Jason Orson.
God, the man. My teeth roll over my bottom lip. I remember the first time I saw him in a pair of athletic shorts and a skintight Under Armour shirt. It changed the way I looked at the male physique. Up until that point, I had no idea men could have asses. I thought it was a thing for women to boast about, you know, just like our boobs.
But Jason Orson proved me wrong one sunny day on a walk to class.
I can still see it in my head. It was outside the economics building, he was standing with a few other baseball players, all wearing workout gear, all with wet heads from recent showers. His backpack was pulled high on his shoulders, giving me the perfect view of his backside.
This was no normal backside. I’m talking firm, high, and shelf-like. His tight and toned back muscles narrowed in and then BAM, his ass poked out unlike anything I’d ever seen. Think Giancarlo Stanton, but better.
I couldn’t look away, nor could any other girl who walked by him.
I wasn’t alone in the lust department.
Never have been when it came to Jason Orson. Whenever I went to baseball parties, with the goal of finally talking to him, he was always surrounded by an ungodly amount of women.
But that was back in college. I doubt he looks the same, or acts the same for that matter. He’s a famous baseball player—which means he’s probably hotter.
I look away from my computer just long enough to grab a slice of apple, then back to the email.
My hand itches to open it up, to see what he’s been up to.
Maybe he gained a bunch of weight or grew a hideous beard, one of those long horrors baseball players grow for some weird reason. Isn’t their face hot? Doesn’t it get all sweaty and dirty from long hours on the ball field?
I know one way to kill my libido for the man; one of those beards. Maybe that’s what I need to see, a beard on him, and then all will be right with the world. I can get back to the Briar Hurst folder.
Yup, just one peek; that’s all.
Come on, beard.
I move the mouse to the email and hover over it.
No, I shouldn’t. Opening this email will only result in a rabbit hole of Google searching; I can feel it in my bones.
Step away, Dottie.
Taking a deep breath, I turn back to the folder, giving the bullet points another once-over.
Something, something, something, they’re ready to sell . . . something, something . . . wait, what am I reading?
Focus.
Deep breath.
The words swirl on the paper into a terrible version of a bubble butt . . .
“Oh, fuck it,” I say out loud while clicking on the email.
In the body, Lindsay wrote, “Mr. Bubble Butt himself, doing good. I dare you to be a rebel with him . . .”
“Jesus,” I mutter while clicking on the fundraiser link.
I’m a sucker for a fundraiser. I might seem hard as stone on the outside and keep a safeguard on my heart, but when it comes to raising money for a good cause, I can’t help but say yes. Then again, I make more money than I can possibly spend, I have no children, my friends only let me buy them so much, so why not help out those who are trying to do good?
At least that’s what I tell myself while Jason’s fundraiser home page opens up.
I’ve heard of Charity Hustle. It’s a great company that specializes in helping celebrities raise money while giving their fans a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I might have bid on one a while back. It was a dinner date with Emily Blunt and John Krasinski, and the only reason I did it was because I watched Emory bid on it, and I wanted to give her a bigger chance than her fifty-dollar donation. I donated two thousand dollars in hopes she would win, but she didn’t . . . clearly. Unfortunately, it’s by chance, but the more money you donate, the more entries you’re allotted. I thought two thousand would give us the win, but I should have done ten thousand.
You live and you learn.
With a quick glance past my computer to see where my assistant is, I bite into another apple slice and explore the fundraising page.
Front and center is a picture of Jason with his arm around a guy who’s holding himself up with a walker. Well, that right there opens the door to the crush I had many years ago. Not to mention the size of his biceps, the span of his chest, and the way his shirt fits tight across his upper torso but tapers and drapes over his hips.
God, look at all those muscles.
I prop my chin on my hand and sigh.
And then his gentle smile accompanied with his kind eyes. From the picture alone, I can tell he’s not like the guys I’ve dated in the past few years. If I lifted his baseball hat off, I know I’d see family man tattooed across his head.
But even so, he’s gorgeous. The only thing that’s changed about him is his bulk. Everything about him is bigger. Stronger jaw, thicker neck, more powerful chest.
Are there other pictures of him?
I scroll down on the page, skipping over the info about his fundraiser, and scan for more pictures, but I don’t see any, just the top one.
Picking up my pen on my desk, I tap it against my chin and then check out the time on my computer. Still ten minutes.
What kind of cyberstalking can I do in ten minutes?
Only one way to find out . . .
I pull up Google and start to type his name when I stop myself.
No. I shouldn’t. I’m a serious businesswoman, not a besotted college girl.
I lean back in my chair, eyes fixed on my computer, pen flipping through my fingers.
Maybe . . .
No. I mentally shake my head. Not happening. No good will come of it if you type Jason Orson shirtless into the search bar.
And you know I’ll add shirtless in there, because I’m desperate and lonely.
Did I say that out loud? No, I thought it. I’m not lonely, I’m just . . . unprepared for nighttime activities. One can only play solitaire so many times by themselves at night before it starts to become pathetic.
That’s all this is, boredom and lack of focus.
Okay. I shake my head and sit tall in my chair. Briar Hurst, let’s see what—
Oh, fuck it.
My fingers type out Jason Orson shirtless before I can stop them. I bite down on my pen, sitting at the edge of my seat as the search results load.
It’s taking so long. Mental note: ream out IT for faster Internet so I can cyberstalk faster. Although I’ll phrase my request a little differently, of course.
Pen lengthwise in my mouth like a horse bit, my fingers tapping at my desk, my excitement ready—just a little glance—I scroll the mouse over the images tab and click.
My . . . oh . . . my.
Would you look at that?
As if someone is lifting the blinds to a window that looks over Narnia, pictures upon pictures of Jason Orson—shirtless—appear in front of me.
I prop my chin in my hand and lean in even closer. Bronze, ripped muscles decorate my computer screen. A variety of “props” are sprinkled throughout every picture. A bat, weights, workout ropes, catching gear . . . backwards hat . . . a smile.
Is that . . .
Is he in . . .
Gulp.
A towel?
The pen falls out of my mouth, clattering to the desk, as my breasts unapologetically heave, sending out a Morse code to my finger.
Click.
Click.
CLICK GODDAMNIT!
The tits have spoken.
My finger hovers over the picture, ready to click. Just one little punch down and the towel glory is all for me to see . . .