felt like coming home.
“How’s Alliance?”
“Armand hired a new assistant. Charlie had to show her how to turn on the computer.”
“Tits?” my mom asked sympathetically, fishing in a drawer for salad tongs.
“And ass. We tried to get her to make a break for it, you know, get out before it was too late, but she wasn’t getting the message. I think they might be sleeping together.”
“How’s that client you were having trouble with?”
“I think he’s come around. Probably realized he has other hobbies besides being a pain in my ass.” Since I’d jumped him at Stack Friday, Max had been shockingly true to his word. He’d emailed me yesterday morning to thank me for the files, and texted to provide times for biweekly appointments for the next two months.
Probably a bribe for me not to report him. Which I still hadn’t decided to do. I’d figure it out by tomorrow.
“Good. So now you can stop wasting all your time worrying about him.”
“Uh-huh.” I opened a bottle of wine, still thinking about Max. My mind transported me back to Stack with startling recall.
Guys came in all types. Avery was a Poker, prodding you relentlessly until you lost your mind. Armand was a Blusterer, throwing his weight around to remind everyone how important he was.
Max Donovan was a Ducker, the guy who’d evade, and subvert, and shirk responsibility. The kind who’d be slippery as hell and bluff all day long, but never really back up his claims. In other words: irritating but harmless.
I’d been so sure I had him pegged.
Until he’d grabbed my wrist. Held on while my stomach did somersaults. Then dragged his thumb down my skin until I was practically shaking.
Riley might have the bigger personality, but Max was the one who’d gotten under my skin Friday night.
Yeah, like a rash.
“Whoa, honey. It’s barely noon.”
I blinked, realizing I’d filled my mom’s glass with Riesling until it was spilling over the top. “Sorry.”
Taking it to the sink, I carefully poured half of it into my glass.
“Daydreaming, huh? That’s not like you. You must have had an exciting Saturday.”
“Absolutely. I ran some errands. Got my Pilates membership reinstated—”
“Did you go to a class this time?”
I made a “pffft” noise.
“You know that if you pay for it and don’t go, you could have just used that money to support a charity instead. Then at least you’d get a tax receipt.”
“Yeah, but I’m paying for the guilt. And I’ll go next week, for real.”
“Mhmm.”
I might’ve done one other thing last night.
One thing I’d never tell my mom or anyone else.
After my apartment was spotless, three new playlists were on my phone, and everything was done for my clients?
I’d eyed my nightstand with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation and broke out Jorge the Nightstand Boyfriend. In a moment of shame, or desperation, or both, I’d busted out the vibe I hadn’t touched in a month. Laid back.
And thought about the last person I should ever, ever , think about while rubbing one out.
A big sip of wine burned down my throat. My skin was prickling all over as I stood in the middle of my mom’s kitchen.
I forced my attention back to the present, away from how it’d felt when I touched myself, picturing those dark eyes moving over my body, that smug mouth put to use doing some very dirty things.
Enough.
My mom took her famous leek quiche from the oven while I grabbed cutlery to set the glass-top table in the dining room. The surface was already clear except for a stack of papers, which I moved to a hutch in the corner.
I couldn’t resist skimming the computer-printed letter on top. “Hey, Mom? What is this?”
She walked into the living room, her oven mitts still on her hands. “What? Oh. Nothing to worry about, Paybear.”
My eyes scanned the page and a knot formed in my stomach. “It says you’re behind on your mortgage payments for the condo.”
“I’ve been back to work, but
“How’s Alliance?”
“Armand hired a new assistant. Charlie had to show her how to turn on the computer.”
“Tits?” my mom asked sympathetically, fishing in a drawer for salad tongs.
“And ass. We tried to get her to make a break for it, you know, get out before it was too late, but she wasn’t getting the message. I think they might be sleeping together.”
“How’s that client you were having trouble with?”
“I think he’s come around. Probably realized he has other hobbies besides being a pain in my ass.” Since I’d jumped him at Stack Friday, Max had been shockingly true to his word. He’d emailed me yesterday morning to thank me for the files, and texted to provide times for biweekly appointments for the next two months.
Probably a bribe for me not to report him. Which I still hadn’t decided to do. I’d figure it out by tomorrow.
“Good. So now you can stop wasting all your time worrying about him.”
“Uh-huh.” I opened a bottle of wine, still thinking about Max. My mind transported me back to Stack with startling recall.
Guys came in all types. Avery was a Poker, prodding you relentlessly until you lost your mind. Armand was a Blusterer, throwing his weight around to remind everyone how important he was.
Max Donovan was a Ducker, the guy who’d evade, and subvert, and shirk responsibility. The kind who’d be slippery as hell and bluff all day long, but never really back up his claims. In other words: irritating but harmless.
I’d been so sure I had him pegged.
Until he’d grabbed my wrist. Held on while my stomach did somersaults. Then dragged his thumb down my skin until I was practically shaking.
Riley might have the bigger personality, but Max was the one who’d gotten under my skin Friday night.
Yeah, like a rash.
“Whoa, honey. It’s barely noon.”
I blinked, realizing I’d filled my mom’s glass with Riesling until it was spilling over the top. “Sorry.”
Taking it to the sink, I carefully poured half of it into my glass.
“Daydreaming, huh? That’s not like you. You must have had an exciting Saturday.”
“Absolutely. I ran some errands. Got my Pilates membership reinstated—”
“Did you go to a class this time?”
I made a “pffft” noise.
“You know that if you pay for it and don’t go, you could have just used that money to support a charity instead. Then at least you’d get a tax receipt.”
“Yeah, but I’m paying for the guilt. And I’ll go next week, for real.”
“Mhmm.”
I might’ve done one other thing last night.
One thing I’d never tell my mom or anyone else.
After my apartment was spotless, three new playlists were on my phone, and everything was done for my clients?
I’d eyed my nightstand with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation and broke out Jorge the Nightstand Boyfriend. In a moment of shame, or desperation, or both, I’d busted out the vibe I hadn’t touched in a month. Laid back.
And thought about the last person I should ever, ever , think about while rubbing one out.
A big sip of wine burned down my throat. My skin was prickling all over as I stood in the middle of my mom’s kitchen.
I forced my attention back to the present, away from how it’d felt when I touched myself, picturing those dark eyes moving over my body, that smug mouth put to use doing some very dirty things.
Enough.
My mom took her famous leek quiche from the oven while I grabbed cutlery to set the glass-top table in the dining room. The surface was already clear except for a stack of papers, which I moved to a hutch in the corner.
I couldn’t resist skimming the computer-printed letter on top. “Hey, Mom? What is this?”
She walked into the living room, her oven mitts still on her hands. “What? Oh. Nothing to worry about, Paybear.”
My eyes scanned the page and a knot formed in my stomach. “It says you’re behind on your mortgage payments for the condo.”
“I’ve been back to work, but
Similar Books
