by Mia Kayla
I tipped back the bottle to take a sip, and it dribbled down my tank top, spilling on my pants. I placed the bottle on the center table and smiled up at him.
He groaned, walking toward the bar. “Just sit still.” Jordan came back with some paper towels and dabbed at my mouth and down my chest. His profile was strong and rigid and painfully beautiful. “Can you please just stay still?”
“Bossy pants, aren’t we?” I laughed. “And why is it so cold in here?” I threw my legs to the floor and rubbed my hands over my arms to warm myself.
My stomach flipped from the abrupt movement. Confirmation: I’d had too much to drink. Oddly enough, I could usually throw the liquor back.
“Because you spilled water everywhere.” He rubbed at his temple, his eyes glazing over. “Now, please drink this.”
He reached for the bottled water on the table and placed it to my lips. Honestly, he didn’t look like he had it all together either. He wanted me to sober up, yet he needed some sobering up too.
“Are you this bossy in bed?” Up close, I could lick the shadow of stubble forming on his jaw. Damn, he was good-looking. “Because I think I’d like that better.”
“You’re worse than me,” he huffed under his breath and placed the water bottle on his side table, dropping on the couch in a big thud.
“I can’t believe you’re not even trying,” I complained.
My ego was badly bruised. I wasn’t sure why I was surprised. He wasn’t without lots of propositions. Ladies probably dropped their panties on the daily for him. But I wasn’t used to someone being immune to my charm. It made me want to work harder, flirt more, turn up the attraction volume. That was how I ticked, how I worked. If there was a challenge, I stepped up and womanned up. And I wanted to climb the Jordan Ryder mountain. That was the next challenge on my list.
“You’re such a loyal brother. Loyalty is the sexiest trait there is.” My finger caressed the line of his neck by the collar of his shirt.
He side-eyed me and laughed, inching away toward the edge of the couch. I watched him with sleepy eyes as he twisted the cap of the water bottle, brought it to his lips, and downed the water in three long, satisfying pulls.
“I think I’m officially wasted.”
A giggle bubbled from my mouth. I stood on unsteady legs and walked to where my purse was at the end of the hall, by my shoes. “The best way to sober up is to …”
“Yeah. Not going to happen,” he stated.
I reached in my purse and shook my head. “I’m not reaching for a condom, crazy man. The best way to sober up is to play cards.”
I pulled out a deck, held together by my black hair tie.
“Cards?” He tilted his head, and that little cute dimple made an appearance.
“Yes, cards. Gin.” I plopped down beside him, divided the pile of cards, and shuffled.
When he groaned again, I pinched his side and got nothing. Man, did I want to see his stomach, his abs.
“Come on, Jordan. It’s either play cards or my first option for how to get sober.” I wiggled my eyebrows in a suggestive motion and held out his portion of the cards.
After reaching for them, he fanned them out, smiling. “You should really practice your poker face.”
After a bit, I leaned back against the plush leather couch, resting my head against the comfy cushions.
“I don’t know why I need a poker face when I’m going to win.” I sighed.
“Long day?” he asked.
“Very long.” Every day seemed to drag on longer and longer. No wonder I was exhausted.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” He reached for another card, and I smirked. “Does it have anything to do with your mother?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Nice try. And don’t distract me with your mindless small talk. I’m going to win.”
He laughed.
“It’s other things too.” My fingers rustled at the soft silk of my top. “Before the surprise party, I had a prospective tenant for this restaurant I’ve been trying to rent. The Wells property.” I reached for another card and placed it on my stack.
“Restaurant?” His turn now.
“Yeah, I’d forced our company to buy it.”
I’d sworn to my father it was in the new up-and-coming area and that we needed to jump on the property. I should have known it wouldn’t rent out when there was no one else bidding on it. I had known the history of the location but thought that wouldn’t stop people from renting it.
“Cade did mention you guys were in real estate.”
“Mmhmm.” Man, was I going to win this game. One more card, and I’d have gin.
“We’re investors too,” he said, “but Wyatt and I are just on the financial end. Cade makes all the acquisitions for new restaurants. Anyway, did they sign on to rent the restaurant?”
“No.” I bit my pinkie nail, waiting for him to put down his cards.
“Why not?” He stalled.
“Because they’re stupid. It’s your turn.”
He laughed, a deep rumble in his chest that vibrated against me.
“Why didn’t they sign?” he asked again.
“It’s crazy talk, really.” I tipped my chin toward the cards in between us on the couch. “Your turn.”
“Is it haunted or something?”
I peered up at him and tilted my head, assessing him. “Did you hear about the Wells property?”
News had spread through every media outlet when it’d happened.
He shook his head.
“Murder. Twenty years ago. Michael and Michelle Wells. And people still swear their ghosts haunt the property.”
He made a comical face. “Bullshit. What happened?”
“A wife and husband owned the restaurant. When the wife found out the husband was pounding more than meat in the kitchen after hours, she got her revenge.”
“So, now, all of a sudden, it’s haunted? Pfft.”
“I know, right?” I didn’t believe in that stuff, but it didn’t matter because the majority of Rosendell did, and now, I couldn’t rent the restaurant out even with a first month free incentive. “Business blows. I’m always on the go—acquiring, maintaining, and renting out facilities. The more we grow, the harder it is. And this property …” I blew my bangs from my face. “ …it’s only slowing me down.” I placed my cards on my lap, thinking of the early morning meeting that I had tomorrow. The responsible adult in me should call an Uber, head home, and get in bed, so I could wake up bright and early tomorrow morning.
“It’s like you’re living my life.”
“How so?”
“The always on the go life. Always filming or on a press tour. I’ll be in Hawaii for a few months to film my next movie.”
He was complaining about Hawaii?
I narrowed my eyes. “What? You don’t like the life of the rich and famous? Where bodyguards open your doors, people fall at your feet, you can attend every high-profile function, you have an assistant to shop for you and get your food, and you don’t lift a single finger?”
“You didn’t mention the fact that I work for this.” He flicked at my nose. “Acting is work.”
I pretended to bite his finger. “Well, yeah, there’s that.”
“I’m always wondering when the high will be over. And I want to get more gigs, win more awards, but the more I want, and the more my life surpasses my expectations, the higher the bar is raised.”
I got that. I functioned the same way—trying to beat last year’s profits, trying to always stay ahead of the real estate curve.
“Gin.” He placed his cards down and smiled victoriously.
That blows. I scrunched my face. “Ugh. I’ll have you know, I’m not a gracious loser.” I stood and dug my feet into the plush carpet. “Well, now, I need another drink.”
“I thought we were sobering up.” He scratched at his temple.
“Change of plans. We’re going to play another game.” This time, I was determined to win.
&n
bsp; Chapter 7
Warmth.
Pure warmth encased my body. I was floating against soft one-thousand-thread-count Egyptian sheets, sheets that I’d only slept on. Though my eyes were closed, my body moved against the soft-as-satin sheets, enjoying how every single inch of me was fully relaxed. Every muscle felt as though it had just experienced a two-hour massage.
I’d had the best dream ever, one where I’d had the greatest steak dinner and wonderful conversation with the perfect man, ending in multiple orgasms that lasted forever and ever until my body was limp with satisfaction.
I writhed against the sheets. Warm hands wrapped around my belly, a body spooning me from behind. Spooning …
Spooning felt like heaven.
Spooning was only for intimate, serious relationships.
Spooning only happened in my dreams, in complete unconsciousness.
I sighed, but when a man’s long sigh echoed behind my ear, I was instantly wide awake. I flipped around and found a familiar pair of blue eyes staring back at me. Surprise seemed to hit us both at the same time. My eyes went wide, and my mouth dropped open. I tugged the sheet to cover my body as he tugged the same sheet toward himself.
“Shit,” I screeched.
“Fuck,” he muttered at the same time.
He lost the tug-of-war.
I yanked the sheet toward me, revealing him almost naked and at full salute with morning wood. He covered his package with both hands while I wrapped the sheet against my body, noting that I still had my bra and underwear on. Thank goodness. All he wore was one sock.
His entire upper body was a mural of tattoos. A dragon and Chinese characters made up most of the art on his chest and upper arms. Sexy as hell.
“Nothing happened,” I stated.
I doubted it had since I was fully clothed, but shit, where the hell is the rest of my clothing? And why did he only have one sock on? My head pounded with a dulling pain, and I rubbed at my temple.
It wasn’t like I’d never had a one-night stand before, but I would like to remember if it had been with the Jordan Ryder.
With one hand, he gripped the top of his hair, squinting against the light shining through the window. “No, ’cause I’d remember.” He scratched the top of his head, and his eyebrows furrowed. “I do remember bringing you in here, so we would be more comfortable, but I don’t know why I only have a sock on.”
I nodded and bit my lower lip, debating my next move. Run? Hide? Escape? All of the above?
“Why am I only in my underwear and bra?” I slapped my head as memories of the night filtered through like clips from a movie—playing gin, making drinks, and then, of course … strip poker.
Well, considering he had one piece of clothing on—his sock—and I had two, I’d won.
“Strip poker,” he confirmed, no doubt reliving the same scenes in his head.
I slowed my breaths, though my heart raced, and my pulse thrummed hard on the inside of my wrists.
I wasn’t surprised that I was in a hotel room. What shocked the shit out of me was that I had fallen asleep in his room, in his bed, and in his arms. And we hadn’t had sex. Worst of all? We had been freaking spooning.
Spooning!
What in the ever-loving shit is going on? That never happened. Ever. Not in my lifetime, at least. Not since … the man I no longer thought of.
We blinked a couple of times, and I cocked an eyebrow.
“I’m not used to sleepovers.” He double-blinked. “So … yeah.” He almost sounded as though he was in denial.
We were built the same after all.
He tipped his chin. “Hey, I’m getting a little cold here. Can you throw me the sheet from the floor?”
My eyes scanned the room. The pillows were neatly stacked against the bed, but the covers were scattered on the floor. It was how I woke up every morning—by myself—with the covers littered everywhere. I move around like crazy when I’m sleeping.
I really should be in the hospital right now with the amount of alcohol I’d had last night. One drink. Too many drinks. The card game. The laughter that had lasted for hours, our deep conversations I vaguely remembered, and the sweet touches … the way my heart had pitter-pattered against his chest right before he went in for that kiss on my forehead that seemed to last forever.
And then we had fallen asleep together.
He gave me a look of impatience. “I know I’m one glorious specimen to look at, but I’m hard as a rock right now. Morning wood and all. So … unless you’re going to get naked, too, can you please throw me that sheet on the floor?”
Crap. What time is it? I glanced at my watch on my wrist, and my heartbeat doubled in speed. Wells property meeting. Shit.
My shaky hands quickly picked up my pants and my silk top. I slipped into my clothing under the sheets and chucked the other sheet toward him.
I grabbed my purse from the ground, pivoted, ready to leave, but the look on his face stopped me.
He flushed a deeper shade, and then he pulled the blanket over his knees, covering himself to mid-chest.
“So … yeah …” I searched through my purse and pulled out my keys. “Like I was saying, I really had a great time last night. Thanks for everything.” It sounded as though we had done the deed, and I was taking the walk of shame.
I stifled a laugh in my throat as he pulled the sheet closer to his neck.
“Uh … yeah, me, too?” He didn’t sound too sure.
For once, Jordan Ryder seemed to be at a loss for words, but I was too discombobulated and ready to run to contemplate it further.
I inched backward toward the door, and my legs shook as I waved at him.
A wave? Really? Were we in high school again?
“So, I’ll call you, yeah?” I said, knowing I wouldn’t.
He pulled the sheet closer to his chin now. “Yeah … call me?” His voice cracked puberty-style, and then he furrowed his brow. “You have my number, right?”
I laughed nervously. “Yeah, sure, I have your number.” Another wave.
I did not have his number. Could it get any weirder?
Good God, I need to leave.
“Christene?”
“Yeah?” My hand was on the doorknob.
“Your pants.”
I glanced down and noticed that my white pants were inside out, and my shirt was backward. This man had thrown me for a loop. I didn’t know which way was up or down or left or right. “It’s the style. They’re supposed to be like this.”
He gave me a doubtful look but didn’t reply.
“Okay, bye.” Another awkward wave.
Right before I turned, I heard him ask, “You’re going to call me, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Then, I slammed the door and raced down the hall. My brow, my breasts, and the back of my neck were damp from sweat.
I punched the down button on the elevator and stole glances toward his door.
Punch.
Punch.
Punch.
Dang it. Open. Open. Open.
My foot tapped frantically against the floor as I hoped and prayed that the doors would open.
One thing I knew for sure: there was no way I was going to call him even though he was the Jordan Ryder, Academy Award winner and People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive.
I needed to put this behind me and pretend we hadn’t crossed the spooning line.
Chapter 8
At this rate, there was no time to go home to change and still make it in time.
When the elevator pinged open, I rushed into the crowd of people standing inside. Just my luck. Internally, I groaned.
They had to scoot a little to make room. Everyone gaped at my attire. The older, retired-looking couple, the young twin girls and their parents, three bachelors with a set of golf clubs ready for the range—all of them stared.
The lining from my pants was on the outside, and the tag was evidently displayed, as my shirt was too short to cover it. I’d have been staring too.
>
I threw on a relaxed smile through the longest ride down, even as the elevator stopped and let people out and in on every floor.
Through the lobby, I walked at a leisurely pace as though I were walking the catwalk in Paris. My hair was a mess, my shirt was wrinkled, and, yes, my pants were on inside out.
A group of older women passed by, whispering among each other. As the bellboy opened the door for me, I sensed his eyes watching the curvature of my ass as I strolled past him and pressed the unlock button of my apple-red BMW M3 convertible.
Fast was her first name; Furious was her last. She was fast and furious, just like I loved to live my life.
As soon as I shut the door to my car, I let out a low, jagged breath, and my body went on high alert.
Destination: Wells property. Time of arrival: ten minutes too late. Damn it. I needed this tenant like I needed coffee in the morning, but the coffee had to wait. This tenant could not.
I pressed the pedal to the metal and headed to my destination.
At a stoplight, I looked into the visor mirror and wiped the black eyeliner from my eyes. It looked like someone had punched me in one eye, and because they hadn’t wanted to leave out the other eye, they’d punched that one too. Sunglasses would have to do, for now, so I put them on.
It was days like this. I thanked the heavens for my high cheekbones and unnaturally pink lips, looking as though I were wearing a sheen of lip gloss. If there was one thing that God had graced me with, it was a beautiful facade—a curse and a blessing all at once.
I pretty much got everything I wanted with one look and my ability to sweet-talk my way through anything in life. But on the other hand, everyone thought that since I was a looker, I had no brains.
I’d graduated and earned my MBA at Wharton School and was heir to the biggest real estate company in Rosendell. When I’d first started working for my father, I’d had to prove to everyone that I was capable of handling my father’s day-to-day business. Slowly, I had proven my worth. If I were a man, there was no doubt I’d have been treated differently.
Screw the people who thought there was nothing on top, and I used everything on the bottom to get what I wanted.
