Authors: Katy Regnery
But that night, while sensible Margaret slept deeply, Meggie dreamed of a life spent in a sunny vineyard, making beautiful wines and sweet black-haired babies with grass-green eyes, with all thoughts of Shane and Story Imports left far, far behind.
Most mornings Cameron took an early morning run from Rittenhouse Square, across the Schuylkill River, through the campuses of the University of Pennsylvania and Drexel, and then back across the Schuylkill to home. At a little under four miles, it took Cameron about forty-five minutes, and meant he could avoid seeing Margaret Story’s tight ass in black spandex workout pants and a matching black T-shirt while she walked the treadmill in their building’s gym.
Sometimes, while he jogged, he fantasized about asking Margaret out and wondered if her brown eyes would soften with curiosity and surprise to find that he was actually interested in her. If she said yes, on the night of their date he’d reach for her hand and hold it as they strolled to his favorite café. She’d loosen up throughout the evening, enough so that when they returned to their building, she’d get off the elevator with him, get off on his tongue, his hand, his cock, in his bed, in his shower, on the kitchen counter . . . Christ! And that’s when he’d force himself to speed up, run faster until his muscles burned and his lungs wheezed, because he refused to give into the demons that would have him seduce Margaret when the timing made a meaningful relationship impossible.
His company was on the verge of foundering from too many deals and not enough manpower, and though he wished Christopher the very best of luck with his congressional campaign, his little brother had barely given Cameron enough notice for him to figure out what came next before he was out the door.
Did he want to try to keep C & C Winslow afloat solo? Impossible. He’d have to let some of their clients go and scale back his hours, or he’d work himself into an early grave. He could find someone suitable to take over for Chris, but how was he supposed to get him up to speed while his established accounts still demanded his time? He could sell his company to a larger financial outfit like English & Sons and move on to a new venture, but
what
new venture? Finance? Or something . . . different?
If Cameron were honest, he’d admit that he had become weary of financing business deals. He was sick of wearing suits and sitting in a stuffy office for fifteen hours a day. Lately the urge to build something of his own from the ground up had captivated his imagination. He wanted to produce something real: perfect it, produce it, market it, and sell it. He didn’t need to invent anything, but he wanted to care about what he offered the world. He wanted his work to matter. What he
really
wanted was a legacy of his own.
And until he figured out the bones and breath of that legacy, his life wasn’t ready to be shared. Not with anyone significant in any meaningful way.
You can’t invite someone along for the ride when you don’t know where you’re going
, he thought.
Besides, the only girl who stood out from the crowd already had a boyfriend, douche bag though he appeared to be.
Cameron put his hands on his hips and slowed to a walk about two blocks from the Newbury Arms to catch his breath. To be fair, he didn’t actually know Shane Olson very well. He seemed overconfident, grinning at Cameron as he kept Margaret obnoxiously anchored against his hip in the elevator, but perhaps he just sensed that every atom in Cameron’s body gravitated to Margaret, and was just defending his territory. Or maybe he somehow sensed that if he was out of the way, Cameron wouldn’t be able to stop himself, wouldn’t be able to
help
himself. He’d swoop in on Margaret like a hawk diving for a field mouse. It wouldn’t matter that his business was going to shit and needed to be dealt with—if she was available, he’d have no choice but to claim her before someone else came along. Or perhaps Olson gave Cameron that superior smirk to say,
You knew her for years and had your chance, chump. Too late now. This woman is mine.
God knows, if he were lucky enough to anchor Margaret to his hip, Cameron would do a lot more than smirk at any guys who came near her. Maybe he should give Olson a little more credit for possessing so much self-control.
So engrossed with his thoughts as he rounded the corner of his building, Cameron didn’t see the petite brunette walking toward him at full speed—her heels clacking against the cement, her nose buried in her phone—until she’d barreled into his chest.
Looping an arm around her waist as he stumbled backward, Cameron dragged the woman against his body, and was suddenly assaulted by the scent of fresh lilacs.
“Meggie,” he breathed, the sound halfway between pleasure and pain as he found himself holding the very object of his desire in his arms.
“C-Cameron.”
Her head was nestled under his chin, and her small, soft body was completely still against his larger, firmer frame, as if she was at home, as if he’d held her like this a million times. She fitted so perfectly against him, it was like she was a missing piece that would somehow make him whole.
Clenching his eyes shut as he memorized the feel of her, it took every drop of strength he could muster to drop his arms and mutter, “You should look where you’re going.”
Her neck jerked back, and her brown eyes flashed with fury as they locked on his. “This is
my
fault?”
He crossed his arms over his chest to keep from reaching for her again.
Your life is a mess. And she belongs to Olson.
“You came around the corner like a linebacker.”
She straightened her glasses and gave him a murderous glare. “A linebacker! I weigh a hundred and ten pounds!”
“Well, you’re a lot more solid than you look,” he said, desperately trying not to smile at her. She was adorable when she was angry. Always had been, always would be.
The unaware star of his filthiest naughty-librarian fantasies.
Check.
Adorable when angry.
Check.
“Solid. The compliment of every girl’s dreams.”
“Oh, were you expecting a compliment?”
“From
you
? Has hell frozen over?”
And then he did smile because she was so quick on her toes, he couldn’t help but admire her.
Her lips twitched just a touch, and she cocked her head to the side, crossing her arms under her small chest, which plumped up her breasts just enough to distract him and make him drop his eyes. April’s warmer mornings must have prompted Margaret to forgo her coat, pairing a black pencil skirt that hugged her slim hips with an icy-blue belted cashmere sweater that clung to her delectable, mesmerizing little breasts.
Cameron had always been attracted to small-busted women. He liked the feeling of a small breast against his palm, the way the nipple pebbled into stone and felt so much bigger and pointier when there was less mass behind it. Staring at her chest, it was impossible not to notice her nipples tighten suddenly, and he sucked in a sharp breath before lifting his eyes to hers.
She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t rebuke him for leering at her, or drop his eyes with embarrassment.
She lifted her chin so slightly, it was almost imperceptible, but Cameron recognized what it meant. It was a dare. It was a challenge.
Stop staring, or do something about it.
He heard the words in his head as if they’d passed through her lips. Dropping his gaze, he watched as she bit the corner of her bottom lip, holding it between her teeth for just a moment before letting it go. His eyes skated up her face again—her perfect face, framed by tidy, perfect hair—and whatever fierce connection he’d perceived between them dispersed as she straightened her glasses and cleared her throat.
What
had
just happened between them?
Had he imagined it?
Had it all been in his head?
“I’ll text you Geraldo’s information later,” she said crisply. “Perhaps we should work out a schedule.”
“A schedule?” he asked dumbly, still a little flummoxed by the unexpected heat from their unspoken exchange.
Had she noticed it, too, or was he going crazy? Aside from pink cheeks that could be explained away by her brisk pace and the embarrassment of crashing into him, she looked as tidy and composed as always.
“A schedule. So the poor man knows which apartment he’s working on when. Like, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at your place, and Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at mine.” She took a deep breath, crinkling her nose as she thought this over. “Or maybe just weekdays at your place and weekends at mine.” She paused, locking her eyes with his, somehow provocative, even though her voice was even. “I’m rarely here on the weekends anyway.”
Because you’re probably over at Olson’s
, he thought, suppressing a sneer,
with his hands all over your perfect little tits.
“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me,” he said tightly, fisting his hands, feeling his eyes narrow at the idea of Olson invading the sanctity of her space, her body, her skin.
Christ—
“Great. Then I’ll let him know.”
“Great.”
Great? What was great? What had he just agreed to? Damn it, this is why he needed to avoid Margaret Story! He couldn’t think straight around her.
She was looking down at the calendar on her phone. “Can you come to my place tomorrow at eight? I’ll have him stop by.”
Him? Oh, right. The contractor. Geraldo. To work on a bathroom that was absolutely fine the way it was.
She glanced up at him, waiting for an answer. “Cameron? Eight o’clock tomorrow?”
Eight tomorrow? Eight was early. Eight wasn’t nearly enough time to finish everything that needed to be done at his one-man office. Be at Margaret’s at eight? Not possible.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
“Fine. See you then.”
Without another word, she took a step around him and resumed the brisk pace she’d employed when they first smashed into each other, and within moments he couldn’t hear her anymore.
Stop staring, or do something about it.
Scratch that.
The only thing he couldn’t hear anymore was her feet.
***
Margaret had been a little disappointed when her text to Cameron with Geraldo’s contact information had been met with a polite, bland
Thank you.
She had expected more.
No, she hadn’t. Not really. But she had
hoped
for more.
Almost as soon as she left Cameron on the sidewalk, she’d texted Geraldo to set up the meeting at her apartment tomorrow night, and it occurred to her now to reiterate her invitation to Cameron in response to his tepid
Thank you,
but she didn’t. Women probably threw themselves at Cameron all the time, and she’d be damned if she would even walk the perimeter of that neighborhood. He’d sniff out her desire for him in a flat second, translate it into designs on him, and where would that leave her? Humiliated. When it came to Cameron, all she had to protect herself was a strong wall of decorum, and she didn’t intend to let it slip.
She’d come close enough yesterday, boldly staring into his eyes as he leered at her chest. She should have been more demure, let her cheeks flush with indignation, and dress him down with a stern look, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t because she liked it that he checked her out. And she
loved
it when his breath hitched as he stared at her breasts. It told her something that she’d been longing to know for months: Cameron Winslow may not especially
like
her, but part of him—even if it was a very small part—was
attracted
to her, and that was a very significant victory for a woman who’d been convinced for months that he disliked her.
Heady with the knowledge all day yesterday, she’d forgotten to ask Shane about dinner at her father’s house on Saturday, and received a stern reprimand from her father this morning. But even Douglas Story’s sour mood couldn’t dull her spirits. Cameron Winslow would be walking into her apartment tonight for the first time, and, with any luck, they’d have a chance to share a glass of wine before Geraldo arrived at eight-thirty.
A glass of wine alone with Cameron Winslow,
she thought with a soft sigh.
It would be one of Margaret’s favorite fantasies come true.
How many times had she imagined his lips pressed against her delicate Baccarat crystal, a dark maroon sip of velvety smooth Pinot Noir sluicing down his throat? Her heart thrummed as she took a quick inventory in her head. Ah, yes! She had a perfect 1999 Dugat-Py bottle of inky, show-stopping Burgundy that had been cellared for twelve years before she bought it two years ago. She would open it tonight, let it breathe for a while, and then—
“Margaret?”
Her head snapped up so quickly that it connected with Shane’s chin before she realized he’d been leaning over her from behind her chair.
“Uh!” he grunted, then stepped back and rubbed his chin.
“Ouch!” she cried, covering the top of her head with her palm and wincing as she turned around to face him. “Shane, I’m so sorry.”
“That’s one solid noggin,” he said, flexing his reddening jaw dramatically.
“
Solid
seems to be the consensus,” she muttered, dropping her hand to her lap.