From Enemies to Expecting(4)

By: Kat Cantrell



“A sign. That says Trinity’s Lemonade.”

What did the man bathe in that smelled so...manly? The clean, citrusy notes spread through her senses and caught the attention of her erogenous zones, none of which had gotten the memo that she did not go for Texas boys who looked like they lived outdoors.

The man owned a sports team, for God’s sake. He’d probably need a dictionary to hold a conversation over drinks, which would no doubt include beer and a hundred TVs with a different game on each one. She and Logan were ill matched for a reality game show, let alone outside one, his rock-hard pecs aside. Her fingertip still tingled from when she’d poked him, not at all prepared for the body she’d discovered under that blue T-shirt.

“Why would we call it Trinity’s Lemonade, exactly?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling in her ear. “Logan’s Lemonade sounds better. Starts with the same letter.”

“It’s alliterative, you mean,” she supplied sweetly. “I understand the dynamics of appealing to the public better than you do, honey. So let’s stick with our strengths, shall we?”

She stroked a few more lines across her work of art and then yelped as her partner spun her around to face him. His mouth firmed into a flat line and he towered over her even in her five-inch Stuart Weitzman sandals. Trinity was used to looking men in the eye, and the fact that she couldn’t do that with Logan McLaughlin put her on edge.

“You’ve done a really good job of not mentioning your strengths, darling,” he threw in sarcastically. “I run a multimillion-dollar sports franchise. What do you do, Ms. Forrester?”

“Haven’t I mentioned it?” she tossed off casually when she knew good and well she hadn’t—on purpose. The moment a man like him heard the word cosmetics, he’d make more snap judgments and she’d had enough of that.

At this point, though, she needed to impress upon him that she was in her sweet spot. “I’m the CMO at Fyra.”

Blandly, he surveyed her. “The makeup company?”

“The very same. So now we’re all caught up,” she informed him brightly. “Marketing is my gig. Yours is figuring out which guy can hit the ball hardest. When we have a task that requires balls, I’ll let you be in charge.”

This lemonade stand graphic was the first inspired thing she’d done in weeks, which was frankly depressing. Her muse had deserted her, which was alarming enough in and of itself, but the timing was horrific. Fyra planned to launch its premier product in the next ninety days. Fortunately, no one knew she’d run dry in the creativity department. It wasn’t like she could tell her business partners that she had a mental block when it came to Formula-47. They were counting on her.

His mouth tipped up in a slow smile that didn’t fool her for a second. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re partners. That means all tasks require balls, specifically mine. Shove over and let’s do this together.”

Nice. Not only had he called her on her double entendre, he’d done it with a style she grudgingly appreciated. Which was the only reason she stepped a half inch to the right, graciously offering him room at the pad.

His arm jostled hers as he took way more space than she’d intended. The man was a solid wall of muscle, with wide shoulders and lean hips, and yeah, of course she’d noticed how well his jeans hugged the curve of his rear. That part of Logan McLaughlin was a gift to women everywhere, and she’d gotten in her share of ogling.

Without a word, he picked up his own marker and crossed out “Trinity’s Lemonade,” then scrawled, “McLemonade” across the sign. Oh, God. That was perfect. How dare he be the one to come up with it?

Scowling, she crossed her arms and in the process made sure to throw an elbow into his ribs. Which promptly glanced off as if she’d hit a brick wall. And now her elbow hurt.

“Fine,” she ground out. “We’ll go with yours. But the booth will be orange.”

He shrugged, shouldering her deliberately. “I didn’t have an issue with that.”

The man was intolerable. Nowhere near the nice guy she’d pegged him as, and once he opened his mouth, totally unattractive. Or at least that was what she was telling herself.

“Oh, yeah? So the stuff you do have issues with—that’s all getting the McLaughlin veto?” Standing her ground shouldn’t be this hard, but heels coupled with the immovable mountain snugged next to her body threw her off, and not solely because it was impossible to think through the shooting pangs of awareness that she couldn’t seem to get under control.

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