Page 6 of Mister Mom

The doors shut, cutting off my view of Victoria silently laughing to herself while shaking her head.

“Don’t flirt with my assistant. If I can’t touch her, neither can you.” He presses the lobby button with his knuckle.

“Why can’t I touch her?”

“Please. The last thing I fucking need is her asking me shit like, ‘Did he say anything about me?’ ‘Do you know why he’s not texting me back?’ ‘Why doesn’t he want to see me anymore?’” he says in his best impression of a woman’s voice. Which is pretty bad, for the record. “Besides. We’re friends. That means you don’t take what’s mine.”

I scoff. “She’s not yours.”

“She might be if she ever decides to quit.” He raises a brow.

I stifle a laugh. “What’s to say she’ll quit?”

“They all quit.”

The elevator dings and the doors open. We push our way through the crowd waiting to file in, eventually reaching the rotating doors and making our way outside. The sun heats my face and our steps echo on the concrete as we head to the parking garage.

“I think she’s a keeper, man. She’s put up with your shit for this long.” I place my hand on his shoulder.

He side-glances me. “None of them are keepers because I’m too enticing. They know I won’t lay a hand on them until they don’t work for me.”

“You should really hire dudes.”

“Yeah, no, thanks.” He spots his Ferrari and pulls out his keys, unlocking the car and turning off the alarm. Did you think as arrogant as Jagger is, he wouldn’t have a car like a Ferrari? He’s got a whole arsenal of expensive cars.

We climb into his car and he roars out of the garage, easing off the brakes before he hits the street.

Traveling at Mach speed the entire way, we arrive at an ocean-side restaurant a little off the tourists’ radar.

“Should’ve known you’d want to discuss my future over fish tacos.” I shake my head as we head into the shack Jagger likes to claim he made famous.

“Who doesn’t love fish tacos?” He tucks his keys into his suit pants and makes a display of putting his phone on vibrate before he pushes it down into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Holy shit, do I really get Jagger Kale all to myself?”

He rolls his eyes and waves to the waitress, who he’s screwed—out on the deck after closing time. But that’s his story. If only I could get the visual out of my head every time we come here.

She points to a free table by the open window and we head there and take a seat.

“Okay, you’ve got me here. Tell me what the hell is going on.” I rest my forearms on the table, taking a deep breath, waiting to hear if what he has to say makes me want to drown myself in the ocean.

He chuckles. “Well, I got a deal for you and it’s good. The investor is from the East Coast and likes the feel of the story. Says it reminds her of her own summer love story. She only has one stipulation. Even so, if you ask me, you should be kissing my Italian loafers right about now.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to get on with it, when the waitress saunters over and rests her hip on the table, facing Jagger with crossed arms.

“You didn’t call,” she says, irritation ringing out in her tone.

He leans forward and brushes her long red hair back, exposing her bare, freckled shoulder. The stiffness of her posture falters a bit.

“Maybe you gave me the wrong phone number,” he says, all innocence.

She shakes her head. “I didn’t.”

“Well, I don’t know, honey, I called.”

He didn’t.

She pulls her order pad from her pocket, scribbles her digits down on a piece of paper and slides it across the table. “This is the right one. Use it. Two Heinekens?” She shoots me a fleeting glance.

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