Breaking Stone: Bad Boy Romance Novel (2 page)

A
t least that
’s what I thought he said. I leaned on the bar, told him I didn’t do drugs, and ordered a whiskey.

He frowned for a moment. “Yeah, it’s you. Stone Logan, the writer. I know your face better than my own. It stares back at me from the back of the books on my girlfriend’s bedside table every night. She’s got a stack this high.” He widened his hands, indicating size like he was telling a story about a fish he’d caught.

Women are right, men are full of shit. There was no way I’d written enough books to make a stack the height he was indicating.

“Here, do me a favor.” He pushed a napkin and pen towards me. “Sign that for her while I get your drink. The name’s Juliet.”

I had a choice. I could be charming, or be a dick. I had a reputation for both, and I was feeling like an asshole. Writing Juliet a note to say her boyfriend should respect a person’s right to have a quiet drink without bugging them for an autograph was tempting, but my mood after that meeting with my agent meant I’d probably go too far.

I gritted my teeth. Signed the napkin and exchanged it for my drink. This was, after all, what I’d bought into by building a brand the way I had. You couldn’t just switch it off on the day you wanted some privacy.

The bartender read the napkin and looked at me, waggling his eyebrows like I’d just shared a dirty picture with him. “Thanks, dude, this will get me laid.”

“My pen is mightier than your sword.”

I left him frowning, and headed for a table by the window.

Fuck me, I was turning into a running gag.

This was a day I wanted to forget. For the first time, I hadn’t been able to charm my way through a crisis meeting with Sarah Duncan, and God knows, over the years there had been a few.

My life was chaotic, but at least I didn’t have to think about tidying it up until Monday. Until my new demure assistant joined me.

What the fuck was Sarah thinking, pushing an assistant onto me like I was some sort of kid who had to be carrot-and-sticked into making the grade? It’s only a book. Oh, and a television series, and a big fat fee for Ms. Duncan to lose if I fail to deliver the goods.

The bar filled in a rush as workers finished their day. I nursed my second whiskey, undecided as yet whether the evening’s target was to go for blind drunk, or a hookup. I set my drink to one side to watch the two women who’d just walked in.

Tight pencil skirts rippled over their hips as they sauntered across the room in heels that teetered on the line between corporate and fuck-me. Both wore jackets, identically cut to enhance delicate waists, and hair that fell long in smooth, cultivated spirals. They chose a table close to mine, and the brunette checked me out, head to toe, as she slipped her jacket off.

The blouse was fucking hot. Sheer and low-cut, proving she put just as much thought into the lingerie it barely concealed, as she did into the well-cut suit she wore. I wondered if she wore the blouse for her boss, or for some guy in marketing with a big dick.

Or maybe she was the boss, and she employed a submissive PA who knelt beneath her desk and kept her shoes shiny with his tongue.

My mind flicked back to my new assistant. Katrina should have been unremarkable, but for some reason she was stuck in my mind. I couldn’t recall her clothes, but the blush she wore when we shook hands was oddly arousing.

I tried to clear her from my head, bewildered as to why she’d remained at the forefront of my mind. Most likely, I decided, because I hated the idea of having someone in my personal space for the next six weeks.

The waitress delivered white wine to the brunette’s table before making her way to me.

“Can I get you another whiskey, Mr. Logan?”

Her tongue stuck on ‘whiskey’ and ‘mister’. A lisp, how cute. I let the brunette watch me give the waitress a long, appraising stare because I was still at that fork in the night’s road, wavering between sex or alcohol to make me forget.

I ordered a beer, and checked the name tag pinned to her chest. “Thank you, Suzette.” Would her mother have called her that if she’d known her daughter would hang onto her childhood lisp?

The brunette kept throwing glances my way. Exaggerated moves, body language completely open and aimed at me from the tilt of her head right down to her feet pointing in my direction.

She’d be an easy lay. Another drink and I could probably get her for a quick fuck against the wall in the dark corridor beyond the restrooms. The corporate types were usually up for it by Friday, and the signals I was receiving suggested this one was hungry.

She slid her fingers through her hair, over the top of her head, shaking her hair free. With her other hand, she stroked a fingertip up and down the stem of her glass.

I turned to the beer Suzette had delivered, downing a good third of the bottle, and leaned back in my chair. The alcohol had taken the bite off my nerves and I decided to let the brunette make the first move.

You could almost see the war she was having. A little pout, a word with her friend, a glance my way that we held for increasing lengths of time. Her tongue made a calculated trace of her red painted lips.

Definitely up for it.

I gave her my ‘let’s fuck’ smile right at the moment someone in the street caught my attention. A woman, dropping her bag, papers and contents fluttering around the sidewalk as New Yorkers passed by without offering any help.

The woman darted about in a low crouch, grabbing her belongings, finally joined by a guy with better manners than I had tonight. Together they corralled her bag contents, standing simultaneously as if the move was choreographed.

A classic meet-cute. One that had been written a number of times.

She looked embarrassed, her lips moving quickly, probably saying how grateful she was, and that she wasn’t always this clumsy. The guy placed a hand on her shoulder.

Katrina’s shoulder!

Hands off my assistant, fucker.

Something possessive woke inside of me and I pushed up from the table, sending my chair tumbling backwards. I corrected it, fumbled in my wallet and dropped a few twenties on the table for Suzette, then weaved through the patrons crowded near the door.

By the time I made it to the street, Katrina and the good Samaritan were gone, hopefully in different directions.

This was nuts. There was a brunette with a ready mouth sitting in the bar, yet I was standing in the street wondering if my straight-laced future assistant was okay.

Not my responsibility.

I stopped a cab, climbed in and contemplated having him crawl for a few blocks to check on Katrina, but I didn’t need to add ‘stalker’ to my list of failings.

I’d see her Monday.

“Penn Station,” I said, and sank back into my seat.

“
D
o
you actually have to live with him?” Carrie, my roommate, asked.

Sarah had given me permission to say that I was working as Stone Logan’s PA for the next six weeks while he wrapped up his book, but that was all the information I was allowed to divulge.

“No, hell, perish that thought. They’ve got separate accommodations up there for me to live in, and I go to his house each day. Really, it’s no different from an office job.”

“Except, you know, hot Stone and you alone in his lair.” Carrie clutched her hands to her chest.

In an attempt to see how difficult it was going to be to keep this assignment a secret, I’d done my best to not say a word to Carrie when I arrived home. That lasted all of about five minutes. Carrie could immediately tell I was excited about something.

“I have to be professional and on my game,” I said, snagging a piece of broccoli Carrie was stir-frying in the pan.

Carrie tried to whack my fingers with the spatula. “That wasn’t professional.”

“I need practice,” I said between chews. “Damn, this is good. How can you make such a dull vegetable taste so exotic?”

Carrie worked in one of those trendy cafes where they serve hipster food, stuff that’s organic, vegan, gluten-free, grown with the phases of the moon, and every dish fringed with micro-greens. We’d been friends for years, and Carrie was generous when money was tight and I struggled to make rent.

“I treat it with respect,” she said with a grin. “Grab the plates and open that bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge. Let’s sit and eat. You can tell me everything about Stone.”

We sat at the kitchen counter. Our apartment didn’t have room for a dining table, but the kitchen had a small island and a couple of stools.

Carrie raised her glass. “Here’s to your future as nanny to the literary world.”

We clinked and I took a sip.

“Have you told your mom yet?”

Mom would probably have kittens. Stone Logan would be everything she despised and everything she’d like to brag about. She’d immediately reel off five reasons why I would fail at this and take much pleasure in comparing this to other instances when she’d successfully predicted my downfall.

“I haven’t said anything yet. I’m trying to imagine her reaction so that I can put out the fires before they take hold. I think I’ll say it’s some random author and not actually name him. If she pushes for a name, I’ll say I can’t tell her because of the NDA I signed.”

“I thought you were going to stop doing that, Kat. You cannot micromanage your mother’s emotions. Just tell her the truth, and if she starts ranting, move on to a new subject.”

I chased half an almond around my plate with way more dedication to the pursuit than was required. Even friends like Carrie, who had known Mom for years, had no real idea of the way her behavior affected me. I’d learned how to shrug off the advice thinly disguised in her put-downs in a way that appeared that I was grateful to hear it. Unfortunately, years of my mother’s manipulation are layered inside me. I took the apartment with Carrie when I really couldn’t afford it just to get away from her control.

Of course, she loves me, and people love her. They think she’s wonderful with all the good work she does for charity and the church. What they don’t realize is that the opinion they hold is the one she forced upon them. Mother is a passive bully, and everyone gives in to her. I’ve tried to make her proud of me, I’ve danced to her tune, and I’ve stood up for myself, but nothing works. I’ve come to understand that I’ll never be good enough in her eyes, and I’ve developed armor plating with the help of Carrie, which helps Mom’s little digs slide.

“I want to do this without her influence or opinion.”

Carrie grabbed my hand. “I know you do, and you’ll be fantastic. Now, tell me more about Stone.”

I wasn’t sure how much of the information I was keeping from Carrie was already in the public domain. “Tell you what, let’s hunt him down on the internet after dinner.” That way, I couldn’t be guilty of breaking my contract. “I probably should find out where he hangs out online, anyway, because I have to run his social media, and my Kindle is loaded with the first six books in the series he’s supposed to be finishing, so it will probably burst into flames next time I open it.”

Carrie laughed. “Don’t get Stone’s social media persona mixed up with the stuff you do for the FaithLits.”

The FaithLits is a group of authors from Mother’s church, attempting to save the youth of today from all the torrid young adult books filled with violence, drugs and sex. Well, that’s what they believe the books are filled with, no matter how much I try to tell them there are excellent stories without that sort of content. They take what they believe to be the standard tropes—once again, sex, violence, drugs—and use them to write stories with faith-based resolutions. Their stuff has an audience, so who am I to judge?

I do their social media because Mom offered up my services for free. Although that annoyed me, I could see the benefits I would gain from the experience of working with authors and readers. Now, of course, I’m reminded to thank Mom for her wonderful idea because without her, I’d
blah blah blah.
She exhausts me.

We got dinner cleared away, and I pushed all thoughts of contacting Mom from my head. Carrie refreshed our wine glasses while I fired up my laptop and typed Stone’s name into the search box.

Carrie’s finger jumped to the trackpad. “Images first,” she said. “I want a good picture of him in my mind once we get to the sleazy stuff.”

In seconds, the screen filled with pictures of Stone. Across the top was a ribbon offering us various options of more focused collections: his modeling shots, girlfriends, and
Steele Heart,
the infamous romance series.

Carrie turned to me. “He was a model?”

We both stared at the screen. “Um, underwear, by the look of things.”

We were both silent as we scrolled through the images. Stone got out of modeling a few years ago, but the photos stood the test of time.

Carrie clicked on an image of Stone reclining on a lounger wearing briefs that left nothing to the imagination, one finger crooked in a sexy ‘come here’ gesture. The caption beneath read
50 Shades of Totally Fuckable.

“Shit, Katrina, you’re spending the next six weeks alone in a house with
that
?”

“Don’t say any more—you’ll freak me out.”

What the heck had I got myself into? His was a world so foreign that I doubted we spoke the same language. I imagined him sneering at my work ethic and demanding exotic cocktails at breakfast.

“Look at him.” Carrie started clicking on pictures, enlarging them, each one portraying Stone in a provocative pose, his goods on display so that there was no mistaking what he was packing.

“Do you think it’s enhanced, like maybe a sock or something stuffed down there?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“How am I going to look him in the eye now, having seen this?” I waved my hand at the screen. “Shut it down. I can’t take any more.”

“You’ve turned pink,” Carrie teased.

“I bet he’s a real jerk,” I said dismissively. “Anyway, I won’t really spend much time with him, because, you know, he’ll be writing and I’ll probably be doing hideous stuff like his laundry, mopping his floors, and calling in the cleanup crew to scrape the groupies off his doorstep—”

“Making him a sandwich,” Carrie added. “I can just see it:
Can I get you anything Mr. Logan? Yeah, bitch, make me a sandwich.”

While Carrie was performing her impersonation of Stone and me, I slapped the laptop closed. “I have work to do,” I said, holding my Kindle aloft. “In here are his books, which I’m expected to read to get an idea of what I’m dealing with.”

“Don’t sneak off to your bedroom. Read one to me.”

“You just want to watch me blush through the sex scenes.”

“Darn right I do.”

Carrie was far more adventurous than me. She was totally at peace with her sexuality, whereas I was totally confused. I’d fooled around, had the customary ‘kind-of’ boyfriends, but I hadn’t really
done it.
That was a great source of amusement to Carrie, but unfortunately, I had yet to meet the guy who could obliterate my mother’s voice in the bedroom. Every time I got close to losing it, Mom encroached with her lectures about respect and virtue and saving myself for my wedding night.

Having Mom in my head when I’m making out was the unsexiest thing in the world.

* * *

I
spent
the weekend reading Stone’s novels and preparing myself for the move upstate to Springston. His books were certainly a quick read, but I could see their appeal. Funny, outrageous and frighteningly explicit. How on earth could I face the guy on Monday, certain he’d know I’d devoured his books over two days and that I’d read
those scenes
. It was impossible not to put him in them, imagining Stone doing the dirty talk...the dirty stuff. The nonstop sex. The books had an unnerving effect on me, mostly between my legs, and I wondered if anyone noticed I was in a constant state of arousal.

How could a mere story pull that sort of response from me when the guys that I’d messed about with had barely managed to start my engine? That just didn’t even make sense.

Carrie supervised my packing of a week’s worth of clothes. I hoped I’d be home for the weekends, but from what I could tell, if Stone was producing words, CJM preferred I was on hand to assist. I wasn’t entirely sure if career writers took weekends off. Presumably, he took some time off because there seemed to be a lot of research behind the antics in those books, if the gossip was anything to go by.

“Show me your underwear.”

“Carrie—”

She nudged me out of the way and peered into the bag I was packing. “These will never work,” she said, grabbing a fistful of sensible panties and bras and waving them in front of my face. “You need lingerie, not granny pants, if you’re going to seduce that man.”

“What? Since when was I setting out to seduce Stone?”

“Probably from the moment you got to the sexy parts in Book One. I’ve never known you to read so much, and you’re in this permanent state of heat.”

I snatched the underwear back and stuffed it into my bag. “My seduction skills, which happen to be zero, would have to be supreme if I could make Stone Logan even look at me. I mean,
look at me
. I’m nothing like the women he writes about. I’m…”

“A librarian?”

“That’s a bit harsh on the librarians, don’t you think?”

“You’re being harsh on yourself. You need some confidence, and maybe contact lenses. I’m not crazy about your glasses.”

“I only use them for reading.”

“That’s no excuse for ugly frames.”

I glanced at the mirror. “They’re not that bad.”

“Leave them off as much as you can. Just saying.”

My frames were within my budget, and they’d been on sale, so they were much nicer than I would normally have been able to afford. I liked them.

I caught Carrie eyeing my underwear again.

“Let’s go shopping,” she said. “Stone was an underwear model, Kat. He’s going to expect a certain standard.”

I held up my hand. “Stop with the craziness and listen to me. I’m not going to have sex with Stone Logan. Ever. Got it?”

Carrie smirked. “But you want to.”

My body immediately set to early-stage arousal at the idea. Of course I wanted to...in a fantasy. Most women would. But part of me also fantasized about Channing Tatum, and hot air ballooning, white water rafting, swimming with dolphins, and my own house with a yard and a dog, all things I would never do and never have. All harmless in the fantasy realm, which was exactly where those thoughts would stay.

Except I didn’t even want to be fantasizing about Stone, so I’d inserted
The Chan Man
into Stone’s stories when they reached the sexy bits, and that had worked just fine for me.

Really fine. Like doubling my lifelong orgasm count in one weekend fine.

“If you wore sexy lingerie, it would make you feel sexier, and Stone would notice that. He’d sniff it out.”

“Please, you’re making the man sound like a dog now.”

“A dirty dog,” Carrie added. “That’s what the man is. You know what those guys are like. He’ll see your dilated pupils, pick up the scent of your pheromones, and know you’re ready to mate.”

“I’m not ready to mate.”

“You will be once the panty-melter gets you in his sights. Imagine having sex with someone like him. Proper sex. Hard, fast, long and dirty sex. Wow. It’ll be way better than ol’ fumbling, fast-shooting Jack.”

“Do you have to bring that up all the time? I wish I’d never told you.”

Jack was my one attempt at having an exclusive, going-all-the-way boyfriend. I guess he was overcome by the moment whenever we attempted to have sex, because he came over me, rather than in me. The first act was the finale. Seconds later, he’d manage a brief apology, then reach for the television remote, and while I was still cleaning myself up, he tuned into a rerun of something like
Animal House.

Jack could best be summed up as ‘economic’ in most aspects of our relationship. Dates were cheap—never a bottle of wine, just a glass. We sat in the cheap seats at the movies, and we split all costs. He seemed satisfied with some hasty fumbling and fooling around at the end of the night, and when I suggested we could take a bit more time to get warmed up, he blamed me for ‘doing it wrong’.