He frowned. “You’re intimidated by me?”

“Not so much you. More like your work ethic. I don’t even know if I’m pronouncing that right. That’s how not often I’ve said ‘work ethic’ out loud.” She felt the need to even the playing field, to reward his honesty with some of her own. His confessions made it easy to confess her own sins. “My friend Kirby and I started a lipstick line called Pucker Up, maybe three years back. Once the launch party was over and we realized how much work we had to do, we gave away our inventory to friends and went to Saint-Tropez. Because we were tired.”

“Maybe it wasn’t the right career path.”

“Yeah, well.” Her lips twitched. “Professional napper was my fallback, and I nailed that. That’s partially why I’m here. But also because my friend Kirby ratted me out to the cops.”

“She didn’t,” he said, his expression darkening.

“She did! Fingered me as the ringleader from the shallow end of the pool. Appropriately.” Piper waved a hand around. “It’s fine, though. We’re still friends. I just can’t trust her or tell her anything important.”

He seemed to be concentrating hard on what she was saying. “Do you have a lot of friends like that?”

“Yes.” She drew a circle on the side of the champagne flute. “It’s more for image than anything, I guess. Influence. Being seen. But it’s weird, you know. I’ve only been out of Los Angeles for two weeks, and it’s like I was never there. None of my friends have texted or messaged me. They’re on to bigger and better things.” She shook her head. “Meanwhile people still leave flowers at Henry’s memorial after twenty-four years. So . . . how real or substantial is an image if everything it earns someone can all go away in two weeks?”

“You haven’t gone away, though. You’re sitting right there.”

“I am. I’m here. At this table. In Westport.” She swallowed. “Trying to figure out what to do when no one is watching. And wondering if maybe that’s the stuff that actually matters.” Her laugh came out a little unsteady. “That probably sounds amateurish to someone who would build a freaking boat and not tell a soul about it.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He waited until she met his eyes. “It sounds like you’ve been uprooted and dropped somewhere unfamiliar. Do you think I’d cope as well if I was shipped off someplace where I knew no one, had no trade?”

She gasped. “How would you get your fish and chips on Monday nights?”

A corner of his lips jumped. “You’re doing just fine, honey.”

It was the gruff honey that did it. Her legs snuck together under the table and squeezed, her toes flexing in her shoes. She wanted Brendan’s hands on her. All over. But she was also scared of going to him, because once again, the sexy smoke screen she’d been hiding behind had dissipated, leaving only her. Brendan was looking at her with a combination of heat and tenderness, and she needed to turn up the dial on the former.

This was all going too far, too fast, and she was starting to like him too much.

She might be having an existential crisis, but she still wanted Los Angeles back and all the glittery trappings that came with it. Didn’t she? Sure, after weeks with no contact from her friends, the call of LA had quieted slightly. She’d actually started to enjoy not checking her notifications every ten seconds. But fame waxing and waning was part of the deal, right? That rush of recognition and adoration she’d stopped craving of late would come back. It always did. There was no other option but going home, and if anything, her time in Westport would make her appreciate her privilege this time around. Wasn’t that the lesson she’d been sent to learn?

Yes.

Bottom line, she’d spent twenty-eight years building this image and couldn’t just start over from scratch.

Could she have Brendan tonight and still keep her eye on that reality?

Of course she could.

Ignoring the notch in her throat, Piper pushed back from the table and stood, champagne in hand. She rounded the piece of furniture slowly, gratified when his throat worked in a heavy swallow. His eyes and chin were stubborn, though.

Well, if he was going to be obstinate, she’d have to play to win.

Piper slipped between Brendan and the table, scooting it back a little so she could stand comfortably in the V of his thighs. His eyes were all but black with hunger, lighting on her cleavage, her thighs and hips, her mouth. As soon as she raked the fingers of her free hand into his hair, that big chest started to heave, his eyelids drifting shut. “Piper,” he said hoarsely. “This isn’t why I invited you to dinner.”

She took her hand back, set down the champagne being held in the other, and tucked her fingers under the straps of her dress. “Maybe it’s not the only reason,” she murmured, peeling down the green velvet bodice, leaving her breasts bare mere inches from his mouth. “But it’s one of them, isn’t it?”

Brendan opened his eyes, and a shudder racked him, his hands flying up to grip her hips. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ, they’re so pretty, baby.” He leaned in, pressing his open mouth to the smooth path of skin between her breasts, breathing heavily, using his hold on her hips to pull her closer, like he couldn’t help it. “This is where you put that perfume, isn’t it? Right here between your sexy little tits.”

The desperation in his hands, the chafe of velvet on flesh, turned her nipples to points. “I put it there for you tonight,” she whispered into his hair. “All for you.”

He moaned, turned his head slightly so he could breathe against her nipple. “I know what you’re doing. You want to make this about fucking.”

Her pulse skittered in her ears. “Stop overthinking it and touch me.”

Still, he hesitated, that jaw about to shatter.

Piper reached back and picked up the champagne flute, taking a slow sip. She swallowed most of the bubbly liquid, but left a trace of it on her tongue, bringing it to Brendan’s lips. Licking the champagne into his mouth. “Told you I’d get you to try it,” she murmured, teasing the tip of his tongue with her own. “Want more?”

That big body swayed closer, lines of strain appearing around his mouth. “Please . . .”

“You don’t have to beg,” Piper said, bringing the champagne flute to her breasts, tipping the glass and letting the champagne trickle out over one nipple, then the next, and Brendan started to pant. “Not for something we both want. Touch me, Brendan. Taste me. Please?”

“Christ, I have to.” He traced his mouth to her left nipple, pressed his bared teeth against it, before rubbing his tongue against the stiff bud, yanking her hips forward, the move arching her back so she had to use his hair for balance, taking two big handfuls. Her mouth was in an O, watching him savor her, manhandle her body. No games. Just need.

His mouth raced down to her belly button, licking that hollow where some of the dripping champagne had ended up, before rising again to the opposite breast, suckling harder now. Devouring. She’d intended to be in control here, but his mouth was delivering the most incredible texture and suction, and her ass bumped back against the table clumsily, a sob ripping from her throat. “Brendan,” she gasped. “Brendan.”