Lightstruck: ( A Contemporary Romance Novel) (Brewing Passion Book 2) Page 2

  “Okay,” he said. “I promise.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Then take me to him, why don’t you?”

  Chapter One

  Ross woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed so fast if felt as if his brain had whammed against the front of his skull before settling back into place again. Sunlight streamed through the windows, piercing him in the eyeballs, not helping the dizzy, unfocused, mushy sensation.

  “Ow,” he muttered as he swung his feet around to the side of the bed. When his mind registered that he couldn’t do that, that something warm was blocking his way, the something made a noise, rolled and exposed a perky pink nipple to his befuddled gaze. At that same moment, someone else touched his shoulder, making him flinch as he stared at the nipple, trying to get his bearings.

  Ross licked his lips as the memories rushed back in on him, bombarding his battered, hung-over system with the force of an invading army. The hand on his shoulder became two and together, they slid down his bare torso. As he watched, the lovely nipple disappeared, then materialized as one of a matched set, on a gorgeous set of breasts, suddenly at his eye level.

  “Wait,” he said. But waiting wasn’t on the agenda. The hands behind him tugged him onto his back and into the soft nest of stark white sheets and soft cotton blankets. Ross let his mind fuzz back over and his body take the lead as he reached out and his hands landed on hair. Hair on the head of the woman who had his dick down her throat. He arched his back and let her do her thing while some other chick kissed him, then sat on his face.

  Ross wondered for about a half second who these women were, where he’d found them, what he’d said to convince them to engage in his favorite position for a threesome. But the half-second passed, and he no longer cared what the answer to any of those hypotheticals was.

  The woman on his face came, then slid off him and onto the bed, purring with satisfaction. Ross swiped the back of his hand across his wet lips and focused on the stellar blow job he was receiving. As he groaned into the sun-struck room and pumped his hips at his climax, something about his life felt one hundred percent wrong. Something important was missing.

  And he knew damn well what it was.

  “All right, you ladies had your fun. Time to vamoose. I gotta get to work.” Ross sat up and sniffed the air, frowning at the aura of pot and spilled booze. “Jesus, this place is a fucking pigsty,” he said as he lurched up and stumbled into the bathroom, forcing all thoughts of what was missing from his life out of his head. He couldn’t afford to think about it—about her—ever again.

  He nearly scalded his skin off in a thirty-minute shower, blessing the gods of tankless hot water systems and his own luck for finding this palatial mansion to rent while its owner was on sabbatical from the University. Once he emerged, he saw that the bed had been made, the crap picked up off the floor and the women, thankfully, were absent. Rubbing his hair with the thick white towel—these owners were obsessed with the whole tabula rasa thing—he stood naked at the bank of windows overlooking the mountain view.

  Stunning, really. Wish Evelyn could see it.

  No, stop. Not going there.

  “Hey, sweet buns, you want some coffee?”

  He whirled around, heart in his throat. One of the women stood at the large kitchen island dressed in one of his brewery Tshirts, flapping her eyelashes at him.

  “Thought you’d left,” he half-said, half-grumbled to himself as he headed back to the bedroom for clothes. As he zipped and buttoned his jeans, he forced the anger down and out of his head. It would do no good to come across as an asshole. Who knew when he’d like to have this woman over for another round?

  Frowning at himself in the mirror, he made a mental note to get to the barber. Both his hair and his beard needed some professional help. He’d let them both grow out since bolting from Michigan and they were wild-looking, unkempt. Very much unlike him.

  Even as he tied his hair back with a bit of leather string, he could hear her voice. “I like your hair long and your beard short,” Evelyn would say. Ross blinked at the memory, attempting to banish her yet again from his brain.

  His skin tingled, though, and all he could hear was her voice, all he could feel was her soft curves under his hands.

  “Ross,” she’d whisper in his ear. “Make me come…”

  “Shit!” he yelped when someone pressed up against him from behind. “Cut it out.” He peeled the woman off him and stomped into the large living room, dining room, kitchen combo room. The space was huge—almost a thousand square feet of open living—fronted by a whole wall of the glass. Smells of coffee hit his nose, calming in that Pavlovian way it always had. He filled one of the professor’s stainless steel travel mugs and grabbed his keys off the magnetic rack on the wall next to the fridge.

  He could sense his temper lurking, somewhere down deep in his gut. While he didn’t want to be a dick to the woman still prowling around in his space, he had no interest in being anywhere near her either. She needed to get the fuck out. But in lieu of telling her that, he left instead, absenting himself from the area she was making proprietary little circles around, like women tended to do on his mornings after.

  He shook his head as he climbed behind the wheel of the late-model truck—another perk of renting this house. Something about a night in the playground of his bed always seemed to bring out the clinginess in women. Especially lately. Maybe it was the rarified air up here. Maybe it was his own air. Did he come off as desperate somehow, desperate for love versus seeking to get laid? He needed to work on that, ASAP.

  As the truck took the hairpin turns and inclines on his way into town and toward the brewery, Ross had to open all the windows wide to let the cold air clear his head, lest he give in, grab his phone and call her. Hell, to call Austin for that matter.

  He’d pulled a classic dick move, and he knew it. And refusing to talk to either of them beyond the basics of, ‘Yes, I’m alive. I’m fine. I needed to get out of the way of your happily ever after or I was gonna go nuts’ wasn’t helping his cause.

  “I don’t care,” he insisted to himself, sipping and driving the truck with one hand, not caring one bit whether or not he made it or if the fucking thing slid off the ever-loving mountain, which would, he figured, put him out of his misery once and for all.

  Chapter Two

  “Yo, Ross,” the not so melodious sound of his boss’s voice blared across the brewery floor. Ross winced and looked up from the computer where he was logging the day’s brews. “I need you to come here for a minute. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  He sighed, wiped his hands on a cloth then tossed it toward his assistant. The guy—a kid really, eager to please and super creative in a way that made Ross’ head hurt—caught it and took over the computer entries without being asked. “I’ll be back,” he muttered. The kid raised a hand then refocused on the work Ross would much rather be doing.

  He felt beaten down, dog-tired in a way he hadn’t since he’d been learning the craft of beer brewing in his native Munich. That process used to be one on par with a sort of military training—beat them down and build them back up the way you want them. And he’d been so eager to call himself a ‘master brewer’ as young kid, he’d taken everything dished out to him and turned all his professors into Ross Hoffman fans.

  But those nights were some of his longest—sore in body and mind, he’d drop into sleep the second his head touched the pillow, only to wake a couple of hours later, obsessing over some element of brewing chemistry or trying to recall if he’d set the fermentation temps correctly before leaving the brewery classroom. He’d end up falling back asleep eventually but had only averaged four hours a night for those three and a half years of near torture.

  Even after he’d buddied up with Austin and they’d spent their limited extra time blowing off steam by double-teaming as many chicks as they’d been able to get their eager hands on, he’d still run on minimal sleep, maximum caffeine every day.

  As he made h
is way across the cavernous brewery floor now, he felt shoved back into that old life, into the younger Ross’ body and mind, wishing for nothing more than a sandwich and a nap—a ten-hour nap. He waved at the assistants who called out for him and attempted to slap a look of interest, or at least coherence, on his face before he shouldered his way into the brewery owner’s office. It was situated between the brewery and the main pub, and opened into both rooms. His new boss was the dictionary definition of micromanager but Ross hadn’t been able to pick and choose when he’d bolted from Michigan, so he’d leapt at the guy’s offer of a job, with housing, and guarantees of ‘brewing autonomy’.

  He’d kept two out of three of those promises, Ross mused as he prepared a neutral greeting before he realized the someone sitting in the office was…

  “Evelyn,” he croaked out, his body lurching into flight mode.

  The woman kept her back to him, thank Christ for tiny favors. Ross groped behind him for the door handle even as his eyes took in the sway of honey-blonde hair, the voluptuous curve of her hips, the long, lean line of her legs beneath the power skirt. When she laughed at something his tool of a boss said, Ross froze.

  That was definitely not Evelyn’s laugh. He slumped against the door, head-pounding exhaustion filling the space behind the exiting adrenaline.

  “There you are,” Brad Jefferson said, motioning impatiently for Ross to approach. Squaring his shoulders, he marched himself across his boss’s office, determined to meet, greet, impress, whatever, and get the hell home.

  “Well, hell-o there,” the woman said as she turned to face him.

  If he weren’t so smacked upside his head by the sight of her, he’d laugh at how hokey she sounded. Like some B-movie vamp. But he was smacked upside his head, so all he thought at that moment was Holy brick shithouse. She is fine.

  Her smile emerged slowly as if being teased out of her. Her full lips were deep red, a somewhat shocking contrast to the ultra-white of her teeth. Ross could practically feel his eyeballs rolling inside their sockets as he took her in from blonde head to stiletto-heeled toe. He was acting like a pig, he knew that. But if anything, she encouraged it—hands on her full hips, sticking out one foot, assuming her mating stance.

  By the time his gaze had made it back up to her light brown eyes, he realized he hadn’t conjured anything resembling an answer to her. The silence that coiled between them felt odd—warm, somehow damp in a way that he liked but at the same time wanted to flee from.

  “You’ll have to forgive my celebrity brewer, doll.”

  Ross felt someone shove his shoulder. He blinked, rubbed his arm and dragged his gaze off the woman who was, it seemed, about to suck him straight into her soul—or at the very least between her thighs.

  “Sometimes he goes Neanderthal on me,” his boss continued.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she cooed, putting cool, soft fingertips on his exposed lower arm. The gesture was innocuous, friendly even. But he shivered and his whole body seemed to zing to attention, including below his belt. He focused on calculating original gravity for a few seconds, so he wouldn’t embarrass himself by springing a teenager-worthy woody. “It’s been a long day, I’m sure.”

  She had a syrupy Southern accent that made her words sound soft and non-threatening. But Ross felt most definitely threatened. And more turned on than he’d been since bolting out of Evelyn and Austin’s life. He realized that was a low bar—he’d only been gone for a few months. But still…he licked his lips and took a breath.

  “Hello,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Ross Hoffman.” He glanced over at Brad, expecting an introduction. But the blonde siren already had her hand in his—it was soft and felt perfect but yet not, at the same time.

  “I’m Holly,” she said, smiling. “Holly Grant.”

  “Oh, well, hello there,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze and letting go of her.

  “Holly’s the host of Boulder AM,” Brad said, surprising Ross. He’d pretty much forgotten the other man was even in the room. “She’s here to set up an interview. With you.” He gave Ross another shove, which put him inappropriately close to Holly Grant. So close, the tips of her silk-blouse-covered D-cup breasts brushed his T-shirt.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, taking three steps back, sensing his face flush.

  “Oh my Lord, Brad,” Holly cooed, not taking her eyes off Ross. “He blushes and everything. Adorable.”

  Ross ran a hand across his jaw, which reminded him how scruffy he must look. He’d let himself go in so many ways. Including fucking any pussy on two legs. Damn him to hell and back. He must be putting out a serious man-whore vibe. Clearing his throat, he straightened and crossed his arms, trying to assume his mantle of the predator, not the prey.

  She seemed to respond in kind, pulling away and withdrawing her advances.

  Good. That’s a relief.

  He smiled at her, keeping it friendly. She tossed her hair back and put a hand to her long, tanned neck. Ross gulped, sensing the equilibrium slip in her direction again.

  “So,” Brad said, breaking into the tension. “Ross. Holly is planning to have her crew in the brewery tomorrow. She wants you here, giving the tour, talking brews and pubs and shit. You game?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No,” Holly said. Her voice was bourbon-y and tempting. “Not really. But something tells me you don’t shy away from the limelight, do you, Ross?” The slight hesitation between “you” and “Ross” was calculated. He knew it. He frowned at her. She smiled. And the sight of it made his stupid, over-worked dick spring to attention.

  Well, her smile, and the sight of her cleavage in the ‘V’ of her blouse.

  You are a craven pig, Hoffman, he reminded himself.

  Yep. Guilty as charged, he agreed.

  But this woman was practically spread-eagled on the desk. What the hell? How was he supposed to react to such an overt come-on?

  Like a grown-ass man.

  A man with responsibilities.

  A future father.

  He shivered involuntarily, hearing Evelyn’s voice in his ear and wanting her here, right now, so badly he could taste it.

  “All right, then. I’d best get home. So, I can be ready for my close-up tomorrow,” he said, unable to resist the temptation to wink at the sexy woman regarding him as if he were a water mirage in the driest desert. “Ma’am. Boss.” He made as if to tip an invisible hat, then headed for the office door.

  “Um, Ross,” the woman’s melodious voice intoned.

  He smiled, then turned, figuring his little ‘ignore ’em until they beg for your attention’ trick had worked. He felt oddly revved up, as if he’d gained a second wind from the woman’s attention. She hadn’t moved from her spot across from Brad. She blinked, slowly. Then, much to his surprise, she licked her lips.

  What is she, some kind of a caricature? His skin prickled.

  “I’d like to do a little pre-interview…chat,” she finally said.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll give you thirty minutes. Then I gotta go…home.”

  Ross hadn’t felt this flummoxed and awkward with a woman in years. He didn’t like it. Although, she was intriguing, he’d give her that.

  “Great,” she said, turning to give Brad an air kiss before shouldering her bag and walking over to where Ross stood, frozen in place by the office door.

  “Yeah, great,” he said, yanking the door open and stomping out, leaving her to fend for herself.

  By the time they made it to a table in the teeming pub, Ross was completely pissed off. He was one hundred percent not in the mood for this full-on seduction thing. He’d buy her a beer, answer her questions and leave. End of story.

  He turned when he found the free table, his ingrained politeness forcing him to pull out her chair. She smiled and slid into it. Her movements were fluid, he noted as he sat across from her and lifted a finger to get the attention of one of the waiters. “What do you like?” he asked, squinting up at the huge
beer board.

  She stayed silent long enough he was forced to look at her. She had her chin in her hand, her full lips pursed as if pondering something—like devouring him. Her eyes were shining.

  “It’s not a trick question,” he claimed. “Beer?” He waved his hand at the blackboard menu behind her.

  She glanced over her shoulder, allowing that gaping ‘V’ in her blouse to deepen. Ross averted his eyes, unwilling to humor her even as sensed his body giving in, hardening in places that sent a different message about humoring her.

  “I’ll have the Big Boss,” she said, tilting her head to one side and pinning him in place with that odd stare.

  “The…double Belgian?” he asked, motioning for the waiter again.

  “Yes. What do you take me for? A light lager kind of girl?” She pouted, then grinned in what seemed like the first genuine smile he’d seen on her face since meeting her.

  “Yeah, actually. I did take you for that. My bad.” He glanced up at the harried-looking waiter kid. “The lady will have a Big Boss. I’m having the dopple bock.”

  He propped his elbows on the table, realizing their knees were touching under the tiny table. “So, you like real beer. Points in your favor.”

  She frowned at him. “So,” she said, pulling a small tablet from her bag and uncapping a fancy fountain pen. “You’re German?”

  “Um, yes.” He leaned away from the table, trying to wrap his brain around her and how his body was reacting to her. And how much he wished his body would grow up and stop acting like a fucking teenager. “Born and raised in Munich. Went to the international high school.” He grinned and ran a hand along the scruffy hair on his jaw. “My mother was American. Father was German. They met one Oktoberfest. They were rich but I hardly ever saw them. Was raised by a bunch of employees. When I turned eighteen I chose US citizenship.”

  “I see,” she said.

  Ross took a moment to observe her hands. They were small, with slim fingers ending in short, red-painted nails. He let his gaze travel up her arms which were bare, tanned, nicely toned. Her neck was long and tempting. But he knew what attracted him most was her hair—that hair so very like Evelyn’s. Long, honey-blonde, thick. Hair that would feel like spun silk between his fingers.