Party of Three (Sunday Night Dinner Club #1
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Authors: Jess Dee
Sunday Night Dinner Club
Book 1
Party of Three
Jess Dee
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Party Of Three
Copyright © 2014 Jess Dee
ISBN: 978-1-31095-049-0
Edited By Heidi Moore
Cover by Valerie Tibbs
Formatted by
IRONHORSE Formatting
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For more information visit:
With thanks to:
Kitty Kelly and Fedora, because I rely on you with every book I write.
Heidi, it’s always fun working on stories with you.
Dedicated to:
Lex, RC and Sami, because you divas keep me both sane and happy, and I love you all madly.
Table of Contents
Look for these titles by Jess Dee
Spencer Allen’s body tightened as he walked into Chelsea’s, leading him to causally button up his jacket. It would not do at all for the very lovely restaurant owner to witness his reaction to her proximity.
“Spencer.” Her smile was warm and enchanting and hit him straight in the gut.
“Chelsea.” The restaurant was named for the owner, Chelsea Holden. “You’re looking lovely as usual.” Understatement of the century. She looked good enough to eat. Her long hair was pinned in an elegant knot at her neck, and she wore a fitted black cocktail dress, which ended mid-thigh and made Spencer’s mouth water.
Dinner be damned. He’d prefer to feast on the ravishing brunette any day.
Her smile broadened. “Always the chivalrous one.”
“Just being honest. How are you tonight?”
Tension fleeted across her beautiful green gaze and was gone. “I’m good. Yourself?”
Spencer raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re good?”
She flashed him a grin. “I can’t hide a thing from you, can I?”
Not with her expressive eyes, no. “So don’t try.” He opened his hand in question.
“It’s nothing, really. Well, nothing big. I was working on my taxes today…” She shrugged helplessly. “You know, Spencer, I love food, I love people and I love my restaurant. But—” she held a finger up for emphasis, “—I do not, and I never will, love taxes.”
“Few people do.” He was the notable exception to that rule. Nothing challenged him more than assessing financial records and determining if the numbers added up. Yeah, he was kind of freaky that way—as his friends, Olivia, Zoey and Ava, liked to remind him—but figures and accounts were his thing.
“It’s the scourge of the business world, I tell you. I have no idea how you deal with numbers all day long and don’t get bored to tears or confused as anything.” She reached over to grab a pile of menus. “Eight of you tonight?”
He nodded. “As always.” The Sunday Night Dinner Club, as they’d come to call themselves, met at Chelsea’s every third Sunday. The dinners were a standing date for Spencer and his seven closest friends. The meals had become a way for the tight-knit group to meet regularly, so they didn’t forget to touch base in the general chaos of everyday life. Chelsea had gotten to know them all over the last year, well enough that she served them their drinks of choice without waiting to take their orders.
“You’re the first to arrive. Come on, I’ll show you to your table.”
She led him through the restaurant, winding around the variety of round, square and rectangular wooden tables and mismatched chairs. Each one was set with funky, colored wine glasses and crockery, and candlelight filled the room with soft shadows. The eclectic place settings and upbeat background music added to the trendy and fun atmosphere of a restaurant that sold the most delicious food in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs.
“How have you been?” she asked conversationally.
“I’m good. And like you, fully focused on taxes.” Expect for right now, when he had trouble gazing anywhere but at Chelsea’s legs. God knew how she balanced in those heels, but he was eternally grateful she did. They made her legs look a mile long and her ass curvy as all hell.
Now if she could wrap those shapely thighs around Spencer’s waist, he’d be happy.
Chelsea shot him a soulful look over her shoulder. “And you truly enjoy it, don’t you?”
“Sure do.”
“Damn, I’m jealous. You understand numbers. Me? I don’t have a clue. Ask me why cinnamon and nutmeg blend so well together to enhance flavor and I can talk for hours. But balance my checkbook each month? Nah. Can’t do it.” She sighed as she pulled out a chair at a large, round table. “My bookkeeper chose a really bad time to immigrate. There is nothing I want more now than the skills of a really great accountant.”
And there was nothing this accountant wanted more than her, preferably naked and panting beneath him. He stood on the opposite side of the chair and dived straight into the opportunity she’d just provided. “Your wish is my command. I have a free hour tomorrow afternoon between four and five.”
Nope, he didn’t. At this time of year he didn’t have any openings in his schedule. But he’d make one for Chelsea.
“You know—” she smiled shyly, “—I wasn’t dropping hints there.”
“I didn’t think you were. I’d be happy to help.”
Chelsea studied his face for a few seconds. “The thought of someone else sorting through all those numbers is ridiculously appealing.”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard anyone refer to an accountant as appealing in any way.”
“Ah, don’t get me wrong. While I love the idea of someone doing the hard work for me, your personal appeal has nothing to do with being a bookkeeping genius, and everything to do with being over six feet of gorgeous male.”
“Gorgeous, huh?” His eyes narrowed in pleasure and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning toward her. “Then I should definitely drop by tomorrow at four. You’ll get the two-for-one deal. Six feet three inches of male…doing the hard work for you.” He dropped his voice to a low murmur. “And that offer includes
any
hard work you have in mind.”
Chelsea green eyes darkened in the dim light. When she answered, her voice was a sultry whisper. “Now there’s an offer I’d be a fool to reject.”
“Then don’t.”
The air around them seemed to heat and shimmer. It danced down Spencer’s spine, raising the hairs at the back of his neck. He was damn glad he’d taken the opportunity to button his jacket.
And just like that, everything changed. A world of possibilities that hadn’t existed seconds ago now dangled temptingly between them. If they’d been standing anywhere but the middle of her restaurant, Spencer would have swooped in and kissed her.
Chelsea’s pupils dilated, and for long seconds, no words were exchanged.
Then she shook her head, breaking the connection. She glanced around before letting her gaze settle back on Spencer. “Two-for-one deals aside—for now—you’d be willing to do that? Seriously? Help me with my taxes?”
“Of course.” He’d never have suggested it if he hadn’t meant it.
“Oh.” Her face dropped. “I can’t tomorrow. I have a meeting with one of my suppliers at four thirty.”
Minor obstacle. “My offer isn’t restricted to office hours.”
Chelsea lifted her chin in contemplation. “The restaurant is closed on Mondays…would you consider doing it tomorrow night?”
If it meant breaking an appointment with the queen, he’d find a way to do tomorrow night. “I could make it at seven.”
Her face lit up with relief and excitement. “Seven would be perfect. Where? Here or at my place? Or maybe it would be easier if I came to you?”
“Wherever you prefer.” As long as he got to spend time with her alone, he wasn’t fussed.
“I think here is best. I have an office in the back where I keep all my paperwork.”
“If it suits you.”
“Suits me? It’s brilliant for me.” She placed her hand on his forearm. “Thank you.”
Electricity crackled up his arm. “It’s my pleasure.”
Chelsea stared at her hand. “Did you feel that?” she whispered. “Like being hit in the heart with a shot adrenalin.”
“Discussing tax does that to me,” Spencer whispered right back. “Turns me into a live wire.”
Chelsea burst out laughing. “And here I thought there was a volt of attraction running between us.”
“There is.” He leaned in even closer, and to his utter satisfaction, she did too. She smelled like a million dollars. Was her fragrance a mixture of the cinnamon and nutmeg she’d mentioned minutes before, or her own delicious feminine scent? “If discussing taxes affects us this way, imagine what working on your books together will do.”
Chelsea swallowed. “Maybe I was wrong earlier. Maybe your appeal is all to do with being a bookkeeping genius after all.”
“If that’s the case you should know I’m
really
good at debits and credits.”
She laughed again. “Are you trying to seduce me with numbers?”
“Is it working?”
She tilted her head to the side and closed her eyes contemplatively. “It is.”
His body tightened painfully. “Then I’m definitely seducing you with numbers.”
“Know what?” She opened her eyes again, and with her darkened gaze and flushed cheeks, Spencer knew their joking had the same effect on her as it did on him. “I’ve never looked forward to opening my ledgers so much in my life.”
“Wait for tomorrow night, Chelsea. I’ll make you see bookkeeping in a whole new light.”
She cleared her throat and straightened. “I’m going to walk away now, Spencer. It’ll do me no good whatsoever to start learning new…accounting skills in the middle of my very busy restaurant.”
“Ah, but what if I promised to make the learning really good for you?”
Chelsea shook her head in amusement. “All this time, and I had no idea.”
“About what?”
“That you’re a shameless flirt.”
He gave her a slow once over. “Not a flirt. Just very good with…figures.” Hers especially.
“Okay, here’s the deal. If you’re going to show off your extraordinary skills tomorrow night, it’s only fair I show off mine.”
“You’re going to teach me how to make a soufflé?”
“No. I’m going to cook for you.”
Well, if she insisted. “You know what they say…the way to a man’s heart and all.”
Her expression was pure feminine guile. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
Spencer’s response was cut off as four people walked into the restaurant laughing.
“Hold that thought, accountant man. Looks like your party’s arriving.” She squeezed his arm again, sending another current of lust sizzling through him. As she walked past him, she added. “Come hungry tomorrow.” And with that, she left to greet his mates, leaving Spencer horny as a hound dog and sniffing the air appreciatively. The delicious aromas permeating the restaurant had nothing on the spicy, exotic scent of Chelsea.
Satisfaction curled through his stomach. For the first time, Spencer would spend an evening with Chelsea—without seven of his closest friends sitting beside him.
He watched his mates noisily cross the room, headed toward the table. Spencer kissed the two women, Ava and Olivia, shook hands with Greg and clapped James on the shoulder. Theo and Zoey—the only married couple among them—arrived next, followed shortly thereafter by Spencer’s oldest and closest friend, Levi Barrett.
“You’ll be proud of me, Spence,” Levi told him, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement. “I finished the first three chapters last night.”
Spencer gaped at him. “You did?”
Levi had been working on his latest novel for the last two months and complained almost daily about how unproductive he was. Last time they’d chatted, on Friday, Levi was halfway through the first chapter and hating every second.
“Go figure. I had a spurt of creativity and went with it. Haven’t slept in days, but I got down some great words.”
That typified Levi’s method of writing. He stared at a blank screen for weeks and then, in a fit of productiveness, wrote pages and pages.
If Spencer was ever forced to work to Levi’s unpredictable schedule, he’d lose his mind. He needed the consistency of an eight-hour work day, each hour constructed with specific goals and targets.