Sweet Dreams (A Sugar Rush Novel) (11 page)

“Oh, hi. Is everything okay?” She put a macramé bag down on the foyer table.

How the hell did he know it was macramé? Oh yeah, last year Aunt Julia had made a big deal of announcing that macramé was making a comeback.

Polly approached him, all brown-eyed concern with those freckles sprinkling her nose like cinnamon and her curly hair that he wanted to sink his hands into so he could tilt her head back and . . .

“Where did you go?” His voice came out sharper than he’d intended.

She blinked. “Well, nowhere obviously. I was going to leave, but my van won’t start. I’ll call Triple A.”

He frowned. “You will not.”

“Really, with the ordering me around?” Though her expression gentled as she came closer. “You look exhausted. What’s going on with the floods?”

“The rain stopped, at least.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “The farms are all flooded, but the families are safe. As soon as the water drains off, we’ll be able to go in and assess the damage. They got medical supplies, food, and fresh water into Caracas, so the aid workers are doing what they can.”

“What about your brother?”

“He called from Maracay. He’s fine. He’s probably heading to the coast now.”

Even though Warren had explicitly ordered him not to.

“Well, that’s all good news, right?”

Luke looked at her, struck anew by her sweetness. All the other women he knew would have been annoyed by the disruption of their plans, even though they’d have tried to conceal it beneath concern and a remark about his workaholic nature. Then they’d have gone off looking for somewhere else to go so their carefully cultivated beauty wouldn’t be wasted.

They would not have stayed to order pizza and brew chamomile tea.

A restless urge simmered beneath Luke’s exhaustion, like he needed to somehow compensate for a natural disaster that had prevented him from taking Polly out on the town. Because she looked so damned pretty in that black dress that hugged her figure in all the right places and showed off a half-circle of pale skin leading down to the barest hint of cleavage . . .

He took a breath and dragged his gaze back to her face. No way would he ever let another guy fulfill Polly’s mission to get laid. And despite his knowledge that he shouldn’t take this any further than he already had, no way would he let
her
fulfill that mission with anyone except him.

The office door opened, and his father and brother emerged, both carrying the mugs Polly had brought in. She flushed a little at the sight of them. Sensing her anxiety, Luke stepped toward her as if his nearness would be any comfort.

Warren tilted his head back to drain the last of the tea, then lifted the mug to Polly in a silent salute.

“Haven’t had chamomile tea since . . . well, ever.” He put the mug in the sink. “But my wife used to drink it sometimes. Not as bad as I always assumed it would be.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“Ancient Egyptians used to worship chamomile for its healing properties,” Evan remarked.

“Exactly.” Polly smiled. “It was also one of the nine sacred herbs of the Lacnunga, which was an ancient Anglo-Saxon manuscript of medical remedies.”

Luke stepped forward, suddenly annoyed by this ridiculous exchange. He didn’t want Polly charming his father and brother, especially with folklore about the history of tea. He wanted her all to himself.

Telling himself again he was being an idiot, he indicated that Warren and Evan should leave.

“Nice meeting you, Polly.” Evan extended his hand to her again. “Hope we’ll see you again some time.”

“And thanks again for both the tea and the history lesson,” Warren added.

“I’ll call you both later,” Luke told his father and brother as he walked them to the door.

Evan left without a response, his shoulder still stiff with tension over Luke’s refusal to send him to Venezuela. Luke closed the door with a sigh, hating his brother’s resentment while at the same time being irritated that Evan couldn’t see his reasoning. He had to prove Evan’s value to the company in a way that wouldn’t drive a wedge between them.

He locked the door and returned to Polly, who was washing the mugs at the sink.

“You don’t have to do that,” Luke said irritably. “I have a maid.”

She laughed. “For what? To pick nonexistent lint off the furniture?”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, it’s hard to believe you’d ever leave a
crumb
lying around for anyone to clean up.” She waved a soapy hand toward the rest of the house. “I mean, this place is as clean as an operating room.”

He tried to be offended by that remark and failed. Because it was the truth.

“This house was designed by the Scandinavian architect Axel Bjork,” he said, feeling the urge to defend it in some way.

“Oh, it’s very . . . um, architecturally modern,” Polly said. “But I’m guessing the furnishings didn’t come from IKEA.”

Luke had the feeling she was teasing him, which wasn’t an unpleasant feeling at all.

She looked around for a dish drainer or towel. He opened a drawer and handed her a clean linen towel, then watched as she dried the mugs with quick efficiency. She had to reach up to put the mugs back in the cupboard, a movement that made her little skirt rise higher on her legs.

A bolt of lust hit him as he remembered sliding his hand up under her skirt to cup the back of her warm thigh . . .

He groaned inwardly as his cock twitched.

Shower. Cold.

He jerked a thumb toward the stairs. “I’m going to shower and change. Don’t leave.”

“I can’t. My van, remember?” Polly folded the dishtowel into a perfect square. “So if you won’t let me call Triple A, what am I supposed to do?”

“I’ll figure it out.” Though he wasn’t going to try very hard. He didn’t want her to leave him right now. “I’ll be back soon.”

He took a tepid shower that was shorter than he’d intended because he wanted to get back to Polly. Not bothering to shave, he pulled on black drawstring pants and a T-shirt. Feeling marginally more like himself, he returned to where she was sitting at the kitchen counter, checking her phone.

He should take her home. That’s what any gentleman would do. Take her home, then get her van repaired tomorrow and have the mechanic drop it off at her bakery.

A vague question crossed his mind. Why did she apparently only own a bakery delivery van? But the thought disappeared half-formed into his fogged brain.

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet,” Polly remarked.

“I’m fine.”

If he slept, she might not be here when he woke. He suspected she’d call a friend to come and get her because she’d be worried she was inconveniencing him by staying.

“Come on.” She slid off the stool and rounded the counter to take his arm. “Lead the way to your bedroom, but rest assured that I’m not going to jump your bones.”

“Well, that’s a damned shame.”

She flashed him a smile. She was so fucking cute.

“You were respectful enough not to take advantage of me when I was in an . . . um, altered state,” Polly said. “So I will extend you the same courtesy.”

Luke sure as hell didn’t remember being respectful. He remembered shoving his tongue into her mouth and gripping her spread thighs and . . .

Stop.

“I’m not in an altered state,” he said.

“Lack of sleep leads to cognitive dysfunction, including bad judgment.”

“Wanting to fu . . . sleep with you is hardly bad judgment.”

Something flashed in her eyes that he didn’t like. She didn’t quite agree with his statement.

He led the way to his bedroom and pushed open the door. Polly stopped in the doorway, casting her gaze over the room with its linear black Faurschou cabinets and geometric Frank Stella painting above the bed.

“You were lying.” Polly gestured to the low, massive bed.

He followed her gaze to the pristine black comforter and black-and-white pillows perfectly arranged against the sleek, black leather headboard.

“Lying about what?” he asked.

“You said you had a huge, fluffy, four-poster bed with feather pillows.”

“I said I had a huge bed with feather pillows,” Luke corrected. “You were the one who used the words
fluffy
and
four-poster.
”

She crossed her arms, eyeing him suspiciously. “A
huge
bed implies soft, fluffy, and four-poster, not flat, uncomfortable, and Nordic minimalist. Is that even a real mattress?”

“Not only is it real, it’s a bespoke Savoir mattress made to my specifications and hand-stitched with chemical-free natural fibers like horsetail and lambs’ wool. There is no other mattress like it in the world.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows rose. “Well, aren’t you fancy.”

“More like well-slept.” He pulled back the comforter. “And while the mattress may look flat, I guarantee it isn’t uncomfortable. Try it.”

“Who am I, Goldilocks?” Her look of suspicion deepened. “I’m not
trying
your bed.”

“Then you can’t prove I was lying.”

She narrowed her eyes. Hah. She’d never be able to resist a challenge. He was starting to
know
more and more about her.

Polly approached the bed and sat gingerly on the edge, spreading her hands out over the black sheets. “What’s the thread count?”

“Over a thousand. One hundred percent Egyptian cotton.”

“Of course.” She wiggled backward onto the bed a little more, extending her legs. “Okay, it’s really nice. Firm, but not too firm. Soft, but not squishy.”

Just like her. Another rush of heat pooled in his groin.

“So it was custom-made for you specifically?” she asked, bouncing a little as if she were testing the springs.

Luke’s gaze snapped like a magnet to her breasts, which jiggled in time with her bounces. Christ, she was killing him. He fought the urge to reach down and adjust his growing erection. His loose cotton pants wouldn’t conceal it for long.

“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat when he realized she was expecting an answer. “They tailor their mattresses to a customer’s height and weight.”

“So what happens when someone else sleeps here?” she asked. “If it was made just for
you
, does a woman get all
Princess and the Pea
about sleeping on it?”

What was it with her and fairytales? He didn’t want to think about any other woman except Polly sleeping in his bed.

He shrugged. “I haven’t had any complaints.”

“And these are really feather pillows?” She moved farther onto the bed and picked up one of them.

“Down, actually. Siberian white goose.”

Polly squeezed the pillow, then lay back on the others and shifted around like she was still testing out the comfort factor. She looked up at the ceiling and blew a curl of hair out of her eyes.

Then she rolled onto her right side, presenting Luke with an incredible view of her round ass beneath the stretched fabric of her dress. She rolled back to her left. He couldn’t take his eyes off her cleavage, which was even deeper with her breasts squeezed together like that.

His dick was starting to tent his trousers. He forced his gaze to the painting above the bed, trying to think of spreadsheets and profits. R&D. Product development. Aunt Julia. He let out a breath as his erection began to subside.

“Okay, so it’s comfortable,” Polly admitted. “I don’t know that all your swanky bespoke and goose down makes it any
more
comfortable than my bed, but it’s nice.”

He approached her. “And what’s your bed like, Peach?”

“My bed?” She waved her hand loftily in the air and spoke in a British accent. “My bed is a bargain basement sale mattress with collapsing springs, cheap foam padding, and a deep sag in the middle designed specifically for the shape of my body.”

She shot him a grin. Though Luke smiled for her sake, something hard twisted in his chest at the thought that—joking aside—her description was even remotely accurate.

Polly shifted to one side of the bed, as if she were expecting him to lie down. He sat warily on the edge, not wanting to scare her. But she was gazing at the painting on the opposite wall, one hand behind her head and a thoughtful expression on her face.

Luke stretched out on the bed beside her, careful to make sure there was a good distance between them—which wasn’t difficult given the size of the mattress.

“I actually like that,” Polly remarked.

He looked at the painting, which was a splattering of black, gray, and white paint on a black canvas. Had he ever really looked at it before? After he’d bought the house, Julia had swept in with her Swedish interior designer and furnished the whole place. Luke had left her to it, not caring where he stored his clothes or what kind of table he sat at to eat breakfast.

He had ordered the mattress, though. Eight years ago, after Evan came home from a stay in the hospital, Luke had had one of the custom-made Savoir mattresses waiting in his brother’s house. Though Evan had protested the expense, after one night he’d lauded the bed’s comfort to such a degree that Luke hadn’t been able to resist ordering one for himself.

Evan had been right, too. The mattress, and resulting quality of sleep, was a luxury Luke didn’t regret.

Especially now that Polly Lockhart was lying next to him on it.

“It’s kind of
free
.” She spread her hand out to indicate the painting. “All the other art in this house is so geometric and symmetrical. But that one looks like the artist actually had some fun splashing paint on the canvas and maybe even going a little wild. It’s like a bunch of spun sugar strings all tangled together.”

When Luke didn’t respond, he sensed her look at him.

“Don’t you think?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

She shifted onto her side, facing him. Against his better judgment—because looking at Polly in his bed while lying beside her would be a monumental test of his self-control—Luke turned onto his side to face her too.

She looked good. He suspected she’d look good doing anything, but lying in his bed with her hair fanned out over her shoulders, her hands tucked beneath the goose-down pillow, and her brown eyes fixed on him with all that curious innocence . . . yeah, she looked
edible
good.