Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (7 page)

hell didn’t this thing have pockets? When Jonathan nudged out the

other chair with his toe, Bran sat down. Well, why not? The coffee

smelled damn good, and he needed something to hold his headache

at bay.

He reached for the stainless steel carafe and poured himself a

mugful, eyes drifting shut at the first sip. Some freshly-ground dark

roast, he thought, though it’d been so long since he’d let himself

indulge, he couldn’t be certain. A hell of a lot better than the horse

piss they served in the trailers at every fucking construction site ever.

“Good, isn’t it?” That smug smirk curled the corners of Jonathan’s

lips. “Are you hungry? I can have my cook fix you anything you like.”

Bran’s stomach rumbled, but he shook his head. He’d already

stayed longer than he’d intended. He still couldn’t figure out why

Jonathan had asked—hell, practically insisted—he stay over. No one

had ever wanted him to stick around once they’d gotten what they

wanted.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’d rather just get dressed and get going.”

“Yes, well, I sent your suit out to be pressed.” Jonathan’s grin

widened. “We got it a bit wrinkled last night.”

As if he needed to be reminded. He fingered the mark on his

wrist before lifting his mug for another sip. There was a bowl of fresh

fruit within easy reach, along with a plate of buttered whole grain

toast. Might as well have a bite. He obviously wasn’t going anywhere

for a while.

Like a fucking mind reader, Jonathan reached for a smaller bowl,

scooped some fruit into it, and placed it in front of him. This time he

didn’t hesitate; he grabbed a fork and popped the first bite into his

mouth. Amazing. Kiwi, honeydew, pineapple, blackberries, seedless

grapes. Everything he loved as a kid, but couldn’t afford now.

“I grow these myself,” Jonathan said, waving a bite of kiwi on his

own fork. “Good, huh?”

“Hmm,” Bran conceded around another mouthful of fruit. Okay,

so Jonathan was a weirdo in more ways than one, but Bran might as

well enjoy it while he could.

He shoveled more fruit into his mouth.

“So,” Jonathan said. He sipped at a steaming mug, eyeing Bran

over the rim. By the little smile on his face, he seemed to like what

he was seeing, even if Bran hadn’t shaved today. Bran scratched at a

stubbled cheek, suddenly self-conscious. “How’d you sleep?”

Bran sighed.
This
was why he never stuck around after sex.

Not that anyone’s ever asked you anyway.

“Okay, I guess.”

A moment’s silence. Another. Jonathan looked on like he

disapproved of Bran not holding up his end of the conversation.

“Not very talkative in the morning, are you?”

“What’s there to talk about? Unless”—he hooked his thumb

over his shoulder, pointing back toward the bedroom—”you want to

have another go?”

Jonathan laughed, shook his head. “It’s nice having a conversation

every now and then. In fact . . .” He wiped his hands on the napkin

in his lap. “I wouldn’t mind having dinner with you again. How’s

tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Monday. Some of us have to
work
.”

Jonathan pursed his lips. “I didn’t inherit all this, you know. But

if a work night isn’t good for you, how about this Friday?”

Persistent little bugger, wasn’t he? But what the hell . . . the sex

was good, and so was the food, and he supposed the company wasn’t

too
unbearable. “I’ll have to check my schedule,” he said. “Sometimes

jobs run long.”

“All right.” If Bran had disappointed Jonathan, he didn’t show it.

He sipped his drink again, buttered a piece of toast. Cut the crust off

before he ate it.

God, what a waste.
Bran sighed and plucked the crust off

Jonathan’s plate. “This is the best part.”

“See?” Jonathan said, grinning wide. “We’re a perfect fit.”

Bran grimaced and put the crust back on Jonathan’s plate,

irritation rising at Jonathan’s frown. What the hell did he expect?

They’d only slept together twice—or technically, once—for fuck’s

sake. Not exactly cause for picking out china.

He went back to his fruit. Jonathan went back to the paper. A

few minutes passed in silence that looked much more comfortable

to Jonathan than it felt to Bran. He picked up his mug, drained his

coffee. Flicked the handle with his thumb. Jonathan looked up at him

over the paper and arched one eyebrow—
everything okay?

“I just . . . I don’t get it,” Bran said, then wished he hadn’t.

Jonathan put the paper down. “Don’t get what?”

“You. This.” He waved around at the greenhouse, the half-eaten

breakfast, the silk robe. “All of it. I mean, look at you. Why—?”

Jonathan just smiled. “Why not? You’re an interesting man. I’d

like to get to know you better.”

“You’ve already gotten to know me about as well as a guy can.”

“On one level, yes. But I’ve a feeling there’s a lot more to you than

a tight ass and a pretty face.”

Bran felt his cheeks heat, but he put on his best scowl and said,

“Gee, thanks a lot.”

Jonathan flashed him that smug smile again. “You’re blushing.”

Fuck you, asshole.

“You’re very cute when you blush.”

With an
ice pick.

And damn Jonathan for being so adorable when he smirked. Even

worse, he clearly knew it.

“There’s more to me than my money, you know. Come, Brandon.

One more dinner. I’ll even cook.”

“
You
can cook?”

“Like I said, I didn’t inherit all this. And I much prefer a home-

cooked meal to opening a can.”

“I’ll think about it,” Bran said. He picked up his napkin and

wiped his mouth, just to have something to do with his hands. Plus,

it felt surprisingly good to toss it back to the table. “Listen, I should

go. Got anything to wear that won’t be six inches too short?”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes—
Ha, hit a nerve, fucker!
—then

recovered his composure and shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Bran didn’t doubt it. Everything the guy owned was probably

tailored. Even his damn socks.

“But your suit ought to be ready by now. I instructed my maid to

leave it in the bedroom. Shall I check?”

Bran shook his head and stood. “Nah, I got it.” Bad enough the

guy had bought the suit; he didn’t need to fetch it for him too. “So,

I’ll uh . . .” He hesitated, stuck his hand out for Jonathan to shake.

Jonathan stood with another raised eyebrow and shook back with

both hands—and yeah, okay, maybe shaking hands
was
ridiculous

after the sex they’d had.

“My driver will take you home,” Jonathan said, still clasping Bran’s

hand in both his own.

“That’s not—”

“I insist.” Added, softer, “Please.”

“Fine,” Bran grumbled. It’s not like Jonathan didn’t know where

he lived already anyway.

Bran showed up at work early on Monday morning. Why not? He

hadn’t exactly gotten a good night’s sleep with his last conversation

with Jonathan still rattling around in his brain. So he stood around

in the early-morning cold, drinking coffee and checking scaffolding

until his crew showed up.

“Looking kinda ragged, buddy,” Mike said the second he climbed

out of his van. “Wild weekend?” Bastard was smirking, just like

Jonathan. He clapped Bran on the shoulder. “She have a sister?”

Bran flipped him the bird. “Won’t your blow-up doll get jealous?

Get to work, asshole.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Foreman, sir.” Mike tipped his ball cap with another

fucking smirk and poured himself a cup of coffee.

The rest of the crew filtered in, and soon Bran found himself up

the frame of the ridiculous mansion they were building for some

Chinese broker, nailing down roof joists with a pneumatic gun. Not

his usual work, but he liked it just fine, and they were down a man

today. He laughed at an image of Jonathan trying to fill in. He’d

probably nail his hand to the wal . Or fall off the scaffold.

And so will you if you don’t stop thinking about him and focus.

Lunchtime finally rolled around, and Bran and his crew sat out

front, eating their sandwiches and drinking cheap coffee. Nothing

like the stuff he’d been drinking yesterday. He’d forgotten coffee—

hell, food of any kind—could taste so good.

They were all about to get back to work when a white van pulled

up, and out climbed a guy in delivery coveralls. What the hell? This

was a closed construction site and he hadn’t ordered any supplies in

today.

The guy circled around to the back of the van, then reappeared

with a small potted plant. An orchid. Just like the ones on Jonathan’s

balcony.

He didn’t. Tell me he didn’t.

The delivery guy headed straight for them and said, “Brandon

McKinney?”

Shit. He did.

For a second, Bran was tempted to tell the guy he had the wrong

address, but then Mike piped up with a very amused, “Right here!”

Added, quieter, to Bran, “Ain’t that backwards, buddy? Aren’t
you

supposed to send the flowers?”

Oh, you are
so
fired, you jerk.

The delivery guy walked up to Bran and handed him the pot.

“Here you go, sir.” And just like Saturday’s courier, he walked away

before Bran could tip him.

There was a card, of course.
“Friday at eight? I’ll send the car.

—J.”
Mike snatched the card from his fingers with an exaggerated,

“Oooooooh. Who’s J, Bran? She hot? Oooh, ‘send the car’? She

rich
?”Bran reached to snatch it back, but Mike danced out of the way.

He’d never shut up if Bran didn’t shut him up, so he flashed a smile at

Mike—all teeth, no friendliness—and said, “Yes, he
is.”

For a second Mike just blinked at him, and he regretted having

said anything—they might actually
believe
him, and he needed these

guys to respect him. But then Mike just laughed and shook his head

and said, “You handsome fucking shark, you’re dating a Playboy

bunny, aren’t you,” and handed back the card with another friendly

pat on the shoulder.

Still, Bran had a feeling he was
never
going to live this down.

CHAPTER
5

randon looked amazing. A few days’ worth of ginger stubble,

neatly trimmed. Dark jeans that showed every plane and curve

of those gorgeous legs. Sport coat over a bright green dress shirt that

made his eyes pop like spring grass. The top two buttons were undone,

revealing a tantalizing hint of throat and col arbone.

Brandon crossed his arms and grinned like a piranha. “You’re

staring.”

Jonathan cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I can hardly be blamed.

Please, come in.”

He put an arm around Brandon’s waist and ushered him inside.

Gesturing toward the couch, he said, “Have a seat. Would you like

something to drink?”

Brandon’s smile softened. “Is your scotch as good as your

coffee?”

“Even better.”

“I’ll have a double.”

He poured doubles for them both while Brandon took off his

jacket and settled on the couch, then handed Brandon his drink and