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)
Maddox: Credit given where credit’s due. Priyam found the shot. It’s not even on your Insta. A fan took it and tagged you. He likes it. I like it too.
That’s not too revealing, so I send it.
Zane: And to think I was excited about you checking me out. Now that I know the client is, I’m even more excited!
That. Right there. That fucking exclamation point. That delights me. His enthusiasm for the deal is motivation to work hard for him every day. I recall his words about his brother. I picture finalizing the partnership for him. I imagine his exuberance. That is why I do what I do—the thrill of making business magic happen.
I’ve just started a reply when my phone dings again.
Zane: In fact, I’m so damn excited I just put one on. Want a bow tie shot right now?
A picture of an off-limits man? That’s risky. But bow ties aren’t sexy, so I say yes. One minute later, a file arrives on my phone, caption first— My team color. I call this look…casual gym wear. The photo is a shot of him from the neck to the knees. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, nice and snug, workout shorts, and a purple bow tie. It’s a little goofy. It’s definitely not smoldering.
And yet.
And fucking yet…
It sends tingles down my chest.
My stoicism starts to crack as that warm, hazy feeling rises higher in me. I fight it off with an ultra-agent-y reply.
Maddox: Do not post that on social media.
Zane: Even though purple’s my favorite color?
Maddox: You have a favorite color?
Zane: Wasn’t that in my client profile? :) Course I do. Purple is our team color. Ergo, it’s my fave.
He cracks me up. Such an athlete response.
Maddox: Fair enough. But you cannot post a photo of you wearing a bow tie to the gym on social media.
Zane: Don’t worry. That was just for you.
Ah, hell.
Those are dizzying words. I can’t stop staring at them. Just for you. I can’t stop feeling them everywhere, all at once. Gripping the phone, I shut my eyes, willing away my reaction to him. But this sensation fries my brain. It makes me want to share the dirty details of what he did to me last night when I was alone in my shower, thinking of him. I’m always thinking of him at those times.
I’ve got to ignore the just for you. But hundreds of miles separate us. Soon, thousands upon thousands will.
What’s one text?
When I open my eyes, I give in.
Maddox: I really like it.
That’s all I can manage. The simple, bare truth. I hit send then shake my head, annoyed I caved and thrilled I got that off my chest.
I flip my phone over and set it on the seat under my thigh, like that’ll help me resist chatting with him. Then I return to my laptop, clicking open Isaiah’s contract, zooming in on the jersey clause. As I do, my phone pings against my leg.
My fingers itch to open the new message. But I need some rules. I won’t check it till I re-read this whole section. I dive in, studying the wording about jersey sales.
But a voice snags my attention. “I can handle it,” a woman says to the flight attendant.
I look up from the screen. An older lady with coiffed hair and a Chanel jacket hoists her own Louis Vuitton luggage into the overhead, dismissing the attendant’s offer to help. She takes the aisle seat next to me with a friendly smile. “Ready for a long flight?”
One of my favorite things about transatlantic flights is I don’t have to say a word. But maybe I need someone to talk to. Maybe she’ll be the distraction from my wayward wishes.
“Yes, I am. And you?”
Laughing, she waves a hand airily. “Always. And I just took a valium, so I’ll probably be sound asleep the whole time. Don’t even think twice about stepping over my legs. You won’t bother me one bit.”
I smile. “Good to know.”
Seconds later, she closes her eyes as the flight attendant’s voice crackles on the loudspeaker. “We’ll be taking off soon,” the attendant begins. “You’ll want to put your electronics in airplane mode shortly.”
Well, I don’t want to be rude to my client. This might be my last chance for a while. I pick up my phone at last and click on Zane’s message. The sound from my throat could have come from a porn video.
Zane: Then here’s a full shot. Also, just for you.
This time, he’s taken off his shirt. He wears shorts and the bow tie, now undone. Smoldering indeed. His tattoo is visible on his right wrist, like a private reminder of the night we met and the way he reeled me in to his wishes—the mirror of mine—with his tattoo story.
But the best part of this shot? I get to see his face. Those green eyes blaze and that fiery look in his irises is just for me. He’s staring right at the camera as if I’m there. As if he wants to rip the phone out of my hand, throw it to the floor, devour my lips and then the rest of me.