Filthy Vows - Alessandra Torre Page 0,51

of Big Red with a smile. “You didn’t exactly do her any favors. Cleaning your teeth is like running a marathon with flip flops on. It’s possible but exhausting. I doubt she’ll miss having you as a client.”

“Considering you know next to nothing about dental hygiene or running, I’m going to ignore your insult and offer you a juicy piece of gossip in response.” Chelsea balled her gum wrapper into a tiny ball and turned to me, the tennis match ignored.

She could have told me that she was transitioning to a panther and it still wouldn’t touch the email that—three days later—was still burning a hole through my phone. The email that Easton and I had yet to discuss. The email I saw every time I closed my eyes.

They were just fantasies. We can forget they exist.

— Yeah we could. Or we could explore them further.

It’d been three days and I hadn’t had a single impromptu fantasy. Maybe I was cured. Maybe all my body needed was someone to call its bluff.

“You know my dad’s neighbor, the guy who leaves his curtains open?”

“Yep.” I watched Easton climb up the bleachers toward us, the sun reflecting off his crisp white golf shirt. With khakis, a Rolex, and a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-bans on, he looked every bit the image he wanted to project. Young, cocky, and successful. Would anyone know that two of the four credit cards in his wallet were maxed out?

That the Range Rover we pulled up in had a broken A/C?

That his squeaky-clean wife had tipped the scales in their perfect marriage with her confessions?

“He was arrested this weekend and you’ll never guess what for.” Chelsea tapped my leg with a nude fingernail, sanded to a point. “Shoplifting.”

That was surprising enough for me to pull my attention from Easton, who was almost at our row. “This is the guy in the big house?” On her father’s street, every home was enormous. But this guy—if I was thinking of the right guy—was still referred to as the ‘big house’. Covering four lots and squatting on an ocean-front piece of real estate that God himself coveted, his house was forty-thousand square feet of ridiculous.

“Yep. And from Kmart of all places.” She swatted at a fly, then perked up at the sight of a passing woman carrying a blue swab as big as her head. “Oooh, I didn’t know they have cotton candy.”

Easton arrived at the end of our row and moved sideways, easing past knees, apologizing and flashing that million-dollar smile the entire time. A possessive pit suddenly twisted in my stomach. There was no way Nicole Fagnani wouldn’t fall for him. Everyone fell for him. Hell, even Chelsea had had at least six smitten days before she’d seen another shaggy-headed athlete and waltzed away. I glanced back at the court, expecting to see Nicole watching him. Instead, the muscular blonde drilled the tennis ball over the net with a serve that almost cracked the air.

“He was buying microwaves and then returning them, but putting old microwaves in the box.” She snorted. “Can you believe that?”

“No, but I’m not sure that’s considered shoplifting.” I said absently, my eyes catching Easton’s as he made it to our seats.

Settling into his, he squeezed my knee. “I miss anything?”

“Yeah, the ball went back and forth over the net,” Chelsea remarked. “Oh, and the crowd cheered.”

“Thanks. Very helpful.” He ran his hand higher up my leg and let it settle on the bare skin just before the hem of my shorts. “I forgot the attention to detail you guys give sports.”

“We paid much closer attention to your games,” I swore, leaning into him and pressing a kiss on his neck. “And I understood the scoring system, which helped.”

“Other than the multiple sexual innuendos I can make about balls, this isn’t nearly as exciting,” Chelsea drawled. “At least at your games I had asses in baseball pants to stare at.”

“I’m so sorry,” he quipped. “Next time, I’ll pick my clients based on the simplicity of their sports.”

“Hey, let’s not forget who got you this client,” Chelsea pointed out.

“Touché.” He lifted his drink and they clinked stadium cups before me. “That’s Nic’s manager, Anne.” He pointed toward the front row, where Shakira was sitting next to a guy that Chelsea swore was Lenny Kravitz, without the dreads. “See the brunette in the hat?”

I saw the brunette. I also noticed the shortening of Nicole’s name. Which was an absolutely ridiculous observation given that I was entertaining fantasies