Wishful Sinful (Rock Royalty Book 5) (22 page)

Voices called to her as she crossed to her entry, her wheeled suitcase clattering behind her. Honey glanced around and noted her next-door neighbors were snuggled under a blanket on the wicker love seat placed on their postage stamp-sized front porch. Leaving her suitcase, she traveled the seven steps across her tiny lawn to smile at them over the low fence separating their yards.

“Hi, Maggie, hi, Trev.”

Newly married, they were a good fit for the block. They didn’t leave their garbage cans out all week—a terrible disgrace according to Honey’s neighbor on the other side—and their Christmas decorations had been festive but not garish. Right now a heart-shaped wreath fashioned of dried red roses hung on their door. It had probably been gifted to them by Grace Gowdy across the street, who’d been a florist in another life and who still loved to work with her hands—arthritic as they might be.

“How was your trip?” Maggie enquired.

She’d told them about Mexico and asked them to watch over her place while she was gone. “Great,” she said. “Sunny and warm.”

The two glanced at each other. “It got us thinking…”

“About?”

“We booked our own trip for the end of the month,” Trev told her.

“Wonderful.”

“I know we had a honeymoon a mere eleven months ago…”

“It can be an early anniversary trip, then,” Honey said.

“Just what we were thinking.” Maggie beamed.

“If you need to borrow sunscreen…”

“Well…” Trev hesitated. “We hoped you’d help us out in another way.”

“Sure, if I can.”

Maggie clasped her hands under her chin. “Lemon and Sassafras? Could you look after them for five days?”

“Of course” Honey smiled. Lem and Sass were the couple’s cossetted cats. “You know I love them.”

And the newlyweds professed to love Honey right back for accepting the responsibility. She waved away their gratitude and returned to her house, this time getting her suitcase all the way to her bedroom.

“Home sweet home,” she said aloud, expecting to feel her usual contentment when tucked inside her own four walls. While waiting for it to arrive, she threw open her closet door in preparation for unpacking.

She frowned, dismayed by the sight of the orderly yet uninteresting row of boxy clothes in dusky colors. Maybe it was the hot pink jeans she wore now. Maybe just a tropical hangover. But they looked so dismal. So depressing. So lackluster.

Her old clothes, her whole place was doing nothing to improve her mood.

Maybe she needed her own cats to liven things up.

Yeah
, she thought, lip curling.
Because being the Woman with Cats would make things better.

Not at all.

With a sigh, she sank to her mattress, low and lonely. Tomorrow would be even worse, when she’d go back to MadSci which would seem strange in Walsh’s absence…and probably stranger yet when he returned and treated her just the same as before.

The way he’d promised it would be. Like normal.

But “normal” would not be enough for her, she worried, ever again.

It was late afternoon on a dreary Wednesday in D.C. and Walsh felt as if he’d been in meetings since he’d stepped off the plane’s jetway and into the Ronald Reagan International Airport. He had, actually, because York Featherstone had met him at the gate—he’d been on a separate flight from Mexico—and they’d discussed strategy nonstop the rest of that day and into the night. The following morning they’d been slammed in a Pentagon conference room, and he hadn’t had a free minute until now.

He wasn’t due anywhere until the next day, unless either he or York decided another confab between the two of them was in order. Walsh wasn’t sure he had it in him to huddle with the other man again, even if asked.

Christ, he needed caffeine or an energy drink or…

Maybe he just needed to hear Honey’s voice. She’d been delivering brisk emails and dry texts at a regular pace, but none were especially invigorating.

He needed a power boost in the form of someone from home.

Her number was the first on his speed dial.

“Yo,” a man’s voice answered.

Jerking the phone from his ear, Walsh checked the number. Honey’s.

“Who is this?” he asked. Demanded.

“It’s me, man. Brody.”

“Why the hell do you have Honey’s phone?”

“I’m great, thanks for asking,” Brody said. “How are you?”

“Why the hell do you have her phone?”

“Because she left it on the table, and I saw your number come up on the screen. I figured you’d want to hear from the guy you love like a brother.”

Even from approximately 2500 miles away, Walsh could see the asshole’s blue eyes glinting with laughter. “Brody—”

“Those curls of hers are damn cute,” the other man continued. “Looks like Mexico was good for her.”

Maybe Brody could hear Walsh gnashing his teeth through their cell connection. “Problem?” he asked now.

“Not at all,” Walsh answered, ignoring the green tinge to his vision. “Just trying to understand why I’m talking to you and not to her.”

“Oh. We’re eating lunch, and she spilled.”

“Lunch?”

“Remember, you asked us all to keep an eye on her. Just doing my part.”

“I didn’t say you needed to
eat
with her.”

“Well, I am. We are,” Brody replied cheerfully. “And she got a stain on her blouse, so she opted to take it off.”

“She’s taking off her clothes for you,” Walsh repeated in a deadly tone. The green tinge morphed into the red of rage, and his voice rose. “What the
fuck
?”

Brody let out a long whistle. “Get a leash on that inner Rottweiler, yeah? We’re at a restaurant. She’s in the restroom.”

“The whole of which she’s going to flash when she comes out?” The top of Walsh’s head felt ready to explode.

“Chill, Walsh.” Brody once again sounded amused. “Get a grip. She has a jacket that will cover her up just fine.”

“Shit.” He pressed his fingers to his aching temple. “Sorry. I’m tired. And sick of being cooped up in windowless rooms with self-important brass and lousy lukewarm coffee.”

“Maybe you’re frustrated, too.”

Walsh narrowed his eyes. How the hell would the other man know he’d spent the dark hours of last night pummeling his pillows and endlessly shifting to find a cool spot on the sheets? He’d finally delved under the waistband of his boxers to grab hold of his aching cock and jack-off to conjured images of his admin, her curls bouncing at the back of her neck as he fucked her from behind.

Something he hadn’t gotten around to.

Damn it.

Brody spoke up again. “Now that you’ve decided on a wife hunt, I’m sure it’s aggravating to have meetings get in the way.”

Walsh’s phone was submersion-proof and shatter-proof, rugged enough for the battlefield. Thank God, because his fist would have pulverized a more delicate model.

“Who told you about that?” he demanded, then huffed a breath. “Don’t bother answering. Reed can’t keep anything to himself.”

“Oh, well, it’s not like the lot of you aren’t gossiping about me all the time,” Brody pointed out.

“Fuck you.”

The other man acted as if he hadn’t heard that. “And I’m not knocking your plan. Maybe if you stick to your list—”

“You heard about that too?” Outrage gathered like a ball of fire in his belly.

“Well, it’s been a long lunch. Honey and I have gotten kind of close. You know, I’ve always liked her.”

Who knew your admin had a body that hot?

Brody had said those words that day at Payne’s when Honey had tried to quit her job. And just now he’d said,
Honey and I have gotten kind of close
.

Walsh’s gut burned fiercer. “You keep your distance from her, do you hear me?”

“But, hey,” the other man protested, “I thought you wanted me to—”

Walsh hung up before Brody’s voice of reason made him throw his phone at the mirror across the room.

He couldn’t afford the bad luck.

But it seemed to dog him anyway. A few hours later, when room service was delivered, he discovered they’d overcooked his steak, sent the wrong kind of salad dressing, and included apple cobbler instead of the cheesecake he’d ordered for dessert. Rather than send it back, he ate the meal as it was, afraid if he called down to the kitchen he’d go off on a rant that had nothing to do with the difference between medium and well-done or vinaigrette and Roquefort. Anyway, the apple cobbler had been excellent.

Yet his mood did not improve.

Still sitting at the small table by the window with its view of the National Mall, he looked toward his phone. Staring at the device resting next to his empty bottle of microbrew, he told himself not to call.

Then he muttered, “Fuck it,” and reached out.

His hand froze as he noticed the time. Beyond business hours, even on the West Coast. While that had never stopped him from phoning Honey before, things were different now. Fuck
that
, he thought, and made the call.

At the sound of her voice, his tension eased, just as he’d hoped it might.

“Hi,” he said. “Hi, there.”

“I was expecting your call.”

The last of his earlier headache subsided. “You were?”

“Brody said he talked to you.”

“Yeah.” He took a breath. “Did you, uh, have a nice lunch?”

That sounded polite, didn’t it? Not like he’d wanted to squeeze the other man’s neck until his ears popped off his head.

“We went to Malibu Seafood.”

Walsh frowned. It was
their
place…well, if a boss and an admin could
have
a place. He cleared his throat. “What did you order? Was Junie there?”

She always agonized over the choice between a Louie salad and a swordfish sandwich. He never told her why, but he invariably ordered the one that she didn’t, so she could have a bite or two of the other taste she craved. And the thing was, he didn’t even like Louie salads.

He listened with half an ear as she gave him an update on Junie, the lunchtime counter person. Then she moved on to news about a couple of the regulars they happened to know. Instead of absorbing the particulars of her conversation, he merely listened to the sound of her voice, murmuring here and there to keep her going.

Moving to the bed, he kicked back on the pillows and crossed his ankles, feeling relaxed for the first time since leaving Mexico. He let his mind drift there for a moment, recalling the warm brush of the breeze, the scent of Honey’s perfume, and the sweet taste of her pussy in his mouth. His eyes drifted closed, and he placed his palm on the other side of the bed, as if he could will her to appear there.

“Walsh?
Walsh
?”

He jerked out of his half-aroused stupor. “What? Sorry. What did you say?”

Should he explain he’d been floating away on fantasies of her surprising him in this hotel room? They’d lock the door and only let in room service, uncaring if they sent cobbler instead of corn flakes, roasted chicken instead of chicken noodle soup. It would only matter that they had each other and the big bed…and hang all the stupid meetings.

“I asked you what you wanted me to do about Lydia.”

“Lydia?”

“Your second-date-that-ended-early? When Rose was hurt? You rescheduled Lydia for tomorrow night, and she called the office to confirm since you weren’t answering your cell.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t even remembering seeing her name come up on the screen. “Could you phone her and cancel for me? I won’t be back tomorrow night.” And he wasn’t interested in another date with Lydia, though he supposed he’d have to break that to her if she continued to call.

“Jessalyn also wanted me to leave a message for you. Her niece is having a sixth birthday party at the zoo next weekend, and she thought you might like to accompany her.”

When he didn’t immediately respond, Honey’s voice took on an edge. “I think you’ve dated her four times. She’s the event planner you met at that business launch party?”

“Right.” A willowy brunette. “I don’t know—”

“Well you should know.” Honey sniffed. “What with her interest in attending her niece’s party, she probably wants kids. So that makes her a two-fer. An excellent hostess
and
potential mother material.”

At her sharp tone, Walsh stiffened. First Reed, then Brody, and now Honey. The day had been too long and his stress level too high for him to hold back his sudden flare of temper. “Damn it, did I ask for your opinion?”

“No, but—”

“But you think my plan is stupid.”

The ensuing pause told him she regretted what she’d said and that she was trying to figure out if she should actually be honest or slither away from the subject altogether.

“Go ahead, Honey.” He grabbed for calm and cooled his voice. “Tell me what you really think.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “I…I think it’s ill-conceived. Relying on a list, working off a catalog of requirements—”

“How is that different from a job listing?” he demanded. So much for keeping calm.

A moment of silence passed. “Um, that’s it exactly. Becoming someone’s spouse
is
different from taking a position in their business.”

His headache was on the rebound. “What makes you an expert on a good marriage?”

“Because I’ve witnessed what makes a bad one,” she said quietly. “A partnership based on love and respect would be different. Spouses take care of the other when one is sick. Commemorate the day when one has achieved something important. If there’s been a disappointment, a loving spouse will be there with a sympathetic ear or maybe a favorite candy bar.”

“Candy bar,” he scoffed. “How about a blow job?”

He instantly hated his crudeness, just like he was hating this whole conversation and the fact that he could only blame himself for it. It was he, after all, who had invited her to speak her mind.

“That too,” she said equably, as if he wasn’t the biggest asshat in the universe. “But who’s going to offer that to a man who’s essentially selected them like a new hire? And if you can’t see that—”

“I’ve seen enough,” he interrupted, her patient tone getting on his last nerve. “I’ve seen what happens when a man believes in that pretty story you tell and gives his fucking heart and every drop of passion he has to a woman, then almost loses all he fucking cares about in return.”