by Johnson, Cat
That didn’t mean he had to look at her. Head down, he made himself very busy with stirring the paint primer as he said, “Yeah?”
“Can we look at those tile samples in the bathroom now? That way we can figure out how much we need and order it to be delivered to the store.”
The bathroom. The scene of the crime. Why did it have to be the bathroom she wanted to go to?
Though maybe it would knock the memories of last night out of his head to have both of them jammed in there along with the cameraman and the light guy and any other assorted crew whose job titles he didn’t know but who followed him around all day anyway.
“Sure. Let’s look.” He stayed facing away from her, bending to grab a tape measure out of his tool box, then stopping by their one folding table to grab the yellow pad of paper and carpenter pencil there so he could write down the measurements.
His props in hand, he headed to the bathroom and pointedly did not look at Tasha’s ass in the jean shorts. He really needed to get the new A/C unit installed. Maybe if he kept the house ice cold she’d wear more damn clothing.
Why the fuck was he getting hard?
He moved the pad down a bit so it hid his crotch from view. It had been barely eight hours since he’d been with her. He should be satisfied.
Crap. Now he was really hard.
No more thinking about that or her.
“So which samples did you like best?” she asked.
He frowned while facing the wall and extending the tape measure. “I told you already.”
“Tell me again,” she said in a voice that held more of a lilt than it should.
He turned to stare at her and caught her smile before she hid it and it all became clear. She wanted him to admit on camera that she was right and he’d been wrong. That he did like her stupid blue glass tile even if it did cost more than the plain white one.
What a bitch move. She couldn’t just accept that she’d won this round? She had to mock him and make him admit it to a million cable viewers too?
He set his jaw and desperately wanted to change his mind and order the white tile instead. That would be petty and immature and would likely send her into a screaming tizzy . . . and he liked the idea the more he thought about it.
“The plain white tile. That’s what I like. That’s what we’re ordering.”
Her eyes popped wide, as did her mouth. “Clay!”
She literally stomped her foot as she said it, which Greg hopefully caught since he’d been focused on her at the time.
Perfect. Nothing like showing her acting like a little brat. She wanted to play this game, he’d play.
He turned toward the camera and winked right at the lens, before glancing back at Tasha, who was red faced and glaring.
“Just kidding. I like the blue. We’ll go with that. And jeez, try to take a joke next time, okay? No sense of humor at all, I swear.” He shook his head and turned back to the wall to take that measurement again, because he’d be damned if he could remember the number anymore.
She sputtered behind him before storming out of the bathroom. He couldn’t help his smile.
Oh yeah. This was fun. Torture the co-host might be his new favorite game.
Now if he could just keep his dick in his pants, it would be all good.
Clay’s theory that once he’d finally had her she’d be out of his system and he could ignore her until the end of production wasn’t working out too well.
He realized that the moment the crew left for the evening and she headed into the bathroom to shower.
His mind conjured images of the night before and added a few new ones. Tasha, naked and wet, hands pressed up against the wall as he took her from behind.
He’d been working on the assumption that she’d been driving him nuts, physically, because of that first aborted night they hadn’t spent together even though she thought they had. He’d been wrong.
One taste of her didn’t quench his desire. Quite the opposite.
Instead, it had left him tossing all night, deciding exactly how stupid it had been to go in that bathroom. And wondering why he wanted to do it again, soon.
Tonight wasn’t looking to be any different. His single-minded focus was that damn woman.
A repeat couldn’t happen.
If the cameras caught anything—him going into the bathroom after her, the sounds that were coming out of that room—the producers would no doubt latch onto it like a dog with a bone.
Between what had actually happened and what they could do with editing, it could become a full-blown sex tape.
That was the last thing he needed. He hadn’t wanted to be on television in the first place. He sure as hell didn’t want his sex life made public for the national viewing audience.
Nope. It had been a lapse in judgment brought on by a sleepless night and visions of her and her vibrator right on the other side of his wall.
His mind was made up. He wasn’t going to succumb to weakness again . . . but if she broke out that damn vibrator tonight—
No. She wouldn’t do it. Not after he’d charged in there last night. He didn’t give her much credit for common sense, but she had to be smart enough to not tempt him again. If she weren’t intelligent enough to figure that out, hopefully she’d at least be frightened enough of him to restrain herself.
Shit. He couldn’t take the chance. It wasn’t in him to put all of his faith in a woman. Especially one he didn’t know all that well, and who he disagreed with at almost every turn.
His liking her stupid blue tile had been an exception, not the rule. In everything else they were polar opposites and he was fine with that. It would make it easier to make sure there was never a repeat of last night.
But just in case—Clay reached into his bag and grabbed his PT clothes. Since all else had failed to distract him from thoughts of sex with Tasha, he’d work the lust out of him.
A good long hard run on the beach should do it. By the time he got back he’d be ready to pass out, with no energy for sex or anything else.
Perfect.
EIGHTEEN
“So how’s it going with the caveman?” Jane asked.
Tasha cradled the cell on her shoulder and tried to push the memory of last night’s amazing sex out of her head.
Instead, she focused on the other sixteen or so hours of waking hell he’d put her through today.
She couldn’t tell her former co-worker about the bathroom sex, so she said, “He’s still living up to his Neanderthal reputation.”
“Maybe, but damn, he’s hot.”
Tasha frowned. She hadn’t sent Jane a picture of Clay. “How do you know?”
“There’s press up for the show.”
“What? There is?” How did she not know this? And Clay definitely didn’t know it either or he would have bitched about it. “Where?”
“The show’s got pages on all the major social sites. I googled and the YouTube page came up as the first listing. There’s a promo video posted. It’s getting good views and likes too.”
“A video? Of what?”
“You two. It’s kind of like a montage of clips cut together and let me tell you, you two make one hell of a hot couple.”
“Don’t believe everything you see. We are definitely not a couple.” But at least this video was good, unlike the last one of her on-air meltdown.
That one had gone viral but the chances of this Hot House promo video doing the same were slim to none.
She sighed as Jane continued, “Why aren’t you trying to get with that hot piece of man? You’re living together, aren’t you? Let me tell you, the way he looks at you . . . that right there would be enough to make my panties drop.”
“You mean when he’s glaring at me like he hates me? I guess it’s a good thing you’re not here then, because I get that look from him a lot.” Even as she said it, her cheeks burned, because Jane wasn’t too far off from the truth.
Tasha hadn’t been wearing panties at the time, but all it
had taken was the intensity of Clay’s stare to have her pajama bottoms hitting the bathroom floor last night.
“So where is Mr. Hunky and Handsome now? Is he like doing shirtless push-ups on the living room floor?” Jane’s voice sounded dreamy as she no doubt pictured that very thing.
Tasha scoffed at that. Somehow Clay managed to have some pretty drool-worthy muscles, yet she never saw him actually doing anything to get them. Not lifting weights. Not doing push-ups. And the man made food disappear like an industrial-sized garbage disposal.
It was just one more reason to resent him since when she ate even a little bit too much she gained weight.
So the answer to Jane’s question was a resounding no. Clay was definitely not shirtless and sweaty doing push-ups. And thank God for that because the image of him, muscles bulging as he lowered himself over her, was a little too tempting.
She let out a huff. “He’s not even here. He keeps sneaking out at night even though we’re not supposed to go out and do anything without a camera crew with us.”
Although, his breaking the rules for the second night in a row might provide a much needed opportunity. She considered a quick session with B.O.B. before he got back from wherever he’d gone off to.
Jane sucked in a breath. “Oh my God. I bet he’s got a girlfriend.”
“What? Why would you say that?” Tasha asked, her heart suddenly pounding.
Not that she was jealous or wanted him for herself or anything—far from it—but he’d better not have a girlfriend if he was banging her on the bathroom sink not even an hour after he arrived home from being with this other woman.
“Why else would he sneak out?” Jane asked.
“I don’t know. Lot’s of reasons.” If only Tasha could think of a few . . .
“Name one,” Jane challenged.
Put on the spot, her mind spun as she grasped for a good reason. “Um, he could be doing something embarrassing he doesn’t want on camera. Like going to the proctologist or something.”
Jane laughed. “At night? Two nights in a row?”
Tasha frowned. “Okay, so that was a bad example. It could be anything. An AA meeting or, um, a church service.”
The problem with that theory was she saw him drink all the time but never to excess and she’d never seen him pray, not even to say grace before eating so it was doubtful he was attending nightly prayer meetings.
Her powers of deduction really did suck.
“Or he’s sneaking off to a woman’s house and he doesn’t want her on camera. But that’s a good thing.”
Tasha lifted a brow. “And why is that a good thing?”
She didn’t see any bright side while her stomach twisted because the secret girlfriend theory was currently the frontrunner as the most logical explanation for his repeated nighttime absences.
“If he doesn’t want the relationship public, that means it’s not serious. It’s casual or, even better, just a fling. A two-night stand. He probably is going to dump her and never see her again, so that’s why he doesn’t want her on the show.” Jane sounded so excited.
Her friend and former co-worker wouldn’t be so happy if she realized that the only two-night stand in Clay’s life that Tasha was certain of, was herself.
Jane’s prediction was probably spot-on—Clay would move on from Tasha too and never want to see her again after the show was over.
This conversation had done nothing but depress her, which was ridiculous because she did not want anything more—or anything at all—with Clay.
So why was she feeling so depressed?
As much as she loved Jane, it was time to wrap up this call. “Hey, listen. I think I’m gonna go check out that social media promo you told me about and then head to bed. Things start early around here.”
Jane let out a huff. “I’m so jealous of you. I miss the excitement of being on a set. I’m bored to death working at a desk in an office all day.”
“Hey, at least you got a job right away. That’s a good thing.”
“Yeah, I’m grateful. And I really am happy for you that you got the new show, but I’m still reserving the right to be envious once in a while.”
Tasha smiled, not forgetting that in spite of her issues with her co-host she was damned lucky to be working at all herself. “All right. I’ll allow it. Okay, let me go. I’ll call you soon.”
“You’d better. Have a good night with Mr. Hottie.”
That was probably the worst idea Jane had ever had. “Good night, Jane,” Tasha said.
She disconnected the call before her friend could make any more comments about Clay’s hotness.
Tasha didn’t need any reminders about that. She knew first hand . . . literally. She’d had her hands all over him last night as she held on for dear life while he pounded her into multiple orgasms.
His male prowess wasn’t the problem. Not at all.
It was everything else about the man that she took issue with. But definitely not the sex, because there was no doubt he was very good at that.
Cell in hand she shuffled to the kitchen in her PJs and flip-flops and headed for the tea kettle she’d bought at Home Depot when they’d been out shopping for tile. She’d remembered to pack her favorite herbal tea from home but hadn’t considered there’d be nothing to boil water in.
Luckily, she wasn’t as neat and tidy as she should be and there was a to-go mug still sitting in her car’s cup holder from before production had started. It was a good thing she’d forgotten to take that into her condo because now she had something besides a paper cup in which to drink her tea.
As she filled the kettle with water she realized she was pretty good at this roughing it stuff. Just as good as Clay was. Better, in fact, since she wasn’t sneaking out into civilization to do who knew what every night.
Ha! In the battle of the co-hosts, she was clearly the winner.
Smiling, she picked up her phone. She had a bit of time to kill waiting for the water to boil so she navigated to her Facebook app.
Time to find the show’s page and this new video and see what the hell the producers had created without telling her. Then, when Clay finally did come back, she could tell him about how the studio was already posting video of him on the show.
That should really piss him off. It would serve him right for sneaking off to . . . to . . . wherever.
Humph. That bastard had better not have a girlfriend, strictly because she didn’t like the idea of being the other woman. No other reason, of course. She wasn’t jealous or anything. Definitely not.
She sighed and glanced at the kettle, wishing it would boil. If ever she needed the calming effects of that herbal tea, it was now.
NINETEEN
Clay didn’t know how many miles he ran along the water. He was going to have to drive the distance in the truck and check the odometer to find out. All he knew was he ran until his muscles and his lungs burned before turning around and making the long trip back.
His legs felt like gelatin and he had to have sweated out a gallon of water. Perfect. That ensured he was good and exhausted and not even thinking about fucking by the time he came in the back door of the house from the beach.
He kicked off his sandy sneakers just inside the door and wiped the sweat from his face with the T-shirt he’d pulled over his head. He tossed that onto the floor next to the sneakers.
In the morning, he’d discover if the washer and dryer that came with this place worked or not.
Tonight he was too damn tired to do laundry. Rehydration and a shower were the only things on his agenda.
He was heading into the kitchen to handle the first item on his to-do list when he saw Tasha already inside and stopped dead in the doorway. She was in the same outfit as last night, standing and staring at the teakettle on the burner.
On the counter next to the stove were a cup and a box of tea.
Who drank hot tea in this weather? Also, when the hell had they gotten a teakettle? Or a travel mug. Or, for that matter,
tea bags?
He’d better pay more attention to what she was buying when they were out shopping for house stuff. She was probably tossing all sorts of random shit into the cart that he ended up paying for.
All those thoughts fled as he took one more sweeping glance at her and his gaze stalled on the pajama bottoms. Then the only thought he could focus on was peeling them off and plunging inside her.
The tight little tank top that she obviously didn’t ever wear a bra with wasn’t helping the situation either.
“Where were you?” she asked, looking him up and down with as much scrutiny as he’d given her seconds ago.
He was drenched in sweat and he’d come in through the door that led to the beach. Where the hell did she think he’d been?
“I was out taking dance lessons.” He rolled his eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I went for a run on the beach.”
She scowled but didn’t comment. Instead she started playing with the phone in her hand.
He decided it was now his turn to question her. “Don’t you own any other clothes to sleep in?” he asked.
She frowned. “Yes, but it’s hot in here and these are the coolest ones I brought with me.”
If it was so hot, she shouldn’t be drinking frigging hot tea. Keeping that comment to himself, he scowled and walked away from her, heading toward the fridge.
What more could he say? He really shouldn’t complain about what she wore. It wasn’t like she was in slinky lingerie. She wore cotton pants that were way too big for her. The damn things shouldn’t be sexy. But fuck it all, on her, paired with that tight little tank top, the outfit was tempting as hell.
“Don’t you own a shirt?” she said to his back.
Indeed he was shirtless, but he was also in his own damn house, which was allowed if not expected. But apparently this was the best comeback she could think of.
As he twisted off the cap on a bottle of water, he turned to face her. He didn’t miss how she had been staring at his back—and now his front—before her cheeks turned pink and she yanked her gaze up to his face.
Smiling, he took a long swallow and shook his head. “Nope. Us cavemen don’t wear shirts. We only wear loincloths.”
