“It’s fine. I’m not really looking for any kind of relationship.”
“This still about Brad?”
“No. I’m trying to focus on my head right now and not my heart.” Or the desire flooding me since the other night. The feeling of Clay’s tongue inside me, the feel of him coating my skin, haunted me well after Brooke and I got home and I showered off the last evidence of our tryst.
If I’m honest, that grumpy basketball player has been occupying my brain since the moment he tried to evict me from my airplane seat.
“Anyway, what’s up?” I prompt.
“You sounded edgy when I texted. Very Un-Nova-like.”
I’m surprised she noticed.
“It’s work,” I admit as I retrieve an open bottle of wine from the fridge. “I want to do my best, and I can’t stand the thought of letting James down.”
I’ve never had such an important job.
Yes, what I did in the past mattered, but this is entirely on me.
“Anytime you have a new client, there’s a learning curve. Figuring out what matters to them can be hard and painful.”
I nod even though Mari can’t see me.
“Sometimes you need to fake it until you make it, you know? Pretend you have it all figured out until you really catch up.”
“Thank you,” I say and mean it.
After we click off, I pour myself a glass of wine and head back to the living room, taking in the drawing Clay sent me before I sink back into my chair.
“I can do this,” I say out loud.
It’s my first real art commission, but James hired me for a reason.
The irony is the man who gave me this drawing, the same one I’m trying to capture, would agree. He would let nothing stand between him and his goal. And he wouldn’t let anyone tell him he wasn’t enough.
Two hours and two glasses of wine later, I have a happy buzz in my head and the sketch looks great.
That was exactly what I needed, I decide.
I’m capable and confident, riding a high fueled by achievement and alcohol.
Since I’m finished with the original drawing, I should probably return it.
It’s only neighborly.
I grab the picture, put on shoes, and head out into the hall to the elevator.
Two minutes later, I’m staring at the closed door inches from my face, and damn if it doesn’t feel as if it’s staring back.
My grip tightens, the picture frame digging into my hand to remind me why I’m here.
Just do it.
I’m still deciding whether to lift my knuckles and rap on the wood when the door swings open.
“You gonna stand there all night?” Clay drawls from the other side.
He’s wearing a pair of grey sweats resting low on his hips and nothing else. Black ink curls around his muscled arms, over his pecs and abs. His feet are bare. His hair sticks up in every direction in a way that’s sexy and messy, and he looks as if he just rolled out of bed.
My throat dries.
How did he…?
There’s a lens in the peephole. A camera.
Of course Clay would have security.
Music drifting into the hall has me snapping to attention. It didn’t occur to me he was here with someone, but seeing his state of semi-clothedness, a ribbon that feels suspiciously like jealousy snakes up my spine and curls in my stomach.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Clay leans against the door frame, folding those bulging arms. “I’m alone.”
Satisfaction edges in around the sharp needles, but I play it cool. “I meant you jerking off.”
His eyes dance. “You offering to relieve me?”
Heat blooms between my thighs. My body responds whether I want it to or not. He has a direct line to my arousal, a silky rope he tugs on with every smirk, every tilt of his dark head, every rough word from his filthy mouth.
“I came to return this.” I hold up the picture.
“That all you came for?” His voice lowers with innuendo, and my attention drags down to the bulge in his pants without warning.
I force my eyes up to meet his.
Clay turns and heads inside, leaving me staring after him, my jaw on the floor, the picture still in my hands.
I follow him inside, the door clicking closed smoothly at my back.
He pads barefoot across the carpet to the living room, where he’s watching basketball. I lean the picture carefully against the wall opposite him.
“We need to talk,” he says solemnly.
I’m suddenly on guard. “About what happened between us?”
“No. About how much you’re getting paid by the Kodiaks.”
I frown. “It’s none of your business.”
“Show me your contract.”
He’s being bossy, but I'll get out of here faster if I do it. I pull out my phone and open the contract.
He takes my phone and crosses to the living room, sinking onto the huge couch. I follow him, perching on the edge just far enough away we’re not touching.
Watching him read all that fine print as if he’s ready to shred it is strangely sexy.
“There’s nothing about merchandise,” he notes when he’s done.
“Merchandise? I’m painting a wall. There’s not going to be a mascot.” I inch closer, trying to read upside down. I give up and shift next to him, peering over his shoulder.
“James will sell this work with the team’s name on it.”
“That’s his right.”
“And it’s yours to get compensated for it. Every time someone uses my face, my name, I get paid.”
“Every time?” I echo. That's staggering. “You can’t control when someone draws you. You didn’t know when I did.”
“You think I didn’t know you were watching me?”
“I was discreet.”
“Bullshit.” He grabs my thighs and drags me into his lap to straddle him. My hands grip his shoulders for balance. “You looked at me with those big, blue eyes—”
“I did not!” Indignation rises up, and I try without success to wrestle out of his grip. “What does that have to do with my contract?”
“Nothing. I want people to get what they deserve.”
“And I deserve more than what I’m making?” I’m treading carefully because I also respect his experience in this industry.
“Way fucking more.”
He tucks the phone in the waistband of my shorts.
I take a breath, trying to focus on his words and not his hands settling on my hips, the thumbs brushing absently right above my waistband.
“But I already signed the deal.”
“I’ll have my agent take a second look.”
I bite my lip. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.”
Now I’m staring at the subtle print of the couch behind his head because it’s easier to think when I’m not looking into his beautiful eyes.
“Why? What is it you want?”
“You,” he says roughly, and my heart flips. “Spent a good long time fighting it. Seems we both got hurt. So, figured I’d try something new.”
My throat is dry, my pulse hammering.
Clay is a man who’s used to taking what he wants without asking for it. Hearing him say the words makes me tremble.