Rain on a Tin Roof

By Sandra A. Sigfusson

Meet Virginia - a spirited young city girl from Tacoma, Washington, who is resolute and confident.

Luke, the man in a Stetson who has no business being so handsome, is a successful cattle rancher from Texas who moves fast and plays hard.

When their worlds collide during a chance meeting at a convention in Phoenix, Arizona, the sizzling desert heat is nothing compared to how hot their desires for each other get in just twenty-four hours.

Follow Virginia from the edges of the Pacific Northwest to the parched ranch lands of Texas as she risks everything to navigate a world and a man she knows nothing about for a chance at true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra A. Sigfusson
• Release date: Jun 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999004293

Sandra A. Sigfusson

Before becoming a romance novelist, Sandra spent four years co-hosting a podcast on the subjects of dating and relationships. This experience was more fun and eye-opening than she ever imagined. Her love of romance novels, music, photography and a good laugh has also played an integral part in penning fictional contemporary romance and erotic romance stories.She is married, has two wonderful adult sons, a rescued Peruvian Inca Orchid Dog and an adopted cat named Mittens. She has lived in beautiful, British Columbia, Canada all of her life.

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Copyright ©2019 by Sandra A. Sigfusson

All rights reserved.

Names:  Sigfusson, Sandra, Ann

Title:  Rain on a Tin Roof / Sandra A. Sigfusson

Description:  Romance

Identifiers:  ISBN: 9781074442934

Subjects:  Contemporary Romance – fiction | Travel – fiction | Interpersonal Relationships – fiction | Contemporary Women – fiction | Cattle Ranching – fiction Bull Riding – fiction | Erotica – fiction

First Edition

Book Cover Design:  Sandra A. Sigfusson

Cover Image:  iStock.com / photo ID: 1051587998

Editor:  Matthew Goddin / Thames Valley Wordworks

Unauthorized use or distribution of this book without express permission is a copyright infringement (abuse of the author’s intellectual property).  If you would like permission to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), please contact the author directly at [e-mail]

Rain on a Tin Roof is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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

About the Author:

Chapter 1

I have something I need to tell you, Charlotte says, between small bites of her turkey sandwich. She seems apprehensive, so it must be something juicy. I take a sip of coffee and wait for her to share her news with me while I decide if my coffee needs more cream. What she says next sends me into a state of shock.

I’m a kept woman.

At first I think she’s joking, but she’s dead serious. As my eyes dart up to meet Charlotte’s eyes, my mind becomes fogged over by the concept. My brows pinch in a confused expression before I unceremoniously blurt out, What on earth ever possessed you to agree to be a kept woman? Is it the money?

I regret the words only after I realize I’ve spoken them aloud. Charlotte steals a sideways look at me from her position beside me in the café booth, and I know what that look says without her moving her lips to vocalize it: fuck you.

I’m shocked again, but not by the look she just stabbed me with. I may as well have just called my best friend a high-priced whore.

Lunch is over and so, perhaps, is our long-standing friendship. Jesus Christ, what the fuck was I thinking?

We part ways without another word or exchange of expressions. She’s going to need some time to forgive me for this one, and I’m going to need the same to wrap my narrow mind around Charlotte’s situation with Mr. Moneybags.

Fuck.

I race back to my office and ditch my purse behind my chair. Charlotte and I have been friends and confidants for close to eighteen years, but this is the first time she’s been so pissed at me that she was speechless. Flowers. I need to send her a bouquet of flowers and an apology card. Now.

I peer over my cubicle and quickly dial the number to the local florist my boss uses. If I’m lucky, the flowers will arrive at her office before the end of business today. Perhaps she can consider forgiving me faster if she’s got her favourite blooms from me on her desk. Now all I can do is wait for one of her smart-mouthed texts to tell me I’m not as big of an asshole as I know I am.

Two full weeks go by after my ridiculous comment to Charlotte and still no message or phone call from her. I text her yet again to remind her my mouth and my brain don’t always know what the other is doing. I can’t apologize enough for my outburst, and she knows this. I’ve done it to her many times, but never as scorchingly as this. It must be because I’ve hit a nerve I didn’t know she had. I thought I knew all her nerves. I’ve plucked each one of them over the years, but this time it wasn’t in jest. I’m angry with her, I realize. She’s better than this. A kept woman? I’d have never imagined her doing such a thing.

We had plans. We were going to find the hearts and flowers guys, buy houses, have kids, yadda, yadda. Suddenly Ethan comes to mind, and I can’t push the thought of him back to where it came from. Fuck I miss him. He was my hearts and flowers guy. I messed that up too. It seems the only person who has the balls to stick with me is Charlotte, and now I’m worried she’s bought me a one-way ticket to Siberia as well. Without warning, my office space has become incredibly cold.

Just as I stand to head to the lunchroom I overhear – OK, the entire office overhears – B3 getting an earful from upstairs about one of the contracts. I stand still and observe with caution as Katie in the cubicle next to me also pops up to her feet. We’re like a pair of meerkats checking for danger outside our den. B3 doesn’t look pleased, I murmur loud enough for Katie to hear.

Who’s B3? she says, offering me the kind of blank stare only a nineteen-year-old office intern can pull off.

Robert Linden, or Bob, is the third boss I’ve had in this division named Robert, therefore B3, I breathe into her ear. She gives me another look of confusion before her brain starts to function again and I see she’s figured it out. I blink hard at her because I don’t ever remember being quite so vacant at her age, but I probably was. Watch and learn, Katie, I whisper.

I head into the lunchroom and make B3’s favourite coffee, which is a double-double with a splash of Bailey’s mint cream I keep hidden in a nondescript bottle in the back of the fridge for these kinds of emergencies. Swiftly I mix it up and walk as confidently as possible to his office door and knock twice.

Yes! he barks.

Robert, I made you a coffee. I’m heading out for lunch now. Is there anything else I can do for you before I go? My voice is soft and pleasant. Not my usual voice – the one I use outside of the office, which is crass and unapologetic – the real me.

Is it a double-double? he asks, eyeing me up slowly from my hips to my chest.

Yes, with a splash. I wink at him as he gestures to take the coffee from my hand. He takes a sip and softens his posture.

When did you discover I like mint? he asks with a bit of furrow in his brow.

You always have mint chocolates on your desk, so it was an educated assumption on my part.

When was the last time I gave you a raise? he utters as he blows gently on the steaming cup and unfurrows his brow.

Two weeks ago, Robert. And again, thank you.

You know you deserve more than what the scale is for your position, he points out, gesturing with his thumb in an up-and-down motion.

Yes, but I like my job and so I’m willing to take a lower rate to keep it, I nod regretfully and set a soft smile on my face. I’m being honest. I don’t love my job, but I like the people, and so far, B3 has been my best boss.

I’m going to look into it. You’ve been here nine years, and I think you are more valuable than they give you credit for, he adds quietly.

I appreciate it, Robert. Anyway, I’m off for lunch. See you at one o’clock. I turn on my heels and saunter out of B3’s office then wink at Katie. She’s staring at me again with a blank look on her face as I retrieve my purse from behind my cubicle chair.

He looks so calm now. What did you do? she asks, looking puzzled.

I take the time to figure out things about my bosses that make them happy. Robert likes his coffee hot, sweet and milky. Instead of waiting for him to ask someone for one, I took the initiative to bring it to him.

But it isn’t your job to bring him coffee, she says, attempting to reprimand me.

No Katie, it isn’t. But that’s exactly why I did it. I offer her a cheesy grin. I’m certain Katie isn’t getting the concept of reciprocal back-scratching, but then with looks like hers I’m sure she won’t need to resort to that tactic in her lifetime.

Lunch is uneventful. I eat the same ham sandwich I’ve ordered for the last three days at the café where I insinuated Charlotte was a whore, in the hopes she’ll waltz in and I can talk to her face to face. She hasn’t come in for lunch since I insulted her. I’ve gotten past being pissed at her, and now I’m really worried she’s never going to speak to me again.

That’s it! I madly scream internally at myself. I pull out my phone and call her cell. I get her voicemail, which doesn’t surprise me, and leave her the following words: This is ridiculous, Charlotte. You have to forgive me. You know I had no intention of insulting you. I miss you, and if you don’t return my call, I’m going to hold a vigil outside of your apartment until you speak to me again. Got it?

I’ve snapped now. I have to get my best friend back if it kills me.

Just as I’m getting up from my table to head back to the office, my phone pings with a text message.

You’ll be wasting your time standing outside my apartment. I’ve moved into a house on Derbyshire Drive, courtesy of Mr. Moneybags. If you want forgiveness, you’ll have to bring wine and another dozen pink roses to 8532 Derbyshire tonight – 6:00 sharp.

And just like that my tensions over the possibility of losing Charlotte forever are released. I stop into the florist shop, pick out the prettiest collection of thirteen pink roses and cart them gleefully back to my office. Twelve roses for forgiveness and one for my next failure to keep my insults to myself. I’ll grab the wine on my way home. Once I reach my desk, I type her address into Google Maps. I see Mr. Moneybags has gone all out to accommodate his concubine. Geez, I have to get that word out of my mind before it unfurls from my tongue at Charlotte when we talk tonight.

The contract B3 was working on that’s been giving him so much grief is on top of my keyboard at my desk, and I’m guessing it has some more revisions for me to type out. I plod away at the contract, making sure to triple-check my work so I don’t get B3 into another situation with upper management on the second floor. I breathe a sigh of relief when I’m done. I print it up, stuff it into a new navy-blue file folder and place it on B3’s desk. He’s not in his office, which is good because I’m sure he’d give me the once-over again from my hips to my tits. Not sure what he finds so interesting in that particular region of my body, but as far as I know I’m the only one he does this to. I should wear bulkier clothes, so he’s not distracted by my abdomen. His stare makes me nervous, and I have no intention of being the boss’s touchy-feely pet. Maybe he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

Ten minutes later I receive a call from B3 to come into his office. He’s pleased with the revisions and offers for me to take a seat in front of his desk.

Thanks, Robert, but I sit all day so if this is a brief conversation I’d rather stand.

No, sit. He gestures to the chair as he commands me to oblige.

Sure, I frown. I’m not a fan of being told when to sit or stand. This had better be a lengthy conversation, or I’m going to be pissed.

I have to fly out to Phoenix next weekend for a conference. My wife’s sister is coming into town that week from New York, so she doesn’t want to attend the conference with me. Would you be interested in being my companion for the weekend? All expenses paid by the company. You’ll have your own hotel room. Your only obligation will be to attend the dinner on Saturday night. Other than that, you’re welcome to go shopping or dining or sightseeing as you please.

I’m confused. Why me? Why does he have to take anyone? Can’t he go it alone? I want to answer no, but I’m now wondering if this is what it’s going to take for me to receive another little bump in salary. Am I that low I’d do this for a raise? Yes. As a matter of fact, I am. If B3 can find pleasure in scanning my midsection at every opportunity, then I can find pleasure in a free weekend in Phoenix. Yes, I blurt out.

Fine, he says. Thank you. We board the plane at seven o’clock next Saturday morning. The flight’s only two and a half hours long, so we’ll be landing in Phoenix at eight-thirty Mountain Time. Do you need me to pick you up at your place or would you rather I meet you at SeaTac Airport?

I’ll meet you there, I confirm.

Perfect. That’s all, Virginia.

As I head back to my desk, I can tell I’m sporting a pinched brow. A few of the other staff notice my expression and react noticeably. I always try to keep my feelings in check while at work.

My day is almost over, and now I have to get my act together, buy a bottle of expensive wine, and grovel for forgiveness to the only person who really understands me.

Chapter 2

Charlotte’s new digs are pretty damned fancy. Marble everywhere, and an unobstructed view of the ocean. I know Charlotte is very accommodating in the sack, so this guy must have the kind of itch only she can scratch. Are you happy? is the first thing that comes out of my mouth.

Yes. Does it bother you? Charlotte asks quietly.

No! God no. I’m happy if you’re happy! I say passionately. And I mean it. I’ve come to realize no matter what I think of the prospect of my best friend being a kept woman, it’s none of my business as long as she’s happy. Do you like the roses? I picked out thirteen of them, knowing full well I’m going to pluck another one of your nerves at some point soon. A pre-emptive forgive-me bloom, I smile.

Always thinking ahead, are we? she chuckles at me.

I’m your favourite asshole, so hug me and forget I said anything demeaning, please?

You are forgiven. I didn’t plan on becoming somebody’s concubine, but here I am. Full glory. Kept like a bird in a gilded cage, she sighs. And in all honesty, I didn’t contact you after our lunch because I was mad at myself more than I was mad at you. I hated not telling you all this, and when I finally did, I knew you’d be shocked.

You aren’t selling it as hard as you should, I mumble as I glance up at her from my seat at the marble kitchen island. And thank Christ she said the word concubine before I did. Funny word, concubine. It sounds like porcupine, so all I see is spikes and pain, which doesn’t sit well in my brain. So, show me around your gilded cage, Charlotte, I urge.

Sure. Follow me, she agrees, suddenly excited.

Not only has he given her this fantastic house all to herself, but it has a huge pool in the back yard and a steam room in the basement. Her walk-in closet is nearly as big as my apartment and filled to the rafters with clothes, shoes, hats, scarves, lingerie and jewelry. My mouth gapes open uncontrollably.

My reaction exactly, she nods wide-eyed. I still can’t believe he bought all of this, but I really think he cares deeply for me. I’m not going to say he loves me because I’m not sure he’s there yet, but ... Her voice trails off.

Do you want him to love you? I ask in all sincerity.

Yes, she replies, not looking me in the eye. Instead, she’s gently touching some of the lingerie hanging by the door. It’s beautiful stuff. Pale pink – silk, likely – with Chantilly lace edges and a plunging neckline. I’m sure she looks like a million dollars in it, as she has the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen on a woman. And they are real, which I’m sure pleases the fuck out of Mr. Moneybags.

Do you have a picture of Moneybags? I ask curiously.

No. He doesn’t like to have his picture taken, and certainly doesn’t want one taken with me, for obvious reasons.

So, he’s married?

No. He’s not. At least that’s what he tells me, she smiles.

What’s his real name? Should we do some research on him?

I trust him.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t trust him, Charlotte. I’m saying the more you know about this man, the better. It’s for your own safety. This is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to be put into this kind of situation and I worry you’re walking in blindly, I say cautiously.

I’ve actually known him for quite a while, she admits. I met him about five years ago at Jaxson’s place when his parents were having an anniversary party. He was married at the time, but he assures me he’s divorced now.

When did this start? I ask while I drag my pointer finger around in the air randomly.

At the anniversary party he and I had a nice conversation, and I knew he’d taken a liking to me but of course his wife was there, so I chalked it up to simple flirting. A few years later I bumped into him while shopping downtown, and he offered to take me to lunch. He’s kind, and I could see it in his eyes. Charlotte paused and looked at me like she knew back then something was going to happen between them either way.

So, she sighs. So, we exchanged phone numbers, and he said he was interested in helping me find the perfect job. He has tons of business connections, and I thought it would be fine for him to keep my number. Within six months I got a text message from him asking if I was interested in going out for lunch with him again. I accepted; under the guise he had a job offer for me.

What was the job offer? I ask, duly interested.

To be his eye candy at various functions he needed to attend. He said there were no strings attached. I could walk away at any time. He said he’d offer me a salary from his company – I’d be one of his employees with full benefits – but I’d never have to show up at the office. I was shocked at first, but then I realized I didn’t have to quit my real job to do what he was asking of me. Are you still with me here, Virginia?

Yes. Go on. Charlotte waved her hand for me to come, and I followed her back down to the kitchen.

Do you want some wine?

Yes, please, I smile, but my face is still showing her I’m concerned. She pours me a full glass of white wine in the most exquisite crystal wine glass I’ve ever held as she continues her story.

Obviously I agreed to his offer. That was two years ago, she adds casually.

What? You’ve been doing this for two years, and this is the first I hear of it, Charlotte? Now I’m pissed off. How could she not have told me this for so long?

Virginia! This is a very private matter, and I agreed to keep my position with him as discreet as possible. It’s been so hard to not tell you any of this for so long, but now that he’s broken down and bought this house for me, I thought he was more open to being public about us.

Is this house in your name or his? I’m dying to know just how open Moneybags is willing to be.

My name. I own this house outright.

Okay, well that is quite something. I’m coming around to thinking perhaps this guy is willing to put his money where his concubine is. Whatever happened to hearts and flowers and kids?

He told me if I wanted children, he’d be willing to discuss it with me.

How old is this dude?

Mr. Moneybags, AKA ‘Dude’ is forty-five, she says, laughing at my crassness.

Okay, so not ancient, I nod, slightly shocked he’s not in his mid-seventies. And does Mr. Moneybags have a real name, or is that a secret too?

Norman Gladwell, she says with a glint in her eye and a smile as she sips her wine.

I try for a