The next morning I roll out of bed, jam my slippers on, and shuffle down to the kitchen. Even though I’m barely conscious, I’m smirking. I haven’t seen Fancy since I caught him staring at me naked.

So I forgot to close my side of the bathroom door, so what? Arrest me for being too preoccupied with the rest of my life to remember to shut a freaking door.

How long he was standing there, I’ll never know. Although judging by the fire on his cheekbones that I noticed when I walked to the door and slammed it in his face, I suspect it was longer than was absolutely necessary.

Do I give a hoot that he saw me naked? No. In my line of work my body is an instrument. If I was at all self-conscious, I wouldn’t have a chance in hell of making it in this business. I’m just glad I remembered to shave, otherwise there would’ve been a lot to be embarrassed about. Single girl shaving habits, if you get my drift.

A distinct male voice drifts up the staircase.

“Cedric, listen to me closely, you need to chill out. I promise you I’ll get you everything you asked for…did I say everything? Yeah, I did…all you have to do is not fuck things up with any more negative press––”

Sounds like Fancy’s hit the ground running. In the kitchen I find him seated at the island, cell phone to his ear, looking perfect as always. Before him is a plate loaded with scrabbled eggs and some kind of brown toast. I would expect nothing less.

“Did you hear what I said?”

I did and this Cedric sounds like a serious pain in the ass. He turns and takes me in––very obviously, I might add.

You saw it all last night, dude.

“I gotta go, Ced. No more nightclub brawls, ya feel me? Okay, later.” Placing the phone down, he leans back in the stool and crosses his arms, his mouth pressed tight. I need about a gallon of caffeine before I can even begin to decipher that look.

“‘Sup,” I grumble. My sleep mask slips down and I push it higher up my forehead. No response from him. Maybe he’s not a morning person, either. Maybe Cedric took everything he had to give.

In the massive refrigerator I find all sorts of healthy food. I push that crap aside and locate my Monster drink and frozen waffles. After dropping two of those suckers in the toaster oven, I pop open my drug of choice. Still no word from the man wearing the subtle frown behind me. I can, however, feel his relentless stare singeing the fine hairs on the back of my neck. Turning, I lean back against the counter and meet his examining gaze squarely.

“What?”

“Are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about the fact that you’re a filthy peeping Tom?” I shrug, indicating my total lack of interest in the topic. “I don’t think there’s much to say. Except that I better not find any videos of my bald eagle on some obscure Ukrainian porn site, or we’re gonna have a problem.”

“I wasn’t…” His rebuttal fades into a tired sigh. “I specifically told you to close both doors.”

I go with this just for fun. “Whatever, Tommy McPervertpants.” He glowers and I hide my amusement by taking a big gulp of my Monster drink. The toaster signals that my waffles are ready.

“That’s your breakfast?”

He’s back to watching me intently. As soon as the caffeine hit my bloodstream, I figured out what that look on his face is. Equal parts displeasure and fascination. As if I’m some strange breed of extinct, scaly beast that’s lumbered into his cave and left a trail of slime in its wake. I take a big bite of the waffle and wave the sucker around.

“These aren’t even gluten free.”

“You shouldn’t eat that junk. I made scrambled eggs and millet bread toast. Help yourself.”

Millet. Bread. Toast. Lovely.

“Thanks, but I’ll stick with the junk.”

He frowns at this. Apparently my diet does not meet his Holy Fanciness’ standards. “Be at my office around noon and I’ll introduce you to David Pitt.”

“Is this really necessary? If you would just call Parker and get a statement from him––”

“David is one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the city,” he says, interrupting. “Let’s leave the lawyering to him. I won’t risk anything going sideways with this case.”

He won’t risk it. Mmmkay.

His cell phone rings and he glances at the screen. Lips thinning, he answers it. “Andi, I’ll be there in twenty…I don’t give a shit, tell Jerome I’ll call him when I get an offer in writing…yeah, you can quote me.” His gaze cuts to me, eyes running up and down my body, momentarily pausing on my oversized t-shirt. “I gotta go.”

After hanging up, he makes his way around the island to where I’m leaning next to the sink. Mr. Perfect rinses his dishes before placing them in the dishwasher. He’s standing awfully close. As a small woman, I place serious value on personal space and this man is all up in it. Like way up in it. He is definitely encroaching if I can feel the heat radiating from him on the side of my face, or the fine wool of his suit against the bare skin of my upper arm. And even though it’s slowly making me mental, I don’t budge.

“The new contractor should be here in an hour. I would appreciate it if you could let him in.”

The opium cloud also known as his scent wraps around me and my eyelids get a little droopy. And yet––I don’t budge.

“Sure,” I say, staring blindly ahead. Whatever game he’s playing isn’t going to work. He’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m going to be cowed by a pretty piece of man meat with a cute bubble butt. Also, I’ve decided to go on the counter attack. If he gets any closer, I’m going to accidentally step on his anklebone. I’m wearing my poop slippers, probably won’t do much damage, but it’s not like I can shiv the guy. That wouldn’t be right.

He looks down, his focus entirely on my nonexistent boobs. “Nice shirt.”

I’m wearing my second favorite gift from Cam. It’s another oversized t-shirt. This time, however, there’s a cartoon drawing of a voluptuous naked female body on the front and back––complete with red sequin nipples.

“I always wanted big hooters.”

He blinks. He blinks again. Cold and quiet, an iceberg stares back at me. This cohabitation thing is going to be really pleasant. He’s going to make three months feel like a Siberian winter. Grabbing a paper towel, he dries his hands, chucks the paper in the waste bin, and turns to leave.

“You’re fine the way you are,” I hear him say as he walks out of the kitchen.

Huh?

The front door shuts, leaving behind a wake of confusion.

* * *

After fussing with my black jersey wrap dress for far too long because, really, who cares what I look like––never mind that I spent a little longer blow drying my shoulder length straight hair when I never, ever blow it dry––I grab my coat and purse, ready to head out when the doorbell rings. I open the door to the vestibule and find the new contractor along with a crew of men standing on the front steps.

“Hello there, blondie,” he says in a gravelly voice while running his greasy eyes up and down my body. “You the assistant?”

“No. You the contractor?”

“The very one,” the portly misogynist retorts. “Bill Morrison.”

I quickly slip on my winter coat. And the answer is yes, I have a double standard when it comes to sexist name calling and leering. Women get a free pass. We have a long way to go to balance that scale, and God knows I’m going to do my best to contribute.

“You’re an hour and a half late.” His guys file past me and into the townhouse, carrying heavy construction equipment, tools. All the stuff necessary to fix this money pit.

“I’m here now and we’re wasting time talking about it.”

This guy’s attitude hits me in all the wrong places. He walks past me and into the living room. Against my better judgment, I follow.

“I have a meeting to get to, but we need to go over what the schedule is for the upstairs renovations.”

If I have to live in this hazard pit for the foreseeable future, I can at least make sure it isn’t detrimental to my health. I have a lot of energy, and I don’t like to see stuff undone that should be done. And if it helps Fancy in any way, if I can give him something in return for getting me out of my “situation”, why not.

I start ticking stuff off finger by finger. “The upstairs bathrooms should be the first item on your list. The water pressure sucks and the shower door is about to fall off the rusted hinges. Also can you please make sure Mr. Vaughn has a generator? They’re saying we could get some nasty weather by the end of the week.”

Looking around, he says, “We’ll get to it when we get to it.”

“No. No, that’s not the answer I was looking for. The upstairs bathrooms get done first.” Glancing at my cell, I realize I’m cutting it close. “The bathroom, Mr. Morrison. I’ve got to go.”

* * *

Twenty minutes and a serious hustle later, I arrive on time at the address Fancy gave me on Lexington and 52nd . The building is art deco, nice although not exceptional in any way, just your run of the mill city office building. The elevator doors open on the 30th floor, and I step into the reception area of Vaughn Sports Management.

Color me impressed. As I take in the shiny nickel letters spanning the maple covered wall, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever get to see my last name somewhere that does not include a bill, a pink slip, or more recently, jail house discharge papers. If I remember correctly, Camilla mentioned that Vaughn is around Cal’s age, which makes him either thirty-three or thirty-four, a mere three to four years older than me. And yet, look how much he’s accomplished. I, on the other hand…no need to follow that sentence to its logical end.

The young receptionist sitting beneath said letters greets me and takes my coat and gloves, after which, she asks me to take a seat while she lets Fancy know I’m here. It’s all very hush hush in the office. Beyond the reception area I can see people rushing back and forth, and wonder if he has a ‘no talking’ policy for his employees. From down the hall, a very tall woman approaches. How to explain...

She’s the embodiment of a 1950 bombshell. Jane Mansfield with natural red hair, fiery and bright and naturally curly even though she punishes it into a tight, low bun. Head to toe in black, all buttoned up, no hint of skin showing, big blue eyes hiding behind black framed glasses. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she wears her clothes as armor. Also, she’s wearing heels. Because five ten is insufficient. She feels the need to add a couple of inches to all that glory. Reaching me, she holds out her hand and greets me with a perfunctory smile.

“Miss Jones, nice to meet you. Andromeda Carrys, Mr. Vaughn’s assistant.”

Perfect. That’s just perfect.

I’m staring. I know I am, but I can’t make myself stop. There’s so much to take in. The hair. The skin. The Angelina Jolie lips. He must be in lust with his assistant. That’s why he avoids the pussy parade. He must be. What man wouldn’t be when he looks at this all day long. I’m practically in lust with her and I’m straight.

“Miss Jones?” Her voice is soft and feminine, and in direct contrast to how she dresses.

“Ah yes,” I say, shooting out of my seat. Restless, I smooth my dress for no reason whatsoever. The one that I now determine makes me look Amish. Then again, I could be in a crotchless latex jumpsuit and look Amish standing next to this woman.

Oozing sex appeal, Andromeda the bombshell sets off for Fancy’s office while I obediently follow in her shadow. Apparently walking is a sensual act. I never got this memo. I guess we’re doing this now––sexy walking. Must be the new thing.

She knocks twice and opens the door, motioning me inside, then closes it behind me.

“Sunava bitch is going down…romancing my client behind my back is an act of war,” Vaughn says into the cell phone. He looks up and our eyes lock. His eyebrows gently pull together. For a moment he looks pleased which sets me at ease. “I went to see Sean’s mother and made sure she understood that Kaplan doesn’t have her son’s best interest at hand…yeah, his mother loves me.” Until his eyes scan me from head to foot and his mouth tightens. And my ease quickly turns to discomfort. Fidgeting, I stand there longer than I should. “Yeah, listen I have a meeting. We’ll discuss this later…I’ve already put in calls to two of Kaplan’s clients offering them a better deal…I’d do it for free just to teach that fucker a lesson…okay…later, Barry.”

Placing the cell on his desk, he rocks in his chair and fixes his shirt cuffs. “You can come in. I won’t bite,” he casually offers.

“I do.”

The hell if I know where that came from. To cover up my extreme lack of control over the crap that comes out of my mouth, I do my best to look bored. He, on the other hand, looks like a guy caught surfing porn at work, wide-eyed and frozen. “I’m kidding. Get real, Vaughn. Not if we were the last two people on a deserted island and I was in dire need of a meal.”

That snaps him out of his frozen state, his lips gently turning up. “You wouldn’t eat me if the alternative was starving to death?”

Clearly it’s his turn to act like an ass. “I’d rather chew my arm off.”

His phone rings. He glances at the screen, and grimaces. Smoothing his tie, he clicks it off. “I’ve seen the way you eat, Jones, and I say you last one day before you start eating me.”

I can feel the heat blast up my neck. So I have an appetite, so what. This mouth needs fuel to operate. Meanwhile, his attempt to tamp down his amusement at my reaction is poor at best. His eyes betray him, turning into half moons even though his mouth stays firmly in a straight line.

“You’ve been watching me? What a creeper. The peeping Tom thing makes sense now.”

His reaction is swift. Gone is the amusement at my expense. Gone is the cocky half smile––sliding right off his face and onto mine. Pink blooms on his high cheekbones. He clears his throat and rocks his chair back.

“I…umm…” He scowls.

“Relax. I’m messing with you, counselor.” I walk over and take a seat directly in front of his desk. My eyes are immediately on the move, perusing the room, anything to avoid eye contact. The intensity of his stares have tripled overnight and it’s making me jumpy.

“So this is where you do your Jerry McGuire thing.” The office is spars, the colors muted, the furnishings simple. “Not what I expected.”

I can tell from the periphery of my vision he has yet to take his eyes off of me. “Jerry McGuire is an agent,” he says as he stretches his neck left and right. I’m also pretty sure he just puffed out his chest. What’s gotten into him?

“I’m a licensed agent and a business manager. Not only is my job more comprehensive, it’s also much more demanding.”

Commercial break for an exaggerated eye roll.

The desk phone flashes. He answers. “June, hold all my calls…yes, all of them…I don’t care who, all of them.” He hangs up. “What did you expect?” he asks, his voice softer this time.

“I don’t know…something a little fancier maybe.”

“I’m rarely here.” He leans back in his chair and laces his hands behind his head. His tailored white shirt clings to his chest. The one I know is all cut muscle under fine cotton. It demands attention and I hand mine over willingly. Until he coughs.

My eyes crawl back up to his face. “Too busy partying on yachts with superstars and strippers?” The glare I receive in response is positively nasty. “What? I watch Ballers.”

“That’s Hollywood, Jones. I live in the real world, where an important part of my job is teaching my young guys how to be responsible with their money.” He has yet to take his eyes off of me. “Can’t do that effectively if I blow mine on things like exorbitant rent.”

“Solid point,” I answer, even though I stopped listening at ‘blow’. What is he doing with his eyes? This is not a figment of my overactive imagination. He is definitely acting strange today. “Are you feeling okay?”

He looks momentarily confused. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

Cuz you’re acting like a nut job. “No reason. Where’s your buddy? Let’s get this party started.”

“Down the hall.” He dials the phone and says, “Ready whenever you are.”

A few minutes later a guy around Fancy’s age walks in holding a file. Equally fit, he’s a bit shorter than Fancy and a hundred times more jovial. The devilish smirk he wears seems to be permanent. We get up and he walks over, an extended hand leading.

“David Pitt, nice to meet you.” His grip is firm and dry. I like him instantly.

“Any relation?”

Pitt’s smirk widens into a mischievous grin. “Only if it’ll get me a date.”

“Cheeky. I like him.”

“Dave.” The warning comes sharp and fast. I look over and find Fancy Pants scowling, hands on his hips and the set of his shoulders rigid.

Turning back to Pitt, I say, “He’s no fun.”

Pitt looks over at his friend. “I like her.”

“You don’t have to like her, you have to get her out of these bullshit charges,” he grounds out. We all pause at the noticeable anger unpinning his voice. Realizing his error, Vaughn brushes his face with his palm. “You know what I mean.”

Pitt’s focus returns to me, his face tight in an effort to hamper his amusement. “I looked at the case file. It shouldn’t be too difficult. First and foremost time is our friend. We want cooler heads to prevail. And if we put enough time and distance between us and the event, we may have a shot at getting the charges dropped altogether.”

Hallefreakinluiah.

“I’m sure Ethan has instructed you not to contact Gregory in any way. That’s my job. Let me be the liaison.”

I nod in agreement. That will not be a struggle. Quite frankly, I don’t entirely trust myself. If I were to lay eyes on the p.o.s. ever again, I could very well find myself indicted of first degree murder. With cause, this time.

“Should I block him?”

“No. Leave it alone. We don’t want to inflame the situation. Don’t answer if he contacts you. The first hearing is scheduled for the beginning of February but I’m going to ask for a postponement. I don’t need to remind you not to leave the state, do I? Ethan would forfeit his bail money and you would be sent back to prison.”

My gaze immediately snaps to Vaughn, and finds him shaking his head. “Calvin’s money.”

“My grandmother is in assisted living in New Jersey. I need to see her.”

“Tri-state is fine,” Pitt tells me. “I’ll get a note to the judge if you provide an address.”

Fifteen minutes later, after we’ve hammered out schedules and agreed on dates for our next meetings, the three of us walk out of the Vaughn’s office and into the hallway––smack dab into drama.

Female voices arguing in the reception area cause the three of us to turn. A busty blonde holding two bags from BLT Steak is head wagging at Andromeda who’s bearing down at her with an expression that can only be described as sexy boredom.

A quick glance at Fancy’s face tells me this is another dedicated member of the pussy parade. Really? Does this guy’s dick have a vibrate button?

The expression he’s wearing is so tragic I almost feel bad for him…almost…maybe a little bit.

“Isn’t that––” Pitt says absently.

“The paralegal we fired.”

“The one that you––”

I don’t miss the slight widening of the eyes and the stiff shake of Vaughn’s head, all of it directed furtively at his business partner over my head.

Maybe not. And by the looks of it, he already has pube fleas.