But sometimes, like just then, he went too far.
He winced as the words he’d said to her reverberated around in his head. That resentful longing he felt whenever he was around her became a throbbing pang, an ache—an ugly ache of regret in his chest. Bailey Hartwell was anything but mediocre.
In truth, it had taken all of his willpower to will away his erection when that lingerie had tumbled out of her shopping bag. He’d stared up at her, imagining her in it, and the blood had shot straight to his dick.
In an effort to not get aroused in public he’d turned his thoughts to Tom Sutton and let his angry frustration take over. It was absurd that an idiot like Tom Sutton got to enjoy the honor, the unadulterated pleasure, of seeing Bailey in skimpy lingerie. It was a sin that he got to hold her at night, to walk by her side in the daytime, to be one of the people she cast her light over. So much light. He’d never met a woman like her. Every thought, every feeling she had she put out there—brave, upfront, outspoken. It was refreshing coming from a world where women rarely spoke their mind, where they played subtle games, to a world where someone like Bailey Hartwell existed.
And she cared so much.
Too much.
Sometimes he wanted her to stop caring so much because he was terrified she was going to get hurt beyond repair.
He’d heard about how much she had cared when Dahlia McGuire moved to Hartwell to run the gift store she’d bought from her great-aunt. There were rumors that Dahlia had taken herself for a midnight swim just after she’d moved to town and she’d almost drowned. Bailey apparently saved her life. They were best friends now.
And he’d witnessed firsthand how Bailey cared when Jessica Huntington came to Hartwell. Bailey had latched on to that woman from the moment they met, like she knew Jessica was harboring a secret, like she knew Jessica needed a friend. Bailey befriended her, no questions asked.
Vaughn had watched how Bailey cared about her town and the people in it—how she felt like he was a threat to all that and tried to make his life as difficult as possible until she realized he wasn’t out to hurt her beloved town.
But she would have fought against him if he had been. Bailey, with her little inn, and nothing but friends to back her up.
She would have gone up against him. Vaughn with all his money and power.
No fear.
Just fire.
Fuck, he admired her fire.
And Tom Sutton didn’t seem to realize he was in bed with fire. He had no clue he had something extraordinary in Bailey Hartwell.
She was loyal to the bone.
Vaughn admired all of that. He wanted all of that. He wanted her. He wanted her in his bed. Every night.
However, it wasn’t just Bailey’s dislike and the existence of her boyfriend that stood between him having her. It was partly his ability to hurt her. Like he’d hurt her only moments ago. But mostly it was his aversion to relationships. Vaughn had sworn off relationships entirely and not even Bailey Hartwell could change his mind when it was made up.
So yes, it was strange hating a man like Tom for having something he wanted, knowing that Tom didn’t deserve Bailey, because as much as he hated the man, he was glad Tom existed.
There never would be a Vaughn and Bailey.
But that lingerie . . .
Tom needed Bailey to wear sexy lingerie to get turned on?
Yes. The lingerie was nice.
And picturing her in it was more than nice.
However, it was pointless to him. It covered what he wanted to see more than anything.
Bailey Hartwell. Naked. On his bed. Fire in her eyes but a submissive body. She was so fucking antagonistic and battle ready all the time . . . nothing turned him on more than the idea of winning a battle with her, of her letting him tie her to his bed—
“Fuck,” he muttered, his skin feeling flushed with arousal.
He was getting turned on walking down the goddamn street.
Thankfully his cell vibrated inside his suit pocket, distracting him. He pulled it out and saw “Dad Calling” on the screen.
Grateful for the interruption to his wayward thoughts, Vaughn answered it.
“I thought you might have seen the news about Caroline in the paper,” William Tremaine said without preamble.
“I did.”
“Are you okay?”
This, right then, this call was one of the reasons he should go back to New York.
After his mother died of a heart condition she’d had from birth that no one knew about until it just gave out one day, Vaughn’s dad had been there. He was only five when he lost his mother, and his father was a successful construction giant in New York. He didn’t exactly have the time for a five-year-old son.
But he made time.
Yes, there were nannies, but Vaughn had never felt unwanted or unloved, and as he grew older he realized how rare that was in the rarified world he’d been born into. He had no doubt that his friends were loved but that love was often crushed under the weight of expectation that was thrust upon them.
William reared him to work hard, but he never pushed his own agenda on Vaughn. Not like his friends’ parents. His father was his best friend. A man he admired and respected more than anyone else.
And he should go to New York for him.
He just couldn’t make his feet move in that direction.
“I’m fine, Dad,” Vaughn reassured him.
“I’m sure you are, just thought I’d check. You know . . . I was thinking I could stop in Delaware tomorrow. I have a business trip to London in a few days. I thought I’d make a pit stop.”