Tanner I KNEW THE second I opened my eyes she was gone. I should’ve been ecstatic. I never let women stay over. In fact, I rarely brought women here. Over the years I’d been in Sydney I could count the number of dates I’d brought to my penthouse on one hand. Then again, Abby hadn’t been a date. She’d been...what? A one-night stand? A chance hook-up? A goddamn mistake? Technically, all of the above, which begged the question: Why the hell did I feel so disgruntled to find her gone? That was another thing. I’d slept better last night than I had in years. Usually I liked the bed all to myself, hated having anyone encroach on my personal space. Yet after the fifth time we’d fucked she’d spooned me and I’d liked it, to the point I’d fallen into a deep slumber, so deep I hadn’t heard her leave. Shit. Why did she have to sneak out of here like some damn fugitive? Peeved, I pushed out of bed and headed for the shower. Alone, when I’d had grand plans for the two of us in my expansive double shower complete with rain head and angled jets. Lots of possibilities with those jets. Especially with how responsive she’d been... I could’ve turned her to face the back wall, where she would’ve braced. I could’ve bent her forward. Adjusted the jets to hit her sweet spot. Taken her from behind... Swearing, I turned the taps to cold. Ice cold. Jerking off wouldn’t ease the desire pounding through my veins like the insistent beat of a drum. Burying myself in Abby would, but that wasn’t an option. Not now. Probably not ever again. Last night had been an aberration. It had to be. I’d vowed to not touch Remy’s protégé but that had shot to shit when she’d come on to me like an eager virgin. I should’ve had stronger willpower. I hadn’t. Not getting laid for months had short-circuited my brain. Both the big and little one. A lousy excuse because I could’ve stopped her. I should’ve stopped her. But I hadn’t, and now I had to live with the consequences. Namely seeing her every day at work and keeping my hands off her. I wasn’t a complete idiot. I knew we couldn’t have a repeat. That would be a disaster of monumental proportions. Women like Abby didn’t do one-night stands. They did romance and bouquets and all that crap, no matter how much they protested to the contrary. Especially if she hadn’t been with a guy in a year. That blew me away. How could a beautiful woman who’d come out of a shitty marriage not have wanted to purge her past? Then again, maybe her ex had done such a number on her that she’d sworn off men for a while? Whatever the reason, I’d been the beneficiary, because the way she’d reacted to my every touch had blown my mind. That was what had me rattled the most. The flashbacks of what we’d done. Her on her front, me entering her from behind. Her with her legs spread, me eating her out. Her riding me like a cowgirl. Her clawing my back and biting my shoulder and tentatively licking my cock like it was the best damn popsicle she’d ever tasted. ‘Fuck,’ I muttered, towelling off and dressing in record time. I couldn’t go to the patisserie, not today. Couldn’t face her. Not without my every erotic thought replaying like an X-rated flick on constant repeat. She’d know. Then where would we be? If my willpower had been at an all-time low last night, now that I knew how combustible we were between the sheets, would I be able to resist? Doubtful. Which meant I needed time and space between us to gain perspective. That meant staying away from Le Miel. I grabbed a bottled banana smoothie from the fridge and headed out. There’d been a shitload of work I could’ve done at Embue last night before I got distracted. In the best possible way. The way she’d come on to me in my private room... Damn, I better hole away in my office and stay clear of that room. Having wavering willpower was one thing. Deliberately putting myself into a fraught situation another. I’d try to do the right thing where Abby was concerned but I wasn’t a saint, and I knew that keeping her at arm’s length until Remy got back on his feet would slowly but surely kill me. I arrived at Embue, parked in the private underground spot reserved for me and entered the club. All these years later it never failed to give me a thrill that I owned this place. That it flourished. That it continued to grow. Despite dear old Dad’s many dire predictions I’d never amount to anything. How many times had I listened to his snide comments, berating me, battering my self-esteem, while he deliberately praised Remy when he wasn’t around, knowing it would make me feel like shit? How many times had he served me the crusts off the fresh bread loaf while he got the thickest slices? How many times had he given me a shrivelled chicken wing while he ate the juicy breast? After Mum died, on the rare occasions Remy was home he thought Dad was a mean prick too, but he’d excused his mood swings and anger as grief. But I knew better because Dad saved his own special brand of vitriol for me alone. Even before Mum had died, I’d felt unworthy. That I was not good enough. That I couldn’t do anything right. He treated me like a second-class citizen but only when Mum and Remy couldn’t see. I didn’t get it. Had always thought it was my fault, some inherent flaw only Dad could see. Until the day Mum died and I overheard the final argument that drove her to her death. The day the old bastard revealed the truth behind his hatred and I’d vowed to never let his insults or shoddy treatment hurt me ever again. Because it wasn’t about me. It was about him. His ridiculous hang-ups and assumptions that had driven Mum to her death and driven me to be nothing like him. I’d rejoiced the day the prick had died. I’d attended his funeral out of respect for my brother. Remy never understood my latent hatred of our father, and I’d never told him the truth. Better that one of us had good memories rather than none. Then again, he’d been five years older than me and already holding down a part-time pastry chef apprenticeship while juggling school at fifteen, so he hadn’t been around to witness Dad’s ritualistic, systemic torture of me. The son he blamed for his entire miserable life. It meant nothing now. He couldn’t hurt me any more. But every time I strode through one of my clubs I saluted him for giving me the drive, the ambition, to be so much better than he ever gave me credit for. ‘Hey, Tanner, didn’t expect to see you today.’ Hudson Watt, my manager and oldest friend, slapped me on the back as I entered the bar area. ‘Aren’t you meant to be making pastries or croissants or some other fancy-schmancy shit?’ ‘Had a stack of stuff I wanted to check up on last night but didn’t get a chance so thought I’d spend the day here.’ Hudson grinned, the same smug grin he’d given me in high school when I’d tried to weasel out of a history assignment by devising an elaborate lie and he’d seen right through me. ‘Bit busy last night, huh?’ Hudson filled a glass with water and added a lime twist before sliding it along the bar towards me. ‘Here. You’re probably dehydrated after swapping spit with that hot blonde you had holed away in your private VIP room.’ ‘What are you, twelve?’ I downed the water anyway. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ ‘Come on, man, don’t spin me some line.’ Hudson slugged me on the arm. ‘I’ve seen you sweet-talk more girls out of their panties than the number of mojitos I’ve served. And considering I’ve worked here for ten years and filled in on many
