, holding the box in front of me.

"Right here." He steps out of the way and I place the box on the table. I'm so close to him, I can smell the same spicy scent from last night, the one I haven't been able to get out of my memory. My brain is fuzzy; the look, smell, and energy that surround him are more than my little wits can take. I need air. I need space.

I need a vibrator. Again.

"Enjoy," I say and wait for him to talk, but he doesn’t. I flash him a smile and turn to go. My head is spinning like a top and instead of standing here, feeling awkward, I figure I’ll just leave. But before I can take two steps, a gentle yet firm hand is on my shoulder.

Everything misfires at the connection and I physically jump. My eyes dart to his and I hope he hasn’t seen my reaction. Like the gentleman I know he probably really isn't, he pretends not to notice.

"Do you have somewhere you have to be?" The way he asks the question does to me what it does to everyone else when he talks—it compels me to answer. He speaks in a way that somehow lifts your words right out of you, even if you don't want to say them, like they know better than to deny him.

"Yes." At least my words still remember how to lie.

"I was hoping you'd be able to have lunch with me."

My body screams to stay. Hell, it wants to
be
lunch. But a part of me is yelling to run while I can because getting swirled into the orbit of Barrett Landry is probably more than I’d bargain for.

He moves effortlessly around the table, not waiting on an answer, and pulls out a chair. I sink into the soft leather, my breathing ragged, as I realize I’ve just committed to lunch with him. As a bubble of panic starts to develop, he pauses, looking at me over his shoulder. His eyes shine, a quiet grin settling over his lips. The look is intimate, his guard down, and I don’t think many people probably see it. My heart flutters.

He busies himself unpacking the containers and sits half of them in front of me, the other half in front of him. It affords me the opportunity to get ahold of myself, to calm down and realize . . . this is okay. I’m okay. It’s just a quick, impromptu meal, albeit one I’m utterly unprepared for.

Unfolding himself gracefully into the leather chair across from me, he opens his lunch. He lifts his eyes and the corner of his lips follow. "This looks great."

I smile, but don't respond. I'm still figuring out how I ended up seated at the table with him.

"Aren't you going to eat?" He nods to my still-closed container.

"I remember telling you I didn't want to have dinner." I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling and his eyes go straight to my mouth.

He grins, a mixture of a little boy getting his way and a sexy as hell man well on the way to getting his. “Good thing this isn’t dinner then. This is lunch.”

I laugh and his posture relaxes further. I find myself falling into a rhythm with him, just like I did before. “Semantics, Landry.”

“You can’t fault me for playing by the rules. You said if we were meant to see each other, it would happen. I just, you know, made it happen.”

I try to not be swayed by his cheeky grin or his hooded eyes or the way the muscles in his forearm flex beneath the watch on his wrist. Or the way I'm fairly certain he just reached discreetly beneath the table and adjusted his cock.

“That you did,” I say under my breath and pop open the container in front of me. The food looks beautiful, Opal having done a fantastic job at staging the entree, but I can’t eat. There’s no way. My appetite is for one thing and that’s sitting across from me.

"How has your day been?" he asks.

"Lunch was crazy today,” I say. “How about yours?"

"Getting better," he says vaguely and then wraps those gorgeous lips around the fork.

I die. Imagining his lips on my skin, moving across it like they’re doing to the metal tines makes me shiver. I hope he doesn't notice, but it's not like I can control it. I can feel him watching me, but I don't look up. I can't. It'll confirm that what he thinks I'm thinking is true and I'll die of embarrassment.

The silence is awkward, more awkward than a conversation in which I make a fool out of myself, so I take a gamble. "How'd the event go last night? Was it a success?"

"It was. Lots of connections were made although, between you and me, those things are usually pretty boring."

"That's good."

He rests his fork on the side of his plate and sits back, studying me. “Did you do anything after work last night?”

"I went home and slept like a log," I say, conveniently leaving out the phone call to Lola and then the date with my vibrator afterwards. "And then I got up and went to work today. Just another day in the life, you know?"

"I do. But you know what they say? All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

"Is that so?"

"That's what they say."

"So what do you like to play,
Jack?
"

When his eyes light up immediately and his lips twitch, I admonish myself for asking that question.

Why, why, why do I do this to myself?

"I play a lot of things very well," he insinuates.

"Do you?"

Shut. Up. Alison.

"Wanna play with me?"

I laugh, trying to ease the sexual chemistry that's now whirling around us like a cyclone. One little nod and I'm sure he's going to pounce, and I'm not sure I'll do anything more than fall on my back and open my legs. And while that'll be fun for however long his stamina runs—which is classified under
things I'd like to know
—after that, it'll be a disaster. This I'm sure of.

"I don’t think I’m up for that challenge," I grin.

"I'll let you win," he says, his eyes growing wider, tempting me to break.

"I'm going to call bullshit on that."

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. I can almost see a weight lift from his shoulders. He seems even more casual than last night while we walked in the dark. Watching him control a room yesterday was such a turn-on, but watching him like this, relaxed, is maybe even sexier.

An easy breeze floats through the room and my gaze is carried out the window. I can see a line of trees, pines, I think, in the back of the property. It’s so peaceful.

"Do you live here?" I ask.

"No. This is where I come to work when the office is too crazy. We call it the Farm."

"This is your getaway? Very nice,” I approve.

"This isn’t where I grew up, but I feel more at home here than anywhere in the world."