Come On (Coming Together Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Poppy Dunne

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Paige Press

  Leander, TX 78641

  Ebook:

  ISBN: 978-1-953520-13-5

  Print:

  ISBN: 978-1-953520-14-2

  Contents

  1. Tessa

  2. Rafe

  3. Tessa

  4. Rafe

  5. Tessa

  6. Rafe

  7. Tessa

  8. Tessa

  9. Rafe

  10. Tessa

  11. Rafe

  12. Tessa

  13. Tessa

  14. Rafe

  15. Tessa

  16. Rafe

  17. Tessa

  18. Rafe

  19. Tessa

  20. Rafe

  21. Tessa

  22. Rafe

  23. Tessa

  Books by Poppy Dunne

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  Tessa

  To gain entrance to the Donovan Club, an ultra-exclusive members-only haven situated in an iconic brownstone, located on a shady, tree-lined street not two blocks from Central Park, you need to have a dick. There are, of course, other requirements: you must be able to pay a paltry hundred-thousand-dollar yearly membership fee; your golf game needs to be two strokes better now than it was last year; you should ideally be on your third marriage if you’re past forty; and in addition to owning a viable dick, it’s crucial that you should be a dick as well.

  Sadly, I don’t have the genitalia or the attitude to make it as a member here, not to mention the fact that I’m still paying off old student loans and new family medical bills—no cash to spare on exclusive clubhouses. But here’s what I do have: a schedule to keep, a pair of sensible high heels, and my hair styled in a no-nonsense bun. What I lack is my boss.

  My boss who is currently inside the Donovan Club when he should be at the office.

  My boss who certainly owns a dick (though I’ve never seen it) and can be quite dickish in a way that’s charming, but not when he’s running late for an important meeting.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Snowe. As I’ve told you, it’s gentlemen only past this point,” the man at the front desk says. He looks apologetic over his glasses. His voice echoes in the high-ceilinged entrance with wood-paneled walls and a polished, black-and-white tiled floor. He whispers like we’re in church.

  “Did you get my message to Mr. McCarthy?” I don’t want to hassle this guy, because I know what it’s like to wrangle the richest men in New York for a living.

  “He’s in the second floor sauna.” I love how this place has multi-level saunas. It adds to the mystique. “He said he’d be right out.”

  “That was fifteen minutes ago.” I check my phone. “No. Sixteen.” I put it back in my purse, my nails tapping on the cover of my iPad. Never go anywhere without my trusty digital assistant. It’s all that keeps Rafe McCarthy running on time. “Trust me, he’ll move if I show up right in front of him. He’s a very visual creature.” I like to think of myself as the Rafe whisperer. Getting a massively privileged playboy out of bed on time and into the office by nine(ish) is no small feat. Of course, today we’re past noon and he has yet to make it out of the Upper West Side.

  The desk man huffs. “I’m sorry. There hasn’t been a woman inside these walls since the Donovan Club opened more than a hundred years ago.”

  “I see.” I pause, letting that sit. “Do you like Tamora Pierce?” I grin. “She was my favorite author when I was a kid.”

  “I.” He was clearly expecting me to say something—anything—else, and blinks. “What?”

  “She writes fantasy for young adults. She pioneered the genre back when girls didn’t have any kick-butt action heroes the way boys did. My favorite character of hers is Alanna, this spunky, tomboyish girl who wants to be a knight. She has to hide her gender while she trains, but in the end the prince chooses her as his squire. Do you read?”

  “The occasional, that is, I…is there a point to this?”

  “Yes.” I take my reading glasses out of my purse and slide them on. I don’t need them to see regularly, but I think they give me a school librarian type of look, transforming me into the kind of woman no one messes with. “When you need to get a job done, don’t let sexist traditions stand in your way.”

  I dodge around the desk and clack down the marble halls, while the man huffs and hums and stammers that he’s going to call security. A couple of men with fake tans and shit-eating grins saunter past me, wielding racquets that suggest they’re looking for a either a squash court or a BDSM meetup. For the sake of my sanity, I pray it’s the former.

  “Whoa,” one of them says as he sees me. Yes. A solid six out of ten has arrived to not cater to your money or ego. Be amazed and offended.

  At least, that’s what I’d like to say. I’m much more of a badass in the privacy of my own head than I am in real life. In my brain, it’s all banter and quips and fantasy nerd-dom. On the outside, I throw out a shy “hello” and clack up the stairs, taking them as fast as my pencil skirt will allow. Security has likely already been called, and I have a job to do. Namely finding the saunas and then, hopefully, seeing as little male nudity as possible. A girl can dream.

  On the second floor, I walk down a hallway with wine-red carpeting so plush my heels sink into it. I briefly glance at the pictures hanging on either side of me. They’re old oil paintings of middle-aged men with high collars and weak chins, portraits that display the richest, blandest men New York has ever seen. I pass a couple of white-jacketed servers who do a double take when they notice I’m of the female persuasion.

  “Hi,” I tell them, then take off at a dignified sprint. My ankles wobble; sensible heels still aren’t designed for running. “Bye,” I call over my shoulder.

  And I think I can hear them chasing me. Oh boy. I hope Rafe’s ready to make a nice donation to this place.

  Turning down a hallway, I nearly take a spill as my shoes hit another tiled floor. Steam’s dense in the air and slick on the walls. The atmosphere is hazy with privilege. I slip past the steam rooms, and head into an area that smells like eucalyptus oil and roasting cedar wood. The saunas. Wooden doors line the hall on either side of me. “Mr. McCarthy. Are you in here?” My voice echoes. I want to peek in each room, but I’m worried I’ll get an eyeful of the rich and powerful at their most nude and flaccid.

  “Miss! You need to come with us,” one of the staff says as he rounds the corner. I’m not sure how I’m going to evade them now. But turns out it’s my lucky day.

  “Tessa?” A rich, familiar voice emanates from behind the door to my right. “Are you a man now? That’s disappointing.”

  I pull open the door to find my boss, Rafe McCarthy, lounging against a bench with a towel around his waist and a cocksure smile quirking his lips. The air is a solid wall of heat in here, and sweat glistens on his sculpted chest. And on his abs, which are so perfect they appear to have been chiseled by a master’s hand, because nothing in life is fair. Rafe tilts his head to the side as if analyzing me, rubbing a hand absently against the stubble of his lantern jaw. A lock of black hair falls into his eyes, which are dark and snapping. He grins in a way that shows off his teeth—which are, of course, flawless.

  My boss, the Greek god of pharmaceutical executives, is looking entirely too naughty and way too nude for my taste this morning. The warm, tingling yearning I get in the pit
of my stomach is distracting. I remove my glasses to wipe off the steam, and to give myself a reason to look away.

  “Sir, did you get lost on the way to the office again?” I put my glasses back in my purse, and flip open my iPad. “Remember that early afternoon meeting? The very important one that you wanted me to mark as red and then write URGENT next to in block letters?”

  “That was today?” He stretches his vowels, which indicates he’s either had a couple of drinks already or that he’s still coming down from last night and whatever exclusive rich people party he attended. He shakes his head, looking at the man on the other side of the sauna. The other guy is hunched over and pale, dark circles like bruises beneath his eyes. His chest is sunken, his knees knobby. He doesn’t radiate the health and wealth that seems to choke the air around here, sticking out like a non-rich thumb. “It’s hard to keep track of Wednesdays,” Rafe tells the guy.

  “It’s Tuesday, sir.”

  “That makes it even worse.” He blinks as the two staff members arrive and stand very close to me. My shoulders tighten—I can feel their glares practically burning a hole in the back of my head.

  “All right, lady. Out.” A hand clamps down on my arm. I’m thinking up a way out of my situation when Rafe stands with a quickness that belies how drunk he seems.

  “Don’t touch her.” Rafe’s tone is brusque and commanding. The guy drops his hand instinctively, and I roll my shoulder. Rafe blinks hazily as he comes to lean in the doorway. The lopsided rich boy grin reappears. “She’s my assistant.”

  “So sorry, Mr. McCarthy. Sorry, ma’am.” The guys jump away like I’m radioactive. See, my boss isn’t just any underworked, over-privileged businessman. He’s a McCarthy, of the McCarthys. If you took the Rockefellers’ wealth and the Kennedys’ political power, and then mixed it with some Texas oil for flavor, you’d have the most potent, obscenely rich cocktail of all time. Rafe’s branch of the family is the big business, big Pharma side. You know. The ones with the real money.

  No one above 34th street messes with a McCarthy. Below 34th, I think it’s illegal to look one in the eye.

  “No harm done,” I say quickly. I don’t want anyone to get in trouble, and Rafe’s still giving the men a dark, crackling glance, even with his smile. I’ll say this for Mr. McCarthy: he doesn’t like anyone to mess with his employees. No, he prefers to manage that all on his own. “So, sir. Should we get you dressed?”

  His glance lands on me, and he lifts an eyebrow. His gaze turns teasing. “You want to assist, Ms. Snowe?”

  I sigh, and gesture him out of the sauna. “You know you can’t straighten a tie to save your life. The pants you’ll have to do on your own.” We walk to the changing area, and I have to keep my gaze focused on the hallway ahead. Indulging a dark, devious part of me, I can’t help glancing at him from the corner of my eye. It should be illegal to be so rich and so monstrously attractive at once.

  Then again, life isn’t fair. That’s a lesson I’ve learned about five times by the ripe age of twenty-nine.

  Rafe enters through a pair of swinging wooden doors into the changing area, throwing on his suit while I leaf through our schedule. I try not to dwell on the fact that, behind the doors, he is naked. That’s way too much stimulation this early in the afternoon. “We’ve got twenty-five minutes, and you know midtown traffic’s going to be hell this hour of the day. Honestly, of all the times to not come into the office—”

  “Would you prefer I arrive still drunk at nine, or pleasantly buzzed at noon?” Rafe pushes the door open. He’s got the pants on, huzzah, and the shirt, though the top buttons are still undone and reveal the sculpted contours of his chest—not a bad sight. I shift from one foot to the other; HR would have a problem with my horniness. He slides on his jacket, immaculately tailored to his body, of course. Clearing my throat, I do up the last buttons and take his tie from his pocket. It unfurls in my hand, a rich black silk. I throw it around my boss’s neck while he grins. “Know the only thing better than being dressed by a beautiful woman?”

  “Being strangled by one?” I deadpan as I adjust his tie, refusing to let my body tingle at his use of the word beautiful. He considers.

  “I was going to say being undressed, but strangling’s more surprising.”

  “Natural, too, given the circumstances. Sir.” I have to fight to keep from smiling, even as I want to roll my eyes with exasperation. Rafe grins, teasing and wicked all at once. He likes my sense of humor; at least, that’s what he’s told me.

  “You keep me on my toes, Tessa.” I tell myself that my name doesn’t sound decadent on his lips. I almost succeed. He strolls down the hall, hands in his pockets, while I follow behind and slide through his itinerary. In a moment, we’re out the club door and headed for his town car.

  December’s a beautiful time in this city, no matter how infuriating your boss may be. The sky’s crystal blue above. Faint dustings of snow edge the sidewalk. After the heat of the saunas, the early New York winter is refreshing. White holiday lights have been woven along the black, wrought iron fences outside of exclusive brownstones. Evergreen wreaths hang on doorways. Rafe and I pass a couple of model-gorgeous women in Gucci, who stop and turn to watch open-mouthed as my boss saunters past. They almost knock into me, but I can’t fault them.

  Inside the car, my boss pops some Tylenol and cracks open a bottle of water. He leans back against the leather seat as the driver pulls out and into the traffic.

  “Now remember, the meeting’s about Benzaline. That’s the new drug—”

  “The Parkinson’s treatment, I remember.” He opens one eye to look at me. “I did do some of the reading. Two entire pages.”

  Grinning, I pull up his weekly schedule. “You have that board meeting tomorrow, but other than that it’s a light week.” Light scheduling, the way Rafe likes it. The way his father, Scott McCarthy, also likes it, I gather. That way, Scott and Brad, Rafe’s older brother, keep control of things, and Rafe keeps his evenings free for, er, other types of meetings. I try not to look too long over the list of women he’s escorting around town this week. He rarely seems to go out with the same celebrity twice. “And tonight you’ve got a date with…M.” I raise an eyebrow. I don’t think I remember putting this in the calendar. “As in M from James Bond, or?”

  Rafe stretches his long legs. “I think she used to date the guy who plays James Bond. Does that count?”

  “Got it. Mystery girl.” It doesn’t matter to me. Clearing my throat, I look at his next date. “You’ve got Svetlana Morokovna on Thursday, by the way. It’s the Balenciaga gala at the new club in the meatpacking district.” Models, actresses, heiresses, they all flash by me on the screen. “How did you find the time to read two whole pages of the briefing?” I drawl.

  Rafe shrugs, a movement at once elegant and powerful. My God, how is this man real? “Must be my sizeable intelligence.”

  “And how do you find all these women to date?” I grumble, half to myself. Now, a megawatt grin breaks over his face.

  “A sizeable something else.” He looks over at me. “Sorry. I forget you have delicate sensibilities.”

  “I live in Queens. It’s where delicate goes to die.” Rafe laughs, a warm, rich sound. I close my iPad and slide it into my purse, tucking it beside my copy of Kushiel’s Dart, one of my favorite rereads of all time. The Rafe McCarthys of the world engage in every sexual exploit ever invented, and I just read about it. Seems fair. “Oh, don’t forget. We need to finalize your invitations for the company holiday party.” An invitation to that event is a major deal. One time, a woman canceled a trip to the Bahamas with her dying grandmother to attend. Most other companies throw ten gallons of vodka into a punch bowl, hang some mistletoe by the water cooler, and call it a party. The McCarthys host at Scott’s Park Avenue penthouse, with Wolfgang Puck personally catering. Anyone who matters in New York society is there, hobnobbing and drinking themselves into a stupor on Dom Perignon. The rich are different than you and me. “So if Svetlana o
r M or Daphne Diamonds or someone makes the second-tier cut, be sure to let me know.”

  I meant that as a joke, but I feel the tips of my ears burning. That was too prying, even for me. Rafe isn’t smiling now. God, why can’t I get a handle on myself?

  “Her name,” he says seriously, “is Sabrina Sapphire.”

  This would be a time to giggle girlishly, but of course I snort-laugh. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I can’t stop myself. He lets me off the hook. I’m relieved, and try to ignore the sting of jealousy when I think about Rafe’s rotating door of beautiful women. I shouldn’t worry about it. In addition to not being his type, he’s clearly not mine. I like clean living, honest, kind-hearted men, and he’s…well, he’s never been cruel, but the other two really don’t sum up Rafe McCarthy. Playboy, seducer, rapscallion, partier, amazing abs—those are much more him.

  I’ve spent half my working hours these past five years picking him up drunk at a club, or driving to the Hamptons at four in the morning to get him out of a tree and back into his underwear. Literally. The less said about the two Scandinavian lingerie models that were with him at the time, the better.

  “We’re on time.” I sigh in relief as the car pulls up to the curb, and Rafe exits. He even hands me out, like a gentleman. I ignore how warm his hand is in mine, how my skin still flushes from any contact. I’m an animal, what can I say?

  “I didn’t notice in the drunken haze, but you look nice today.” He glances over me once, enough to make me stammer.

  “I, ah, yes. That’s me. Nice.” Inwardly kicking myself, I follow a couple steps behind him through the huge, frosted glass front door. I admit I do look nice. I picked out my cranberry turtleneck and black pencil skirt to make an effort, though not for him. “I always try to look good when I go see my grandpa. I mean, thank you.”