Heat

“I can see that,” Jake says, but he’s looking me over again, and I’m sure he doesn’t mean the whiskey. Which is fine—he’s right; I’m not cheap, either.

“It’s on the house,” I say. “Enjoy your visit.”

I mean to walk away, but a moment later I feel a hand on my shoulder, and then Jake is tugging me out onto the floor. “Have a dance with me.”

It is the last thing I want, and I try to show him that with an arched eyebrow. But he ignores my expression, grinning like a fool, and inclines his head just slightly toward some of the other patrons. Phones are out; videos and pictures are already being taken.

The last thing I want is to look like a bitter, ungracious host in front of the entire internet—certainly, I don’t want to hand Reginald Ferry any ammo to fire at me in the PR arena—so I fix my expression to one of pleasant acceptance and follow his son onto the dance floor.

For a minute, it isn’t so bad. Jake can dance; he’s probably had high-priced lessons for this sort of occasion, and he’s just handsy enough to make it interesting without being outright offensive. His hands are large, and warm, and it’s difficult not to let my imagination get carried away.

It really has been a long time since I was with anyone, if jus

t this little interaction is enough to get my blood running hot.

“One song,” I tell him, and let him lead. It’s slow, thankfully. I didn’t wear the kind of outfit that looks good on a flailing mess.

As we sway, I can feel the heat from his body even through my dress. More, I’m close enough to him that it’s obvious he has a body under that clean, well-fitted suit. We’re not talking yet, so I distract myself from all that by doing mental inventory of the storeroom as of this afternoon, before the lounge opened, and recite the types of peppers that are going into the new hot sauce I have planned for later this season.

“All those cameras,” Jake sighs near my ear. “They never quit, do they?”

“People like a spectacle,” I reply, disinterested even though I’m already starting to think of what I’ll say when the papers start asking me whether we’re dating, and how I’ll convince them we’re not.

Jake, though, has the opposite on his mind. “You know, I bet we’d stir up quite a storm, you and I. Imagine what the tabloids would say: Jake Ferry and Janie Hall. Could be a PR goldmine, good for both our ventures.”

And in that moment, it all makes sense. I should have figured. But I’m a businesswoman, not a celebrity. Not yet, anyway, and not a real one even when it’s forced on me for a while.

I let go of Jake’s shoulder, and remove his hands from my hips. This little charade is over. “I see,” I tell him quietly, my face still showing a smile for the cameras. “You can see yourself out of my lounge, Mr. Ferry. Thanks for dropping by.”

His reaction is a mystery; I’m sure I’ll see it on YouTube later when Red Hall gets tagged in the Facebook post for it right alongside Ferry Lights. For now, though, I don’t look at him as I stalk away through the crowd, ignoring the smartphones pointed at me.

I can’t believe I fell for that.

Chapter 4

Janie

Chester is a smart guy, and he keeps his mouth shut when I step behind the bar and discreetly pour myself a shot of the closest bottle of dark liquor I can reach—cognac, turns out. His eyes do get a little wide when I turn away from the crowd and quickly down the shot. No, I don’t normally drink when I’m at work and it’s against the rules for everyone else. Sometimes it’s good to be the boss.

Luckily, Chester knows me well enough to simply retrieve the shot glass from my tense fingers and even tap the bottle in question.

I shake my head. One shot is fine, just enough to put a different kind of warmth in my stomach than what’s already there.

Jake fucking Ferry. “I could strangle him, that dirty son of a bitch.”

Chester clears his throat, his face angled down as though busy with bar work. “Okay,” he mutters, trying to calm me, “do you need a moment? Maybe in the back? Where no one can take any more videos?”

Shit. I shake my head, and then blow out a long breath to get a handle on myself, just like Mama’s therapist tells her to do. “I’m fine,” I tell Chester.

“So,” he says when he’s assessed that I might be telling the truth, “that was awkward, huh? What was that all about?”

Rehashing it is the last thing I want, so I wave Chester’s curiosity off. “Forget it.”

He seems to—Chester is good like that—but I certainly can’t. Where does that Ferry prick even get off thinking that I would want or need his fucking PR influence like some kind of social climbing groupie slut? Sure, Red Hall is taking a temporary hit from the foray of Ferry Lights into the neighborhood—but that’s just the way the market works. A few more weeks and the pressure will equalize and my place will be back on top where it started.

After all, every celebrity—A, B, C, or even D-list—that shows up at my place comes because they want to be here. Not because I pay them.

I’m not good at staying angry. I try to hold grudges, but they never last very long. As this one wanes and I recover myself, my traitorous imagination takes the opportunity to defect. Whispering images of Jake’s flushed lips, and that glint in his eyes that made me briefly imagine what was going on in his head to make him look at me like that. Worst of all was that it had worked; that swell of heat between my legs wasn’t a fever.