The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,202

chance in hell. They’re fucking morons if they think I’ll ever want to commercialize the worst fucking week of my entire fucking life so they can sell magazines.”

“That’s what I figured,” she says. “I’ll call to confirm that you will not be doing an interview.”

My jaw clenches as I make a pot of coffee. “Want some?”

“No, thank you,” she says. “Also, ESPN is in the planning stages of a documentary on Bryce ... they asked if you wanted to be a part of it. The Spartans are going to be featured. They’ll be filming next month.”

“Hell. Fucking. No.”

“I’ll let them know.” Allison brushes her wispy blonde hair from her face, pushes her thick glasses up her nose, and repositions her bulky messenger bag over her child-sized body. “I’m going to head back to my office, if that’s okay with you.”

I nod, pouring black coffee into a mug the color of my soul.

The latch of the door follows next as Allison shuffles toward the hallway, but it’s the sound of women’s voices that captures my attention. Turning, I lift my coffee to my mouth, take a sip, and nearly spit it out when I see the girl from last night standing in my doorway.

“Looking for this?” She lifts my charger in her hand. “Sorry. I’m not normally in the habit of stealing things that don’t belong to me.”

I fight a smirk, placing my coffee aside. “Habit or not, you deserve to be punished, don’t you think? Stealing is a crime.”

“And so is your lame attempt to pick me up.”

“Who said I was trying to pick you up?”

She rolls her eyes, showing herself into my place and depositing the stolen goods on the counter. “Anyway, here you are.”

“You came all the way here just to give me this?”

She glances around, shrugs, then secures her gaze on mine. “Yeah. So?”

“I sent my assistant out to buy a new one this morning,” I say.

She laughs. “Silly me. Of course you have an assistant.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Kind of.” She bites her lip, and I want to pull it between my teeth. “Yeah.”

“Shut the door, Ayla,” I demand.

“What?” Her left brow lifts.

“Shut. The. Door.”

“Why?”

“So I can punish you for your crimes.”

“Are we seriously back to that?” She rolls her beautiful hazel eyes.

“Fine. I’ll do it.” I slam my mug on the counter, nearly shattering it, and head for the door. “Was that so hard?”

“Not a morning person?” she asks, eyeing me up, down, and sideways.

“I am a morning person,” I correct her. “I just don’t appreciate women who steal from me then find it appropriate to insult and mock me in my own apartment.”

“Sensitive much?” Her lashes flutter. It isn’t quite an eye roll, but it’s almost the same.

“Me? Sensitive?” I scoff. “You’re the one who got her panties in a bunch last night because some drunk guy was hitting on you in a bar.”

“Some drunk guy wasn’t hitting me,” she says, eyes glinting. “Some drunk guy flat out said, ‘I’m taking you home tonight’ and expected me to lift up my skirt and tell him where to stick it.”

“Classy.”

Her arms fold across her chest. “Are we fighting or flirting? Because I can’t tell, and I really need to know because it determines how easy I’m going to go on you.”

I hardly know this woman, but I fucking love her audaciousness.

“We’re not fighting,” I say, eyes locked on my target as I make my way toward her. “But please, don’t go easy on me. Believe me, I can take it.”

I still want to fuck her. I want to fuck her in a way I’ve never fucked anyone before. Detached. Unfeeling. Animal.

Screw roses and dinner dates.

Screw bended-knee proposals and Tiffany diamond rings.

Never again.

I want her body and only her body. And that mouth. God, I want that mouth.

“Good.” She opens her bee-stung lips to speak again, but I hold up a finger to silence her.

“Ayla, stop talking,” I command.

She lifts a single brow again, clearly not appreciating my directives today. There’s a hint of shock broadcasting across her face, and I imagine she wasn’t expecting that pathetic drunk from the bar last night to be anything like this.

“Anyone ever tell you how busy that little mouth of yours is?” I ask, lifting my hands to the sides of her neck. My fingers bury in her thick dark hair, and my thumbs graze the sides of her cashmere-soft face.

Ayla’s tongue glides along her lips, and I watch the outside of her throat constrict as she swallows.

“My mind never