As a couple, they lean forward and take in the printed congratulations email.
Yeah, fucking congratulations!
“Oh. My. God.” Emory covers her mouth right before she starts laughing.
“It’s not funny,” I yell, snapping the paper away.
“Wait, what’s going on?” Knox asks, a pinch between his brow.
“Your girlfriend, my now former friend, sent me the link to Jason Orson’s Charity Hustle fundraiser, my assistant accidentally donated to it on my behalf, and according to this email, I won.”
Emory laughs some more, at least giving me the respect of turning to Knox’s chest so I don’t see the pure joy written all over her face.
“You mean you won a date with Jason and his sister?”
“It’s with his sister?” I ask, not realizing that little tidbit of information. “That makes it even worse.”
“Yeah, he didn’t want to be accused of anything inappropriate, so he signed on a witness. But wait, how on earth did you win? I heard thousands of people entered. He raised over two hundred thousand dollars for his charity.”
“She donated . . .” Emory’s voice dies off from being pressed against Knox’s chest.
“She donated how much?” Knox asks.
“Ten thousand dollars.” His eyes widen and his mouth drops.
“Damn, girl. Are you crushing on my boy?”
“What? No,” I say with outrage, even though, yes, there has been crushing in the past. Now it’s more like an appreciation for the male form. For the most gorgeous, muscle-upon-muscle, delectable, drool-worthy male form of Jason Orson to be specific . . .
No crushing.
No lusting.
Did I say lusting? I mean, there has been absolutely no lusting. And before you even ask, NO, I have not looked at the towel pic since that first day, or any picture for that matter. I have better things to be doing with my life.
Okay . . . maybe the other night, I perused the shirtless pictures again, but just because I couldn’t remember if I saw a birthmark near his armpit or not and it was driving me crazy.
For the record, no birthmark.
And no tattoos. I found that out last night when I wanted to clarify that as well.
And then this morning, when I was wondering if he was really bulging or not in that towel . . . okay, FINE. I’ve looked at pictures of him every day since Lindsay and Emory sent that damn link. Are you happy? Well, you may be happy, but I was more . . . delirious after my battery-driven-while-imagining-licking-Jason-Orson’s-abs orgasm. Or two.
“I have not been crushing on him. Ten thousand is my normal donation amount. It was a mistake, a miscommunication, and because of it, I’m stuck in the middle of one giant clusterfuck.”
Emory shakes her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you won. It’s meant to be.”
“No. Stop that. I’m not going to go on the date.”
Knox shakes his head. “Man, if you don’t show up, Jason will take it personally.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s a sensitive guy.” Knox sips his beer, acting so casual while an inner war of nerves is in an epic battle in the pit of my stomach. “He prides himself on being honest and true and keeping his word. If he promised someone a date, he’s going to make it happen.”
And that’s exactly why I can’t get mixed up with this guy. Words like honest and true and sensitive . . . I have a feeling I could easily eat him up and spit him out.
I’ve been known to do the rare dishonest thing, especially when it comes to work.
You’re thinking, wow, what an upstanding lady, aren’t you?
Well, you don’t get to where I am in business without taking advantage of every situation you can. And before you get on your high horse to lecture me about being a good person, I will say this: I never cheat or steal. I just twist the truth at times to get what I want. But what businessman doesn’t?
Yeah, businessman, because that’s what this world is full of, alpha businessmen with high-rise offices and large desks they fuck their wenches on—well, some are wenches, most are probably really nice ladies. Either way, no one is judging these “ruthless” men and their tactics. Instead, they’re praised. Rewarded. Women are rewarded with the moniker of bitch. Even today. Ridiculous.
So to wrap up this rant, picture me with a dick.
Wait, no, don’t picture me with a dick, that’s weird. Just realize, I’ve done what every other guy in my position would have done, but at least I have the common sense to realize even though Jason Orson checks off every box in the looks department—that ass, sigh—I know better than to get anywhere near him.
“I’ll just send someone else on a date with him.”
Knox studies me, his eyes peeling off a piece of my shield, making me feel vulnerable. “Do you like him or something?”
“No,” I say as Emory says, “Yes.”
“Emory,” I whisper, trying to give her a hint. Girl code. Let’s not talk about this in front of one of Jason’s best friends.
“What?” She shrugs. “It’s true. In college he was all you ever talked about when we discussed baseball players. Jason this and Jason that.” She turns to Knox and says, “She had the biggest obsession with his ass.”
“You know”—I tap the kitchen counter—“there’s a special place in hell for people like you, Emory.”
She laughs out loud and Knox, apparently loving the maniacal sound, presses kisses along her neck. “Is it or is it not true?”
“You know, I don’t have to take this kind of abuse.” I down a big gulp of beer and set the bottle on the counter. “I hope Knox has limp dick for the rest of the night.”
I start to walk away when Knox calls out, “Hey, what the hell did I do?”
“You’re attached to her.” I point at Emory. “And you listen up, Knox Gentry, you better not tell Jason about any of this, or else I’ll wish worse things than limp dick on you.”
“What’s worse than limp dick?”
“A one-fifty batting average.”
His brows sharpen, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Then keep your lips sealed. Don’t forget, I know people around this city.”
With that, I begin to leave their apartment when Emory says, “Careful, Jason lives in the same building now, right across the hall actually.”
I still, my body rigid, my hand about to open the door as I spin around. Swallowing hard, I ask, “Can I use your fire escape?”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
JASON
“Did you hear?” I ask Natalie, who sits at my kitchen bar, setting her purse down on the other seat while I grab her a drink.
“That you’re in contention for best butt in baseball?”
I pause, mid-pour of the fresh iced tea I brewed this morning. “Excuse me? What’s this? Best butt in baseball?”
She laughs, a little too uncontrollably. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were actually going to be really excited about that.” I know that laugh, I’ve heard it almost my whole life. That’s my sister’s laugh that tells me once again, she’s joking around.