Caught Up in You

Caught Up in You

Smart Girls Finish First #1.5

SOPHIE SWIFT

Copyright © 2013 by Sophie Swift

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author in writing.

The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.

www.SophieSwift.com

***

Prologue

The worst thing you can hear a woman say when your head is buried between her legs is, “By the way, I’m not
technically
divorced.” And trust me, I know. I’ve heard a
lot
of women say a
lot
of things to me while they’re halfway to the best orgasm of their life. 

But this one probably takes the cake.

In hind sight, I should have split right then and there. I should have politely wiped my mouth, made up some lame excuse about having a dog at home to let out, and gotten the fuck out of there.

God, how different everything would have turned out if I’d done that.

I wouldn’t have lost my job. I wouldn’t have needed to find another one. And I never
ever
would have met Lia Smart.

In other words, my life would be a whole fuck of a lot better than it is right now. My life would be
recognizable.
Instead of this shambled mess of what used to make sense.

But the world doesn’t work like that, does it? You can’t simply rewind, press play, and watch as a different ending unfolds. Sometimes you have no choice but to live in the disaster you’ve created for yourself. Sometimes there’s nothing else you can do but look back at the choices you’ve made and say to yourself, “Well, aren’t you a royal fucking idiot?”

But I should back up. My self-loathing only makes sense if I start at the beginning. Or rather, at the beginning of the end.

And it all started when that woman walked into my bar.

One

She was wearing red.  Which should have been my first clue. Aren’t there about a million songs warning men about women in red? But did I listen to a single one of them?

You tell me.

There was nothing especially different or remarkable about her. Had the course of my life not been completely altered by her existence, she would have just blended in with all of the other rich, Manhattan housewives who wander into this restaurant in Eastbrook Connecticut and sit at the bar, looking for a temporary distraction while their emotionally distant husbands are out playing golf and smoking cigars.

These women had become my bread and butter.

Because I’ll tell you something. Rich, bored housewives tip. Like
...well
. Especially if you’re a smart enough bartender to give them that little extra splash of attention that they’re so desperately craving. You know, let your hand linger a little too long after dropping off their drinks, let your eyes linger a little too long on the low cut of their dresses. A wink here, a smirk there, and voila, your tip instantly triples.

I may not have been very good at math in high school, but that kind of calculation I can do.

But I never took it any further than a flirty banter. At least not with the married ones.

That’s what bartenders do. We flirt. They might as well have a class for it at bartending school. “How to Effectively Relieve a Woman of $100 Using Only Your Charm and a Slightly Too Tight Pair of Jeans 101.”

Hell, I’d ace that class.

The only ace I would have ever gotten in my life.

But when this particular woman said she was divorced, that’s when things got interesting.

Bored, lonely and still married? Off limits.

But bored, lonely and recently divorced? Well, that’s another story.

How was I to know how fast things would get out of hand?

She sat her hot 40-something, pilates-sculpted ass down at the bar and gave me some sob story about how her husband used to take her up here to this “cute little town” when they were first married and how romantic it had always been. Now he was taking some
other
hot piece of ass to some
other
“cute little town” while she drank here alone.

I felt sorry for the woman. I really did.

Hey, I’m a sensitive guy, okay? Bartenders can be sensitive. In fact, it can really help with tips.

Well, it turned out the “other hot piece of ass” part was true enough—her husband had been cheating on her with some young college intern from his office. But the “divorced” part was a little less than a fact.

We talked, we flirted, I passed her a free drink. They
love
when you pour them free drinks. They act like you just opened up a blue Tiffany box with diamond earrings in it. If only they knew it cost
me
about three dollars and fifty cents to give them that drink. A small investment for a double—sometimes triple—digit tip.

Then she left. And I thought that was that.

Until I found her at the front door thirty minutes after the restaurant had closed, wearing a trench coat.

She’d claimed to have left her phone on the bar, but I knew it was bullshit. I’m a bartender. I can spot an “I just came back here to fuck you” lie from a mile away. And the “I think forgot my cell phone” is as classic as apple pie.

Especially when you change out of your red slinky dress (which trust me, was plenty sexy enough) and change
into
a trench coat. Without bothering to put anything on underneath.

Sure, it was cliché but who was I to complain? I’m a bartender who sleeps with divorced cougars. I’m a walking cliché. As soon as I let her inside and she allowed the fabric ties of the coat to unravel and fall open, revealing just how little she was wearing underneath, I was no longer worried about originality.

It didn’t take long for her to kiss me. That’s pretty much rule number one. You let
them
kiss you first.

For starters, it’s way hotter.

But mostly, it’s a rule because there’s a fine line between flirting and
doing.
Even when the woman shows up wearing nothing but a trench coat. And one wrong read of where that line is can land you in a jail cell with a not-so-convenient criminal charge on your record.

Not that I know this from experience. It was just a bartender’s code.

You flirt, you compliment, you pour drinks, you wait for
them
to make the first move.

And she did. She pressed those pouty lips against mine faster than I could offer to take her coat. She tasted good. She felt fucking amazing. Even through my clothes—which came off quickly, I might add.

I’m talking, record time.

But then, as soon as I had her backed against the bar, my cock hard as brick ready to go to battle, she draped her tongue across my neck, pulled my hand between her legs, showing me how wet I made her, and whispered those words hot and breathy in my ear.

“By the way, I’m not
technically
divorced.”

WHOA!

Now there’s a way to lose wood.

In fact that should be Train’s next song. “50 Ways to Say Goodbye…to Your Boner.”

I took mental note for the next time I needed to get rid of an erection fast. I’d always relied on the tried and true: baseball, your mother taking a bath, a men’s locker room.

But this is one I’d have to store for later.

I pulled away, trying to ignore her gorgeous body displayed before me like an offering from the Gods.

“WHAT?” I demanded.

She smiled. The smile of a seductress. A siren. “It’s no big deal, cutie,” she purred. “I’m planning to leave him soon. Now get your big cock back over here and show me what I’m missing being married to an older man.”

She grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled my mouth back to hers.

But I resisted, mentally patting myself on the back.

Way to go, Blake!

“No big deal?” I repeated in disbelief, bracing against her shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. “I would say it’s a pretty fucking big deal. You lied to me.”

Her smile fell into a pout. A really fucking condescending pout. “Awww,” she cooed. “Your morals are adorable.”

My morals?

Of all the things that women have called “adorable” over the years—and trust me, there have been plenty—my
morals
were certainly not one of them.

She reached up and brushed a long, manicured fingernail against my cheek. “My husband has his little twenty-two year-old intern and I have you.”

I opened my mouth to argue but she stopped me with a look. “Don’t waste your tongue on words,” she said. “Not when I can think of
so many
better things to do with it.”

Her hands were on my head now, pushing down. I found my face between her long, lean legs. She was waxed. Everywhere.

She bucked her hips toward me, coaxing me to her. She squeezed her knees around my shoulder blades, sending my resolve to go live on a remote desert island somewhere.

So much for my
morals.

I titled my head to the side and traced the length of her thigh with my lips, following it all the way down, into the sweet spot.

And oh, was it sweet.

Fucking apple pie.

She gasped and pressed into me.

God, I love it when they do that.

I lifted her onto the barstool and then plunged my tongue deep inside of her, feeling the way her body instantly responded. I was well aware that I was the revenge fuck. I was the young twenty-something to get back at another young twenty-something.

And ask me if I cared at that moment.

I didn’t.

It was hard to care when a body like that was stretched out before you, when legs like that were wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling you into a delicious world.

But it became
much
easier to care when I heard the owner’s voice shouting at me from the entryway to the restaurant.

“What the hell are you doing?”

And that was pretty much that. I was promptly dismissed as being “not high-class enough” to bartend at his prissy posh restaurant. I swear, you fuck one customer and suddenly you’re white trash.

“I’m looking for a professional bartender,” the owner said to me after
Mrs.
Trench coat had left. “Not a gigolo.”

Ouch.

That hurt.

Although, to be honest I’d been called much worse.

I left with my shirt still untucked and my jeans still unbuttoned. It wasn’t until I got into my car a few minutes later that I found her hotel room key in the pocket of my jeans. An invitation to finish what we’d started.

And I’ll admit it was tempting.

But I didn’t need a piece of ass right now. I needed a job. I’d moved from Iowa to New York City to be an actor (I know, I know, another cliché) but when I found that pickings for roles were slim and rent was high, I came here. To Eastbrook, Connecticut. And although rents weren’t as exorbitant here, they certainly weren’t free.

That’s what landed me at the front door of La Dolce Vita Italian Restaurant two days later, answering a want ad for a bartender who didn’t speak Italian.

Talk about fucking weird thing to specify in a job posting.

That should have been my first hint. I should have recognized the crazy before I even walked through the door. But I guess after the night I’d had, everything else seemed relatively sane in comparison.

God, was I ever wrong.

Two

“Where have you worked before?” Lia Smart asked me when I came in for an interview.

God, she was beautiful. That was the first thing I noticed. Also, there was a kind of naivety about her. I didn’t think she was old enough to be running a restaurant by herself. She looked barely out of high school.

But I figured as long as her check cleared, I didn’t care how old she was.

“My last job was at Union Bistro,” I said and instantly noticed the wince that soured her delicate features. I wasn’t surprised. No restaurant in town liked Union Bistro. They were the most popular spot in Eastbrook.

“Why’d you leave?” she asked. The question I’d been dreading. I eyed the fully-stocked bar behind her.

Because I was caught giving head to a customer on the bar.

“The owner and I had differing opinions,” I lied.