For looking at my ass?
Or for getting caught looking at my ass?
It’s like we’re in the club in New York all over again. Me, swooning uncontrollably for the first time in my life over a man, except tonight, I know exactly who he is.
I know how to push his buttons.
I know his story on why he lied to me about who he was, and the more I watch him, the more I understand and believe it.
And I know I’m starting to really not care at all that he probably knows the same things about me.
“What makes you think I’d need security?” My voice wobbles, but I give him my best drop it, because this is none of your business glare.
Naturally, he ignores it. And I swear there’s a gleam in his eye, like he’s taking delight in ignoring my request.
“You inherited a baseball team. Even the Fireballs, the worst team in baseball, are worth close to a billion dollars. Which means you’re worth close to a billion dollars. Probably more, I’d guess, if Wellington paid you even half as well as most billionaires pay their right-hand man and if you invested your money a fraction as well as he’s invested his.” He frowns. “Actually, why hasn’t he ever put security on you? You’re number one in the organization after him, from everything I can see. I’d think that would warrant company-paid security.”
“Wellington Holdings is all but gone.”
“And you’re still the closest link to the world’s most reclusive billionaire.”
Now my toes are going numb and little bits of prickly fear are needling at my skin.
He’s right, of course. And while I regularly take self-defense classes, never take the same route to work twice, and I know Uncle Guido keeps an eye on me, I’m in a much more public position now than I’ve ever been before.
My paranoia doesn’t say I need security.
My paranoia says I fly under the radar. Wellington Holdings’ investments and developments were never the kind to attract attention the ways the tech behemoths are, and while I’ve learned how to network, I’ve never had to do press conferences or interface with the public the way I’ll have to as owner of the Fireballs.
Kidnappings are the clear winner for things I need to worry about, but who’d pay my ransom?
There’s no one left who cares enough.
I am officially done discussing this with Tripp Wilson. And I’m relieved to see that there are motion detectors hung subtly in the living room, which means he probably has more security than I’m aware of. “Is that a candle, or are you baking cookies?”
“And speaking of Wellington, is he funding all of this money you’re managing to pump into the Fireballs to keep the team going?”
I fully turn to face him, catching sight of a living room strewn with toys. While the dark furniture with carved feet and the rows of bookshelves fit the man I know from the office whose desk is spotless every night and who will move a stapler two inches to the left if you move it two inches to the right, the sight of his kids’ toys flung willy-nilly across the house doesn’t.
He either has secrets or layers.
Probably both.
“I asked you first,” I remind him, feeling more his son’s age than my own as the phrase passes my lips.
And speaking of lips, his are quirking, and could the man be more gorgeous?
This is distinctly unfair, and my body knows it.
“Are we going to stand here and ask each other questions until we finally get to why you’re at my house at midnight, or do I have to give you cookies first?” he asks.
Cookies. I definitely did not get my cookies in that bathroom in New York—or in the office the other day—and I’m now remembering exactly how denied I feel.
Which means it’s time to go.
“I’m returning to New York in the morning to tie up some loose ends. I just wanted to let you know that you’ll be in charge next week, but I expect progress reports every evening.”
His jaw tightens. “This will work better if you trust me.”
“We’ll get there, Mr. Wilson.”
He crosses his arms. Bull’s-eye.
God, I love baiting him. I didn’t even realize how much I needed someone in my life to bait, yet here he is, and it’s making me happier than I can remember being in a long time.
Except as I feel my own lips start to twitch, that gleam in his eyes picks up.
“Progress reports.” His voice is husky. Low. He takes two steps toward me, and I only have it in me to take one step back, because I want to be close to him. “Eight-point font. Twenty pages. Every night. Consider it done and sealed with duck lips.”
“Ah, couldn’t resist the ducks, could you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already forwarded duck posters to your offices in New York for hanging on every wall. Your signature for approval is remarkably easy to forge.”
I’m halfway through sucking in a horrified breath when I realize he’s playing with me.
More, I like it.
I toss my hands up and laugh. “Okay. You win. Fucking ducks. I surrender. I will never outlive the ducks.”
He doesn’t join in laughing with me, and as my chuckles peter out, and as I realize I’ve involuntarily stalked closer to him too, I start to get an inkling as to why.
His eyes have gone dark. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw. His hands are clenched into fists. And all of his focus is on my mouth.
I turn him on.
Possibly laughter and winning turn him on, but if that were the case, he would’ve been fighting a hard-on all night, because there was a ton of laughter, and a ton of one-up-manship at the cookout tonight.
Which means my laughter turns him on.
“I should go,” I whisper, suddenly acutely aware that I’m close enough to count every one of his dark eyelashes.
“Should you? There’s a reason you came here tonight. And I don’t think it was just to ask me if I had security.”
“I h-had to tell you I’m leaving.”
“Could’ve sent an email.”
“I thought I’d be more polite.”
“You came here because you had a good time tonight, and you don’t want the good time to end.”
Who’s shooting the bull’s-eye now? “As I believe I’ve told you, I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“This arrangement is temporary. Either I buy this team, or you find a different team president that Pakorski will give his stamp of approval. Whether or not I kiss you tonight. And we both know it.”
“I’m still your boss tonight.”
“And you’re at my house at midnight. When you know my kids aren’t here. The line’s already crossed. So what are you going to do about it?”
Oh, hell.
I’m going to kiss him.
I shouldn’t. But I want to. And I need to get my head back on straight. Now.
I can tell myself all I want that I came here to warn him that he needs to tell his friends to quit digging around in my past, except that wasn’t what was on my mind when my car drove me here tonight.
Or, you know, when I drove the car myself here tonight after plugging Tripp’s address into the built-in GPS.
Because I didn’t want to leave Copper Valley without saying goodbye, even though I feel a desperate need to put some space between us, which is completely at odds with wanting to stay here with him tonight.