huff at his back—women who looked like that rarely struck out.
But last night he’d dreamed of Meg. More specifically, he’d dreamed of parting those sweet, plump thighs and sliding between them. He’d spent a sweaty night, haunted by those erotic images, and had woken hard, his cock in his fist.
Meg was the sweetest temptation he’d ever known, and until he’d had his fill of her decadent body, no other woman was going to whet his appetite.
“Morning, John.” Ava was sitting behind her desk, a perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched as she sipped from a Starbucks cup. She’d seen him blow off her friend and expected an explanation.
“Morning.” She wasn’t getting it, not from him anyway. Striding past her, he angled his body toward the office that had been his for the last few months. His dream still so fresh it seemed real, he stepped quietly as he passed Theo’s office.
If Theo knew his plans for Meg, he’d punch John in the nuts.
“John!” Dammit. That was Jo’s voice, and there was no way to pretend he hadn’t heard her. Turning reluctantly, he found Meg’s sister sitting on Theo’s desk, legs swinging as she watched a man in torn jeans install a light fixture.
“Morning.” He forced a smile to his lips, directing it at Jo, then at Theo, who was sitting behind his desk. He avoided eye contact with the latter. “Are we finally getting rid of those fluorescent lights? Thank God. They make me look pale.”
He winked at Jo, patting his brown cheek, and she grinned. “You can thank me. Theo’s been dragging his ass about the expense, but we met Aaron here last night at the bar.”
The man on the ladder grunted as he strained to connect a wire.
“Don’t we usually go through a referral agency?” John lowered his voice as he eyed the stranger in the room. He couldn’t see his face. “How do we know he’s not going to burn the place down?”
“That’s rude—” Jo started, but the other man cut her off, starting to climb down the ladder.
“You know because I’m a master electrician, certified by the state of Massachusetts. And you like me because I’m giving you a discount on these fixtures. Former client decided against them and couldn’t send ’em back.” He grinned, offering his hand. “Aaron Horton. Nice to meet you.”
“John Brooke.” He took the offered hand reluctantly, squinting at the other man. “Do I know you?”
“Saw you at the bar last night,” Aaron replied mildly, though John didn’t miss the fact that the other man was sizing him up. “You’re Meg’s friend.”
John found himself squeezing harder than strictly necessary before letting go. This—this—was the man Meg had been dancing with. The one who’d had his hands on her soft curves. The one Meg had considered going home with.
He wanted to snarl, to tell Aaron to stay the hell away from his woman. Except Meg wasn’t his woman, and both Theo and Jo were listening intently, having picked up on the tension building in the small room.
“That’s right,” he finally managed to grind out through his teeth. “Meg’s...friend. Jo here is her sister.”
“Sweet.” The other man cast Jo a somewhat sheepish grin. “I’m going to take this as a sign, then. I didn’t get Meg’s number last night, and I’ve been kicking myself. Do you think she’d mind if I got it from you?”
“Hell no.” John bristled. He looked over at Theo, who was doing the same.
“No?” Theo cast John a quizzical glance, and John realized his misstep—he didn’t have to say anything. Theo would slip into big-brother mode and refuse to pass along Meg’s number anyway.
“Something tells me you aren’t going to give the number of someone you consider a sister to a stranger.” John couldn’t hold back the scowl.
“Aren’t you Mr. Sensitivity this morning?” Theo replied, leaning back in his chair. His gaze was assessing as he looked at John, and John knew he had to bite his tongue if he didn’t want his friend finding out about his feelings for Meg.
“Uh, I’m standing right here,” Aaron offered, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I get it. I wouldn’t just hand my sister’s number out to anyone who asked, either.”
“I don’t suppose any of you have thought to consider what Meg might want on this occasion?” Rolling her eyes again, Jo slid off Theo’s desk to her feet. Crossing her arms over her chest, she arched an eyebrow in John’s direction. “And how many ladies’ numbers do you have in your contact list, stud?”
John clenched his jaw but didn’t answer.
“Thought so,” Jo smirked, then patted Aaron on the shoulder. “How about I’ll give Meg your number, and she can decide whether or not to call you? Come see me when you’re done.”
And then she was gone, mumbling something about Neanderthals.
An awkward silence surrounded the three men until John muttered about getting to his office and left. Once in the small room, he clicked the mouse to wake his laptop up, then sank into his chair with a sigh.
The sigh turned to a grunt of frustration at the knock on the door. He’d left it open a crack, but now it opened fully, framing the electrician.
“Hey, man. I just wanted to say that I’m not into stealing someone’s girl.” Aaron held out his hands, palms up. “Sorry if I overstepped.”
John hesitated. He could agree that Meg was, in fact, his girl, and then this guy would back off. But then there was a chance that Aaron would mention it to Theo or Jo, and John was already carrying enough guilt over his plans to debauch Meg that evening.
He wasn’t used to feeling guilty, because for most of his life, he’d only had to answer to himself. He should say that Meg wasn’t his. It was the truth, after all.
Instead, he gave in to the primal urge to claim his woman.
“Stay away from her.” He pointed at the door. “You can see yourself out.”
MEG FALTERED AS she stood in front of John’s hotel room, a bottle of whiskey cradled in the crook of her arm. She’d made it through handing the keys to her giant white catering van to the hotel’s valet, and she’d only felt slightly out of place as she carried the cheap alcohol through the sleek, modern lobby that screamed money.
Now, faced with the reality of what she was about to do, and whom she was going to do it with, she felt the nerves bubble up inside, frothing up and over like champagne in a wineglass.
“Chill out, Marchande,” she muttered, the dense velvety carpet beneath her feet and silk-covered walls absorbing the bite of the words. “You’re not here to marry him.”
Still, she’d never known anyone, lover or friend, so very different from herself. If she let herself think about it, it was extremely
