Tempt (Cloverleigh Farms Next Generation Book 4)

SEPTEMBER

“It’s official,” I said to my sister over the phone. “I’m cursed.”

Winnie laughed. “You’re not cursed.”

“Oh no?” I walked over to my hotel room window and peeked out at the city lights, blurred by sheets of rain. Manhattan was under siege. “Let’s add things up. A hurricane pummels the East Coast the day I’m supposed to fly home, and my flight is canceled.”

“Lots of flights were canceled, not just yours.”

“I had to spend a lot of money to stay one more night in this expensive hotel.”

“One more night at a four-star hotel is not a curse, it’s an unexpected gift. And you can write it off—you’re in New York on business. I want to hear how it went today, by the way.”

“It was fine,” I said grudgingly. “The usual wedding planner expo—noise and chaos. But I did get a few new ideas. Cottagecore weddings are supposedly going to be the trend for a while, and that’s a vibe that suits Cloverleigh Farms.” I frowned. “But the fashion show bothered me, it was not size-inclusive at all.”

“Seriously?”

“Same old, same old. The models were beautiful, but they didn’t look like any of the real brides I’ve ever worked with. Why can’t there be some curvy girls in these shows, or short girls, or top-heavy girls, or brides with bigger butts?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. Because archaic beauty standards still abound in fashion, and the wedding industry is no exception.”

“So do something about it.”

“I would, but I’m very busy explaining to you why I’m cursed.”

My sister sighed loudly.

“My ex-boyfriend is getting married next month, and I had to plan the wedding.”

“You introduced them!”

“I know, but it’s still sort of humiliating.”

“Think of it as a compliment, Mills.” Winnie could always find a bright side when I saw doom and gloom. “Even though they knew it might be slightly awkward, they still chose you.”

“They chose Cloverleigh Farms because the bride works at the winery and got a discount,” I corrected. “I just happened to be the event planner there. They couldn’t have one without the other.”

“Still, discount or not, a lot of brides would have gone with another venue altogether rather than let her fiancé’s ex-girlfriend handle the most important day of her life. I think the trust she placed in you is a testament to your professional reputation.”

“I guess.” I turned away from the window and sprawled across the bed on my belly. “But this is the third ex of mine who’s gone on to propose to the very next girl he dated after me. The third, Winnie.”

“So you’re a good luck charm, not a curse!”

“A good luck charm for them. What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing! Be honest, Millie. Did you really want to be Mrs. Mason Holt?”

“No,” I admitted. “He’s cute, but he was too young for me. I didn’t think the four-year age gap would matter that much, but after a few weeks, I knew it was never going to work.”

“You knew after a few weeks? You dated Mason for months!”

“I know, but the spark wore off fast. Our relationship was strictly platonic by the end.”

“Why didn’t you break it off sooner?”

“Because I felt sorry for him. His mom had recently died, his stepdad was out of the picture, he never knew his real father . . . He seemed so vulnerable.”

Winnie laughed. “This is your problem. You date lost puppies.”

“I can’t help it. Lost puppies are so cute. So loving and needy.”

“Too needy.”

“I like being needed. It makes me feel good.” Rolling onto my back, I sighed. “It’s just really frustrating that I’m thirty-two and still haven’t found the one yet. Honestly, I thought I’d have like three kids by now.”

“You don’t need a man to have a kid, Mills. You just need some genetic material, and I think there’s an app for that.” She giggled.

“Be serious,” I told her, although I’d secretly googled sperm banks near me like ten times in the last few months and then immediately deleted my search history.

“I am being serious. You’d be an amazing mom, and if that’s what you want, you should go for it.”

“I want a family,” I clarified. “I want a dad for my kids, not just someone’s genetic material. And I’d like to grow old with someone. You and Felicity managed to find the one. Why can’t I?”

“Finding the one isn’t something you manage, like a project or an event. It takes time. I might be younger than you, but I kissed a lot of frogs before I met Dex. And even he sort of seemed like a frog at first—twelve years older than me, divorced with two young daughters, grumpy as hell and positive he’d never want to be in a relationship.”

I snorted. “That didn’t last long.”

“No, but it wasn’t easy. And look at Felicity.”

Our middle sister had recently spoken her vows in the orchard at Cloverleigh Farms, after a whirlwind courtship that had involved a fake engagement to her best friend from high school—the one who’d loved her all along. “That should have been easy, but they made it complicated.”

“So complicated,” Winnie agreed with a laugh. “But my point is, there are some things you just have to leave up to fate. You can’t rush them. And you can’t plan them.”

“So that’s it?” Cranky, I got off the bed and headed for the minibar. “I just while away my days waiting for lightning to strike? That’s not me, Winnie. I’m a doer, not a waiter.”

“But you keep doing the wrong thing. You just have a pattern—you choose guys that need fixing, you solve their problems, part ways with them, and then they go on to meet the love of their lives because you helped them get over their baggage. You need to get out of that rut.”

“You’re not helping,” I told her, perusing the tiny bottles of booze and overpriced snacks in the fridge.

“Want my advice?”

“Maybe,” I said, wondering if I had to feel bad that the little sister was the one handing out wisdom to the big sister. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Seemed like yesterday she was wearing footie pajamas and had syrup in her hair. It actually made me smile, thinking about those frantic school mornings where our dad, who’d raised the three of us on his own after our mother left, would scramble to get out the door on time.

We’d lived that way for a few years before he married Frannie, our amazing stepmom, who’d been more of a mother to me in every way than my biological mom. It was from watching my dad and Frannie that I’d learned to believe in real love, the kind that lasts.

I just didn’t know where to find it.

“My advice,” Winnie went on, “is to change your luck. Get off the hamster wheel.”

I shut the minibar door. “How do I do that?”

She thought for a moment. “Do something you wouldn’t normally do. I say you put on something cute, go down to the hotel bar, and flirt with a handsome, mysterious stranger.”

I laughed. “Are you nuts? It’s after nine. That’s my bedtime.”

“You need to get out of your routine, that’s the point! Listen, there must be other people stranded by the storm tonight, and odds are at least one of them is hot, single, and looking for a one-night stand with a bombshell blonde.”

“I’m already in my pajamas.” But I wandered over to my suitcase and opened it up, rifling through it for something cute. Maybe getting out of my room would help my mood.

“So change out of them! What if downstairs right now is the man of your dreams? One with piercing dark eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a magic dick?”

I laughed as I pulled out a black dress I hadn’t worn while I was here. “How am I supposed to spot a magic dick across the room?”

“You won’t actually be able to spot it, but judging by the rest of him, it will be strongly implied.”

Laughing, I held the dress against my body and looked in the mirror. “I guess I could go down and get a drink. But no promises about a one-night stand.”

“I’m not asking for a promise. I’m just asking that you try being a little less predictable, and a little more adventurous. Plot twists are fun.”

I felt myself caving. Maybe Winnie was right. “Okay, I’ll go down to the bar and see if a plot twist catches my eye.”

“Good. But no puppies!”

Half an hour later, I walked into the dimly lit bar off the lobby of the small, upscale hotel where I was staying. I’d chosen not to stay at the huge hotel where the expo was being held because by the end of the day, I was done with people and really craved peace, quiet, and a paperback. I also liked to check out more intimate, boutique hotels whenever I traveled, since Cloverleigh Farms was also a small inn and I loved seeing what other places were doing.

I particularly liked the cozy, elegant bar here—its low lighting from vintage brass wall sconces and fringed table lamps, its fern-colored walls and ceiling, the emerald-green leather and brass barstools, the moss-green velvet banquettes along the wall. The vibe was sort of Emerald City meets Restoration Hardware, and I was a sucker for anything with a whiff of a 1920s speakeasy, especially with Amy Winehouse on the speakers.

The place was busy—was I the only person under eighty that went to bed before ten on a Thursday night?—but I spotted one empty barstool and made my way toward it, conscious of eyes that followed me. I wasn’t mad about it. I’d curled my long blond hair and given myself a smoky eye. My black dress clung to my plentiful curves, and while it wasn’t short or low-cut, it was one-shouldered with a slit on one side that showed some leg. And I was wearing a shade of lipstick called Red Carpet, which you shouldn’t really wear if you just want to blend into the wallpaper.

Most days, I was confident in my plus-sized body, although it had taken me a while to embrace it. But once I stopped trying to please other people and learned to love the body I was born into, I’d felt so much relief, and much more at ease in my skin.

Did I always love my thick thighs and rounded belly? No. Did I sometimes get annoyed that shopping was so much easier for my smaller-sized sisters and friends? Yep. Did I secretly feel sort of glad that even Winnie had cellulite that showed when she wore a bathing suit? Maybe.

Okay, yes.

But I admitted it to her, and we both laughed about it.

I certainly remained aware that there would always be people who thought I needed to lose weight to be healthy (not true), who assumed I thought pizza was a vegetable (I have a much better relationship with food now than I ever did starving myself to be a ballerina), and never exercised (I work out regularly and enjoy it). But mostly, I just think there are some people who envy the fact that I can cross the room in a badass tight black dress and feel good about myself, even if I don’t meet their narrow beauty ideals.

Fuck those people. That’s their insecurity talking, not mine.

I reached the empty barstool and slid onto it, setting my clutch on the smooth, mahogany bar. The bartender, a twenty-something with a handlebar mustache, approached me with a smile. “What can I get for you?”

“I’d like a vodka martini, please. Grey Goose, with a twist.”

He nodded and set a cocktail napkin in front of me. “Lemon or tangerine?”

Lemon was on the tip of my tongue—my usual choice—but I answered differently. Lemon was the hamster wheel. Tangerine was a plot twist. “Tangerine,” I said with a smile.

“You got it.”

Although I was tempted to take out my phone, I didn’t. It’s what I normally would have done, and I wanted to invite a different kind of energy tonight. Maybe by changing a couple small things, I could change my luck.

I watched the bartender shake my drink, pour it into a glass, add the twist. Then I gave him a smile when he placed it in front of me. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Enjoy.”

I was just lifting the glass to my lips when I noticed someone sitting around the curve of the bar to the left. He was broad through the chest and shoulders, wore a black dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and sat alone. His hair and beard were short and dark. Our eyes met and my body grew warm. His bone structure was beautiful—his face looked like it was chiseled from granite. He held my gaze for a moment then looked away, and I did as well, focusing on the first cold sips of my martini.

But in seconds, my eyes were drawn to him again, and I noticed the hand holding his glass—wide palm, long, solid fingers, thick wrist. I indulged in a brief and magnificent fantasy that involved those hands in my hair, his beard against my cheek, that brawny chest bare and warm above me. Was it hairy? I’d bet yes. He looked like a man’s man. My nipples tingled inside the bustier I wore beneath my dress.

Once more he caught me staring, and I realized too late that I was actually biting my lip.

Gawd.

I looked down at the bar, glad it was dark in there—my cheeks had to be flushed pink. Telling myself to be cool, I sipped my drink and concentrated on minding my own business. But I got antsy and self-conscious, and after a couple minutes of listening to other people’s conversations—which mostly involved a lot of swearing about the weather and canceled flights—I pulled my phone from my clutch. I had a couple texts from my sister.

So how’s it going?

Any plot twists on the horizon?

Maybe one…

Chiseled jaw?

Check.

Dark eyes?

Check.

Magic dick strongly implied?

CHECK.

Go talk to him. See if you can get under its spell.

ITS THICK, THROBBING SPELL.

I chuckled and took another sip of my martini.

“What’s the joke?” asked the guy sitting to my right.

I flipped my phone screen-down on the bar and looked at him. “I’m sorry?”

“You were laughing. What’s the joke?” He looked about my age, wearing a white shirt, blue blazer, and cocky grin. His hair was dark blond, and he was incredibly tan, like he’d just gotten off a cruise ship.

“Oh, there’s no joke.” Nervous, I stuck my cell back into my purse. “I was just texting my sister.”

“Your sister, huh?” Then he whistled loudly and yelled at the bartender, “Hey! Can I get another round down here?”

The bartender, who was busy making other drinks, didn’t even look over. I didn’t blame him.

“The service is so shitty in this place,” the guy next to me said. “You need a pair of tits to get any attention.” He glanced at my chest. “Yours are fantastic, by the way.”

Horrified, I picked up my glass and finished my drink in a couple swallows. I should have thrown it in his face, but it would have been a waste of a good martini. Setting the empty glass down, I reached into my bag for my credit card.

“Hey, don’t rush off.” The asshole leaned closer. He reeked of cologne. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

“Not interested,” I said, trying to catch the bartender’s eye so I could get my check and leave.

“Why not? I’m alone, you’re alone.” He covered my hand with his. That’s when I noticed he wore a wedding band.

I snatched my hand away and slid off my stool, putting it between us. “I’m not alone.”

“Oh no?” He laughed and glanced around. “Looks like it to me.”

I finally caught the bartender’s eye, and he came right over. “Can I get you something?”

“I’ll cash out,” I said quickly.

The bartender glanced at the asshole. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, I was just waiting for someone, but he couldn’t make it, so I—”

“Sorry I’m late.” A hand circled my wrist.

Startled, I spun around and saw a black shirt. Wide shoulders. Dark eyes.

The hot stranger and I exchanged a look of understanding before he leaned in and kissed my cheek. His beard was softer than I’d imagined.

“Forgive me?” His voice, by contrast, was deep and gravelly.

“Of—of course,” I stammered, my heart pounding. I couldn’t stop staring—the guy was gorgeous. A little older than I’d thought—there was silver in his hair and beard—but those dark eyes, that deep voice, and the possessive grip on my wrist? The whole package made my knees go weak.

He looked over my head at the bartender. “She’s with me.”

“Dude, she’s not with you,” argued the jerk in the blazer. “You were over there by yourself a minute ago. I saw you.”

Dropping my wrist, the stranger turned to him and growled, “You should go.”

The jerk slid off his barstool and put one palm up. “Listen, I don’t want any trouble. I just thought—”

“It’s fuckin’ obvious what you thought.” The stranger’s words were laced with fury, but he kept his volume low. Somehow it was even scarier than if he’d yelled. “Now get the fuck out of here, and don’t even look in her direction as you walk out, or you’ll be trying to do it with two broken legs.”

The jerk stood up taller, like he might be thinking of protesting, but he looked like a gerbil facing off against a Doberman. He looked over at the bartender. “Did you hear him threaten me?”

“Yep,” said the bartender with a quick nod.

“Aren’t you going to do something about it?”

“Nope.” The bartender folded his arms over his chest.

Scowling, the jerk adjusted his lapels and moved toward the exit without even glancing my way.

The stranger watched him go with hooded, hawklike eyes before looking down at me again. “You okay?”

“Yes.” I was struggling to catch my breath, but it wasn’t because of the jerk.

“Can I bring you two another round?” the bartender asked.

The stranger looked at me. “Would you like another drink?”

I took a breath, willing myself to be brave. “Only if you’ll stay and have one with me.”

He hesitated, rubbing one hand along his jaw. “Okay. Sure.”

“Another martini for the lady and a Glenlivet on the rocks, coming right up,” said the bartender.

I perched on my barstool again, crossing my legs. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

“You’re welcome.” He sat down next to me. “I hope I didn’t insult you.”

“Insult me?”

“I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t handle that jackass on your own.”

“Oh! Well, maybe I could have.” I laughed a little. “But I liked your way better.”

One side of his mouth twitched, setting off a thousand butterflies in my stomach.

“This round is on me,” I said as our drinks appeared.

He shook his head. “Not a chance.”

I put my Red Carpet lips in a playful pout. “But I’d like to repay you for standing up for me.”

“No payment necessary. Any gentleman would have done it.”

“Gentleman, huh?” I tilted my head and gave him a playful smile. I was a pretty good flirt when I wanted to be. “So you’re saying I’m safe with you?”

He didn’t answer right away, and I sat up a little taller in my seat. Slightly arched my back. But his eyes stayed put on mine. “You’re safe with me.”

Well, damn.

What on earth was I going to do about that?