my ego, which I plan on fixing pronto.
I have a plan. I’m bored with my usual investment portfolio. Dealing day in and day out with stiff suits and greasy bankers. I feel like mixing it up.
And showing her who’s boss.
Answering her brazen little come-backs.
Shouldn’t you be shacked up with your harem by now? It’s late.
I’ll show the little sweetheart the true meaning of shacked up and then some.
I arrive at the Sea Breeze just after ten. I’m glad to see Josie out on the deck, setting the tables. I’m not sure if it’s possible, but she looks even more pregnant this morning than she did last night. She glances up at me and her jaw drops slightly. It’s a typical reaction. In fact the only woman who hasn’t reacted to me like that lately is the lippy nymphet who’s going to be in my bed by sunset, if I get my way—which I always do.
“Ms. Farrell, I’m Gage McCabe. I have a business proposition I’d like to discuss with you and your business partner.”
Her eyes do that thing they all do. Travel. Check me out. Notice there’s nothing commonplace about me. I’m grade A prime beef and women always take a few seconds to absorb the extent of it. That’s just the way it is. “What kind of business proposition?”
“I’d prefer to discuss that with both of you together, if you don’t mind. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Does this have anything to do with the sale of the bar?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact it does.”
“How do you know about that?” Josie asks. “We haven’t advertised yet.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation yesterday. And Luna filled me in on a few of the details last night.” Not particularly willingly, but I don’t bother mentioning that part.
“Oh.”
“Is she available now?”
“Uh … I’ll text her. She’s upstairs doing yoga.” She pulls her phone out of her apron.
Damn it. The thought of Luna in tight little exercise clothes, how flexible she probably is, sweaty and barely clothed and … fucking hell. The last thing I need is a raging hard-on for our impromptu business meeting. I try to think of baseball and grandmothers—anything—to ease the rising tide, when I see a pumped-up gym rat walking up the stairs that lead to the deck from the small beach. His tight t-shirt says Go Out With Me Luna.
What?
No.
Luna’s going to go out with me, that’s the way this is going to play out, fucker.
I’m glaring at the guy as he strolls past, giving me a what’s-up flick of his eyebrows. “Hey, Josie,” he says.
“Hey, Kyle. This is, um … sorry, what was your name again?”
“Gage McCabe.”
The kid’s eyebrows shoot up. “No shit! Dude, I read about you in GQ! You’re that investment guru. And July’s style icon.”
It’s times like these I regret the magazine spreads and their ridiculous articles about my fucking “style,” whatever that is. I wear clothes I happen to like and that fit me, that’s about as far as my style goes.
“Would you be able to give me some investment pointers?” asks the dipshit. “I’ve been playing around with a couple of ideas …” I can barely concentrate on what he’s saying. Would Luna really consider going out with this guy? What’s the meaning of his t-shirt? What are the intricacies of her relationship with him?
And why the fuck am I getting so worked up about this?
It’s a question that’s answered as soon as Luna walks onto the deck, which happens at that precise moment.
She’s dressed in—exactly as I pictured—tight work-out clothes. Her hair has been pulled back into a high ponytail but shorter pieces frame her face and are damp with sweat. Her cheeks are pink with health and vitality and her body is like something straight out of a fucking wet dream. Even better than the wet dream. She’s long-limbed and slim but curvy. Her smooth skin is gleaming. She’s toned but at the same time soft-looking in such a feminine, luscious kind of a way, all I can think about is what she would feel like. I’ve fantasized but I don’t actually know. I want to feast on her gorgeousness like I’ve never wanted anything in my entire debauched, wretched goddamn life.
I hold my leather briefcase in front of me. I try to look casual about it but there’s nothing casual about my hard-on. It’s gargantuan and as agonizing as it was last night.
Baseball baseball baseball.
But it’s useless. Even baseball won’t save me at this point.
How