The car pulls up a moment later, and I climb inside, spouting off Bryce’s address to a middle-aged man with a newsboy cap, a Mets jersey, and a Boston accent.
It isn’t until I get halfway home that I dig my hand inside my clutch and realize I accidentally took Rhett’s phone charger.
Seven
Rhett
* * *
“Here you go.” My assistant, Allison, stands outside my door Tuesday morning, shoving a white paper bag from the Apple store in my direction.
“You’re a saint, Ally. I ever tell you that?” I unbox the charger and plug my dying phone into the wall.
“Every day.”
“Some chick stole it last night.” I sigh.
She steps carefully into my apartment, closing the door behind her before keeping her hands at her side. She’s always so uptight, formal. Allison’s the definition of an Ivy League, high-strung overachiever. Her biggest downfall is she doesn’t have the confidence to apply for the jobs she’s really qualified for. She’s too good for this job, and I know it, and one of these days I’m going to lose her. Until then, I’ll keep paying her enough to keep her happy and selfishly hope she doesn’t find something better anytime soon.
“Who steals a phone charger?” she asks, nose wrinkled. “Maybe she wanted a souvenir and it was a quick grab?”
“Nah. I think it was an accident.”
“Oh, by the way, I’ve responded to almost every email in your inbox,” she says, always quick to get back to business. “Except the crazy ones. I deleted all those like you asked.”
“Good.”
“Also, I got a call this morning from People magazine.” Her meek, rushed tone is worrying. “They offered their condolences, and they know it’s a little soon, but they were wondering if you wouldn’t mind being interviewed.”
“For what?” I know damn well for what.
“They want to do a cover story on, um ...” Her words evaporate, and she won’t look me in the eye.
I snort. “No fucking way. Not a chance in hell. They’re fucking morons if they think I’ll ever want to commercialize the worst fucking week of my entire fucking life so they can sell magazines.”
“That’s what I figured,” she says. “I’ll call to confirm that you will not be doing an interview.”
My jaw clenches as I make a pot of coffee. “Want some?”
“No, thank you,” she says. “Also, ESPN is in the planning stages of a documentary on Bryce ... they asked if you wanted to be a part of it. The Spartans are going to be featured. They’ll be filming next month.”
“Hell. Fucking. No.”
“I’ll let them know.” Allison brushes her wispy blonde hair from her face, pushes her thick glasses up her nose, and repositions her bulky messenger bag over her child-sized body. “I’m going to head back to my office, if that’s okay with you.”
I nod, pouring black coffee into a mug the color of my soul.
The latch of the door follows next as Allison shuffles toward the hallway, but it’s the sound of women’s voices that captures my attention. Turning, I lift my coffee to my mouth, take a sip, and nearly spit it out when I see the girl from last night standing in my doorway.
“Looking for this?” She lifts my charger in her hand. “Sorry. I’m not normally in the habit of stealing things that don’t belong to me.”
I fight a smirk, placing my coffee aside. “Habit or not, you deserve to be punished, don’t you think? Stealing is a crime.”
“And so is your lame attempt to pick me up.”
“Who said I was trying to pick you up?”
She rolls her eyes, showing herself into my place and depositing the stolen goods on the counter. “Anyway, here you are.”
“You came all the way here just to give me this?”
She glances around, shrugs, then secures her gaze on mine. “Yeah. So?”
“I sent my assistant out to buy a new one this morning,” I say.
She laughs. “Silly me. Of course you have an assistant.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“Kind of.” She bites her lip, and I want to pull it between my teeth. “Yeah.”
“Shut the door, Ayla,” I demand.
“What?” Her left brow lifts.
“Shut. The. Door.”
“Why?”
“So I can punish you for your crimes.”
“Are we seriously back to that?” She rolls her beautiful hazel eyes.
“Fine. I’ll do it.” I slam my mug on the counter, nearly shattering it, and head for the door. “Was that so hard?”
“Not a morning person?” she asks, eyeing me up, down, and sideways.
“I am a morning person,” I correct her. “I just don’t appreciate women who steal from me then find it appropriate to insult and mock me in my own apartment.”
“Sensitive much?” Her lashes flutter. It isn’t quite an eye roll, but it’s almost the same.
“Me? Sensitive?” I scoff. “You’re the one who got her panties in a bunch last night because some drunk guy was hitting on you in a bar.”
“Some drunk guy wasn’t hitting me,” she says, eyes glinting. “Some drunk guy flat out said, ‘I’m taking you home tonight’ and expected me to lift up my skirt and tell him where to stick it.”
“Classy.”
Her arms fold across her chest. “Are we fighting or flirting? Because I can’t tell, and I really need to know because it determines how easy I’m going to go on you.”
I hardly know this woman, but I fucking love her audaciousness.
“We’re not fighting,” I say, eyes locked on my target as I make my way toward her. “But please, don’t go easy on me. Believe me, I can take it.”
I still want to fuck her. I want to fuck her in a way I’ve never fucked anyone before. Detached. Unfeeling. Animal.
Screw roses and dinner dates.
Screw bended-knee proposals and Tiffany diamond rings.
Never again.
I want her body and only her body. And that mouth. God, I want that mouth.
“Good.” She opens her bee-stung lips to speak again, but I hold up a finger to silence her.
“Ayla, stop talking,” I command.
She lifts a single brow again, clearly not appreciating my directives today. There’s a hint of shock broadcasting across her face, and I imagine she wasn’t expecting that pathetic drunk from the bar last night to be anything like this.
“Anyone ever tell you how busy that little mouth of yours is?” I ask, lifting my hands to the sides of her neck. My fingers bury in her thick dark hair, and my thumbs graze the sides of her cashmere-soft face.
Ayla’s tongue glides along her lips, and I watch the outside of her throat constrict as she swallows.
“My mind never shuts off.” Her voice is quieter than it was before. “I talk a lot. I think a lot. I write a lot.”
“Ayla.” I shush her, my lips drawing closer to hers. Her heartbeat pulses against my palm as I guide her mouth closer. Her floral perfume fills my lungs, and though it’s a scent I’ve never smelled before, it feels like coming home. Shoving all the noise, all the thoughts and feelings from my mind, I punish her with a biting kiss, my fingers tangling in her hair. Inhaling the air she releases as she melts against me, it hits me that she’s the first woman I’ve kissed since Damiana.