ANDRE

Thirteen Days Left …

If there’s one thing that I hate in life, it’s lifting weights—even if I’m doing so in my personal gym in my own house.

Give me a running track any day of the week. Hell, drop me in the godforsaken Berkshires out in western Massachusetts, and I’ll be happier than I am while pumping iron.

It’s the repetitive motion that kills me. The repetitive breathing techniques and the repetitive number of reps. It’s the fact that I’m stuck in one singular spot, driving myself up a wall since my thoughts can never be silenced.

And right now? Yeah, my thoughts aren’t so sweet.

They aren’t so holy.

Having Zoe Mackenzie back in my life is certifiably making me insane.

The heavy iron dips to the right as my thoughts simultaneously go off-kilter, and I’m forced to realign my balance or end up with another broken nose. Not that it would do all that much damage, since the damn thing has been pummeled by gloved fists and Plexiglas boards for the last nine years of my life.

Shoulder blades clenching against the cushioned bench, my muscles tighten into balled coils as I inhale and allow the bar to skim my chest.

Stop thinking about Zoe.

Exhale.

Stop thinking about her naked and riding you.

Inhale.

Stop thinking about her naked and not riding you.

Exhale.

My steadied breathing breaks its rhythm, and I shove the iron up and onto its slot. Sweat gathers on my skin, like droplets of verified success for a job well done. Ironic, because for the last year of my life, nothing has gone as planned.

And, from the looks of things, shit isn’t going to turn around anytime soon.

I ignore the familiar pain that settles in my chest with a brisk rub of my palm. Nothing I’m not used to, but since the pain is emotional and not physical, it’s not like a couple trips to physical therapy can axe the feeling and put my world back to rights.

Honestly, I don’t even think I know what “right” feels like any longer.

Then again, “right” was sticking up for Zoe the other day in front of Walter Collins. “Right” was touching her hand and hearing her sigh of relief. “Right” was having her back, and being the support she needs.

As a friend.

Whatever recent thoughts I’ve been having of us together—crazy, insane thoughts—need to be cut loose. I was right to call the “no sex” rule between us at the start of the month, but I should have added another—no wondering what it might be like to be with Zoe Mackenzie. Full-time. Unprofessionally.

Coworkers. Friends, at the most. That’s all.

Throwing my legs over the side of the bench, I straighten into a seated position.

I need protein, a shower, and a beer—not necessarily in that order.

With slow, tempered movements, I come off the bench and stretch my beaten limbs. Pop! Pop! My shoulders creak, the tendons snapping back into position like an elastic band that’s seen better days.

Which is a fair assessment of my body’s status quo.

At thirty, I feel more like I’m sixty on any given day. Snagging my discarded T-shirt from the floor, I shrug it on over my head and head down the hallway of my two-story house. I don’t own the place, preferring instead to rent it out. When my career has been as unstable as it has been for the last two years, there’s no reason to shore up with a mortgage.

My feet pad down the carpeted steps, the echoing pop! pops! alerting me to the fact that, like my shoulders, my knees are hating life too right about now.

One more season.

After that, I’ll take my ass down to the Caribbean and set up shop on a white-beached island, drinking Jose Cuervo until I can obliterate my thoughts for good.

I’m busy picturing my life in Turks and Caicos when my doorbell rings. Feet slowing to a stop, I turn and head for the door instead. I had no plans for company—not that I usually do. The night at The Box with Zoe was an anomaly.

My teammates tend to leave me be, unless I voluntarily place myself in their path. Once a week, I strap on my big boy pants and head down to The Box. It’s my three hours of bonding time, usually spent drinking one too many whiskeys and cokes, and pretending that I’m fine.

That everything is fine.

But none of the guys ever come to my house. To be honest, I’m not even sure they know where I live—unless they’ve turned Chatty Kathy with one of the white shirts and asked for my personal records.

My hand clasps the doorknob, and with a single tug, I blink against the startling sunlight.

Lust hits me straight in the gut.

Goddammit.

My eyes focus on Zoe’s face, and it takes everything in me to keep my expression neutral. Blank. Don’t let her see how much you want her here. If I scare her a little bit, that’s probably for the best. In a voice more husky than I intended, I say, “What are you doing here?”

Her heart-shaped face tips up in defiance. It’s so like her, to go down arms swinging until she’s already six feet under. “Can’t I come to say hello?” she says, sounding sweet and demure and everything else that I know she isn’t.

Zoe is as tough as I am, and just as sharp-tongued. Sure, she might play the innocent girl next door, but I’ve seen her in action. I’ve seen her work a crowd to get what she wants—I’ve experienced her working me. And while my cock might like to see her working me for another round, I know that sex isn’t the reason why she’s here.

Not even after the way I stood up for her to her boss. The way he’d accused her of failing at her job had lit a fire inside of me. Zoe works harder than anyone I know—hell, since she’s taken me on as a client, she hasn’t stopped working.

My hand lands on the doorframe, blocking her entry into my house. “You don’t say hello, Zoe,” I say, in reference to her greeting. “The last time you popped up unannounced we were in Detroit.”

Her long black hair, which is tied back in one of those female hair clips, slips over her shoulder when she tilts her head. “I have some news.”

“Yeah?” I murmur, my fingers digging into the wooden framework. “Have you decided that I’m a lost cause? I hear another sponsor pulled out.”

It sucks, especially since Fame’s video has hit the national media circuit. While everyone fans over and points out my crotch in the speedo, there are less people commenting on the actual interview. On my attempt to be more personable, to open up for once. If Zoe sees the disappointment in my expression, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, her lips tip up in a smile that I don’t quite trust. “You did lose another one this morning, but I have a plan.”

Zoe and “plans” go about as well together as kindling and fire. Straight up, her plans are more likely to combust than to put out the already blazing flames.

I comb my fingers through my hair, and I tug at the strands in frustration. “Not another feature piece with Fame, right? My masculinity can take only so much blush, foundation, and concealer.”

“Don’t forget the speedo.”

Laughter climbs my throat. “Pretty sure there’s a certain part of me that will never forget that horror.”

Her cheeks bloom with a pretty blush, and I’m not surprised at all when she changes the topic slightly. “I’m surprised you even know what concealer is.”

I don’t, not really, but I know enough that it’s supposed to hide the dark circles under your eyes. I figure I’m a lost cause on that front, but only because sleep eludes me on a near-nightly basis.

“Is this where I pretend I have no idea what you’re talking about to preserve my masculinity?” I say, leaning my shoulder against the frame to stare down at her. “I’d offer to prove it, but I’m not up for rejection today.”

Her cheeks turn even more pink, and satisfaction flares through me. It never fails—teasing Zoe is the highlight of my day.

Shifting side to side on her mile-high stilettos, she purses her lips. “Can we be professional for a moment?”

I lift a brow, knowing it’ll drive her crazy. “I’m professional, Zoe.”

“When it suits you.”

“Is there any other way?”

“You could, you know, try being pleasant for once.”

I can’t help it—she’s so buttoned up, so Miss High-and-Mighty, despite the fact that her childhood was anything but. And, Jesus, but her snippy attitude turns me on as much now as it did when we first met two years ago.

Maybe that’s the only reason that I shift my weight and let my hands rest on the top of the doorframe. I see her hollowed out breath the moment that I feel my T-shirt rise above the waistband of my shorts. “How am I not being polite? I didn’t slam the door in your face. We’re having a perfectly nice conversation. Am I supposed to start whipping puppies out of thin air next, or what?”

She steps near, edging closer, until she’s right in front of me. And then, because Zoe Mackenzie is nothing if not an unbreakable hard-ass, her fingers find the hem of my shirt and tug down. “You’re trying to distract me, Andre. I know your game. But it’s not going to work. Let me in the house.”

The feminine scent of citrus accosts my nose, and it’s so strong and so fresh, that I’m tempted to throw caution to the wind and wrap my arms around her in a hug. My fingers dig into the frame, and I fix my gaze on her face. “You gonna say the magic word?”

“Abracadabra,” she says dryly, her fingers still tangled in the cotton of my shirt. “Open sesame.”

I let go of the frame with one hand, then close my fingers over hers. “Those weren’t the magical words I was talking about.”

“Please.”

“As much as I like to hear you say that word, Zoe, that’s not it either.” She jolts when I use my hold on her to tug her close, closer than she expected, until her willowy curves press against my chest. The hitch of her breath rings like victory in my ears. “How ’bout we try this one more time, eh? Repeat after me.”

“I’m not repeating anything,” she mutters, the words muffled thanks to the fact that she’s speaking into my clavicle.

“Sure you will.” My fingers release hers. “Now, repeat after me—Andre, you are a god among men.”

Her laugh is just as contagious as I remember it. “There’s no way I’m saying that.”

“Don’t make me encourage you. I just worked out and I’m sweaty.”

“Now there’s a threat,” she says, still laughing. Her dark eyes fix on my chest, and the close scrutiny makes me uncomfortable. I’m good with everything as long as it remains surface-level. No drudging up the past. No deep talks about the future.

But then Zoe leans in close, and her free hand lands on my chest, just over my heart. Maybe it’s accidental, but her nail scrapes across my pectoral muscle, and desire shoots straight to my groin. Her lips find my right ear, and she whispers, “You’re right, Andre. You are such a god among men. Which is why I need you to do exactly as I say if you don’t want to end up a mere mortal like the rest of us.”

Then, she firmly plants her hand on my chest and pushes her way into my house.