The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

“Honey, I’m home!” I announced to Ross, whose eyes bulged out of their sockets on impact. He rushed to me, shaking his head and fist simultaneously.

“Holy Cody Simpson’s abs on a poster! What’re you doing here?”

“Working?”

“Under these circumstances?” He cradled my belly—the belly in which a person was now fluttering and flipping and doing all kinds of amazing things, especially at night—and gasped.

“Yeah. You expect me to just drop my responsibilities and dip?”

“I’m expecting you to look out for your wellbeing as well as your child’s!”

“I’m just going to do a couple hours of spreadsheets.”

“Bitch, you’re not an accountant. The world’s not going to collapse into itself if you don’t check on the Belgian beer supply today. And, sorry to break it to you, we’re doing swimmingly without you.”

Simon appeared out of nowhere, as if by magic, the minute my voice carried from the backroom.

To say he didn’t look happy to see me was the understatement of the century.

“You’re here.” Simon stopped at the door, disappointment rolling from his body in waves.

“Hello to you too, Si!” I smiled broadly.

“Mind if I work alongside you in your office?” he asked me but looked at Ross, as if to say, I’m knocking down her door if she refuses.

I waved him off with a smile. “Sure, whatever makes you and your uptight boss happy.”

“You’re your own greatest health hazard. I’m on the verge of quitting.” Ross slapped the back of his hand to his forehead before stomping off back to the bar to unload a shipment of alcohol. “Oh, and I’m telling your beau!”

I settled in front of my desk and popped my laptop open. “Go ahead, traitor!”

Ross popped his head back through my door, grinning like a loon. “So he is your beau. Girl … so jealous!”

I was putting a real dent in my workload, securing an out-of-state burlesque act that was visiting from Louisiana for the summer and negotiating a contract with a new liquor distributor, when there was a knock on my office door.

Rolling back in my chair, I stretched. “Thank God. I could use a distraction. Maybe it’s food. Do you think it’s food, Si?”

Simon, who sat a few feet away from me, dutifully pretending to do some filing even though there was very little to be filed in my office, stood up from his spot on the floor and dusted off his jeans. He motioned me with his hand to stay seated, heading for the door.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re anal-retentive, Si? You could use some loosening up.”

Baby Whitehall fluttered in agreement inside my belly, and I cradled it for a moment.

“Yeah, fair point, Baby Whitehall. I know. Mommy’s not perfect either. But you have to admit at least I come close.”

“There’s a woman here to see you,” Simon said tersely, blocking my line of vision of who it was with his Robocop shoulders.

“My, my, my, a visitor.” I laced my fingers together. “Is it Pers or Sailor? Ash is at work, so it can’t be her. Either way, they aren’t allowed in unless they come bearing edible gifts.”

“I think you should pass on this meeting. It’s not a social call.” Simon’s face was so tight, I thought he was going to explode.

“Who is it?”

“Miss Penrose …”

Why did he still insist on Miss Penrose when I called him Si? Why couldn’t he be less uptight? Where the heck did Devon find this guy anyway?

“Who. Is. It?” I repeated, getting sick and tired of men telling me what to do.

Simon took a deep breath, throwing his head back in exasperation. “Louisa Butchart.”

“Let her in and leave.” My voice was ice cold.

“But—”

“Do it, Si. Before I kick you out of my establishment. You know I can.”

Furthermore, he knew I would.

We stared at each other for a beat. Heaving out a sigh, he stalked out of my office. I could see his head peeking in the hallway, though, staying close by.

Louisa waltzed in, stylishly emaciated in an Alexander McQueen pleated coat dress.

I wasn’t intimidated. Just pissed off she kept showing up like a fart stain on underwear every time I tried pushing her out of my mind.

“Louisa! What a delightful surprise. Lost your way to Chanel?” I put on my best fuck-you smile.

“Oh, Emmabelle, I do love your dress. What is it exactly? Victoria’s Secret shag-me-in-the-dark?” she drawled, perching her bony ass on the edge of the seat.

Her vintage Hermes told me she meant business. Nobody had any business carrying a 250k bag unless they were willing to show what was inside it was equally as impressive.

“To what do I owe this visit?” I purred, cutting straight to the chase.

“I think we both know the answer to that question, so why don’t we skip the part where I insult your intelligence and you waste my time?”

“Sounds good.” I curled my hair around one finger playfully. “So you’re still holding out hope you can get your claws on my boyfriend?”