Bachelor (Rixton Falls #2) (21 page)

X
AVIER
FOX

H
ot
.

Damn.

“Magnolia, you didn’t have to change for me.”

I stand up as she struts down the open staircase in a string bikini the color of pale salt-water taffy, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders and back in untamed waves. A pair of black sunglasses rests atop her head, highlighting her delicate-featured face, and her lips are slicked in a sinful shade of red.

My cock twitches. She still does it for me.

Then again, she never really
stopped
doing it for me.

Magnolia Grantham was the only thing I ever wanted, and now she’s the one thing I can’t have.

It fucking kills me, but I’ll never cop to it. Not to her. If she won’t give me the time of day, I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

“Kindly stop staring.” A hint of her southern drawl is injected into her command. God, how I’ve missed it. Her hand brushes against the wooden railing as she hops down from the final step, adjusting her beach bag over her left shoulder. Her long legs stride toward the back door, her hips swaying in tandem. I concentrate on the two little indentations above her perfect, peach-shaped ass, imagining how they might feel under the pad of my thumbs if I were to grip her hips from behind.

“Going to the beach?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Don’t forget sunblock,” I call out, if only to antagonize her a little more.

She heads for the steps that lead to the grassy path, reaching in her bag and pulling out a brown bottle of Coppertone and holding it above her head.

At least she’s not completely ignoring me.

I catch a nap on an overstuffed sofa next to floor to ceiling windows, stuffing a pillow under my neck and letting the penetrating sun act as a blanket.

It’s peaceful here.

A guy could get used to this.

I figure a few more years of being in the top 1% of Manhattan brokers, and I’ll be able to nab a place of my own out here.

* * *

I
wake cold
. The sky is dark and music floats down the stairs. My phone tells me I was out cold for the last three hours.

The echo of clicking heels readies me for my archrival once more. I sit up, stretching my arms across my chest and then behind my head. The house is dark, but the faint glow from the foyer light illuminates the stairs just enough that I make out Magnolia’s slinky form.

She’s in some kind of preppy, high-waisted shorts get-up that shows off her long legs and hides the rest of her. Tonight she’s all legs. I know what that means.

“You staying in tonight?” Her question ends with a sarcastic lilt and a mocking smile.

“Yep. I’m staying in on a Friday night.”

Her eyes roll as she checks the interior of her clutch. “Do you know where the key safe is for the cars? Addison said it’s behind some seashell picture, but there are about fifty of those here, so—”

“Ah, she’s only nice when she needs something.” I rise, heading toward a grayscale portrait of a conch shell and pulling it from the wall to reveal a built-in safe. I punch in the code. “Take the Volvo.”

She squints. “Why do I get the Volvo?”

“Because I’m taking the Corvette.”

And the Volvo is safer.

Magnolia swipes the keys from my hand.

“Where are you going tonight?” I ask.

“Meeting a friend for drinks.” There’s no pause in her response, and it’s almost as if she were waiting for me to ask just so she could throw it in my face. I refuse to stoop to her level. I have a whole bevvy of women on speed dial in the Hamptons.

Beautiful women.

Connected, blue-blooded, well-bred women with pedigrees, because people in New England with old money breed their families like prized poodles.

None of them compare to her.

Magnolia Grantham is a bona fide Southern Belle with Louisiana manners and big city boldness, and I’ve yet to find another woman like her.

And fuck, I’ve looked. I spent an entire summer fucking any woman I could find with the winning combination of long legs, chestnut hair and a southern accent.

“Be safe, Mags.”

“Stop calling me
Mags
. Please.”

“Couldn’t if I tried.” I step into her space, brushing her hair away from her shimmering chocolate eyes. “You’ll always be Mags to me.”

We stand frozen for a moment, neither of us inhaling until she steps away and lunges for the door.

I wonder if she knows how hard it is to stand right fucking next to her and not lose my fingers in her hair, press her up against the wall, and smash her lips with mine.

One night.

For one whole night, Magnolia Grantham was mine. The next morning, after breakfast, she inexplicably wouldn’t speak two words to me. And when we got back to New York, she turned in her notice and joined the Van Cleef Agency.

All those years we’d worked together, I thought Magnolia was playing hard to get.

It turned out she
was
hard to get.

Correction—is
still
hard to get.

One of two things needs to happen this weekend: I need to fuck Magnolia Grantham one last time, or I need to fucking get her out of my system once and for all.

At the very least, I’m going to gift her with a punishing kiss, one to make her weak in the knees and filled with repentance. A man doesn’t pour his heart out to his best friend, declare his love for her, then watch her walk out of his life the next day without so much as an explanation.

She owes me. I’m going to make her sorry she was never mine.

P
REVIEW of FILTHY (Rixton Falls
#3) – Coming Summer 2016!

D
elilah

I
’ve never been
great at first impressions. And in the seconds before the front door opens, I’m well aware this isn’t going to go well for either of us.

But here I am anyway.

Standing at the door of my great aunt’s next door neighbor, dressed in lime green satin pajamas, arms folded, lips ready to berate the asshole throwing a party at two in the morning on a Wednesday, I’m ready to do this.

My fist stings as I pound on the heavy wooden door. The Florida humidity is doing a number on the mess of dark hair sticking to my shoulders, and for all I know, remnants of yesterday’s mascara residing beneath my lower lashes, but glancing in the mirror on the way over here wasn’t exactly a priority.

All I wanted was some damn sleep.

The door swings open, and a man the size of a linebacker wearing a neon green button down drinks me in with an unfocused stare.

“Here for the party?” he asks, expression fading when he realizes I’m standing here looking like a crazy person.

“Are you Zane?” My arms tuck tightly under my chest.

“No,” he says. “Zane’s inside.”

He motions for me to come in, and I hesitate before going for it. I didn’t climb out of bed at two in the morning to go home never having delivered my message.

The guy pauses as we stand across from one another beneath a chandelier in a grand, two-story foyer. He hooks his hands on his hips and drags in a long breath.

“You
sure
you’re not here for the party?” His gaze narrows.

I point to my pajamas. “Do I look like I’m here for the party?”

I mean, honestly.

He smooths a hand down his smooth chest before lifting it in protest, and then he smirks. “All right. If you say so.”

Another guy walks past, his polo a shade of evergreen, contrasting against crisp, white shorts.

“What’s with all the green?” I wrinkle my nose. Great Aunt Rue has mentioned many times before that her next door neighbor played pro football. “Is this a team color or something?”

The guy covers his mouth, stifling a chuckle. “Wait here. I’ll find Zane.”

About damn time.

A woman wearing a skin-tight bandage dress the color of Santa Claus’ suit saunters past, giving me side eye before lifting her nose and linking onto the arm of a man with huge arms and a matching red button down.

Red and green? In May?

“Hi.” A man’s voice vibrates against my ear from behind, and I turn to find a devilishly handsome man reeking of beer and wearing a smile a mile wide.

I move back, until I run into the wall behind me, but he follows. Placing his hand on the wall over my shoulder, he lifts a brown bottle to his lips and takes a drink, his eyes trained on me.

“Haven’t seen you before. You jut get here?” he asks.

“Are you Zane?”

“No.” He shakes his head, his tongue grazing his lower lip as if he fully believes he’s seconds from feasting on me. “I’m Kai Santana.”

He says his full name like it should mean something to me. I’m guessing by his build and the size of his biceps, he plays football with Zane.

Maybe in certain circles, his name opens doors. And drops panties. But right now, he’s just another drunk asshole thinking he’s smooth enough to rival Casanova.

“What’s
your
name?” He leans in closer, his aftershave burning my lungs.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant right now.”

Kai laughs. “You really came to a party like
this
, dressed like
that
, and you’re going to play hard to get? Un-fucking-believable.”

“I need to speak to Zane.”

Kai’s expression fades, and he glances over my shoulder, scanning the room of beautiful blondes, exotic brunettes, and fiery redheads. I follow his glance, and see nothing but a see of mostly green, a little bit of red, and a handful of yellow.

Oh, god.

I’m at a stoplight party.

And I’m dressed in head-to-toe green.

“You don’t want Zane.” Kai turns back to me, moving his hand to the side of my face. His fingertips trace my jaw, and my entire body freezes. He’s completely invading my personal space, acting like he owns it, and my therapist-in-training monkey brain can’t conjure up the appropriate response to save my life. “Anything Zane can do, I can do better, angel face. Know that.”

My lips purse, rubbing together as I stare into Kai’s obnoxiously beautiful seafoam green gaze. I didn’t even know eyes could be a color like that. Removing my stare from his, my eyes trace the length of his muscled arm until it reaches his twitching fingers and a loop plays in my mind of all the naughty things he could do with them.

But Kai Santana is the epitome of every man I’ve ever tried to avoid, and his come-on-strong shtick isn’t going to work with me.

I step out of his space, and judging by the frown that replaces his smug little smile, he takes the hint.

A clock on the other side of the foyer reads two fifteen. I know this house is large, but it shouldn’t take this long for Ash to locate Zane. I’d be better off looking for him myself at this point . . . if only I knew what he looked like.

“Can you find Zane for me, please?” I zip my spine and force a positive tone into my voice.

Kai’s face darkens. He’s annoyed. His barreled chest rises and falls as he stares at me, taking another swig of beer.

“Fucking Zane.” He shakes his head. “Find him your own damn self. I’m not his little bitch.”

I sense some contention there that I’m not in the mood to explore, so I let him walk away toward a throng of beautiful women dressed all in green.

“Excuse me.” A blond Hercules dressed in yellow taps me on the shoulder.

Thank God. I’ve never been so happy to see someone in yellow in all my life.

“Hi.” A breathy sigh of relief passes through my lips. “Are you Zane?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I just heard you were looking for him. I saw him in the kitchen a minute ago.”

Hercules has kind eyes, and he keeps a safe distance from me. I feel safe in his presense already.

Glancing around, I return my stare to his. “I’ve never been here before. Can you point me toward the kitchen?”

He nods, and motions for me to follow him. As soon as we approach a packed crowd blocking the doorway to the backside of the house, he reaches for my hand and pulls me against him.

We make it through to the other side, and step into a crowded kitchen. Beneath crumpled bags of chips and half-empty wine bottles, I see a hint of marble counters.

“He was here just a second ago.” Hercules drags a meaty hand through his sandy blond waves and exhales. “I’ll be back in a second. I’ll see if I can track him down for you.”

The kitchen is surprisingly vacant, though the sound of pumping music rattles against the windows in the breakfast nook. A string of party lights outside illuminates an expansive covered patio and in the distance, girls in green bikinis are lounging in pool floaties as a guy in yellow board shorts does a cannon ball.

I rise to my toes, attempting to see over the crowd of people blocking the doorway. Knowing my luck, Ash found Zane and led him to the foyer, but I can’t see that far anyway. I decide to stay put. Hercules seems a little more even-keeled than the other two anyway. I trust he’s going to do what he says.

An emerald-clad man and woman stumble into the kitchen, their hands gliding into dangerous territory and their lips fused together.

It’s just the three of us, and it’s awkward as hell, but I can’t leave in case Zane comes.

“Oh, my God, that feels amaaaaazing,” the girl pants, completely oblivious to my presence. “Oh . . . oh, yes . . .”

From the corner of my eye, I see his hand making quick movements between her thighs, and her fingers are wrapped loosely around a red Solo cup.

“Shit, you’re tight,” the guy breathes.

My cheeks warm, my legs threatening to run me right out of here if this goes any further. It feels wrong to be an accidental voyeur.

Without any warning, the guy sweeps his arm across the counter, sending half-filled cups and cans of beer flying, half of which spill down my top.

I pull in a sharp inhale, cold beer soaking through my pajama top, and stand paralyzed.

Hercules returns, just in time to see the aftermath as the guy lifts his moaning girl toy up on the newly cleared counter.

“Hey, hey, hey.” My new friend storms to the couple. “Not in here. Take it somewhere else.” He returns to me, grabbing a rag from a nearby drawer and dabs at my shirt. “Are you okay?”

“It’s okay.” I take it from him, opting to handle the clean up myself. “They were, um, really into what they were doing. I don’t even think they saw me.”

“Assholes. They’re not even associated with the team. Not sure how they got the invite.” He rolls his eyes, blowing a puff of air through tight lips. “How’d you get invited? Or are you here with someone?”

“I’m not here for the party.” I’m beginning to sound like a broken record. “I’m staying next door for the summer with my great aunt. I just came by to ask Zane if he could keep the noise down.”

God, I sound lame. Words like that should never leave the lips of a twenty-four year old.

But someone needed to come over here and it was either Rue or me, and a little old lady has no business wandering into a party like this at two in the morning.

Hercules bites his bottom lip and winces. “Oh.”

“I flew in a few hours ago,” I say. “I’ve been traveling all day. My head is pounding. I’m sleeping on a ridiculously hard mattress with really flat pillows that overwhelmingly smell like Aunt Rue’s lilac perfume, and all I want is a little bit of sleep, but all I hear are drunk people screaming and music pulsing.”

He laughs, studying me.

I tug on the hem of my pajama top. “The green is just a coincidence.”

“So you’re not open to hook up, then?” He tilts his head, but his smiling eyes tell me he’s teasing.

“Not. At. All.” I hand him the beer-soaked rag, and he blindly tosses it in the sink behind him with stunning accuracy. “I haven’t seen a lot of people in yellow tonight. What’s your story?”

He shrugs. “Just coming out of a long-term relationship. Wasn’t sure if there’s be anyone here tonight worth wearing green for.”

“Cautious. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Something like that.” Hercules lets his gaze fix in mine a little longer before exhaling and gently hitting his hand against the counter beside me. He offers a bittersweet smile and steps back. “All right, well, Zane will be here in a sec.”

With that, Hercules is gone, and I feel bad never having asked his name. He was the least asshole-ish man here tonight, and I wish I could’ve thanked him for not treating me like a piece of meat.

Once again, I’m alone in the kitchen, and I’m half tempted to start cleaning up because standing here twiddling my thumbs is only making getting me more riled up with each passing minute.

I haven’t even met Zane de la Cruz, and already I’m convinced he’s a giant asshole for throwing a ridiculously obnoxious party on a weeknight, no less, and for keeping me waiting, which I’m positive he’s doing on purpose.

And the stories.

Oh, lord, the stories.

Aunt Rue says he’s been nothing but trouble since he moved into the community, and as the HOA president, she gets the pleasure of dealing with him every time he refuses to trim his hedges to the covenant-required height or the time he painted his front door in team colors or the time he answered the door with nothing but a sock on his privates and a smirk on his face when Aunt Rue interrupted his three o’clock three-way.

No wonder she can’t stand him.

She says he won’t play by anyone’s rules but his own, and it’s a miracle the Gainesville Cougars haven’t kicked him to the curb already.

I blow a strand of hair from my eyes and unhook my arms. Stacking red Solo cups into other red Solo cups, I dump them into an overflowing trash can at the end of the island. Next, I move to the chips, crumpling up the empty bags and tossing them as well.

Some miscellaneous plates and silverware fill the rest of the island. I stack them neatly and place them in the left side of the kitchen sink before searching the cabinets for a bottle of cleaner for the spills on the counter.

Lastly, I stoop down to the mess on the floor, a clean rag in hand, and sop up the spilled beer and wine covering the dark wood floor courtesy of the crazy exhibitionists.

A man clears his throat. “I was told the maid wasn’t coming until noon.”

I look up, my gaze landing on a bulge the size of Texas hiding behind clinging, sun-faded olive-green chinos.

A tan hand reaches down, palms open wide.

Swallowing, I place my hand in his and allow him to pull me into a standing position. My lungs grasp for air as I attempt to find my balance as a delicious, woodsy scent invades the space around me.

My stare lands on a crisp white-shirt that clings enough to show off washboard abs, and then I lift my gaze to the bare flesh of his sun-kissed chest, accentuated by a v-neck only someone looking like this could pull off outside of a fraternity setting.

Clearing my throat, I pull my shoulders back and rest my hands on my hips, prepping myself for war and girding my loins at the same time.

“I’m Zane,” he says, with a curious smirk that showcases a single, deep dimple in his right cheek. “You wanted me?”

My mind is hurried with thoughts that never find my lips, and I struggle to form a legible sentence in the company of a man who looks like . . .
this
.

His jaw goes for days, intersecting at the cleft in his chin, and his full lips are pulled up at the corners as his maple-honey eyes are locked in mine. Zane hooks a hand on his hip and rests the other casually on the edge of the kitchen island, his brows lifting as he waits for me to speak.

Forcing my own composure, I take a moment, inhale, and remind myself that sugar goes a hell of a lot further than vinegar.

“You normally stop by other people’s private parties and start cleaning up their kitchen?” He masks a laugh. “Or did you escape from somewhere. Should I be calling the authorities? Is anyone looking for you?”