CHAPTER THREE
Will
My definition of a bad day has changed.
Drastically.
In a different lifetime, a bad day used to mean a trip to the emergency room with a busted eye, so I could get stitched up. Or watching the Giants get spanked.
In this lifetime, a bad day means losing forty million dollars on a bad trade.
To be fair, the latter doesn’t happen too often, but when it does…it’s almost like it’s happening to someone else. Another man. Same when it comes to triumphs or hell, even uneventful days in the office. I’m always looking back on that other lifetime, wondering where that asshole with the busted lip went.
I draw a long breath in through my nose and let it out, staring out over the field. Neither one of those men seem to be here now.
Which one will I eventually return to?
A slimy snout presses into the palm of my hand, distracting me.
The tightness in my chest eases when I look down at my dog. His body vibrates with the leftover excitement of running in the field we pulled over to inspect, just outside of Dallas.
“Back already, huh?” I rub the top of Southpaw’s head with my knuckles. “Shit. Why are you wet? Again.”
My Great Dane responds by yawning, showing off the ridges on the roof of his mouth. He flops onto his side and rolls over, his four legs looking like highway mile markers pointed straight up at the blue sky. The mud splashed all over his white belly will be transferred to my leather car seat when we hit the road again. That’s fine by me, though. Leather can be replaced, but Southpaw can’t.
This is his vacation. I’m just the chauffeur.
See, bad days were always surmountable before. I could fix them. Or enough time would pass that I gradually forgot they existed. There’s no moving on from a day when you find out your entire damn life is a lie—and your dog is dying—within the space of twenty-four hours. There’s no way to change those things.
So I changed my priorities instead.
Southpaw makes a snarf sound and writhes on his back in the grass.
“What’s that mean? You hungry?” His tongue unfolds and dangles out the corner of his mouth in response. “Yeah. When are you not hungry, you big-ass beast? Let’s go. Hop in.”
Southpaw animates in a flurry of fur, trotting toward my Chevelle when just a month ago, he would have streaked at a hundred miles an hour. I clear my throat hard to keep a lump from forming and school my features. Call me crazy if you want, but that dog picks up on everything. And he’s truly my dog, because he’s not a fan of pity. Or cats.
We’ve been on this road trip for one month as of today. Started in New York and made our way down to Florida, before cutting west. We don’t have rules or plans. When we find somewhere we like, we stay until we get sick of it. In other words, until Southpaw drags my suitcase out from beneath the bed and sits on it until I get the hint and start packing.
Dallas has been keeping us entertained for a few days, but as we pull into the parking lot of the Drifter Motel and Southpaw gives a sigh, I’m pretty sure we’ll be gone by tomorrow. Dogs have no attention span these days.
“Come on,” I say, throwing the car into park. “Better clean you up or no respectable eating establishment will let us through the door.”
Speaking of respectable establishments, this motel doesn’t really fall into that category. The stucco is peeling, half the vacancy sign needs replacement bulbs, and guests consist of broke musicians and men of questionable morals. It’s not that I can’t afford something nicer—I can write a check and buy a damn hotel if I so choose—but even if a five-star hotel was willing to let a horse-sized dog sleep in their fancy sheets, they’re not happy about it. My overly sensitive dog loves people, so I’d rather have him surrounded by people who’ll love him back.
Case in point, someone puts their hand out for a sniff every two steps on our way to the room. Out front, a couple is getting romantic in between sips from a brown paper bag. Music blares out from two different rooms. One plays metal, Spanish opera belts through a fuzzy speaker in the other. Cigarette smoke, old and new, lingers in the air, along with the smell of lemon cleaning product and sweat.
“Home sweet home,” I mutter, reaching down to pat Southpaw on the head. He head-butts my thigh in response. Sliding the key from my pocket, I dip it into the metal reader and push the door open. “I know. You love it. They don’t mind you tracking in—”
Tits.
There are tits in my room.
Really fucking nice ones.
I’m so distracted by their unexpected appearance—any red-blooded man with working testicles would be—that I don’t take in their owner right away. And all the other equally amazing shit that’s going on. The sexy brunette has one foot propped on my bed, her hands paused on her calf where she’s been applying lotion, before I so rudely interrupted her by walking into my own room.
A gruff bark from Southpaw prompts me to double check the door. But I do it fast—we’re in the right place—because as I mentioned, there’s a really fucking nice pair of tits in my room. Sue me for wanting to memorize the shape and color of her tight, rosy nipples before she screams and covers herself.
Which she doesn’t exactly seem inclined to do.
“Can we help you?”
Up until now, a big waterfall of dark hair has been hiding the woman’s face from me. But at my greeting, she tosses that thick mane back…and reveals features that accomplish the impossible. It nudges her tits into second place for most incredible body part in the room.
Hearing male voices approach in the hallway, I kick the door shut, surprised by the fact that I already don’t want anyone else looking at her. “You going to tell me why you’re in my room, woman? Or just stand there looking hot?”
When her red-stained lips spread into a smile, I once again marvel over the fact that she’s got zero plans to cover herself. No complaints from this corner. I’m just acutely aware that she was waiting for me to react to her nudity so she could take my measure. Based on that smile and her squaring shoulders, that’s exactly what she’s done. I’ve logged nine thousand hours in the boardroom, so I know all about sizing up a potential ally or adversary. Reading people is my business. I’m usually the unreadable one—and I don’t like how easily she managed it. Leave it to a pair of knockout tits to throw a man off his game.
“You must be mistaken.” In the saddest event in my recent memory, she produces a bra and snaps it into place, before strutting slowly around the bed. Legs. For. Days. My groin tightens like a motherfucker, which is saying something considering I’ve had wood since walking through the door. She’s showcasing those thighs with a black strip of material some might call shorts, but they’re more like underwear. Or two fabric samples stapled together. As if I’m not having a hard enough time keeping my eyes off that sweet little V between her legs, she slides a card key from the front of her shorts and waves it at me. “This is my room.”
“Then they double-booked it.” My tone is challenging. She thinks she’s got the upper hand? Let’s see if she can keep it. “I’ve been sleeping in that bed for three days.”
Her throaty hum turns up the ache in my dick to full volume. “Comfortably, I hope.” Leisurely, she cocks a hip and scans the room with pursed lips. “Where’s all your stuff? If I’d walked in and seen your jeans on the floor, this peep show could have been avoided.”
I shake my head hard. “Now that would have been a shame.”
Color fills her cheeks, which seems to…annoy her? “Maybe your credit card got declined and this was their way of breaking up with you.”
I can’t quite keep the amusement from my voice. “That’s definitely not it.”
Another sexy purr. “Well, let’s solve the riddle, shall we?” She tosses me a wink on her way to the bedside table, where she picks up the phone and hits a button. Waits a few beats. “Hello, this is Teresa Smith.” Smith, my ass. “I just checked into room one-oh-seven, but the room’s rightful owner just showed. I feel a little bit like Goldilocks. Was it double-booked, by any chance?”
Southpaw drops down on the ground at my feet, so I crouch down to rub his belly. Not to get an even better view of Teresa Smith’s tush, which of course is just as mesmerizing as the rest of her. High, firm and looking to get slapped.
My life is lived within the walls of my offices, so most of the women I come into contact with are my employees. I’m only interested in their ability to bring me a winning play. On the rare occasions I get out and have the opportunity to meet women who aren’t on my payroll, none of them make my pulse trip over itself like this one. I’m kind of stunned by the force of my attraction. It’s potent and she calls to it more with every second that ticks by.
“Ahh,” Teresa says, nodding over her shoulder at me. “I see. No, that’s fine. Thank you for your help.” After dropping the phone into the cradle, she starts gathering things off the bedside table I didn’t notice on the way in. A cell phone, a pair of earrings, some loose change. “They gave me the wrong room. I’m next door.”
Giving Southpaw a final pat on the stomach, I rise. “You’re going to put a shirt on before you head into the hallway.”
“Was that a question or—”
I shake my head.
Temper flashes in her eyes, but it doesn’t reach her tongue. “Sure.” Teresa saunters closer, all graceful-hipped and sultry-eyed. “You want to help me out with that shirt idea?” She bends down to scrub a hand over Southpaw’s head and the dog pants with rapture. If she notices the lump on his front, right paw, she gives no indication. Laughing softly, she steps over him carefully, bringing us inches apart. With a low sound of interest, she lays her hands on my pecs, rubbing them in a slow circle, finding my top button with her fingers. Unhooking it. “I’d hate to go digging through my luggage when you’ve got a perfectly nice shirt right here.”
“Only thing is, I’m wearing it,” I rasp. Fuck. Up close, she’s nothing less than extraordinary. She barely reaches my shoulders, but the little woman packs a punch. Her eyes are gray-green. Is that even a color? Her skin is just a hint sunburned, but the red sits on top of a golden glow, making her look rosy. Ripe. Everywhere. My cock is all but growling for freedom behind my zipper, wanting contact with that skin. Wanting to conquer it.
She flicks open the second button. “Can’t I wrap myself in it for a while?”
I catch her wrist before she can undo the third. Southpaw yelps inside his throat, but I shh him. “Who are you?”
There’s a line between her brows, those gray-greens racing all over my face. I’ll be damned if there isn’t buzzing static rippling back and forth between us, taking us both for a ride. “Teresa Smith,” she murmurs. “At your service.”
Just like before, I’d love to call bullshit on her last name. One thing at a time, though. “A strange man seeing you mostly naked doesn’t bother you, Teresa?”
Me saying her name delivers some kind of jolt. I feel it travel through her arm and slide up into my shoulder. Around to the back of my neck. And I can tell the precise moment she decides to tell the truth, instead of going with some patented bullshit I’d see from a mile away. “Acting like something doesn’t bother you is easier than admitting it does, right?”
There’s a sharp pressure in my chest. What the hell is going on here? “Yeah.” Reluctantly, I let go of her wrist, but only after I apply some pressure to her veins and watch her lids slide down. “Yeah. A hell of a lot easier.”
Keeping her in front of me with a look, I open the rest of my shirt, drape it over her shoulders, then re-do the buttons. All the while, she watches me like I’m the mystery in the room. I should be smug, shouldn’t I? Girl shows up topless and does her damnedest to turn me into a sputtering jackass. She didn’t quite succeed, even though having her look me over, neck to belt buckle, is giving my dick the consistency of iron. So how come all I want to do is tug her close and run my thumb along her bottom lip? To ask her what else bothers her that she doesn’t find easy to admit.
Jesus. If someone told me this morning a woman existed who could make me feel protective, jealous, horny, challenged and curious in the space of five minutes, I would have laughed until my fucking face turned blue.
“How about you return that shirt later when we have dinner?”
“I have plans.”
My hands do their own thing, curling in the shirt and dragging her closer. “Break them,” I breathe against her mouth. “I want to…talk to you.”
Her laughter puffs out. “Yeah, I can feel how badly you need to talk.”
“Come on now. You’ve been strutting around naked looking hotter than fuck. You’d be offended right now if my dick wasn’t hard.”
Humor twinkles in her eyes. “Good point.”
“Dinner, woman.”
Turning her head, she presses those soft lips against my ear. Breathes in and out. “I’ll think about it.”
Before I can formulate a response, she sidesteps me, taking the handle of a rolling suitcase, which has the strap of a laptop case wrapped around it. Without missing a beat, she glides toward the door. I should let her go, right? She’s in the room beside mine. And I’ve just made her acquaintance, but I already know she’s a woman who makes up her damn mind only when good and ready.
I can’t simply close the door and let her simmer for a few hours, though, because those male voices I heard earlier? Their owners are posted up right outside my door, passing a joint back and forth. Maybe it’s due to the marijuana or they’re just plain stupid, but they don’t even see me. Or they can’t manage to take their stunned eyes off Teresa’s bare legs long enough to acknowledge my presence.
“Damn,” says Moron Number One. “Hey there, pretty thing.”
And never count out Moron Number Two from chiming in. Moron number twos can never help it. “I’d ask to get inside your pants, but you’re not wearing any.”
A paint splatter of black obscures my vision, heat sinking into my veins. Especially when Teresa takes a backward step, her eyes searching for me over her shoulder. Behind me, Southpaw starts to growl, but I’m already on the same page. It has been a while since this man, the one I used to be, was invited to come out and play, but it’s like riding a bike. The immediate transformation supports the theory that I’ve been pretending to be someone else for too damn long. Brushing past Teresa in the doorframe, muscle memory and disgust bring my right fist down in the center of Moron Number One’s face. He hits the floor and stays down, so maybe he’s not as stupid as I originally thought.
Moron Number Two, however, is just as moronic as his first impression gave. He telegraphs his punch in stoner slow motion—it takes so long I could make a fucking sandwich—so I sidestep and let him stumble against the far wall, before spinning him around and pinning my forearm against his jugular. “A woman walks out of my room, wearing my shirt, you don’t speak to her. You don’t even look at her. You got that?” He lets out a strangled yeah, man. “Matter of fact, you’re not getting a second chance. Pick up your asshole friend and get the hell out. I don’t want to see you back here again.”
When I let Moron Number Two go and he scrambles to collect his buddy, I glance over at Teresa and I’m surprised to find Southpaw guarding her, lips peeled back to show off his teeth. Has he ever done that for anyone but me? Granted, I’m a complete loner so he’s only got me most of the time, but still. It makes me study her harder. Makes my gut kick.
She looks back at me with a sardonic tilt to her lips. “All right, all right. I’ll go to dinner with you.” After giving Southpaw a scratch behind the ear, she saunters past me toward her room. “You can stop showing off now.”
By the time her door clicks shut, I’m laughing.