A Fine Mess

Book 2: Over the Top

by Kelly Siskind

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

"You will be hooked from the first page." -- Kelly Elliott, New York Times bestselling author "Everything that I've come to expect from a Kelly Siskind novel---characters that make me smile, laugh, and swoon." -- Jennifer Blackwood, USA Today bestselling author "Crackles with wit and heat!" -- M. O'Keefe Some guys should come with a warning label . . . Sawyer West is Mr. One-Night Stand. He doesn't do relationships or promises or feelings. He's never cared enough to get involved. Until Lily Roberts. She's sweet and shy and sexy as sin, and resisting her is testing his self-control. She believes Sawyer can be a better man, and for the first time in his life, he wants to be. But change isn't easy, and Sawyer would do anything to protect Lily from his past self. Even break his own heart . . .

Release date: August 2, 2016

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 322

Sample

One

Whoever wrote the sixties song “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do” didn’t know the half of it. I’ve been living in Breakup Limbo for a year. A quiet town, population: two. Three hundred and sixty-five days of indecision. Each month, I wonder when I’ll find the courage to break up with Kevin, crushing our eleven years together. Each month, my fear and nerves and doubt feed my uncertainty. Then my design partner and boss, Sawyer West, comes to town, and I’m a walking mess.

We stand back from the takeout counter, Sawyer with his arms crossed, me biting my lip, while we examine the chalkboard menu above. Normally, ordering lunch is a simple affair. I might take a while deciding between a wrap or a salad, sushi or dim sum, but I don’t stare at the menu as if the letters are rearranging themselves.

That only happens when I’m with Sawyer.

He squints at the scrawled letters. “I’m obviously getting the Pig Wrap. Chipotle bacon and porchetta were invented for me. You know what you want?”

You, I should say. I’ll take all six feet, the sandy hair, brown eyes, wide shoulders, and lean body to go. With an extra dimple and sexy smile on the side, please. Unfortunately, my boyfriend might put up a fuss when I show up with my purchase.

“Can’t decide,” I say. The theme of my life these days.

A month ago, I dragged Shay and Raven out for a girls’ night. I was desperate to unload my dizzying thoughts about my stagnant relationship with Kevin, and I laid out the details. How we’d grown apart. That I loved him, but wasn’t in love with him. They were the same words I’ve been parroting mentally for a year as I flip through old photos solo, gorge on chocolate, and wonder when we lost what we had. It all seemed clear in that moment. I was sure I’d march home and finally end things with him. But when I got there, he smiled at me from our couch, his nose poking above his book. “Your mom called. I told her I’d drive up north this weekend to help with that charity drive.”

My resolve plummeted, and anxiety cramped my stomach. He’s a good man, I thought. He loves my family as much as I love his. So I said nothing. I went to sleep alone, the way I often do, my abdomen twisting in discomfort, and when he crawled into bed, we slept with our backs to each other.

Now Sawyer’s in town from Vancouver, his first visit since that night, and I hate myself a little more for not being strong enough to move on with my life.

Oblivious to my turmoil, he says, “If you can’t decide what to order, we’ll have to break it down. Pros and cons.” He steps behind me as a group of three squeezes past us to order at the counter. The toes of his shoes touch the heels of my ankle boots.

“Okay,” I say all breathy, like I’m twenty-six going on sixteen.

“The Veggie Vixen is off the list for obvious reasons. Portobello mushrooms don’t replace meat. The Napa Wrap could be decent since turkey is your go-to choice. The apple is a plus, and you eat kale like it’s going out of style. But the blue cheese is a deal-breaker.”

“I like blue cheese.”

“No, you don’t. No one actually likes something that smells like ass. And the honey-mustard dressing is questionable. If they use that Dijon crap, it’s a hard no.”

I tilt my head so he can see me roll my eyes, and my hair catches the stubble along his jaw. He brushes the strands away, grazing my ear.

My IQ joins my belly in a free fall.

It’s been like this since Aspen, my feelings and attraction to Sawyer growing by the week. The day. The minute. I often pick apart the domino effect that led us together, a string of innocent coincidences: Shay staying in her toxic relationship with her ex, him dumping her, then Raven and I taking her on a girls’ trip to Aspen. If Shay hadn’t skied into Kolton, we wouldn’t have knocked on his hotel door and met his friends. I wouldn’t have looked into Sawyer’s brown eyes as we talked design and clothing for five days, my I have a boyfriend the only thing keeping him at a platonic distance. Now I’m working for his retail chain, while crushing on my boss.

And I still have my boyfriend.

Another couple hurries in, the man accidentally brushing us. Sawyer tips forward, into me, and grips my waist to keep from falling. The man apologizes and Sawyer replies, but I don’t hear a thing. I may be wearing a thick pea coat, but I sense each of his fingers—his thumb on my back, his large hand curling around my waist, his index finger touching my ribs. I inhale deeply, and I swear his grip tightens. I’m on my feet, no chance of falling, but he doesn’t let go.

“Back to the pros and cons,” he says, his voice deep and heavy in my ear. The rest of his playful menu descriptions barely register.

My life these days is nothing but stacks of pros and cons. Lists upon lists of breakup woe. It’s time I end things with Kevin, but letting go of him is like letting go of everything I’ve ever known: my best friend, my neighbor who chased me around our joined yards tossing dirt at my head. My first kiss. My rock when my grandmother passed. My security when I was away from home for the first time.

Then there’s Sawyer.

His lips are by my ear, his hands spanning my waist as he helps me decide what to order, and I’m hazy, almost weightless from his proximity. As though I’m air and he’s light and we’re lost in space. The way he takes advantage of moments like this, touching me, talking close, I wonder if he feels it, too.

But I’m not available.

“So, what will it be?” he asks.

“Sorry, what?”

He pauses, drops his hands, and steps to the side. No air. No light. Only confusion. “What will it be?” he repeats. “The offensive blue cheese wrap, or the Greek chicken one with the olives and feta?”

Just like that he flips us back to friends, coworkers, as though I imagined the heat between us. “I’ll get the blue cheese one.”

As he heads to the counter, he says, “If you’re nice, I’ll let you have a bite of mine when you realize you made the wrong choice.”

I almost laugh. Almost. He has no clue how badly I want that bite. A lick. A taste. And if he doesn’t feel the same, it will cut deep. But this choice is bigger than my interest in Sawyer. Staying in a loveless relationship isn’t fair to Kevin. To me. We haven’t touched each other intimately in a year. We don’t cuddle anymore. No stolen kisses. No flirtatious games. We’re roommates who are too comfortable to move on.

My blood rushes then, a tide of nerves flowing under my skin. The same sensation that resurfaces when I debate leaving Kevin. The need to find a store and buy something becomes all-consuming—to shop, spend, own, covering my unease with purchases, a pattern I try to avoid. But I can’t keep letting my issues control my life.

Sawyer turns with our food, and I ignore the warning signs. We remove our coats and sit at the counter. He takes the radish garnish from his plate and sticks it on mine. I give him my pickle.

After a few bites of his wrap, he says, “This is amazing. How bad is yours?”

I pick up a piece of fallen blue cheese and make a show of placing it on my tongue. “Delicious.”

“That’s nasty. But I’m glad my pros-and-cons exercise worked. When I go home and you get stuck making a decision, you should call me. I’ll talk you through it.”

That would be quite the conversation. “I’m capable of making my own decisions.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes.” He swallows another bite and shrugs. “When it comes to work, you’re a decisive champ. You play around with options until you nail an idea. But when we go out to lunch or you rent a movie—you know, the important, life-altering decisions—you freeze. That’s where I come in.”

That is where he comes in. Kevin often works late, and I use the time to sketch, sometimes brainstorming with Sawyer. If I plan to watch a movie afterward, we sit on the phone while I scroll through listings, laughing at the options, me unable to decide. His voice fills me with static. Electromagnetic interference. If he were one of the comic book characters he obsesses over, he’d be Captain Distracto.

Sawyer’s powers are even stronger in person. Since he and Kolton opened their newest Moondog location in Toronto—another coincidence, fate guiding my life—Sawyer flies down from Vancouver monthly to check on the place. We review my sketches, and I try on sample clothing while we swap ideas. I often zone out, wondering how his stubble would feel against my inner thighs.

Static, static, static.

Guilt always follows shortly, a stickiness I can’t shake.

“I don’t trust your taste in movies,” I say. “You only like the Marvel Comics ones.”

“Because they’re awesome.”

“Because they’re juvenile.”

He grins. “Juvenile is awesome, but these days they’re pretty dark and gritty. Also awesome.”

I lick some sauce from my fingers and glance over to catch him watching me. His gaze lingers on my lips. Without warning he reaches over and brushes his thumb across the corner of my mouth, those beautiful brown eyes turning midnight. His lips part. My pulse rockets. Then he blinks and pulls his hand back, and that slick of guilt returns, my belly a roiling mess.

“Just a crumb,” he says to the window in front of him, and picks up his wrap.

I should look away, but I can’t. I love how his eyelids slant down at the sides, giving him a lazy look. Relaxed. Laid back. Outside pedestrians battle the wind, hunched forward as they hurry by. Sawyer eats quietly.

But I’m a tornado.

If I don’t detach from the comfort and familiarity of my relationship, I’ll spin until I’m too dizzy to stand upright. If I do detach, my shopping might spin out of control, but I can’t keep living like this, can’t stay in a relationship that isn’t right.

It’s not a choice. It never was. It’s about courage. I’m not in love with Kevin and haven’t been for years. I have to break up with him. Finally. The possibility of being with Sawyer may be a catalyst, but it’s the right thing to do. Even if I’ve imagined the heat between Sawyer and me, I’ll find it with someone else. Another man who creates static and lights up my world. But I have to face Kevin tonight. Not chicken out this time. Not allow our history and my issues to undermine my intent.

Suddenly parched, I grab my iced tea and smile at the four straws on our tray—three for me, one for Sawyer. The first time I stuck three straws in my drink in Aspen, he looked at me like I was nuts. I explained I like to get maximum suckage, not realizing how dirty it sounded. He jumped on my faux pas and said, “I’m all for maximum suckage. Minimal suckage can be unsatisfying.”

After a morning of skiing, the two of us went for an early lunch, one of the few times we were alone on that trip. Being with Kevin, I wasn’t the type to enjoy harmless flirting with other men. I’d always excuse myself from an awkward conversation or clam up, but something about Sawyer was different. His unapologetic humor. The way we could spend hours talking about the cuts of ski jackets and fabric trends. How I couldn’t stop imagining kissing his full bottom lip.

Instead of shying away from the conversation, I said, “I agree. It’s all about technique.” That was as bold as I could get. If I were Raven or Shay, there would have been innuendo about where to place your tongue on the straw and how deep to take the plastic. I thought those things and likely blushed, but didn’t say them aloud.

He must have read my mind, sifting through my unspoken banter, landing on the heart of things. “It’s too bad you have a boyfriend,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind testing your theory.”

My cheeks burned.

That was the only time either of us has mentioned being more than friends and coworkers. Boss and employee. That was nine months ago, but I’ve never forgotten. I often wonder if he has. Then we have moments like today when he stands close, leans closer, and touches me longer than a friend would.

I don’t think he’s forgotten, either.

We sit on stools at the counter, side by side, eating in silence. Nothing has changed, but everything feels different. His knee is touching mine, his elbow brushing mine, his space invading mine, sending tingles to my toes.

Static, static, static.

He wipes his mouth, tosses his crumpled napkin on his plate, then eyes my half-eaten wrap. “I told you not to get that one.”

“It was good. I just wasn’t hungry.”

He checks his watch. “I should go. I have some things to do before my flight.” He studies me a beat, his gaze roaming my face, then he leans in to kiss my cheek. So, so slowly. So, so softly. His lips press against my cheekbone, his warm breath and closeness overheating my brain. He lingers. A platonic friend wouldn’t linger. A platonic friend wouldn’t inhale my scent. Or maybe I’m overanalyzing everything he does.

A moment later, he pulls back. “You watching one of those stupid singing shows tonight?”

Still tingly and mesmerized by the small scar on his neck, I shake my head. “I need to spend some time with Kevin.”

His jaw tics, and I want to eat my words. I want him to know I’m changing my life, that as of tomorrow things can be different between us. Instead it sounds like I’m having a romantic evening with my boyfriend. Then he grins, big, bright, and carefree. Maybe his jaw didn’t tic. Maybe the frown was nothing. Maybe he didn’t notice my wording or doesn’t care.

Or maybe he does.

Either way, I’ll call him once it’s done. Find out once and for all if I’ve let my imagination run away with me. Move forward with my life, no matter its course.

“Send the revised purse sketch when it’s done,” he says. “And I used one of the last drafting boards this morning. You should order more and check our supplies.” He puts on his coat and winks at me. “See you at the Christmas party next week.” Calm, cool, and collected, he leaves to catch his flight, treating me like the friend and coworker I am.

The rest of the day goes fast and slow, my nerves pushing and pulling me in a million directions. None of which allow me to focus at work. By the time I get home, I’m beyond frazzled. I don’t go near the kitchen. I pace the floor in my bedroom, eyeing the clock. Kevin texted he’s running late. He works around his clients’ schedules, using his honest character to sell life insurance; his sales are the highest in his region. I’m usually supportive of his long hours, but tonight they prolong my agony. I get jumpier. And jumpier. The enormity of the evening builds—my impending breakup pushing all thoughts of Sawyer from my mind. The last thing I want is to hurt Kevin, but our staying together will be more damaging. Still, my heart and thoughts race each other, no finish line in sight.

Why did I let things drag on so long?

Poundpoundpound

Whywhywhy

It hasn’t been this intense in ages, the rushing of blood in my ears. I focus on the silk robe I found at last month’s flea market. The delicate fabric may hang loosely over my chair, but in my mind a woman fills its lengths, her imagined story sewn with every thread: A new immigrant from Hong Kong clings to the last of her identity. I drag my gaze to the wingback chair below it: High tea and gossip slip across the leather, a besotted debutante dreaming about her betrothed.

Pound

Pound

Why

Why

My discomfort eases some.

Then Kevin walks in the door.

As desperate as I was for him to get home, my courage falters. Eleven years of memories flood my mind. But I can’t keep delaying my life. Being a tornado is exhausting. A deep breath later, I go into our open living room and force a smile. “How was your day?”

He hangs up his jacket with a sigh. “Long.” His straight hair is neatly parted, his slight build accentuated by his dress pants and a tucked-in button-down. He’s handsome in a sweet way—clean-cut, familiar. My best friend.

I stand by the couch, legs cemented, like a guest in my apartment.

Kevin heads to the kitchen and opens the fridge, talking as he goes. “I spoke to my dad today. He’s planning on doing that fishing competition this year. Your father’s going, too. He asked if we wanted to make a day of it like we used to. I think it would be fun.” Jug of juice in hand, he grabs a glass, fills it, and drinks half in one gulp. “I also checked out some stores for snorkel gear. We leave for Belize in a month and should figure out what we need.” He pokes his head back in the fridge, probably checking for our nonexistent dinner, then he shuts the door and leans on the counter. “Looks like an ordering Thai kind of night. Want me to call?”

His green eyes are soft, crinkled at the corners, radiating years of comfort. Companionship. If I look closely, though, the dark circles beneath are unmistakable. Maybe he’s ready to move on, too. Put an end to our faded relationship. But that means we won’t go on our planned anniversary trip to Belize. We won’t spend time with our families together. I could stay quiet and enjoy my life with Kevin, even though I’m not in love with him. Even though he doesn’t create static. But I want more. I’m ready for more. No matter how hard it is, I can’t keep living a lie.

He’s relaxed, the tension that’s been between us lately absent, smiling at me like I’m not about to rip the rug from under his feet.

That’s when I say, “We need to talk.”

Two

Lily has hijacked my brain. Lily and her white-blond hair and pink lips and hypnotic gray eyes. Lily and her “boyfriend.” The whole flight home, I gnash my teeth and sip my Scotch, trying to erase the visual of the two of them curled up on the couch or, even worse, tangled in the sheets. I’d smack my head into the wall if I could stop thinking about the time I flew in unannounced and walked into her design room at the back of Moondog. Finding her and Kevin laughing together was a dose of cyanide, a harsh reminder of the reality of things.

No matter how much time we spend together, Lily’s not mine.

When I land, I invoke Mission Amnesia. I drive straight to a bar and search out oblivion in the form of a tight skirt, halter top, and dark hair. We converse, and I lay on the charm. My new friend asks me back to her place, her name given and forgotten, then I’m in her dining room chair, that oblivion of mine close at hand.

Nothing like a blow job to forget the unforgettable.

Even one of those too-fast, too-tight, sloppy, accidental-teeth numbers when I was fourteen (thank you Leah Richardson) could brainwash me. Tonight, I need the full treatment, and my date doesn’t disappoint. The way—Talia? Tania?—moans in excitement as she sucks me into a pleasure coma stunts my wandering mind. I don’t thrust or grab her hair. I settle into her chair and let her work me over, because, really, that’s the whole point: lie back, relax, the next five to eight minutes are about me and only me.

And forgetting Lily.

This is not—Tara’s? Tami’s?—first rodeo. Not with the way she cups my balls and groans while pumping my shaft and spreading my knees wider. She takes me into the back of her throat, her tongue ring rubbing all the right places, and my abs tense in anticipation. Tight. Hot. Slippery. Eyes closed, I grip the leather armrests.

Then I hear: “Never gonna get it.”

My newest ringtone for Lily “We’re Just Friends” Roberts blares, the song lyrics courtesy of Nico. Lesson learned last weekend: never abandon your phone around your friends, especially when they mess with settings you have no clue how to fix. Give me ink and paper, and I’ll sketch your likeness in ten minutes flat. Leave me alone with a computer, and I’ll black out Canada.

Tasha? Taryn? doesn’t miss a beat. She changes her rhythm to match the song playing from my phone. The chorus repeats, those same words—never gonna get it—looping, while her head rises and falls faster. And faster. The song ends, those sucking sounds return, and fire should be shooting down my spine.

Some blow jobs are better than others, but if a chick’s mouth is wet, her teeth are sheathed, and she shows a modicum of enthusiasm, you can count on me to come hard and fast. It’s not rocket science. No PhD required. I’d take a BJ over sex any day of the week. If you question your fellatio skills, I’m the guy you want on the receiving end. But my vision isn’t blurring. The heat creeping up my thighs dissipates. All too quickly, I realize I’d rather have answered that call than finish in this chick’s mouth.

Talk about screwed.

I try picturing her dark hair as white blond. Lily. I try imagining the skilled hands between my legs as petite, her nails covered in chipped blue polish. Lily. Nothing works. I peek down at my watch: nine p.m. With the time difference, it’s too late for Lily to call me…unless something is wrong. My heart rate picks up.

For the wrong reason.

The trooper she is, Tris? Trina? exerts more effort. If there were a Girl Guide BJ badge, I’d sew one on her shirt myself. But my sperm minions have declared mutiny.

Normally, our night would just be starting. After the big finish, I’d go down on her until her toes curled, followed by a round of skin-slapping sex. I’d leave her feeling good about her ability as a lover and thoroughly satisfied. Not so good she’d expect a call or follow-up date. Just a fun night. I excel at fun. If I had a middle name that would be it. Or Lothario. Or Casanova. Like they say, practice makes perfect, and I majored in All Things Woman.

What I didn’t major in is having a girl friend—as in a friend of the female variety, a girl I do not pump or grind or bite or kiss. In other words, Lily.

My friend.

I place my hand on the dark head between my thighs to keep the first known recipient of the Girl Guide BJ badge still. She looks up, and my dick slides out of her mouth—the saddest sight I have ever seen.

She wipes her swollen lips. “Everything okay? Is it not…” She frowns and stares at my uncooperative cock. The ring through her nose twitches.

I reach down for my boxers and jeans while pushing back the chair. “That was great. You were great. But I need to take that call.” From my friend who happens to be a girl. My friend who refuses to break up with a dude who looks sixteen. My friend who managed to cockblock me from three thousand kilometers away.

The other victim of said cockblocking huffs out a breath and pushes to her feet. “We can pick up after you’re done.”

She saunters across the minimally decorated living/dining room toward a door at the back, probably her bedroom, pulling off her top along the way. Black lace and bold tattoos. Nice. But my seamen have battened down the hatches.

I kick my feet through my boxers. “Sorry. Won’t work. ” I zip up my jeans, my cell heavy in the back pocket. It takes a lot of effort not to check if Lily left a message. I rub my neck and focus on the pretty . . .