Eight Weeks Later

“I’m searching for treasure, baby. Can I look around your chest for it?”

My eyes rolled . . . again.

“I need more booze for this,” I muttered, bringing my glass of rum and Diet Coke to my lips and taking a sip.

Gross. And I didn’t just mean the bad pickup line. My drink tasted horrible. It was probably the absence of the calorie-laden Coke. Sugar helped the alcohol go down easier. But my pants were a little tight and that meant that I needed to cut back on life’s extras until my skinny jeans stopped giving me a muffin top.

With a sigh, I took another sip and almost gagged.

Apparently, my taste buds weren’t feeling the combination.

Whatever. I was adult enough to not force myself to choke down something that tasted horrible. I plunked the glass on the bar top and pushed it away, pulling my phone out of my purse with my other hand.

“We should go,” Seraphina said. “I don’t know why we even bothered.”

“It was because we got through lunch the other day without interruption,” I said, lips curving at her pained expression. “Of course, we were probably naïve not to realize it was because the place was packed with women.”

The Tea House was one of our favorite places and not just because they served tea and crumpets—actual crumpets!—but because it was small and cozy and made us feel as though we’d stumbled into a historical novel.

The clientele was also not particularly masculine.

“It’s lunchtime now,” she whispered. “Don’t these jerks have to work?”

“Apparently not,” I whispered back as another came up to the bar and leaned close to my friend.

Who leaned away so quickly that she nearly knocked me off my stool.

“You like onions, huh?” Seraphina asked, and I wrinkled my nose.

“Who doesn’t?” the man replied back, as much oil coating his words as coated his head. “But what I’m really liking is that shirt.”

His eyes drifted down and stuck and I had the overwhelming urge to gag. Not just from his tone and his near orgasm over a flipping T-shirt. But because the rancid onion smell had hit my nostrils.

I stood, clamping a hand over my mouth. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“As soon as you get back, let’s go.” She glanced at the bartender who all but sprinted over. “I’ll settle our tab.”

I nodded, leaving my palm where it was, and rushed to the hallway leading to the toilets.

My stomach roiled and I wondered if I was getting sick. The last time I felt like this—weak, nauseous, sweaty—I’d had the flu. Except then—

“Oof!” My hand compressed painfully against my jaw as I collided with a wall.

Or rather, what felt like a wall.

Instead, it was male and very hard and . . . my gut contracted—

Extremely Thor-like.

What. The. Fuck.

My insides heaved and I shoved at Jordan’s hands, which had come up to steady me.

“Easy now,” he said, and his voice slid over me in the same way as that night eight weeks before.

Jesus Christ, I thought as I shivered in anticipation. What was wrong with me?

“Abigail?”

I dropped my hand from my mouth, stomach abruptly settling as I glared at him. “Is that a question?” I asked caustically and yanked myself out of his grip. “Or do you struggle to remember the names of all the girls you screw and leave wanting?”

“I—”

I leaned in and hissed, “I had to get myself off after you used me like a sex toy to get your jollies and then strolled out the door.”

“Jollies?” His lips quirked, and I saw red.

“Yes, jollies.” My hands found my hips and though I was slightly horrified by what I was saying, I pressed on. He’d had sex with me and left without a goodbye. “You left me naked on my coffee table.”

I hadn’t heard from him for eight weeks and he was here in the bar saying my name like a question?

Yeah, no.

He knew where I lived, for fuck’s sake. Maybe a little pop by with a reciprocal orgasm could have been provided?

Just a thought.

“You ruined what I’d hoped was going to be the best sex of my life and . . . and you broke my favorite coffee mug.”

He crossed his arms when I paused, chest heaving. “You done?”

I blew out a sigh and started to push past him. “Yeah. I’m beyond done.”

Jordan waited until my back was to him before he bent and whispered in my ear, “I didn’t want to leave.”

“Could have fooled me.” I wrinkled my nose when a scent hit me and it wasn’t pleasant. Almost sour, it sent my stomach twisting again.

“I had a very important work call I needed to take.”

“Now that,” I said, “I read loud and clear.”

“Abby.” He took my arm, spun me to face him.

I would have been irritated by the manhandling if the smell hadn’t been so horrible and all-encompassing.

What was that?

My brain was processing it as rotting garbage, spoiled milk, and onion breath all wrapped up in one disgusting package.

I gagged, eyes searching the hall for the source of the scent.

I couldn’t find anything.

Except for Jordan.

“It’s you.”

My stomach heaved and I shoved away from him, running for the women’s bathroom.

“What’s me? Abby?” He grabbed my arm again, and I jerked free, pushing into the single stall. I didn’t have time to worry about the door closing, let alone locking, barely making it to the toilet as I lost my breakfast.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, my throat burned, and the nausea didn’t abate as my body pitched a proverbial fit for several long minutes.

Finally, when it seemed like I was done, I leaned back on my heels, tilted my head toward the ceiling, and reached blindly for the handle to flush the toilet.

Warm fingers beat me, sending the mess down the drain. My eyes flashed open and, of course, Jordan was there. Unlike me, he’d crouched down, sparing his impeccable suit from the dirty bar tile.

My jeans were probably ruined.

“Here,” he said and handed me a damp paper towel.

I took it, turning my head away as I wiped my eyes then the corners of my lips. I pushed to my feet, needing to rinse my mouth out in the sink.

“You okay?”

I spit and took another mouthful from the faucet to swish around. No, I definitely wasn’t okay. I’d just puked in front of the hottest man I’d ever seen, the same one who’d seen me naked, who’d been having sex with me, and still decided that his work call was more important than me finishing.

“I’m fine.”

Turning, I started for the door, only to have Jordan stop me again.

“I’m sorry about that night.”

I snorted. “Me too.”

“I didn’t want to leave.”

With a shrug, I shook his hand loose and headed for the door. “Go away, Jordan.”

“I had to go.”

“Reading that loud and clear.” I yanked the handle and entered the hall.

Jordan stepped in front of me and bent down so that his face was near mine again.

That bitter smell curled around my nostrils again, seeping in and making my gut roil.

“Back up,” I snapped. “You smell horrible.”

His mouth dropped open. “I what?”

“You. Smell. Horrible.”

He lifted one lapel of his suit jacket, tilting his head down and sniffing. “I smell fine.”

I clapped a hand to my nose and took a step back, my words slightly nasally when I said, “If you say so.”

He inhaled on the other side. “Nothing. Just my deodorant.” He looked up at me. “I wanted to apologize for that night. I was off my game and in the middle of a huge merger. I had no business going home with anyone at that time.” His eyes locked with mine. “It wasn’t my intention to leave you . . .”

“Wanting?”

A flash of something crossed his expression. Heat? Frustration? Regret?

Since I’d been intimately familiar with those emotions over the last few months, I smirked. Then I turned and walked away.

My exit was almost good enough to make me forget that I’d tossed my cookies in front of him.

Almost.

Because Jordan was still the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen.