Tempt Our Fate: Chapter 7

She beams at me. Her smile is so wide and vibrant that my stomach drops at the sight of it.

It’s probably because that smile can’t be good for me. But I’m a desperate man. If she tells me no, I’m going to have to serve Lay’s chips with sour cream dip because I have no other option. Or fucking hot wings from the dirty bar down the street.

I refuse to resort to either of those options. Which means all my eggs are in one basket—Pippa’s basket. The woman who hates me—for good reason. The woman who irritates the hell out of me, but somehow, the one person I need right now. The only one who can get me out of my current dilemma.

It’s ironic. She’s the last person I want to have to be around in this town, and yet, she’s the only one who can help me.

“So anything, anything?” Pippa prods. Her voice is giddy and full of amusement. This can’t be good.

I clear my throat, trying to think if I have any other option than having to agree to whatever stupid, tragic idea is going through her head.

“Yes, anything. But please be professional.”

“You said anything. You didn’t say professional.”

My groan ricochets through the small kitchen space. “Fine,” I clip, growing more frustrated by the second. “But the offer expires in two seconds because I don’t have the time to do this with you anymore. I need food, and I need it now.”

She bites her plump bottom lip in excitement. I know by the glint in her eyes I’ll despise whatever’s about to come out of her mouth.

Feeling on edge, I pull out my wallet and open it up. “Why don’t you just name your price? That seems more professional anyway.”

A loud, dramatic snort comes from her mouth. She shakes her head, pieces of her hair falling into her eyes with the movement. She tucks one of the stray locks behind her ear, looking at me like I’m the funniest guy she knows. Which I know isn’t the case because I’m not a particularly funny guy. Especially under circumstances like this.

“Care to tell me what’s so funny?”

Her cheeks are flushed a perfect pink from her laughter. Even her nose gets pink. I avert my eyes, finding myself paying too close attention to the perfect shade spreading over her skin.

“I’m sorry,” she wheezes, pressing her hand to her chest. She takes a shaky breath, trying to gain her composure. “It’s just hilarious you think I want your damn money.”

My eyes narrow. “Everyone has a price. What’s funny is that you don’t know that.”

She puffs out her cheeks as she lets air out from the small opening of her pursed lips. “Not me.”

“Respectfully, I don’t believe you.”

“Because you’re a rich, entitled asshole,” she answers, a little too chipper. “Disrespectfully.”

I thumb through the hundred-dollar bills in my wallet, wondering if her seeing I’m good for it will change her mind.

It doesn’t. She just stares at me with humor written all over her face.

I take a deep breath. Fuck, she knows how to wear out every ounce of my patience. Anyone else, I’d already be out the fucking door, not willing to put up with the antics. But I need her, so my feet stay planted.

“Showing me your money isn’t going to change my mind. But there is one thing you can do to get me to agree to whip up some food for you tonight.”

A glimmer of hope sparks deep in my chest. “What is it?”

“Give me a day.”

“I don’t have a day. I need food right now.”

“No, you give me a day. Of your time. In this town. I think if you really spent some time in this community, you’d understand why I love it so much. It wouldn’t be some dingy town to you anymore.”

Words don’t come to me. I just stare at her, trying to decide if she’s serious. “That would involve us having to spend time together.”

“I’ll try not to kill you.”

I have no desire to spend any more time in this town than I need to. I didn’t buy the gallery to become a local. There’s no reason for me to get to know the town. The gallery is to cater to people visiting the town, not living here. The artists are people I already know, none of whom live in Sutten.

“I don’t see the reason for doing it.” My voice gets sharper, but I can’t help it. It sounds like a form of torture to spend an entire day with her. In this town.

When Beck and Margo got married here, they made me do all the touristy things with them. I didn’t enjoy it. And I actually like Beck. I don’t like Pippa. Not in the slightest.

She shrugs dismissively. No one has ever dismissed me the way she does. She goes right back to cleaning the tiny kitchen, totally pretending like I’m not standing right here.

My body is frozen as she begins to hum to herself. Holy shit. She’s serious.

She turns around, letting out an annoyed sigh that I’m still in her presence. “Stop gawking. You’ll get wrinkles.”

I must be terrible at hiding my thoughts at the moment because she opens her mouth to speak again. “Two can play this game, Camden. I don’t see the reason in doing you a favor if you aren’t even willing to give Sutten a chance. If you don’t want to embrace this town, that’s fine. But don’t expect me to help you out. If you aren’t willing to give me one day, then I hope this opening fails epically and you’re forced to leave us alone.”

This. Woman.

Typically, people don’t have the nerve to speak to me the way she has, especially not a stranger. Maybe my friends, but even that’s pushing it.

My mind races with my options. She’s made her position clear as day. Now it’s up to me to decide if I want to actually agree to her stupid, useless idea.

It really is just a day.

But one day of my time is worth a lot of money. Time is money, and every single one of my days is planned out in perfect precision. I like numbers. I like things neat. Order turns me on, and looking at the red-splattered Pippa reminds me of one thing: Pippa is anything but orderly. She’s quite the opposite, and one day with her might drive me to the brink of insanity.

There’s only one thing that’ll drive me even further to the brink of insanity. This gallery failing. I won’t let it happen.

And one way to make sure this business flourishes is a successful opening.

I need her, and she knows it. I’m at her mercy, and even though I fucking hate it, I have to agree to her silly request.

“Fine,” I rasp, the word tasting like acid in my throat. “One day. It’s yours.”

Her large, round eyes go wide in shock. “Seriously?”

I give her a curt nod, tucking my hands in my pockets because I’m anxious about what the hell I just agreed to. I already regret it.

“How do I know that you won’t bail on me? It seems unfair that I have to make everything tonight and you could just tell me to fuck off tomorrow.”

Her words are insulting. I know she knows nothing about me, and I sure as hell haven’t given her any reason to want to know me, but if I say I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it. “I’m a man of my word.” I’m pissed she would think otherwise.

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

My body moves of its own accord, cornering her against her counter because of the frustration coursing through my veins. “Listen very closely here, shortcake.”

Her chest heaves up and down as her breathing speeds up. “Stop calling me that.”

“Staying true to my word is very important to me. I hate liars. I hate cop-outs. So, shortcake—” I draw out the nickname because it’s fun to piss her off. “—I’ll say this again, and then I won’t ever repeat myself again. I’m a man of my word. You impress my guests with your baking tonight, and I’m yours for a day so you can fail at attempting to impress me with this town.”

Neither one of us speaks. We’re too busy staring daggers into each other’s eyes. The air is lit with angry, sizzling electricity around us. If I leaned in any closer, each one of her exhales would push her chest against me.

“Shake on it, then,” Pippa manages to get out. Her voice has lowered an octave, sounding too sultry for my liking. It sounded far too good coming out of her mouth. I imagine how she’d sound if I…

I shake my head, ridding myself of the mental image. No, no, no. That thought should’ve never crossed my mind. I despise her, and the feeling is very mutual. I have no business imagining what she’d sound like if I let my knuckles brush against her hard nipples, which fight against the fabric of her T-shirt.

Like a bat out of hell, I back away from her, needing the distance between us.

What the actual fuck just happened?

“You’re really not a man of many words,” Pippa notes, seemingly unfazed.

I clear my throat, trying to get my shit together. I’ve already been here far longer than I’d anticipated. Trisha made it sound like a done deal; I just had to come in and tell Pippa myself I needed help. But I should’ve known she’d put up more of a fight. “I’ve got to get back to the opening.”

She nods, but as soon as I wonder if she’s going to forget about her previous request, she holds out her hand between us, her pink-painted fingernails waggling in front of her. “Shake on it. Give me your word that you’ll agree, and I’ll blow the socks off all your entitled friends.”

Not having any other options, I hold my hand out and wrap my fingers around hers. My hand dwarfs hers, but it welcomes the warmth. My skin is cold and dry against her soft, warm palm.

“So it’s settled,” she says, her voice breathy again.

“Yes,” I clip, letting go so I don’t have to feel her bare skin against mine for another second. My father always told me to never be the first to break a handshake, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I can’t touch her—thoughts I shouldn’t have fill my head, and I know I’d regret every single one rushing through my mind if I acted out on them. “Bring the food when it’s ready. I’ll also need your help serving it.”

“Wait, what?” she questions, anger flashing in her eyes.

A grin pulls at my cheeks. “See you in a bit. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I hate you!” she calls out.

I chuckle, stopping in front of the door. “Not as much as I hate you, shortcake.”