“Incoming,” Devon mumbled in warning over the rim of his scotch on the rocks. “You’re about to get ripped a new one.”
Morgan glanced up from his iPhone. He’d had several text messages arrive while speaking with Rory St. James and Christian Davila that needed to be addressed. “What are you talking about?”
“Four o’clock. Heading in from the patio. Red alert, pal. She’s steaming mad—and chances are damn good it’s because you slipped out the other night while she was asleep.”
Morgan stuffed his cell in his pocket and spared a glance over his shoulder. Only to find Fallon marching toward them, dressed in a one-shouldered, shimmering red minidress that did everything to evoke a man’s desire. And then some.
She halted in front of them and demanded, “How could you?”
Holding up his cut-crystal Baccarat tumbler, Devon quipped, “Well, it is a cocktail party, sweetheart.”
“Don’t be an ass,” she hissed. “I’m not talking about your scotch. Sylvia told me what you did.”
Devon’s brow knitted. Fallon’s eyes were misty, the corners of her mouth quivering. “If she told you, why are you so upset?”
“Because,” Fallon retorted under her breath—apparently as best as possible given her obvious upset. “You both just completely ripped the rug out from underneath me. You know I needed that building to manufacture and ship my products. I can’t afford any other facility. What Sylvia was offering me was—”
“Damn good, admittedly,” Morgan said.
Fallon turned her rage on him. “Do not speak to me. After walking out on me, Morgan Jared Presley, you do not get to speak to me when I’m this pissed off.”
Tears filled her eyes now. Tugging on his heartstrings.
“Fallon . . .” Morgan began.
“He didn’t walk out on you, sweetheart,” Devon contended, all jesting to try to diffuse the situation aside. “He walked out because of me. I explained all of that to you. And I told Morgan that I’d explained it all to you.”
“And then I suggested Devon and I buy the building from Sylvia for you,” Morgan added.
“To what end?” She glared at Morgan. “What does any of this matter to you?” Her gaze shifted. “Or to you, Devon? You’re both leaving Bayfront. Selling the club and moving on.”
“Hey, now,” Devon said. “Let’s lower our voices and keep that under our hats for now.” He reached into the pocket of his suit pants and extracted a key ring. He took Fallon’s hand and turned it palm-side up. Dropped the ring into her hand. “It’s all yours. Free and clear. We bought the facility from Sylvia in a cash deal. A done deal. We’re deeding it to you. All you have to do is sign the papers and that’s it. You own the building. No rent to pay. No mortgage. Ever.”
Tears—and not ones of joy—spilled over the rims of her eyes.
Which shouldn’t have happened.
Wasn’t she supposed to be happy about this? Relieved to be off the hook for a monthly payment so that she could focus solely on starting up a larger enterprise?
But, no . . . that wasn’t the case.
Still glaring at both of them, she said, “So you two get to skip town with a clear conscience and I get a building as the second-place trophy?”
“Fallon—” Morgan began.
“No,” she interjected, pain tinging her voice and more fat drops rolling down her flushed cheeks. “Keep your fucking building. It is absolutely not a replacement for the two of you.”
“Sign on the dotted line, Fallon,” Devon quietly commanded, his facial features turning rigid. “This is a gift from us.”
“I don’t want a gift from you,” she declared, evidently not caring who the hell overheard her. “I want you. And Morgan. That’s it. That’s all.”
“Fallon—” Devon tried to reason with her.
“Devon,” she cut him off as she had Morgan. “If you want me to sign on the dotted line, then you and Morgan don’t sign.”
She gave them both a pointed look. Tossed the key at Morgan, which he caught.
Then she spun around on her heels and marched off as agitatedly as when she’d joined them. Leaving a lot of dropped jaws in her wake.
Including Morgan’s and Devon’s.
“Well,” Morgan grumbled as he paced his office while Devon poured another scotch on the rocks for himself and then a Chivas Regal and water for Morgan. “That’s not exactly how I imagined it would go down when you buy a three-quarters-of-a-million-dollar facility for the woman of your dreams—and she tells you to stick it in your ear.”
“She has every right.” Devon handed over the cocktail. “We are, in fact, bailing on her.”
Morgan drained his drink in one long gulp. He slammed the glass on his desk and said, “Your choice.”
“Yes.” Devon sipped. Then he added, “Though things have changed. So between the two of us, we need to fucking figure out what it is we really want. Because what didn’t actually happen with Missy-whatever-the-hell-her-last-name-is can’t keep coming between our friendship or fucking up what we could possibly have with Fallon.”
Morgan’s gut coiled and his heart wrenched as he caught and held Devon’s gaze. “And what, exactly, do you think we have with Fallon?”
Despite the tension holding him hostage and permeating the entire room, Devon gave his signature half-assed grin and said, “Love.” He took a longer sip. Then added, “And you damn well know it.”
~ * * * ~
Fallon was sitting in the middle of her kitchen floor mixing a new scent for her lotions. There was a large drop cloth beneath her in the event she spilled or otherwise made a colossal mess, which tended to happened when she was combining and sampling new products. She wore black yoga pants and her tight heather-gray sweater, both spotted with white from when her last shake-up of a small vial had exploded as she’d opened it.
She’d never claimed to be a graceful mad-chemist.
Her hair was pulled up into a high bun on her head and she wore her glasses, instead of her colored contacts that made her green irises a bit deeper and more vibrant. She was fresh-faced and devoid of makeup. Hadn’t even applied a new coat of paint to her toenails after removing the siren red she’d been wearing.
It was really unfortunate that she wasn’t going to be able to mass produce her products, but there was a little something therapeutic about hand-mixing and testing her herbal ingredients that helped to take her mind off of Devon and Morgan.
Not that she could truly keep thoughts of the two of them—and what had transpired on Devon’s boat—from invading her brain, but she fought to push it all to the far recesses where she didn’t have to dissect how everything had gone so fantastically right. And then so horrifically wrong.
They’d had an amazing time as a trio. She didn’t doubt it for a second. But they still intended to hand the yacht club over to someone else and sail off into the sunset. On opposite coasts.
And she’d be nothing but a distant memory to them. Like their last ménage.
More tears threatened her eyes, but Fallon attempted to push them back. What good would they do? She could cry a river. It wouldn’t change the fact that Devon and Morgan had decided to sell the club before they’d even hooked up with her and their time together had not been significant enough to convince them to stay in Bayfront.
She took a deep sniff of her latest creation and contemplated the floral scent that was somewhat rosy, somewhat jasmine.
Her nose crinkled.
Not exactly what she’d been hoping for.
Or maybe all that truly registered in her olfactory senses were Devon’s and Morgan’s natural heat and distinct colognes.
“Fuck me,” she murmured.
Exactly how difficult was it going to be to get over these two men?