Fallon finished her shift at seven o’clock that evening. Collected her backpack from her locker, changed into her street clothes—skinny jeans, boat shoes, and a long, tight heather-gray sweater—and secured her hair in a ponytail at her nape, letting the strands fall over one shoulder.
All the while, her mind whirled with thoughts of Devon McMillan. And his best friend, Morgan Presley.
Devon and Morgan. Two of Bayfront’s many wealthy, eligible bachelors. The cove was crawling with hot men, mostly multimillionaires and billionaires. In her opinion, these two were the hottest of them all.
Bayfront lay south of San Francisco, not far from the wine country of River Cross and the newly renovated Aspen-esque Bliss Mountain Ski Resort. The coastal community had become a breeding ground for the elite over the past two decades. It was how she imagined Beverly Hills might be—teeming with the beautiful people.
And their hired help.
Like Fallon and her mother. Lorna Carteris had been the head of housekeeping at the Presley mansion before she’d retired to Miami. As such, Fallon had grown up on the estate, since it was just her and her mom, and the Presleys had preferred Lorna be on site to manage her staff day and night.
It had been a complicated existence, being a commoner living under the roof of Bayfront royalty. The Presleys and the McMillans had established this town amidst grassy, palm tree-covered hills that overlooked the bay. Fallon loved the tucked-away sanctuary, even if the cost of living was atrocious and jobs were scarce. The latter would change as soon as the new Covington Collection boutique hotel opened down the coast. It was currently under construction by magnate Noah Donovan.
For the most part, residents worked in the city with a nasty daily commute because the trains and BART didn’t stretch this far. Yet the scenery and local flavor were worth making sacrifices to maintain a modest lifestyle in the cove for those who hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in their mouth—or were determined to build their own empires.
Fallon considered herself fortunate that she had an “in” with Devon and Morgan. Several years ago, they’d offered her a job when she’d desperately needed it—graciously and generously, before she’d even been reduced to asking. Just recently, their food and beverage director had welcomed her back into the fold with open arms when she’d returned from Miami. She had a great rapport with him and had left on friendly terms. Mostly, though, he’d rehired her because he knew it was what Devon and Morgan would want.
They’d both been big brother types, starting with their days in the sandbox when they’d been protective of her and wouldn’t allow anyone to mess with her, no matter who wanted to tease her about the “baby weight” that hadn’t been melting away with time like everyone else’s. And she’d been an absolute dork with glasses and braces.
Fallon had grown close to Morgan, considering the living arrangements. And he’d liked having someone to hang with who didn’t pressure him about grades or certain extracurricular activities that would look impressive on Ivy League college applications, as his tutors and mentors had done. Devon was quite similar and had spent the vast majority of his childhood and teenage years at the Presleys’ mansion. Primarily to get away from his too-perfect, could-do-no-wrong older brothers.
Fallon had never been able to decide who was sweeter and who’d become sexier—Devon or Morgan. She’d fallen in love with both of them right around her thirteenth birthday. Neither knew, of course. Nor would they ever know. Not only because Fallon would never make such an embarrassing confession—God, to have been starry-eyed and faint of heart around them from such a young age, and always having to hide it—but also because her unrequited love and lust were moot.
Completely, totally moot.
Devon and Morgan had dated the prettiest, most popular girls in Bayfront. And San Francisco. River Cross. Hell, their romantic territory probably spanned all of California. Aside from Fallon not fitting their ideal by any stretch of the imagination, she’d heard mention a time or two that the guys enjoyed being with the same girl. At the same time.
That insinuation had freaked her out a bit when she’d been younger. They were both a year older than her and much more sophisticated. So as the rumor had started floating, when she was eighteen, Fallon had found the notion inconceivable. Highly intimidating.
It wasn’t just the sexual mechanics of a ménage a trois that had overwhelmed her, but also all the emotions that could get twisted and mangled in a love triangle. Plus, Fallon had been a virgin at that time and pretty damn certain she’d remain one the rest of her life. She’d resigned herself to spinsterhood. A lonely prospect, but she’d only had eyes for Devon and Morgan.
And girls like her didn’t land guys like them. Not back then . . . And apparently not even after the extensive effort she’d put into her transformation the past three years. They’d barely given her the time of day in the cocktail lounge.
Well, Devon had been a little touchy-feely. But in general he’d been shocked over discovering who she was. Morgan, who’d arrived earlier this morning but had been just as preoccupied with business as Devon, had been friendly, as always. Yet somewhat standoffish. He hadn’t gushed over her new look. Rather, he’d regarded her skeptically, like she was some sort of apparition or something ethereal that just might vanish in a wisp of smoke.
As though he didn’t actually believe she was still Fallon Carteris.
That stung. For various reasons she couldn’t quite dissect. So, too, did the way they’d both made hasty exits from the restaurant when her back was turned, without so much as a goodbye.
How was she still so fucking invisible to them beyond childhood friend and employee?
Trying to keep her raw nerves from getting the best of her, Fallon neatly folded her work dress and placed it and her shoes in the backpack. She slung the strap over her shoulder and headed out of the upstairs bathroom. She rounded the corner of the executive wing and—
“Oh!” she cried out as she slammed into something hard and unyielding.
Morgan’s chest.
He knocked the wind right out of her.
“Shit!” he bellowed. His arms shot toward her and his large hands clasped her firmly to steady her so she didn’t land on her ass.
Her heart leapt into her throat. He’d startled the bejesus out of her. And she’d gotten a full-on feel of all his hard muscles. Solid pecs, rock-hard abs, and strong biceps, as indicated by his firm hold on her. And just like with Devon, his hands on her made everything inside her go haywire. Even with the sweater covering her skin. His heat burned right through the material.
“You okay?” he asked while she tried to catch her breath.
Fallon’s eyes were wide and her chest rapidly rose and fell. Thoughts of Morgan hauling her up against his hunky bod and kissing her senseless flashed in her mind.
“Fallon?” His gaze turned quizzical, his warm whisky irises glowing with curiosity and something else . . . Something indefinable because she’d never seen such an elusive emotion flicker in his expression, which was always direct and to the point. Not conflicting.
Ah, there it was. She actually could define it. Morgan was conflicted about something. So now her own curiosity gnawed at her.
She pulled in a long stream of air to get herself under control. Willed her erratic heart rate to slow. Didn’t help matters that Morgan’s cologne, mixed with his natural masculine scent, was ridiculously titillating. Making her want to strip him bare and lick him from head to toe—not missing the major high point in between.
Way to go, Fallon!
Now all she could think about was kneeling before him and taking him deep in her mouth, sending tremors through his legs and getting him off explosively.
She bit back a moan.
Finally finding her voice, she said, “I’m fine. You nearly knocked me on my butt with your brick wall of a chest.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She frowned. “I was trying to be witty there, Morgan. Where’d your sense of humor go?”
He let out a low grunt. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
He released her and disappointment snaked along her spine. Yet she focused on what he’d said, asking him, “Anything you want to talk about?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a sexy grin. “I won’t bore you with the details of my life, Fallon. I assure you, these days they’re nowhere near as exciting as Miami or South Beach hotspots.”
“You’ve never bored me,” she brazenly told him, hoping there might be a shimmer in her eyes to back up her statement.
Morgan raked a hand through his thick, sandy-colored locks, which then fell into place. Meticulous right down to his haircut. Which had always turned her on—knowing that the professional, if not somewhat coastal casual, image he presented was a front for all the bad-boy tendencies simmering below the surface.
He and Devon had always been pranksters on the sly and a bit on the risqué side. Then there was that little tidbit about them preferring ménages. Yes, the notion had thrown her for a loop, initially, but had percolated in the back of her brain for years, until she’d begun weaving fantasies . . .
Starring her.