Boyfrenemy: A Payne Brothers Romance Read online

  “How many times do I have to reject you today?” The insults burned through me. So did the desire, though I couldn’t possibly loathe this man more. “Keep trying, cowboy. Disappointing you is starting to feel nice.”

  “I can make you feel better than nice.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Liar.”

  “I have morals,” I said.

  “You work in government.”

  “And men like are you are the reason I avoid the public sector.”

  Julian hollered as I stomped away. “How am I supposed to get my barn, princess?”

  “You could start by using my real name.” I should have kept walking. “Then you could build the damn thing where it’s authorized in the right dimensions and not insult the only person who can grant you the permissions.”

  “Didn’t know government came with a safe word.”

  He was going to need one soon. “Don’t test me.”

  “What other permissions can you grant?”

  “None. But I can cite you for being a public nuisance.”

  Julian sighed. “You haven’t even given me a chance.”

  “I gave you enough of a chance, Julian Payne. You blew it.”

  He laughed, a hearty, country-born, home-grown rumble. “Don’t make this into a challenge, princess. You won’t win.”

  “This isn’t about winning,” I said. “It’s about the law.”

  “I’m not giving up.” Julian winked. “You’re going to see a lot of me, Miss Robinson.”

  “First an insult, now a threat?”

  He shrugged. “You could just grant approval now—save us the time and the inevitable foreplay.”

  “You couldn’t handle me, cowboy.”

  “Won’t know until we try…see if you’re as dirty as you seem.”

  I sauntered close, my words a low growl. “Oh, I can play very dirty.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  Then he’d love this. “Your application is not only denied, now I will take all forty-five business days to review any appeal you may submit.” I met his gaze. “Before this gets any worse for you, Mr. Payne, I recommend you submit.”

  “Always did like a feisty girl.”

  Loathsome man. “I think you’ve met your match.”

  “Oh, princess, believe me. I’m gonna do you to code.”

  “That so?”

  “Inspect you head to toe, make sure you adhere to my master plan.”

  “I bet you will.”

  Julian’s words were filthier than the mud. “Wonder what I could do if I bound you up in your own red tape.”

  “Never gonna find out.” I offered him a sweet, professional smile and continued to my car. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Julian Payne. I can’t wait until the next time I get to reject you.”

  Chapter Two

  Julian

  Never met a problem a beer couldn’t fix and a beautiful woman couldn’t solve.

  Fortunately, I’d just come across both.

  Butterpond tended to run a little too wholesome for my tastes—less whiskey and more lemonade. But Renegade provided ninety-proof sanity in a town where kittens got stuck in trees, the church was fattened by casseroles, and the worst crime in the last five years was the recently resolved fire that had claimed my family’s barn.

  Despite the handful of complaints, the Butterpond Preservation society had deemed the bar a historically significant building where they could last call a meeting to order. Until the day the Dry County Initiative finally earned enough signatures on their petition, Renegade would remain Butterpond’s den of sin.

  If a five-dollar beer was sinful, at least I’d have plenty to drink in Hell. At those prices, even the devil would throw a kegger.

  “Jules!” Al Brinkley—owner, proprietor, and provider of self-medicated bliss—tapped the bar and welcomed me to my home away from home. “Got the over/under on the Rivets’ game. You in this week?”

  The mere thought hurt my back. I’d need a shot of something stronger than the cortisone that barely managed the pain.

  “No way,” I said. “I think I’ve lost enough money on the Rivets.”

  Al laughed. “Got Tidus and Quint’s bets already.”

  Money my brothers didn’t have. “Don’t clean them out. Still hoping they’ll pitch in for the new tractor.”

  “They bet against Jack Carson. Think they’ll be buying me the new tractor.”

  Just to screw me over. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Al flipped his towel over his shoulder and gave me a genuine smile with two chins. “It’ll get better, Jules. You wait.”

  So he’d promised for the past four months. Usually, the prospect of a beer and some time away from the farm was all I needed to keep myself calm…and my brothers alive. Four men—soon to be five—trapped together in their childhood home? It had the makings of either a heartwarming sitcom or a ripped-from-the-headlines episode of Law and Order.

  We’d barely survived childhood. Almost came to blows over Dad’s coffin at the funeral home. Now? We were lucky the holes were in the walls and not in each other’s heads.

  A good distraction was better than a bet on a Thursday Night Football Game. I sidled up to the bar and claimed a seat next to the most mind-bendingly, heart-breakingly, pants-tighteningly beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

  No sense drinking alone. Especially when a newcomer to Butterpond sat all by herself—and in Sheriff Samson’s seat. The regulars knew well enough to leave the seat open for the man with the taser. Couldn’t let the pretty little thing get caught in a ruckus. Just meant she needed a proper introduction.

  “Next round is on me.” I winked at Al as I slid next to the woman. The three seniors bullshitting around the dartboard cheered. I nodded to the lady. “Hers too.”

  This woman was better than a stiff drink. Her dark skin was as rich as my favorite ale, but she needed something strong to convince her to loosen the bun tying back her curls. Her curves hid beneath a tailored, form-fitting black dress with matching black heels.

  Fuck me, she was a Sex on the Beach straight out of a Manhattan without the hangover.

  Her cocoa-colored eyes glanced over me. She teased a glass to her pouty lips. Never imagined I’d be envious of white wine.

  This woman was too classy, too sexy, too refined for Butterpond. She belonged in a place like Ironfield, hanging around the fancy Rivets’ after parties. The sort of woman looking for a man with a big wallet and even bigger surprise in his pants, even if she’d never admit it.

  And here, I thought my wild days were over. I’d lost the Rivets’ contract, and I’d never carry a football again, but at least I could score with a gorgeous woman.

  Al—a man of patience, wisdom, and enough alcohol to take the sting out of her rejection—passed the lady another drink. He gave me a beer and a shot of whiskey on the side. His own personal bet. I’d take the odds. Twenty bucks she walked away, a third glass of wine and she’d be mine.

  But the woman wasn’t charmed. She slid a ten-dollar bill over the counter and glanced at me while Al reluctantly took her payment. Her eyebrow arched in a quiet disbelief.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Even her words seemed sophisticated, a rich and playful tease. “Aren’t you the least bit ashamed of yourself?”

  “Shame’s all I got anymore…that and a running bar tab.” I took the money before Al pocketed it and returned it to her hand. “This one’s on me, sweetheart.”

  She bristled. “Who do you think you are?”

  “The man buying you a drink.”

  “Fair warning, hotshot. I am not a cheap date.”

  A woman like her deserved a fine chardonnay and silk sheets for her bare body, but I was a farmer without a farm.

  A man had to start somewhere.

  “You can order anything you want, but Al’s got nothing over ten bucks,” I said. “Best you’ll get is wine straight from the box.”

  She scoffed. “I’m
not interested.”

  Ouch. A lady on the rocks. I’d have to melt that frosty exterior to get to her molten, mocha core.

  Where the hell had this mystery woman come from? New faces were hard to find in Butterpond, and this angel had plunked down in Renegade of all places.

  Just passing through…or would she be willing to stay for breakfast?

  I grinned. “I’m not proposing, sweetheart. Just buying you a drink.”

  “The only men who buy things for me are the ones who want something.”

  Oh, I wanted her. Under me. On me. Riding me. Moaning for me. It’d be a long time since I’d found a woman this beautiful. Sex with a Stanger? Not my usual pleasure, but for this newcomer, I’d make an exception.

  I might’ve been an animal, but it wasn’t an excuse to not be a gentleman. “I promise. It’s just a friendly drink.”

  She frowned, her lips too kissable for such a pout. “Nothing’s friendly around here.”

  “Only because you’re a stranger in town.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “You’re sitting in Sheriff Samson’s seat.”

  She crinkled her nose as she stared at the stools with their flaking, bonded leather. “Are they assigned?”

  “I’m sure he won’t mind an ass like yours claiming it,” I said.

  “Charming.”

  “Take the compliment.”

  Her smile hardened. “I’d prefer you to shove it.”

  I grinned. Beauty and a beast combined in this one.

  And yet something so familiar. What the hell was it about this woman?

  I sipped my beer and wished I didn’t enjoy the damned chase. I got enough attitude and aggravation at the farm. One brother in the hospital, three others itching to take his place. None of them had offered to help sort through the estate bullshit, the leftover medical bills, or the untilled soil that was meant for more than dandelions.

  Misery had plenty of company at home. Didn’t need it souring the one beer I used as an escape. I sipped my drink. This woman was too interesting for Butterpond, and too uninterested in me.

  “Well, I’m warning you…” I nodded toward the door. “The Sheriff lives for his routine. He puts in his eight hours behind the desk—two of which he sleeps through—then rounds out the rest of the night here at Renegades. He likes that seat in particular.”

  She hummed, perfectly manicured nails clinking against the glass. “I don’t think he’ll mind.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m here to meet him.” Her voice lowered, and she leaned a bit closer. Was it me, or did her lips tease a smile? “I’m helping him with a little bedroom problem.”

  Now that…I hadn’t expected.

  I studied the woman—a lady half the sheriff’s age and entirely out of his league. “You? You’re meeting him…alone?”

  She smirked. “Well, sure. You don’t think he’d bring his wife along, do you?”

  I drank my beer before I chuckled too loudly. Sly old dog. How did the sheriff hook up with a woman like this? And what the hell did she see in him?

  Christ, this wouldn’t take long at all. Another glass of wine, and she’d eagerly ditch the sixty-something, grey-haired, pot-bellied senior. Not quite sure what she was drinking to agree to meet him in the first place. That was the crime, perpetrated by the sheriff himself.

  Hell, it was practically my moral obligation to steal her away. Samson was one skipped statin from a heart-attack. A night with this beauty would kill him. And then what? Stick Butterpond with Deputy Albright, writing his parking citations on the back of a napkin?

  Someone had to save the town by banging the beauty. It might as well have been me.

  “I didn’t think Samson cared about anything except his beer,” I said.

  She hid her pride with another sip of wine. “Well, he’s eager to start this.”

  “Have you…helped him before?”

  “I like to think of it as…consulting.” Her eyebrow arched. “He tells me what he wants, and I do my best to make it happen.”

  “Someone as beautiful as you must get a lot of…offers.”

  “I hope my success is based on talent, not beauty.” Her eyes narrowed on me. One hell of a glance that might have scared a lesser man off. “I’m good at what I do, so believe me, I charge more than a drink at the bar.”

  And then it clicked.

  I knew exactly who this mystery woman was.

  Samson wasn’t just a cheat, he was a bastard too.

  Where the fuck had he found a hooker in the middle of Butterpond?

  Some Sheriff he was. The town wasn’t exactly a booming metropolitan center. It was an election year—he should’ve locally sourced his Thursday night entertainment.

  When I’d still played ball, I’d met plenty of women who’d followed the Rivets for a chance to entertain a player or two. But they only looked for a dinner, date, and maybe a new purse or trinket for their efforts.

  I had more respect for myself then…but now? I had no cushy contract, only a farm on the brink of collapse. Gave a man more patience for this sort of curiosity.

  “If that’s the case…” I shrugged. “What are you doing here? You’d make a lot more money in Ironfield.”

  She sighed—a rather unsatisfied and irritated sound. Didn’t like that. A woman this beautiful should have only purred.

  “You’d think,” she said. “But I had a little…issue with their police chief. Started this whole inner-office conflict.”

  Oh, shit. Politics was a dirty game. “Wait. You consulted for him at the government offices?”

  “Well, technically, I do my work out in the field. But you know what happens when someone thinks they can do your job better than you.”

  Made sense. At least she was a smart entrepreneur. “So, you do this a lot?”

  She gave a proud shake of her head, teasing a curl from her bun and over her mahogany cheek.

  “You might think what goes on in a man’s house is his business, but, believe me, I get involved with more homes than you can imagine.”

  “Really?”

  “Surprised?”

  Not at all. I could bounce a quarter off her ass, and I’d probably owe her a hell of a lot more money by the end of the night. But a woman like her would earn every penny. The whole Ice Queen look worked for her—the prissy bun, sexy dress, weaponized heels.

  A single glance from her could drive a man wild, but the opportunity for a little more? Worth cashing in a couple stocks and bonds. A night with her probably gave one hell of a return.

  I lowered my voice, watching as her elegant fingers stroked the stem of her wine glass. “Gotta say…it’s hard to imagine.”

  “What is?”

  “You…working like that.”

  Her plump, hungry-for-a-cock lips formed an insulted O. “You don’t think I bust my behind for this job?”

  I snickered. “Well, no. I’m sure that’s…primarily what you do.”

  “Look.” Her glass struck the bar with a clink. “I put in my forty hours a week, same as everyone else.”

  “That seems…high.”

  “And yes, I have some pretty strict guidelines I need to follow.”

  “Oh.” I agreed with a nod. “The…work comes with a handbook or something?”

  “I don’t make up these rules.” She shook her head. “Oh, no. There’s a tremendous amount of legislation and research involved in what I do.”

  So…Karma Sutra meets OSHA requirements. Enlightening. I took a swig from the beer. I’d need another bottle to survive this conversation.

  “This is what no one understands,” she said, impatient. “Sure, I have some of my own personal preferences I enforce—like, no banging around after seven PM or before eight AM.”

  “Doesn’t that cut into business?”

  “It’s for the betterment of the community. If I didn’t enforce it, those construction guys would be going wild at all hours of the night.”

  I
blinked. The girl got around. “You deal with construction crews?”

  “Real estate is a booming industry nowadays. I usually do business with the land developers, but sometimes a girl has to get down and dirty on the construction site.”

  I snorted. “And they’re okay with you…going wild on the site?”

  “The unions love me. They’re actually stricter than I am. I don’t care how quick it gets done as long as it’s done right.” She hummed. “It’s the state that makes it tough.”

  “The state?”

  “They keep making new laws and revising our methods. Innovation is great, but they make it tough on us working girls and guys out there.” She leaned in with a smirk. “But here’s the secret. Most of the men strutting around the capitol can’t tell their asses from their pricks.”

  “Yeah, I’m definitely not into that.” I teased her with an arch of my eyebrow. “Sounds too rough for me.”

  “You don’t even want to talk rough.” She toyed a finger over the rim of her glass. “The state binds my hands more than anyone.”

  “Think they’d have to pay extra for that.”

  “Oh God, no.” Her laugh had an innocent charm—a quiet delight that could pry open wallets. “There are no kickbacks. With the state, you just have to lie back and take it.”

  I ordered another shot of whiskey. The woman was beautiful, but the old wives’ tales were right—never meet your idols, and don’t look in the kitchen to see where the meal is cooked.

  I saluted her with the glass as she finished her wine. “As long as you like the work, that’s all that matters.”

  “Oh, I do. I like helping, you know?” She leaned in close, licking the wine from her bottom lip with a smirk. Goddamn this woman was beautiful. Probably more expensive than I could afford. “Most guys don’t realize that they need help.”

  “Help?” I arched an eyebrow. “Like Samson’s bedroom?”

  “Exactly.” She pointed at me. “Picture this—a man, overworked and stressed, comes back from his job one day and takes a good, hard, introspective look at his home. For the first time, he’s sees what a mess it is. After twenty years of marriage and kids, time has taken its toll.”