Scarlett: You know I would, but Aunt Flo is in town.
I really shouldn’t be smirking when I hitsend, but I am.
His reply is almost instantaneous.
Chadwick: Good luck with your numbers. See you at dinner tomorrow.
“Predictable as hell,” I tell my living room. Because in Chadwick’s world, women don’t have bodily functions, let alone talk about them. And yet he keeps trying to get me to move in to his condo, and says that living above my store is negatively affecting my image.
Whatever, Chadwick. I like my store. And my image.
The reminder about dinner is welcome, though. I forgot I’m meeting Chadwick and my father tomorrow night, and I’m actually looking forward to it.
Somehow, some way, when Chadwick is around my father, our relationship makes sense. No, Chadwick isn’t the perfect boyfriend, but my father becomes a different person than he is when we’re alone together. Lawrence Priest never really knew what to do with a daughter, but when Chadwick joins the mix, my father comes alive in a way that makes me wish I could have that version of him all the time.At least there’s one major positive to my relationship with Chadwick.
After pouring three fingers of Seven Sinners, my favorite whiskey, I take the glass over to the Ames chair that my mom loved for relaxing and sketching. The same chair Chadwick told me I should toss—one of the few times he came to my place. He couldn’t stand the eclectic style and said “the chaos of it all” gave him a headache.
Despite being offended to the core, I smiled, as expected, and showed him to the door and promised him we’d meet up at his place from then on.
Ugh. I don’t want to think about Chadwick anymore. I sip the whiskey and savor the heat and the earthy flavor as it slides down my throat, letting my mind wander.
And dammit, it goes right back to those blue eyes.
I snatch my laptop off the coffee table and type in his name. My curiosity isn’t going to be tamed with anything less than a full-on, stalker-level search of Gabriel Legend. It doesn’t take much, because in a fraction of a second, I’m sitting on thousands of results.
It’s the videos that draw me in first. I hitplayon the first one, and—holy crap—there he is. Shirtless and in all his sweaty glory.
Oh. My. Word.
I jerk back, almost spilling my whiskey as his opponent throws a fist and Legend dodges out of the way before firing back at him. The sound of gloved knuckles connecting with skin is primal at best and brutal at worst. I duck and shift as the guy goes after him again, forcing Legend to bob and weave. At least, I think that’s what it’s called. I’ve never been into boxing or whatever kind of fighting this is.
Legend takes a shot to the chin, and blood flies out of his mouth. But instead of hitting the floor of the ring, he launches himself at the other man and takes him to the mat. My jaw drops as they wrestle.
The way he subdues the man and uses his body to create enough leverage to nearly rip his opponent’s arm from the socket is like watching cruel poetry in motion. The man slaps his hand on Legend’s abs, as if begging for mercy, and then the fight is all over.
Holy. Shit.I wasn’t prepared for this.
My heart is pounding. My palms are sweaty. And heat—the kind that was disturbingly absent when my boyfriend texted me about a booty call—thrums between my legs.
There’s something wrong with me.
Could I have Stockholm Syndrome already?Is that even possible?Because I shouldn’t think this is appealing. I should be repelled. Repulsed. Terrified to go back to Legend on Saturday night and fulfill my part of our bargain.
But I’m not. I’m practically drooling over the image of the man frozen on my screen, with sweat glistening on his skin. Sweat that makes me thinkverynaughty thoughts. Like I should make my way to the bedroom and finish myself off with a vibrator.
Shit. This isn’t good.
I toss back the rest of the whiskey, which is a crime, considering it should be savored, but I don’t care. I put the laptop on the table and stride across to the sideboard. But instead of pouring another glass, I rearrange all the barware and decanters.
One by one, I pick up each glass and wipe it down with a bar towel and restack them, artfully. Then I dust each decanter and shift it left a half inch to compensate for the new space taken up by the crystal. It only takes me five minutes, but the mindless task calms me down and helps me put what I just watched out of my mind.
Don’t think about him. Think about the club and how you’re going to fix it.
Not trusting myself to halt the Google searching, I grab my phone and make a call to one of my most trusted confidants who also happens to know damn near everything about almost everyone—Kelsey Pak, my beloved hair and makeup artist.
She answers on the third ring. “Hey, babe. What’s up? You need me? I can be over in a half hour if you do.”
Despite the fact that I pay her very well for her services, I know Kelsey wouldn’t make the offer to her other clients. I get special treatment because she’s not just a service provider, she’s one of my best friends.