Bryce: Ex-Business: An Ex-Club Romance Read online

  Bryce: Ex-Business

  Ex Club Romance

  Camilla Stevens

  Copyright © 2020 by Camilla Stevens

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  About the Author

  Camilla Stevens is a New York resident. At night you can find her typing away, often with a glass of wine, getting all the steamy, suspenseful or humorous, Happily Ever After stories out of her head and down on the page.

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  Also by Camilla Stevens

  WRIGHT BROTHERS SERIES

  Mr. Wright & Mr. Wrong

  Mr. & Mrs. Wright

  So Wrong

  STAND ALONE

  One Night

  Sweet Seduction

  EX-CLUB ROMANCE SERIES

  Archer: Ex-Bachelor

  Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy

  TEXAS HEAT ROMANCE SERIES

  Home Run

  High Stakes

  Hard Sell

  INTERNATIONAL LEGACIES ROMANCE

  The Italian Heir

  The French Thief

  The Nordic Lightning

  Her Icelandic Protector

  Her Russian Defender

  The Luxembourg Betrayal

  The Monte Carlo Shark

  The Spanish Pirate

  DESCRIPTION

  Bryce Wilmington

  He very much falls into the category of Old Business.

  That one night during our first week of business school didn’t mean a thing.

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  Moving into the apartment across from him was purely a coincidence.

  But he somehow takes every opportunity to make my business his business.

  We’re not even rivals.

  He runs a men’s magazine

  I run a women’s magazine.

  And never the twain shall meet.

  Until suddenly, both our businesses are on the line.

  Now, old business is new again…

  And this is one merger that will be the talk of Madison Avenue.

  This is a BWWM novel in the Ex-Club Series.

  Other books in the series:

  Archer: Ex-Bachelor

  Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy

  Warning: Due to adult situations, for 18+ only

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  Start The Ex-Club Series From the Beginning

  ARCHER

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Edie

  “Ya shower head should be just fine now.”

  Tony, one of the maintenance men in my apartment building, is talking to me but I’m only half-listening to what he’s saying. I’m far more focused on his fantastic looking mouth. How have I not noticed it before now?

  Would it be wrong to have sex with the maintenance man?

  Yes, of course it would. Why am I even entertaining such an idea?

  The question is pretty much answered by the sapphire blue, silk kimono barely reaching mid-thigh that I threw on instead of the threadbare Columbia t-shirt and pajama shorts I usually wear around the apartment.

  I seriously need to get laid.

  “Whoever it was that first installed it just messed up is all. Nothin’ a little tightenin’ couldn’t fix.”

  I just nod along, following the movement of his mouth. Those lips, they could do things to me, things that even the ridiculous parts of my magazine couldn’t publish.

  “You should be good ta go now, Miss Hartman.”

  “Thank you, Tony, and please, call me Edie,” I say in what I hope is a mildly flirtatious way.

  Just in case.

  I’ve never been skilled in that whole coquettish schtick. Flirtation is not my strong suit.

  Besides, there are so many things wrong with this, I don’t even know where to begin. Getting it on with someone who works in my own apartment building is nothing but a recipe for trouble. Not to mention the fact that I’m the editor-in-chief of a women’s magazine. This makes me well versed with the evils of sexual harassment in the workplace.

  Which is exactly why I should put an end to the pathetically desperate thoughts going through my head.

  Right. Now.

  Fortunately, either Tony is completely oblivious, or my feminine appeal is even more non-existent than I thought.

  Ding.

  We both turn at the sound of the elevator down the hallway as it arrives on my floor. My heart goes through a crazy series of random palpitations when I see who eventually steps into the hall.

  Great. Just great.

  As if my disastrous attempts at seduction couldn’t be more obvious, the human highlighter himself has just arrived to make it glaringly apparent to all parties involved.

  All thoughts of Tony the Sexy Maintenance Man fade away as I watch Bryce Wilmington saunter down the hallway. His suit jacket is draped over one shoulder, hooked on the end of his index finger. His wrinkled dress shirt has at least one too many buttons undone, showing off a smattering of chest hair that too few men seem to appreciate as they wax or shave it away to nonexistence. His thick head of dark, wavy hair is tousled in a boyish way that most women would find endearing. Already, a five-o’clock shadow has appeared on that damn jaw with its damn dimple in his damn chin.

  I mentally take note of the time: eight-ish a.m.

  “Are you just now getting in?” I ask in a slightly admonishing tone.

  The man who lives in the apartment across the hall from mine gives Tony and me a look of mild surprise as though just now taking note of the fact that we are there. Then he gives me a taunting little wink and shrugs.

  “Guilty as charged,” he says with an aw shucks grin.

  Right about
now, my decision to throw on the silk kimono doesn’t seem like such a clever “happenstance.” I can read right through Bryce’s devilish expression as he takes in the scenario before him.

  “And what have we here?” he muses. “I certainly hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “I just had a plumbing issue,” I say, then instantly regret my choice of words. Why do I always fall into such obvious traps for sexual innuendos when he’s around?

  “Is that so?” Bryce asks, raising one teasing eyebrow as he happily takes that bit of fresh bait to nibble on. He pointedly looks back and forth between Tony and me again, then adds, “Well, I’m sure Tony is just the man to solve whatever, er...plumbing issue you had.” His teasing, brown eyes wander freely down my long, dark brown legs as he says it.

  “Oh, it was nothin’,” Tony assures him with a complete lack of guile.

  If only Tony knew Bryce the way I do.

  If only Tony knew the thoughts that were going through my head about him only moments ago.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Tony,” Bryce says, clapping him squarely on the shoulder. “I have a sneaking suspicion that our dear Lola is quite receptive when it comes to men who are skilled in the art of plumbing.”

  I widen my eyes in disbelief—for a variety of reasons. Really?

  “Lola?” Tony asks with a confused expression on his face, looking back and forth from me to Bryce.

  Bryce knows I hate my given name, choosing instead to go by my middle name of Edie. Not that it’s much better.

  My adoptive parents were, and still very much are, eccentric.

  To put it mildly.

  Thank you, Dad, for naming me after the showgirl in a song. Actually, I was named after a drag queen who named herself after the showgirl in a song—which obviously makes it so much worse.

  The middle name my mother gave me was slightly less problematic. She chose Edie in honor of the “it” girl of the sixties, one of Andy Warhol’s infamous superstars, Edie Sedgwick, who my mother has idolized since childhood.

  “Sorry, I keep forgetting she prefers Edie.”

  “Yes, I do,” I say tersely.

  “Only her most intimate acquaintances know her by Lola, though I’m sure she’ll allow it in your case soon enough,” he adds with a broad grin.

  “Don’t you have a magazine to get to?” I snap, feeling my jaw harden as I bite back the rest of what I’m itching to say.

  “Why Lola, I’ve actually been at work all night.”

  “I’m sure,” I say dryly, eyeing his rumpled clothes.

  “Before you ask, yes, it was at a bar. Don’t you know Thursday night is the beginning of the weekend for your average college student? Gotta go where they are, get ‘em while they’re young. As editor-in-chief of Ideal Gentlemen, it was my official duty to make an appearance at our Fall Fling we put on this time of year.”

  A mixture of irritation and distaste runs through me. It’s a brilliant idea, with a despicable execution. I know exactly what goes on at that rowdy, half-off beer night held at a local sports bar.

  There will be no “Fall Flings” for Contempo Woman magazine, thank you very much. The magazine my mother started has enough of a reputation for being mindless, silly, sex-obsessed junk. However, he does have a point about attracting a younger crowd. Maybe we could host some sort of Cosmo Night or chick-flick themed party or….

  I feel Bryce’s eyes on me. Mine, which were glazed over in thought, refocus to find him reading them as clearly as he would a neon sign. I glare back, which only causes him to chuckle lightly to himself.

  “Oh hey, Bryce,” Tony says, his eyes brightening as he gives my neighbor his full attention. I guess they are already on a first-name basis. “Speakin’ a ya magazine, I loved the latest one takin’ a shot at that senator from Kentucky, whatshisface. The puppets on strings? I don’t know where ya come up with this stuff but it had me dyin’. My girlfriend and me, we still laugh over the one takin’ a shot at Congressman Bowen earlier this year. The whole thing with the dog whistle and the bone? Hilarious.”

  “Girlfriend, you say?” Bryce at least has the tact to bite back his infuriating grin, but all one has to do is look in those eyes, which are practically dancing the jitterbug with glee to know how pleased he is with himself at that news. “It’s always good to know that our target audience reaches across gender lines.”

  “Yeah,” Tony says, laughing to himself. He notices me and stops to give me a reassuring smile. “Oh, she likes Contempo Woman too, Miss Hartman.”

  So much for getting him to use my first name. Perhaps it’s best this way.

  “Thank you, Tony. And thank you for fixing my shower. I should probably get to it now,” I hint.

  “Sure thing. Call me if ya need anything else.”

  “I’m sure she will, Tony,” Bryce says in a suggestive voice as the man walks away. He then turns to give me another shit-eating grin.

  I just glare back at him again. “Why do you always have to make a sexual joke of everything? ‘Not so easy to satisfy’? ‘Plumbing issues’?”

  “Now, now, Edie, I don’t joke around when it comes to playing wingman,” he says, giving me a stern expression. “Besides, at least one of those were your very own words, not mine. Perhaps a bit of subliminal messaging? It was obvious that you had the hots for our friend Tony. Shame he’s already taken.”

  He grins and leans in closer. “I, on the other hand, am completely at your disposal, Lola. And I certainly know how to handle a pipe.”

  “Hard pass,” I say in a dry tone. “Besides, I have no doubt that there are plenty of phone numbers from last night’s unsuspecting coeds filling your contacts list. Call on them for your morning quickie.”

  He clucks his tongue at me. “Trix are for kids, Edie. Let the frat boys feast on that breakfast cereal. My mouth prefers something that takes a little more time to finish off.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Speaking of which,” he continues, “the bartender from last night introduced me to a particularly inventive way of doing shots. You should come on over and try it some time. It involves the back of your—”

  “Enjoy your day at work,” I interrupt, closing the door in his face without another word. I hear his laughter from the other side followed by him softly crooning “Copacabana” by Barry Manilow.

  Once again, I rue the day I slipped up that night back in business school and told Bryce my first name was Lola.

  And then had sex with him.

  Never again.

  Chapter Two

  Bryce

  “Lola, Lola, Lola.” I chuckle to myself as I shut the door to my apartment.

  Getting under that Teflon skin of hers always brightens my day. Managing to get a jab in about our magazines is the icing on the cake.

  I was happily surprised when she moved into the apartment across from mine last year. She claims it’s a coincidence, but I’ve always held onto the idea that it was her subconscious guiding her back into my life.

  I should have known better than to think it would be so easy to pick up where we left off that one night during our first week at Columbia Business School. My favorite neighbor hasn’t so much as knocked on my door for a cup of sugar.

  I chuckle as I strip off the shirt that still smells of cheap beer and teen spirit. At thirty-two I’m starting to feel the weariness set in from these promo events. Was I really like that when I was in college?

  The bartender was fun though. I’ll definitely have to file away that shot she introduced me to for future use.

  Perhaps when Lola finally runs out of sugar.

  “Good morning, Lola,” I say, exiting my apartment at 8:45 a.m., same as I do every morning. In all fairness, Edie is more predictable than Old Faithful when it comes to heading out to work, so she makes it so easy. “Sorry—Edie.”

  “Good morning Bryce,” Edie says in a perfectly perfunctory tone. “I see you’ve managed to clean up just in time to leave the same time as me as usual.”r />
  I grin, just to wriggle underneath her skin a bit. She’s just so damn gorgeous when she’s irritated with me.

  We turn and walk down the hallway to the elevators together. I eye her standard work uniform while we wait. Since we live on one of the higher floors it usually takes a good long while every morning, especially on a workday.

  “You know, you looked nice with your hair down this morning. You should wear it like that to work someday.”

  She reaches up to pat the flawless French twist her medium-length hair is in. “I prefer it this way.”

  “Suit yourself. Speaking of which, I would be remiss in not pointing out that the Hillary Clinton campaign called and they want their pantsuits back.”

  Edie gives me a condescending look, which does nothing to silence me.

  “Don’t you think this style is a bit…severe? You’re only thirty-one, Edie. Or is it just that you’re deliberately trying to avoid showing off those amazing gams of yours?” I tease, then start whistling the tune to “Copacabana” again.