I’m still drawn to him. I can’t get through the day without thinking of what he’s doing, who he’s with, without missing his grumpy presence or slow, grudging smile.
I want to give this thing between us another chance.
But I won’t throw myself at him again. I know better now.
“The picture was in Architectural Digest, but the place wasn’t yours,” I say.
“I loaned it to a friend for a week.”
“And it just happened to be when they were shooting AD,” I press.
He lifts a shoulder.
Dammit.
“Why do you believe in me?” I ask.
“I believe in you the same way I believe the sun’s gonna rise and the basketball season’s gonna start in October. You’re legit. Your talent, your heart, all of it. You’re the real deal, Pink.”
My ribs are already so stretched it’s impossible to take another breath.
God, these feelings are confusing while I’m straddling him in his apartment.
“So then why did you tell me we were over?” I ask quietly.
“I fucked up.” Clay frowns, looking uncomfortable. “Things were going so well that I freaked out.”
“That makes no sense.”
He sighs. “The last time I cared about someone, it went south fast. I looked like a fool, but more than that, it messed me up on the inside. When I get messed up, there’s nowhere to hide.”
The hope is back, the sneaky spark of possibility deep in my chest.
There’s music in the background, but the sound of my pulse pounding is louder. I feel his eyes on me, intent.
“I blocked every mention of you in my search engine so I didn’t have to see stories or pictures of you,” I blurt.
His touch skims up my ribs. “Seems fair.”
“I burned your jersey.”
“You…” He shakes his head, eyes closing for a moment. “Fuck it, I’ll get you another.”
“I still have the letter you dumped me with.”
“You’re a pyro, it seems, so put it to good use.”
I bite my cheek as laughter rises up. “The other night at the pub didn’t change anything, you know. Your monster dick didn’t rock my world.”
“Only because you haven’t felt it inside you yet.”
The tingling between my thighs intensifies.
“I’m not sure it would even fit.”
“You can take me. It’ll feel good when you do.”
I cock my head. “For you or me?”
“For both of us.” Clay twists a piece of my hair around his finger, and his gaze drops to my lips. “Promise I’ll go slow.”
I’m aware of how close we are, the places we’re touching.
I want him so badly I ache.
“I can’t jump back into this with you. I need time to listen to my heart. And it’s hard to hear it with you right here between my legs, making everything seem like a good idea. Okay?”
He nods slowly, his eyes dancing.
Even if we did start over, it would have to be something new.
Different.
The idea lights up the back of my brain.
I start to shift off him and my phone slips. I grab for it and look at the contract again.
New and different.
“That’s it!” I exclaim, pressing a hand against his chest. “I’m adding to the original concept. I could make the case that the changes aren't covered by the contract.”
His fingers dig into my bare thigh. “Then what?”
I blink at him. “Then I’ll ask for more.”
But my words sound weak even to my own ears. I can’t picture asking James for more money.
“Based on what?” he levels immediately.
When Clay’s fingers find the wide leg of my shorts and slide up the inside, I hiccup.
I should be stopping him. I know what happens when I let my guard down with Clay.
“Based on how much merchandise you sell in the Bear Cave every night, you’d make more than that in a week.”
Instead of looking satisfied, the lines on his forehead deepen. Wrong answer.
"Actually, probably more than that in a day,” I amend. I was always decent enough with numbers to calculate in my head. “And fans love new concepts.”
His eyes meet mine, and something in them makes me shiver. I'm getting bolder and more shameless with each breath, and it excites him.
I feel powerful, and it’s a strange and heady thing.
“How much did you make this year?” I toss.
He lifts a shoulder. “Forty mil. Give or take.”
I try not to faint at the outrageous number.
“Then I’m already winning,” I decide.
“How do you figure?” His voice is husky.
“Well.” I gesture to our relative positions. “You make forty million dollars… but I’m the one on top.”
I swear his grin lights me up everywhere.
12
NOVA
I check my watch for the third time as I shift in the chair outside James Parker’s office.
“It’s a busy day,” the woman at the desk says semi-apologetically. She picks up her phone and punches a contact. “Yes, sir. Nova’s here.” Her gaze flicks to mine. “Yes, of course.” Her finger punches a button—mute, probably, from the way she addresses me at full volume. “He sends his apologies but says it would be best if you continued working on the wall.”
“I’m afraid I can’t move forward until we talk.”
Her lips purse, and she presses the button again. Before she can answer, the door swings open and the owner’s head appears.
“Nova. Please come in.”
The one and only time I negotiated for my salary at the design firm, they turned me down, citing budget issues. But it left me feeling as if I didn’t matter, as if my work didn’t matter.
The first week here, I was so worried about messing up that it never occurred to me I wasn’t getting my share.
Talking with Clay helped me see how I can advocate for myself, in a way that’s fair and reasonable, even in unfamiliar territory.
He holds the door wide, and I follow him inside.
“Would you like a chair?”
“No, thank you.” I produce the sketchpad.
Last night after getting back from Clay’s, Brooke found me scouring the internet for public rates for commissioned works. When I told her what I was doing, she was immediately supportive.
“Get yours, Nova. You’re insanely talented, and you should know your worth.”
Now, I watch James take in the sketch.
“What is this?”
“The expanded scope of the wall. You said the board liked the direction with the skyline, but it will be more meaningful to have different levels of connection. The buildings represent Denver, but the players represent basketball, the faces are this team. Your team.”
“In that case, I’m impressed. And I approve.” He passes the sketchpad back, and I take it.
“I didn’t come only for your approval. You offered me twenty thousand for this project. I want twenty more, plus a cut of merchandise.”
His brows lift, as do the corners of his mouth. Amused isn’t the reaction I was going for, and I grip the edges of my sketchpad tighter, ignoring the urge to tug on my skirt like a school kid in the principal’s office.