Talk This Way

Cassidy introduces the Call Girls, a spirited group of friends ready to take on lust, love and everything in between.... Find out where it all began in this delicious novella!

If life is like a box of chocolates, Cat Butler has tasted them all—and decided on none. It’s no wonder she can’t keep a job, even though her mother’s health depends on it. Just when she finds herself up a creek without a paddle—again—a benevolent friend throws her a lifeline. In the form of a job at, of all places, a phone sex hotline. Not exactly what she had in mind, but if it pays the bills for her mom’s expensive nursing home, what’s the harm?

Successful entrepreneur Flynn McGrady knows a thing or two about responsibility. So when his mother has a stroke, he knows the right thing to do is relocate to Atlanta to be near her while she recovers. He’s got a plan for everything—except for feisty Cat, who finally gets his mama to talk again. Talk dirty, that is, and he’s not pleased. Cat is gorgeous and sassy to boot...too bad she’s not the type to settle down.

Cat and Flynn may have bigger fish to fry, but the sparks between them are hotter than hell. And when they finally give in to temptation, the results are explosive. Can a girl who follows her heart and a guy who follows his head find their way to forever?

Want more sizzling stories of the Call Girls? Their exploits continue in Talk Dirty to Me, available soon from Harlequin MIRA.

Talk This Way

Dakota Cassidy

Dedication

For my Dad.

Because I miss you so, so much, and because even with the tips of your ears turning a lovely shade of crimson, you read my books anyway.

Because you taught me to see what I could see.

Because you loved me.

Because... :)

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

About the Author

Copyright

Chapter One

Atlanta, Georgia, 2012

“You work here?” Flynn McGrady asked, giving the small coffee shop a once-over.

Catherine Butler fought a hard roll of her eyes, putting a fake smile on her face just in case her cranky boss was watching her. “Ogres drink coffee?”

“Only the ones who eat little kids.” He rubbed his flat stomach with the width of his tanned hand and almost grinned. “We have to wash them down with something. Bones have sharp edges.”

Oh, heavens no. No way was Flynn McGrady ever going to make up for being the biggest ass-hat this side of the county line. Not even with his devastatingly dimpled almost smile.

Nope. She clutched her pen and pad to quell the rumble he evoked in the pit of her belly, looking down at the Formica table he sat at to avoid his eyes. “Then what can I get for you?” You fun-stomper.

“What do you suggest?”

Someone far braver than I yank out whatever’s stuck up your incredibly hard, drool-worthy backside? “Depends on what you like. There’s a menu board right over there.”

“But I’m asking what you like.” He gave her a view of his rock-hard jaw in all its defiance.

“I like customers who can read.” She pointed to the chalk menu board she’d spent an hour drawing on happy faces bouncing above steaming cups of coffee that was sitting on the shiny, silver counter.

More rock-hard jaw, plus the added tic of aggravation, equaled his teeth clenching. As much as she hated to admit it, he made her pulse flex its underused muscles, and had from the first day she’d laid eyes on him at the Oakdale Nursing Home, where both their mothers were temporary residents.

“And I like baristas who are helpful,” he groused up at her.

Arlo, her boss and resident tyrant, came into her line of vision, beefy arms folded over his chest, sourpuss in tact. Damn. She’d been on his watch-like-a-hawk list ever since she’d tried to talk a senior customer out of the triple mocha latte that wasn’t really a triple at all.

Arlo was a cheapskate and Howard, one of her favorite customers, was on a fixed income. He came in every day at noon while his wife was across the way at Oakdale in physical therapy to have a cup of coffee and a sandwich he brought from home, and Cat had fallen in love with his dedication to their marriage.

Howard’s words about his love for his wife, his devotion to her, touched her. Made her yearn for something that had been elusive to her thus far.

Love. And a relationship that lasted longer than a few months before she lost interest and took off onto the next shiny thing that caught her eye.

So, she couldn’t just stand by and watch Arlo overcharge him by fifty cents for absolutely nothing. But encouraging his employees to stiff the customers was just one of the perks of working for Arlo. That and his grabby paws.

While she needed this job desperately in order to help pay for her mother’s care at Oakdale, she wasn’t willing to sacrifice her conscience over it.

Cat shuffled her feet when Arlo glared her way, keeping her voice low. “Listen, Mr. McGrady, I realize we’ve had our differences at the nursing home. I meant no harm when I brought your mama those alleged ‘racy’ novels. But you have to admit, it’s helped her remember her words.”

Flynn opened his pretty mouth to speak.

But Cat’s hand flapped up before Mr. Pissy Pants could jump in and protest. “I realize the words leaned toward the colorful, but they’re still words, right? After a stroke, it’s important to be able to express yourself. Just ask Dr. Fairlane. He said as much. Now, the nursing home is one thing. But this is my job. Please, save your grudge for the proper venue.”

Please. After today and her chat with Oakdale’s administrator, who’d reminded her she was behind on her mama’s bill, she was already on ice so thin you could see through it.

Oakdale was a privately owned nursing facility, one of the best in the country. It was exclusive and provided not just permanent residence, but temporary situations for short-term rehabilitation. And it cost a small fortune.

Medicaid had shot down the idea of a stay at Oakdale, but with her mother’s diabetes impeding her healing process, and the fact that she couldn’t be with her around the clock, Cat wasn’t willing to take any more chances with her recuperation. They’d sold her mother’s home for a small profit, and decided to worry about where they’d live once she was healthy again.

After a whole lot of sweet-talking, and all of her meager savings, Cat had managed to secure a spot for her mother, and she wasn’t letting go. Even if she had to hook for cash to keep it.

She could admit she wasn’t very good at keeping jobs. Just ask her twelve or so former employers of the last several years. But this one? She needed this one more than any job she’d ever had in her entire life.

“Words are very important. On this we agree, Miss Butler. It’s the type of words we disagree on. Couldn’t you have at least brought her something tame? Maybe some Dr. Seuss?”

Cat secretly smiled remembering Flynn McGrady’s mother, Della, forcing the words from her immobile lips while sitting in the middle of the crowded rec center. “Oh, c’mon. Green Eggs and Ham isn’t nearly as rich with expression as ‘Spank me harder!’ Now that was a statement chock with emotion, crystal clear and perfectly executed. Relax, already.”

He visibly cringed, the tips of his ears turning red. “I can’t believe they let you mingle with the other patients.”

Cat bristled, though, she had to admit, if her mother said something so racy, she’d probably cringe, too. “I can’t believe you’re not over-the-moon that your mama spoke for the first time today since she had her stroke.”

He fiddled with the corners of the paper napkin on his table, his nimble fingers folding the edges neatly. “You’re taking credit for her ongoing recovery now?”

“I’m takin’ credit for lightening up an otherwise depressing situation. Nothing more.”

Flynn looked up at her, all deep blue eyes and thick, gravelly voice. “And you think hanging posters of romance novels with half-naked men on her walls is uplifting?”

Cat arched an eyebrow meant to shower him in haughty attitude. “Well, maybe not to the insecure male. But other than you and your blusterin’, there have been no complaints, especially from Della. You must have known she loved romance novels before her stroke. That there wasn’t a single one of her beloved books for her to read when you brought her to Oakdale astounds me.”

“We didn’t know she could still read.”

Her cheeks sucked inward while Arlo hovered and her damn phone vibrated in her pocket. Probably Oakdale again, wondering where her payment was.

Yet, she couldn’t let this go. Flynn had made all sorts of stink when his mother had chirped those words, as if Cat had brought Della something illicit from the naughty store.

She’d only given her what made her happy, and for the first time in the three months since Cat had met Della at Oakdale, when Cat handed her a copy of The Sheik’s Alien Twin Babies’ Nanny or some title she couldn’t remember, Della’s lips had lifted in a lopsided smile. She’d looked right at Cat, her once dull, defeated eyes full of what she was convinced was hope.

So too daggone bad on her cranky, ill-mannered, hotter-’n’-sin son. No racing heartbeat and sweaty palms was going to deter her from encouraging Della.

“You didn’t exactly check, either. All I did was surround her with the things she loved before her stroke. I asked your cousin Emmaline...Amos, is it?”

Flynn nodded his dark head with a grating sigh. “That’s her.”

“She’s lovely, and sweet, and helpful. Em, as she asked me to call her, told me everything she knew that might make your mama happy when she was passing through Atlanta and dropped in to pay Della a visit. Maybe, instead of always ordering everyone around, if you stopped and paid attention once in a while, you’d know in her recovery, your mama needs the things that used to comfort her. Romance novels bein’ high on the list.”

You’re going too far, Catherine Butler....

Flynn’s eyebrows rose. “Now you’re questioning my intentions for my mother’s rehabilitation?”

Stop now, Cat. Stop before you draw attention to yourself simply because you never know when to hush your mouth. It’s his mother, for mercy’s sake. It’s not like he never visits her or spends all of his time ogling pretty nurses when he does. He’s just disagreeing with your unconventional methods.

Cat sucked in some fresh air and focused on not losing job number thirteen. “No. Now I’m questioning what your order is.”

“Is there a problem here, Mr. McGrady?” Arlo sidled up alongside her, his beefy body and moon-shaped face infiltrating her view. “We’ve had some complaints about Cat, so if she’s givin’ you some kind o’ trouble, you speak up. I like to see my customers leave here satisfied.”

Cat stiffened. That wasn’t true. No one had complained. Wait. Maybe one customer had, but he’d been horrible to the new mother, who had been frazzled and tired, and trying desperately to soothe her crying baby.

So she’d slipped and spilled coffee on his fancy new suit? Accidents happened. She’d offered to pay to have it cleaned. He’d declined and called her a clumsy bitch, but he’d left and after that, everything was right as rain.

Arlo put his equally beefy hands on his hips, just waiting. “Mr. McGrady?”

Hush now, Cat. How many times do I have to remind you, sometimes you have to catch flies with honey ’cos the vinegar will send you to the unemployment line?

Her mother’s words. Words to live by, surely.

“There’s no trouble here, Arlo,” Cat insisted.

“No trouble at all, Arlo,” Flynn repeated, staring Arlo down with his intense eyes and granite expression.

Arlo pursed his thick lips, obviously unconvinced. “You sure now? Don’t cover up for her. She can be pretty sassy with that mouth o’ hers, always disruptin’ folk, buckin’ authority like she knows how to run this place.”

Cat’s mouth fell open. She never bucked anything. In fact, she’d probably been the quietest she’d been in her entire life during her employment with Arlo.

Could she be accused of being overly passionate about the unfairness of overcharging seniors for weak, watered-down coffee? Or defending a new mother just trying to catch her breath without the jeers and eye-rolling of an insensitive, rude caveman?

Yes. But that was hardly bucking the system. Mostly she’d been nonbucking.

Still, what happened next was due only to the fact that she’d always had trouble heeding her mother’s infamous words.

She had no honey left in her pot to catch a fly with.

It was all just vinegar.

There went unlucky job number thirteen hot on the heels of an incoming call from the Oakdale administrator, Casper Reynolds.

* * *

Shit.

The last thing he’d meant to do when he’d wandered into the coffee shop was get the only person at the nursing home who’d been able to coax his mother into responding to anything in three solid months fired.

Nothing he’d said could change that tyrant Arlo’s mind, either. He’d bargained, offered to pay her salary for six months and threatened to report him to the labor board, but all with no luck.

Arlo was a caged tiger, and he’d latched onto firing Cat like she was his only source of protein.

Flynn McGrady watched from his rental car as Cat’s long legs ate up the parking lot of the coffee shop connected to the nursing home. Her chestnut-brown hair billowed behind her in thick streams streaked with gold, her cheeks were fiery red and her chest heaved beneath the snugly fitting blue T-shirt she wore.

In that moment, he realized how beautiful she was, with her creamy skin, full, peachy lips and bright, almond-shaped eyes. He’d never taken the time to really look at her. She was always excusing herself and rushing off somewhere when he came to visit Della.

Cat Butler was like Mother Teresa at Oakdale. Everyone loved her. There wasn’t a patient in the connecting health-care facilities or senior in the nursing home who didn’t. She baked cupcakes when someone graduated from a wheelchair to a walker and turned it into a ceremony where she presented the lucky graduate with a certificate they could frame, and she encouraged everyone to join the party.

She played board games and cards with all the seniors, and made sure everyone was always included. She’d brought costumes in for an impromptu costume party and organized a senior parade along the halls.

In review, Cat was loveable, and he was an asshole. He’d overreacted to what his mother said.

He wanted to go and apologize to her. Smooth this over; get her job back for her somehow.

She dropped down on a bench under a tree, resting her face in her hands. It looked like her shoulders quivered while the sunlight slipped between the trees, casting shadows along her spine.

Perfect, and you made her cry, jerk.

He’d been a surly asshole with her from the moment he’d sat down at that table and realized she was the saintly angel from Oakdale. Since his mother’s stroke, if he listened to his sister, Adeline, he’d been an asshole period.

It was the endless commute back and forth from his home in New York to Atlanta to see his mother each weekend and find she’d made little progress, as he tried to manage his internet-based company from two places at once, and also juggle her health care, that left him so cranky. At least he kept telling himself that.

Not a good enough excuse, Flynn.

He’d only egged on Cat because she’d managed to get his mother interested in something—finally. He was almost resentful. Nothing he’d bribed Della with, bartered with her for, had garnered the effect on her like Cat’s idea about those romance novels had.

And in fairness, he’d been a little embarrassed, too. It was, after all, his mother garbling out the words, “Spank me harder!” in front of a roomful of people.

Now he had to find a way to make this right. Cat was his mother’s favorite visitor. They’d forged this bond, this secret sort of means of communication that made Della’s face light up, even if her lips still couldn’t unite a smile with her emotional state.

For the past three months, he’d made weekend trips to Atlanta to see his mother since she’d been admitted to Oakdale. He’d watched Cat and Della interact from afar when they were engrossed in a jigsaw puzzle, or watching a television show. He’d actually admired the ease with which Cat soothed Della when she was frustrated, by simply touching her hand, leaning in close and whispering something in her ear that settled her right down.

Pretty Cat had all the qualifications to help heal Della that he apparently lacked.

How was he supposed to know his mother read that kind of fiction? In fact, he’d never seen her with anything but a knitting book in her lap in all of his thirty-seven years.

Damn, he wished Adeline were here. She’d know how to help, but she was on active duty in Afghanistan with only the occasional Skype session or phone call to ease his uncertainties.

The last thing he wanted was for his mother to slip back into her deafening silence. If she found out he was part of the reason Cat had been fired, leaving all her Oakdale time eaten up to pound the pavement looking for work, Della would slay him with that sour look she’d perfected since her stroke.

Flynn gripped the steering wheel while he stared at Cat’s back. Now what?

Anything. He’d do anything to help get back his mother’s will to live. The doctors all said she was perfectly capable of becoming fully functional again. They said she had to want to fully function. Somewhere between Adeline leaving for Afghanistan and his father’s passing, Della had just lost interest in the business of living.

When it had happened, he couldn’t pinpoint, but it was clearer each time he visited her, which made the decision to leave New York, at least temporarily, an easy one.

The stroke had brought new focus; shed light on some underlying issues causing his mother to suffer. He’d been too blind to see them—too busy with work and his own life.

But he was here now. He’d leased an apartment, he had wheels and he was going to make it right.

With his mother and with Cat.

Chapter Two

“Cat?”

Swiping the tears from her eyes with her thumb, Cat looked up to find one of her all-time favorite former patients at Oakdale’s Cancer Center, Landon Wells, staring down at her, his handsome face so elegant and understated, his eyes sharper than they’d been in a while.

Landon was in his early-to-mid-thirties, she guessed. He wasn’t construction-worker hot with ripped abs, and miles of hard, tanned flesh. He was distinguished, the epitome of a Southern gentleman, with all the outward qualities the image evoked, and they’d struck up a friendship over the course of his recovery that she treasured.

She loved his drawl, his upbeat personality, but mostly, she loved their conversations that often spanned hours as she waited for her mother to finish her therapy and he wiled away early mornings and afternoons in his recuperation from chemotherapy. He’d wheel himself along the long corridor connecting the cancer center to the nursing home specifically to find her.

There was always something going on in his private wing as laughter spilled out into the hallways and Liberace’s music filtered softly between the chatter.

Colorful people strolled in and out during visiting hours, and he never lacked for dozens and dozens of flower deliveries, which he always donated to the other patients’ rooms.

When he’d found out she worked at the connecting coffee shop, he’d coaxed her—with his charming wit—into bringing him coffee every morning by telling her the coffee in-house tasted like piss-water.

From that day on, Cat brought him his favorite cinnamon latte each morning before she stopped to see her mother and head off to work.

Cat chuckled every time she recalled the exchange they’d had several months ago when he’d come to Oakdale and exactly five visits into their early morning, caffeine-laced affair.

“I’m gay, just so you know.” He made mention of it like he was commenting on the weather, leaning over the edge of his wheelchair, his expensive silk pajamas pressed and crisp.

She’d fought one of many grins he inspired. His honesty was refreshing, if not unnecessary. “I’m not. Just so you know.”

He gave the newspaper he held a sharp snap before opening it and said, “Just keepin’ you informed. I didn’t want you to think our chats and my request to have you personally make my coffee had anything to do with unbridled lust or the desire to sweep you off your feet. I just like the way you make the swirls in my whipped cream look like puffy clouds of white perfection. There’ll be no nursing-home affair here. So don’t you go fallin’ in love with me, hear?”

Cat had dramatically sighed, throwing a hand over her forehead while fighting a fit of laughter. “Thank goodness. I was gettin’ worried I’d have to lose a few pounds just so you could do the sweeping,” she’d joked as she rubbed her belly.

Landon had cocked his sandy brown head full of hair, which gleamed under the bright lights of the rec room, and asked, “Are you disappointed?”

“That I don’t have to lose a few pounds?”

“That I’m gay.”

“Are you disappointed I’m not?”

“Not even a little.”

“Ditto. So, a game of checkers?”

Since that day, they’d found a contentment with one another, a morning banter Cat looked forward to, so much so that she woke with a smile of anticipation, knowing Landon would be in the rec room each morning while her mother was in therapy. He’d sit at the same table in the corner by the big picture window, and smile that same engaging smile.

More importantly, their mornings together reminded her decent people still existed. And Landon was surely a front-runner in that category.

Landon’s specialty was kindness, and his genuine love of people. He’d sometimes sit for hours, chatting with the other patients or just watching people pass by the window on their way to some part of the facility. Didn’t matter what walk of life you came from, Landon wanted to know you.

He listened to the family members of the patients—complete strangers. Really listened, to everyone from tired mothers visiting sick relatives, who rocked crying babies in strollers, and whose only form of adult conversation all day might be the words they had with him, right down to Hans, the janitor who was earnestly trying to learn to speak English. Landon spent two hours with Hans every week, tutoring him so he could pass his citizenship test.

Landon’s benevolence at Oakdale was legend.

He donated not only large amounts of money to the chemotherapy wing, but also an extravagant amount of his time reading to the patients, playing the piano, strolling with them, pushing their wheelchairs when he’d grown strong enough and sharing meals with them.

Rumor also had it, he was filthy rich and just a little eclectic—or off his rocker if you listened to some of the meaner gossip at Oakdale. Judging by his clothes and Sanjeev, the man he called his “faithful friend in service,” who brought Landon’s visitors to see him in a shiny limousine each day, money wasn’t a hurdle Landon had to jump.