Trina’s thoughts whirred and stalled and kicked up again, but none of it helped her wrap her head around what just happened with Spencer. Showing up out of the blue, leaving just as quickly, and at least a little flirting in-between.

She tucked the questions aside, and unmuted her phone. “Merry Christmas,” she said to Tristan.

While she talked to him, and then called her mom and dad, she wrapped things up at work and tidied the kitchen. She’d never look at Styrofoam boxes the same way again.

Did she imagine the friction and tension flowing between her and Spencer? She was certain it lingered in the air and tasted like fine bourbon—a smooth burn, followed by heady abandon.

That was a problem. She couldn’t think straight with him around.

An insane thought popped into her head, and she couldn’t shake it. He made it sound like finding the right guy was doable. If she was going about it the wrong way, and wanted to meet a guy like him...

No. That was stupid. She wasn’t going to ask him something like, teach me how to meet guys like you, so I can finally get laid.

It was a good thing she didn’t have a reason to see Spencer again. With him gone, she could admit another encounter with him, alone in an apartment, confessions about sex or lack thereof on table, seemed like a bad idea.

Asking for his help wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? As they saying went, the worst he could do was say no. Which would leave her humiliated, but she never had to see him again. Until the next time she had to do onsite support for his company.

Indecision warred inside, temptation clashing harder with logic than it should.

Damn her brain.

*

SPENCER DIDN’T REMEMBER the last time driving home was so uncomfortable. All thanks to his cock straining against his jeans.

He walked in his house, trying to shake the night from his head. It was such a simple conversation, and then he had to bring sex into things. He’d been having a hard time getting Trina out of his head as it was... Fantasizing about the things they could get up to... Imagining stripping her down and running his mouth along her body...

It was such a bad place for his mind to travel. There was nothing but complication in the situation.

That didn’t stop him from thinking about the variety of ways he’d like to make her moan and gasp and scream. He headed for his room, stripped off his clothes, and lay on top of the comforter.

The images that had teased him all night rushed back in a series of fractured stills. Fantasy mingled with reality. Knowing how she sounded, how she smelled, made everything more vivid.

Now he could do something about it. He fisted his shaft and stopped fighting the thoughts. He stroked as he imagined sliding inside Trina. How wet and slick she was. How good she’d feel, her pussy gripping him tight.

And her voice... He bet she slid from shy to playful to enthusiastic when she was turned on.

He worked himself faster, tightening his grip on his dick as he pictured slamming inside her. Or feeling those full lips wrap around him. Burying his face between her legs and licking her juices. Maybe bending her over the desk in the server room.

Spencer came hard, shuddering and jerking until he was spent, and his hand and stomach were a sticky mess.

He collapsed back against the mattress, exhaustion sinking in and bringing clarity with it. For the first time in several hours, he could think.

Something about this girl tied his brain in knots and stole his reason. That was dangerous on so many levels, several of which he was sure he had yet to consider. There was only one solution to that, and it was keeping his distance.

Simple enough. He did that for fourteen years without trying.

But first, he needed to clean up and get some sleep.

His phone chimed from its spot on the nightstand, and he rolled his head to the side, to stare at the device.

It chirped again, then twice more within a few seconds.

He frowned and reached for it with his clean hand. He was going to be pissed if something else failed at work.

It’s Trina. I swiped your number from the customer database. Don’t be mad.

I’ve been thinking. Too much. And I bet you’re already asleep. By the time you wake up, I’m going to regret sending these.

Except I don’t regret it. Childish and silly, right?

Anyway. My point. Who knew nervous travels over text?

As he read, another message came in, bumping up from the bottom. Would you be interested in continuing our conversation? Maybe—you know—giving me some pointers on what we talked about?

Probably not. Why would you waste time, teaching me how to catch a guy’s eye, when you probably have your pick of women? God. There’s the regret. Can I delete these?

Should I?

The smart move would be to tell her, It was fun, but you’ll find a nice guy on your own. Include a little reassurance. Make sure she knew it wasn’t about her.

His thumb froze over the screen, and he stared at her messages.

One more chimed on the screen. I’m not taking it back. If you read these when you wake up, delete them or reply. At least I know I asked.

Indecision tumbled inside, and he dropped the phone next to him on the blanket.

There was the answer he should send, and the answer he wanted to send, and they were so far from each other on the spectrum, they weren’t in the same universe.

He grabbed his phone and typed. What are you doing New Year’s Eve?

If she only wanted a few pointers, he could do that. He was looking out for a friend’s sister. Making sure she didn’t end up with some creep. Nothing more. If he put effort into it, not ghosting her, but gently nudging her toward someone else—from a distance—they’d both be better off.

Fuck, this was a bad idea. And one he couldn’t make himself backpedal on.

****

SPENCER CRACKED HIS eyes open and rolled his head to the side, to look at the clock by his bed. It was eleven. By the way the sun struck his face through slats in the blinds, he assumed in the morning.

A dull throb pounded in his temples. Last night and this morning rushed back, and the ache increased. But a whisper of euphoria rode on top of it, like being hungover and still drunk at the same time.

He grabbed his phone and scrolled through the conversation with Trina again. He hadn’t imagined it. They were going out New Year’s Eve, and he was going to show her how to pick up guys.

Keep her safe. Make sure she doesn’t end up in a bad situation.

Even after a few hours of sleep, he didn’t believe himself. But he had a week for the necessity of keeping his hands to himself to sink in.

He spent the rest of the day catching up on work, while classic Christmas movies played in the background. The problem with being up all night was that it threw off his sleep schedule.

The fact that he didn’t pass out until almost two in the morning had nothing to do with how hard he was working to keep his mind off Trina. That would make him obsessive, and he wasn’t.

He was considering investing in a coffee franchise when he woke up the next morning and realized he was out of the life-giving beans. Or maybe hiring a few developers to invent him an app that was connected to an alarm clock that made sure the user didn’t hit snooze, and delivered fresh coffee at their door five minutes later.

That sounded like a lot of work, but it could be entertaining to market.

He had to be at the office early, anyway. He’d do coffee like a normal person—prepared by a stranger and handed to him through a small window.

Spencer praised the traffic gods and the fact that a lot of people had the day off, for the lighter-than-normal commute. When he got to the office, he settled in to work. He was closing on a new building next week, and after that, they’d begin the lengthy task of moving an entire corporate office into a new working space.

The logistics were complicated, but he had a good staff to work on that. He made some suggestions on a proposal from Reservations, and moved on to the next task on his list.

He fired off a quick note to Trina’s boss, letting him know she was a big help with the emergency call Christmas Eve. Credit where credit was due, and not for any other reason.

His cellphone played the opening chimes of The Imperial March. He rolled his eyes, not in the mood to talk to his ex-wife. It was better to answer now, though, than let it fester. He turned the phone on speaker. “Yeah.”

“Hey, Spence. We missed you at Midnight Mass.” Mia’s voice was polite.

He snarled at the nickname. “Couldn’t make it. Had to work. I hope it was a blast.” He could be as pleasant as she was.

“Too bad.” She sighed. “Do you have a minute?”

They were skipping the rest of the formalities. Fantastic. “For you, anything.”

“You’re so sweet. So, Larry was looking over our prenup—”

“Who’s Larry?” What he should be asking was why she dragged out a document that already served its purpose. Spencer hated drawing one up during their engagement, but it turned out to be one of the best pieces of advice Mischa ever gave him.

“I’ll have to introduce you sometime. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months. He’s a lawyer. I think you’d like him.”

“Sounds like a fantastic guy. You were saying?”

“Actually Larry was. He says according to this, I own half of Ride & Surf.”

Spencer couldn’t help the barking laugh that flew out. “Bullshit.” According to that document, that was exactly what she didn’t own—a company he founded and built before he met her.

“He says it’s pretty cut and dried.” Her saccharine tone never shifted.

He hated doing this. He’d rather they either not speak at all. “Are you willing to file a suit, based on what he found?” 

“I’d rather it didn’t come to that.” She sounded apologetic. “I was hoping you’d see reason. We could have some paperwork drawn up, and I could let you get back to enjoying life with no family.”

He clenched his jaw, and fury spilled inside. “Considerate of you. If Larry thinks he has a case, I look forward to being served.” He disconnected before she could say anything else. It didn’t carry nearly the same satisfaction as slamming the phone back into a cradle.

He tried to tell himself nothing she was up to would hold up in court. For all he knew, Mia wanted to see how he’d react, and nothing more. She seemed to take perverse pleasure in occasionally reminding him his sister preferred her. This could simply be a new way to irritate him.

It didn’t matter how many ways he said it, he didn’t believe himself.