Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
He also wouldn’t have kissed my cheek in greeting but would have bent me over backward with a sinful kiss. He wouldn’t have said I was lovely, but would have said something dirty like, “You’re so hot, I’m hard as a rock.”
I try not to laugh at the comparison, because really, I know nothing about Drake other than he’s a jerk more often than not.
Daniel returns with our drinks.
“Thank you,” I say to him, cursing myself that I’m thinking about Drake. He’s become like that phenomenon when you hear a catchy tune and then can’t purge it from your head. It plays on repeat.
I can’t stop wondering what would’ve happened if…
No. Time to stop.
“Dinner is ready when you are, Ms. Norcross.” Daniel backs out of the room, and Clay holds his glass out to me. I tap mine against his, and we both sip.
Rather, I take a small gulp.
We move out of the office and head to the formal dining room. Normally, I eat in the breakfast nook or at the kitchen island, but Daniel likes to set a formal table when I have a dinner guest. Hell, if I let him, he’d be up in the master suite sprinkling rose petals all over the bed. He’s no dummy. Daniel knows that when Clay comes to dinner, he’ll end up in my bed soon after.
Because… that’s our routine. It’s what we do and have done for the last year.
Clay pulls my chair out, and after I sit, he takes the adjacent chair at the head of the table. With napkins in our lap, Daniel brings in two covered plates. He sets them before us and with a flourish, removes the silvered domes.
“Oh, that looks fabulous,” I breathe out.
Daniel smiles and gives a half bow. “Mixed greens, strawberries, pecans, and fresh poached lobster tails with a champagne vinaigrette.”
“Perfect,” Clay says.
After filling our glasses with ice water, Daniel retires to the kitchen, and we’re left alone.
“How was your day?” Clay asks as he slices into his lobster.
I fill his ears with all the things I handled today and he nods along, asks for important clarifications, and tells a joke that makes me laugh. I ask how Clay’s week has gone, and I’m regaled with the details of a risky procedure he performed on a ten-year-old girl with a brain tumor. Of course, Clay loves to boast about his technical skills in the operating room, but why shouldn’t he? Removing tumors from little girls’ brains is about the most incredible thing a human could do.
I push my empty plate forward, settle back into my chair, and listen to Clay talk about his upcoming surgical schedule and that he’s going to be a guest lecturer at Johns Hopkins next week.
Normally, I get lost in his words—the stories that are amazing and those that are trivial—because it takes my mind off my own mayhem. It’s nice to know, in theory, at least, that there’s someone who is as driven in their career as I am. Someone who is okay with the long workdays and the lack of a personal life because of it.
I wonder what kind of conversations would follow if Drake and I sat down to a meal. Frankly, I can’t even imagine such a thing. Not because I don’t think he’s as driven as Clay or has a lack of intellect. It’s just… he seems more of an action guy.
If he were here right now, there wouldn’t have been a lobster salad but rather we’d be tangled up in the sheets, feasting on each other.
“—don’t you think?”
I blink at Clay. “I’m sorry… what?”
His eyebrows draw in over his worried gaze. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just distracted thinking about… work. What did you say?”
“I said…” He pushes out of his chair and takes my hand, drawing me up. His hands circle my waist, and his head tilts to kiss along my jaw. “It’s time we get you up into that shower, don’t you think?”
I try to force myself to relax.
Clay’s mouth moves to mine, his hand sliding to my ass.
“Wait,” I say, pulling my head back. “Hold on a second.”
His grip loosens slightly. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do this.”
“Headache?” he asks sympathetically.
I remove myself fully from his embrace, shaking my head. “No, nothing like that.”
“Tired?”
“No. I just… I think…” I don’t have the words. Because nothing is making sense. I can’t stop thinking about Drake McGinn, but there’s no way in hell anything will ever transpire between us. I own the team. He’s a player. It would be an absolute conflict of interest.
I think.
I’m not sure since I don’t make player decisions, but it’s not even something I’d move on. I’d be the laughingstock of the league if I got involved with a player.
And on top of that, I don’t think the man likes me. He’s one of the most taciturn people I know.