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“You’d better,” she replied tearfully.
He held out his hand, and she took it. They walked back to his car in silence.
They embraced a final time. Logan kissed the top of her head. When he looked into her eyes, he was suddenly lost. Whatever hold he was caught up in, it was more than he could shake. Before he knew it, he lowered his head and kissed Dakota on her lips. He felt her stiffen, but she did not pull away and slap him. That was a good sign.
The kiss lengthened in duration, and after a few moments, Logan reluctantly stepped back. Dakota’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes mirrored her shock.
“Dakota, I… You mean the world to me. I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” she said softly. “Promise me you’ll keep in touch.”
“I promise, Dakota. Don’t worry, I’ll be home before you know it.”
“You’d better,” she choked out.
He glanced at her a final time before sliding behind the wheel and driving off. Logan did not look back. There was no way he could bear the devastated look on her face. Besides, his expression mirrored it perfectly.
Logan gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. The sheer weight of family responsibility rested on his shoulders. He would bear it. He had no choice. The entire ride home, he willed his heart not to break under the pressure of his unrequited love for Dakota.
Dream’s over, Montague. She’s gone, and you’ve blown it.
Chapter 1
Ten years later…
That old letch should’ve been grateful that all I dropped over his bald head was a tureen of minestrone. It should have been a brick!
Dakota Carson was still steaming about the previous evening’s turn of events. If someone would have told her that her perfect day would end with her pouring a bowl of hot soup on a business colleague and threatening him with bodily harm, she would have thought them insane. But it occurred nonetheless.
Roger Thompson had leveraged their business dinner into a ploy to get her into bed. Dakota accepted the dinner meeting because he had something that she wanted—his connection to Amadeus Rothschild, a new designer who specialized in sheets that were elegant and pleasurable to the touch. The fact that he only used a design once made them unique. Since he was the elusive owner of a company called Sheet Music in New England, Dakota had no doubt that he would soon be a household name. The problem was that he only sold his sheets through Roger.
When her client’s wife, Nancy Janson, had seen a set on display at Thompson’s Textiles, she flipped. She wanted them for her St. Charles, Illinois, bed-and-breakfast, and nothing else would do. Since Roger was local, and Dakota had a good relationship with him, they discussed it over dinner. He promised to supply them for her project, but soon it became evident why an evening appointment was better suited for their discussion. The moment his intentions were clear, she turned him down flat. When Roger refused to take no for an answer, Dakota left money to cover her portion of the bill and bid him good-night. When she walked past him, Roger’s arm ensnared her like a vise grip. His mistake.
“Release me,” she had demanded.
“Wait, Dakota. Don’t leave yet. We can come to an arrangement that will benefit both of us. I have what you want, and you have something I want.” Roger had tried to reel her in.
“I don’t think so,” she had countered smoothly. “In fact, you either remove your hand from my arm right now, or I’ll rip that toupee off your head, and then stomp on it like a Flamenco dancer.”
He’d complied immediately, but continued to proposition her. That did it. Dakota’s answer to his vile suggestions was to pour soup on his head. Roger’s toupee cascaded off his dome, along with the soup. She’d chuckled. It had been a sight to see.
“We’re done, Roger. Step through my office door again, and you’ll regret it.”
Her alarm blared into the silence. Stunned at the offending noise that ricocheted off the walls, Dakota almost bolted from her bed. The memory of Roger and his tumbling hairpiece was pushed aside. She had bigger problems.
Last night had caused a hiccup in her plans. Roger’s store was a good source of upscale home goods, and he had lots of connections. Now she needed a plan B, and her colleague was now regaled to the Trouser Snake category of people that Dakota had severed all ties with. She knew he would never give up Rothschild’s contact information. She was desperate to make her client happy, but was not about to play games, or to sleep her way into opportunities. She took her career very seriously, and if somebody didn’t like it, that was their misfortune. That went for the few men she had dated, too.
