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That left him.
Despite feeling even more surly than usual at the prospect of being friendly, he walked through and made idle chitchat about Joe Wilson’s bursitis, and Mac Connor’s new grandbaby. He hand-sold a new leaf blower, despite that also being Dillon’s area of expertise, and generally tried to act as if the burr up his ass wouldn’t do permanent damage if he moved just so.
And that burr’s name was Victoria Violet Townsend.
In several short minutes, he’d nearly allowed her to cause him to do something he never did. Namely, completely lose his mind.
Luckily seeing her orgasm—hell, feeling it through the fabric—had doused the raging flames of his libido. His ego might’ve swelled, and his cock might’ve been harder that night than the drill he’d just discussed with a customer, but his brain had reengaged and saved them both from certain calamity.
Well, that and his lack of a condom. Something he hadn’t been about to admit to Victoria. He’d been so caught up he hadn’t even realized he’d come to dig without a shovel. It had turned out to be a fortuitous thing, since they hated each other. They also worked together, which seemed to be a contradiction considering the fact that he’d selected her from a field of more qualified candidates. In this economy, he had to cut corners where he could, and she had one thing those other candidates didn’t. Or so he’d so foolishly believed.
She would come cheap.
Last night had proved that wasn’t true twice over, because if there was a gold standard for climaxes, she’d achieved it. He’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
He almost snorted as he waved good-bye to Doc Cranston and turned toward his office at the back of the store. Cheap? Not bloody likely. She’d set a gouging fee for her employment, and he paid it because he’d been the fool who hadn’t locked down the financial terms of their agreement before signing on the dotted line. Moral of the story? Never assume anything with Victoria, and get every damn thing in writing.
After a few more hours of work, he did another walk-through of the store since Dillon still hadn’t surfaced—lucky bastard—and he couldn’t help noticing how friendly everyone seemed to be. Lots of smiles in his direction, even a few atta boys he didn’t quite understand. He chalked it up to leftover positive feeling from the benefit and returned to his office with his thoughts on the new Carlton store and the talk about personnel issues he had to have that morning with the HR rep he’d hired. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Peterson could be a hard-ass, and he had enough on his mind without wading into fights between employees.
He glanced at his watch, then at the phone. Maybe he’d reschedule. He also had to call that worthless no-show photographer and demand his deposit back. Christ, he didn’t have time for all these petty interruptions.
The door swung open and banged the inside wall, making him raise an eyebrow. For a man who’d probably left his new girlfriend in traction after their twelve-hour-plus lovefest, Dillon didn’t look nearly as cheerful as he should.
“Seen the paper, bro?” Dillon asked, waving the object in question. “You really need to take a look at it. Now.”
Dread curled in Cory’s stomach as he reached for his coffee. He normally drank decaf but switched over to the high-octane version whenever he put in a lot of hours at work. Which, lately, was always. “Let me guess, your girlfriend put in another fancy ad. If Alexa feels her flower shop can afford splashy ads that blow ours out of the water, that’s her decision. I don’t choose to spend our money that way.”
Dillon slapped the paper down on the blotter. Dread sank Cory’s stomach as he realized that he was gracing the gossip column. And he was not alone. “Good thing you’ve been saving your dimes, bro, since I think you’re going to need to ante up for damage control.”
Chapter Two
Cory gripped the arm of his chair and locked his jaw to keep from cursing. Loudly. Neither he nor Dillon looked away from the startlingly clear black-and-white photos happily situated dead center in Miss Haven’s “community” column, aka the gossip section. Under an aptly stated, wince-worthy headline: Helping hands? Oh yes, sir!
Guess he wouldn’t be getting his deposit back from the photographer after all. He’d wanted to “get the gala in the papers,” hadn’t he? Perhaps he should’ve been more specific.
He nearly tossed a response at Dillon, but he held his tongue. Nope, sorry, no cash for damage control. He’d already spent money on photographers. Who obviously preferred hanging in trees to take pictures of him dry-humping Victoria like a horny teenager, instead of snapping pix of plaques and smiling benefactors.
At least the man didn’t know that Cory was the one who’d enlisted his services in the first place. Nor did Dillon, who publicized the charity to spur donations and community involvement, but put the annual benefit on a de facto news lockdown every year to keep the focus on the charity and discourage showboating.
Or in this case, public lewdness.
“I notice you’re not yelling,” Dillon commented, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk. “Did you know about these?”
“No, of course not.” Cory couldn’t take his eyes off the photos. His instant of outrage at his privacy being violated had melted into something else entirely, and he didn’t like it one bit. So what if one of the pictures showed Victoria with her head turned toward the camera, her eyes slit and her plump lips open on a moan? Or that his lips were very clearly on a part of her below the neck, one that jutted into his mouth as if it belonged there? Or that the other photo showed him looming over her and her staring up at him as if they were communicating on another level—one facilitated by the obvious bump of his pelvis into hers?
Irrelevant information.
“That’s Vicky, isn’t it? Sure looks like her, even though the photo’s a little blurry. Did you spike her drink or something? Or maybe she spiked your drink. I suspected she had the hots for you, but this is fucking—”
Cory’s head snapped up, his eyes already aching to return to where they’d been fixed. “Yes, thank you for that clarification. I think it’s obvious what Victoria and I were doing.” As realization of the full scope of the situation dawned, he jerked back from his desk as if the thing had suddenly caught on fire. “Oh, shit.”
This wasn’t just an inappropriate moment caught on camera. He and Victoria worked together, and Value Hardware was a family business. He hadn’t ever had so much as a whiff of scandal around him, and he wasn’t about to start now.
Despite having already started—without finishing. Goddammit.
Then there was Victoria’s reputation. She’d had to fight to gain respectability for her fledgling design business in an old-fashioned town where small minds often prevailed, followed by even smaller paychecks. This would hurt her rep, if nothing else. How could she claim she’d gotten the magazine job on her own merits, though she had, while he had his tongue on her nipple? She’d be labeled some unfair names by the town biddies, and he would be labeled—
“Dude, you’re a frigging stud. People can’t stop talking about the two of you. Even at the bank, for God’s sake. Everyone thought you were the guy no woman would ever collar, and here you are, caught with your pants down with Vicky, your sworn enemy.”
