shit-eater grin of his at her when he’d put the condition on her leaving. She had to do the impossible; until then she stayed, and she took pity on him and cooked for him.
Asshole. Dickwad.
“Jerk!”
That was Thursday night; she hadn’t spoken to him once since. She waited on Friday and Saturday for him to leave—without scrambling one single egg, thank you very much—before she went downstairs to start her daily routine. Check in with Sam, log into the team email account to see if any changes had occurred. Synchronize the two together and see what wouldn’t work. Call Sam back see if he could get a reschedule on the Gatorade commercial. Call the airline for a first-class ticket to New York. Text Jaime, wait for him to approve everything. Call Sam back and email him Jaime’s itinerary including the trip to New York.
Then and only then did she go to the kitchen where she leisurely prepared herself breakfast: an egg, two slices of bacon—okay, three, because she really liked bacon—a slice of toast, and a bowl of strawberries, and milk. Jaime had convinced her that she needed the calcium now, while she was still in her twenties.
When he came in from his early-morning run along the beach, she smiled from beside the pool while he scrambled his own damned eggs. This, she thought, as she paddled her feet in the warm salt water, she could get used to. Maybe Jaime was right; she shouldn’t leave. Why should she, when she had everything she needed without lifting a finger to get it.
On Sunday, she lay in bed until the ungodly hour of ten o’clock. Jaime would have come back from his run by now, done his laps in the pool, and taken off for the team photo shoot that was scheduled for that afternoon. He wouldn’t be back for lunch, so she had the whole day to herself.
She stretched, rolled out of bed, and decided that today was a good day to stay in her jammies. After a quick trip to the bathroom, she descended the stairs, her mouth minty fresh, her hair neatly pulled back in a sleek ponytail, only to stop dead in her tracks the second she entered the kitchen.
Jamison Dalton sat at the table dressed in little more than a towel, his face as gray and ominous as the storm that wailed beyond the row of French windows.
Her skin prickled when his golden gaze slowly caressed her body from the tips of her bare toes to her naked face, and every inch in between. Somehow she felt violated by the gleam in his eyes alone.
“So she is alive after all. I was beginning to wonder.” He sipped a glass of orange juice and leaned back in the chair, his well-formed, smooth-as-a-baby’s-butt pectoral muscles flexing as he did. Aware that she was staring, and that he wanted her to stare, she sucked in her breath, squared her shoulders, and walked past him to the refrigerator, where she helped herself to a glass of the same juice.
“I’m taking a day off. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be up in Davie getting your picture taken?”
“Cancelled due to weather. Which you would know, if you’d done your job.”
“So I can’t have one day all to myself? In the—what has it been now?—five weeks I’ve been here, I’ve not had one whole day to do what I want to do. It’s called a day off; maybe you’ve heard of them?”
“And you thought you’d parade around here in sexy lingerie?”
“This is sexy? It’s a cotton nightgown and … and … and you’re sitting over there naked under that towel, aren’t you?” She felt her face turn red, completely red all the way to her hair. Of course, he was naked, she could see his trunks on the patio, and his hair was still dripping from his swim and the dash to get out of the storm. “You hate dripping water in from the pool, and you haven’t been upstairs to shower yet.”
“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and that I pay you to take care of me and my needs, and my needs have not been met in three days now.” He twitched his lips into that smile that
Asshole. Dickwad.
“Jerk!”
That was Thursday night; she hadn’t spoken to him once since. She waited on Friday and Saturday for him to leave—without scrambling one single egg, thank you very much—before she went downstairs to start her daily routine. Check in with Sam, log into the team email account to see if any changes had occurred. Synchronize the two together and see what wouldn’t work. Call Sam back see if he could get a reschedule on the Gatorade commercial. Call the airline for a first-class ticket to New York. Text Jaime, wait for him to approve everything. Call Sam back and email him Jaime’s itinerary including the trip to New York.
Then and only then did she go to the kitchen where she leisurely prepared herself breakfast: an egg, two slices of bacon—okay, three, because she really liked bacon—a slice of toast, and a bowl of strawberries, and milk. Jaime had convinced her that she needed the calcium now, while she was still in her twenties.
When he came in from his early-morning run along the beach, she smiled from beside the pool while he scrambled his own damned eggs. This, she thought, as she paddled her feet in the warm salt water, she could get used to. Maybe Jaime was right; she shouldn’t leave. Why should she, when she had everything she needed without lifting a finger to get it.
On Sunday, she lay in bed until the ungodly hour of ten o’clock. Jaime would have come back from his run by now, done his laps in the pool, and taken off for the team photo shoot that was scheduled for that afternoon. He wouldn’t be back for lunch, so she had the whole day to herself.
She stretched, rolled out of bed, and decided that today was a good day to stay in her jammies. After a quick trip to the bathroom, she descended the stairs, her mouth minty fresh, her hair neatly pulled back in a sleek ponytail, only to stop dead in her tracks the second she entered the kitchen.
Jamison Dalton sat at the table dressed in little more than a towel, his face as gray and ominous as the storm that wailed beyond the row of French windows.
Her skin prickled when his golden gaze slowly caressed her body from the tips of her bare toes to her naked face, and every inch in between. Somehow she felt violated by the gleam in his eyes alone.
“So she is alive after all. I was beginning to wonder.” He sipped a glass of orange juice and leaned back in the chair, his well-formed, smooth-as-a-baby’s-butt pectoral muscles flexing as he did. Aware that she was staring, and that he wanted her to stare, she sucked in her breath, squared her shoulders, and walked past him to the refrigerator, where she helped herself to a glass of the same juice.
“I’m taking a day off. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be up in Davie getting your picture taken?”
“Cancelled due to weather. Which you would know, if you’d done your job.”
“So I can’t have one day all to myself? In the—what has it been now?—five weeks I’ve been here, I’ve not had one whole day to do what I want to do. It’s called a day off; maybe you’ve heard of them?”
“And you thought you’d parade around here in sexy lingerie?”
“This is sexy? It’s a cotton nightgown and … and … and you’re sitting over there naked under that towel, aren’t you?” She felt her face turn red, completely red all the way to her hair. Of course, he was naked, she could see his trunks on the patio, and his hair was still dripping from his swim and the dash to get out of the storm. “You hate dripping water in from the pool, and you haven’t been upstairs to shower yet.”
“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and that I pay you to take care of me and my needs, and my needs have not been met in three days now.” He twitched his lips into that smile that
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