Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“I did go to school in Boston,” I say drily, holding my ground.
“You’re not gonna name it? You want me to say it?”
I laugh harder. He’s relentless. A damn good trait in a pro athlete. “Maybe I do,” I say.
“Harvard. You went to Harvard. You’re a genius. Knew it!” He wiggles his brows. “And I like it. Smart is hot. The second I saw you, I knew you were smart.”
I might quibble with that. “I’m not so sure I was very smart that night. Or tonight either,” I say, feeling guilty over what happened in the cabana.
“I regret nothing,” Zane says. “I probably should, but I don’t.”
“Same here,” I say, my voice raspy.
But I feel too hazy, and this sensation is far too risky.
Maybe he realizes it too, because he clears his throat. “So, Bryan’s staying with you. Does he know about…?”
Us. Does he know I’ve got it bad for my client?
“No. I don’t kiss and tell,” I say, unequivocally.
I want Zane to know I am a vault. Maybe he’s met men who aren’t. A hot young athlete probably attracts a lot of star-fuckers who want to add a notch to their bedposts for Zane.
Zane’s quiet for a few blocks until the silver skyscraper of his team hotel comes into view. Then, in a soft voice, he says, “It wouldn’t bother me if you did tell your friend. He seems like a good bud.”
“He is,” I say, as I read between the lines. “Do you want me to tell him something about you?”
Zane smirks. “I kind of do.”
When Zane’s not full-on sex Dom, he’s endearing and almost more impossible to resist. “And what do you want me to tell him?”
Once I pull into the portico and cut the engine, Zane turns to me, his green eyes bright and vulnerable. “That I drive you as crazy as you drive me,” he says.
A burst of tingles shoots down my back. “You do,” I whisper.
“Good. Because you drive me so fucking crazy, Maddox,” he says, all rasp and heat.
The sliding doors of the lobby both beckon and mock me. They’re a sign that the best part of the night is ending, but they’re a finish line too. For a few seconds, I weigh a handful of different outcomes. I evaluate the risk of one more kiss, one more moment.
One more…anything.
But I got away with cat burglary tonight. I won’t take any more chances with this criminally sexy man. “Good night, Zane. I’m glad we’re in business together.”
He reaches for the handle of my car, then stops. “Thanks for the ride. And thanks for coming to my game. I liked knowing you were there in the stands,” he says.
“I liked being there,” I say.
He opens the door and walks away from me.
Then, I finally make a smart decision tonight, and I leave.
7
ATTENTION SEEKER
Maddox
Bryan throws open my front door at six-thirty the next morning, triumphantly holding a carton of oat milk, framed by the rising sun.
“I’m a little past the twelve-hour deadline,” he says as he comes in, “but in my defense, I finished the last one at five-thirty yesterday, right before you demanded I show up at the baseball game. And besides, I’m just in time for your morning Joe.”
Sipping my post-workout fuel, I say tonelessly, “I don’t put oat milk in my coffee.”
He kicks off his work boots, and strides across the hardwood into the open-floor-plan kitchen. “Because you’re so manly you drink it black,” he says, adopting a deeper voice.
“Yes, how I take my coffee defines me,” I deadpan.
He lifts a brow as he stands in front of the counter. “I notice you didn’t dispute that you demanded I show up at the game.”
I stare dead-eyed at him. “I’m refuting your points one at a time. Regarding the alleged demand—you like baseball, and the seats were awesome.” Then with my best courtroom swagger, I add, “As you can see, your honor, Bryan was pleased to attend.”
“But ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defendant did not, in fact, dispute that the invitation was also a demand,” he says.
He’s teasing, maybe because he’s started to ferret out why I wanted company. But I’m not ready to tackle that topic, so I leave his last comment alone and take another drink.
Bryan strides across the kitchen, yanks open the fridge door grandly, then sets the carton on the shelf.
“Thank you,” I say, sincerely. Bryan’s a good houseguest, and I’m happy to help him as he settles in Los Angeles. “How’s everything going with the new biz?”
“Good. Really good. And crazy busy, hence the oat milk delay,” he says.
Bryan renovates beautiful old homes, and he built a best-in-class rep with his one-man shop in New York. Recently, he moved to Los Angeles to join forces with a firm and establish roots in the market here.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I say. “I’m psyched to see what you do on the West Coast.”