Page 90 of Forbidden Game

Parker Covington is smooth. So smooth, even I didn’t notice what he was doing.

No one else hangs out with me while I binge-watch reality dating shows. No one else takes weekly boxing sessions with me. No one else drinks mocktails with me just because I don’t drink and asks no questions…especially when said person is a champagne aficionado and instead subs it with sparkling apple juice.

Why didn’t I realize this sooner?

I take another sip of soup, Parker’s hawk eyes still watching me.

Where does this leave me?

Do I want a relationship with him?

A real one?

Do I want to risk that?

The only thing I know is that I don’t want to lose my job. Not just because I love working for the guys—even though they are driving me to an early grave—but because I love my job. And being in a relationship with anyone in The System is a direct violation of my contract. There’s no gray area there. The wording is literally printed in black and white.

If I start dating the guy I work for, in a community as small as this, I’m going to be blacklisted. Who would trust a publicist who slept with her employer?

Not that I’ve slept with Parker yet.

Oh God.

Yet?

I contemplate shoving my face into the bowl of soup and screaming.

Now I’m thinking of Parker’s dick.

I’ve seen that monstrous thing way too many times given the fact that I’ve never touched it.

Do I want to touch it?

The fluttering in my stomach says yes.

Could I like him?

Do I like him?

My spoon clinks against the bottom of the bowl and the sound startles me out of my spiraling thoughts. I blink down at the near empty bowl. I hadn’t even realized how lost I had gotten, mindlessly eating the soup while drowning in the mess of my crush-struck brain.

I peer up at Parker who is leaning so far back on the dining chair that it threatens to tip over. He has his phone turned horizontally in his hands, which means he is playing something. Probably the mobile version of Kill Strike.

Sensing my stare, Parker flicks his gaze up and rocks his chair forward, so he is once again level with gravity.

“You feeling okay? You zoned out for a bit there.” He clicks off his phone, standing up and grabbing our empty bowls before taking them into the kitchen.

I attempt to unravel myself from the blanket to help, but it’s wrapped around me like a friggin’ straitjacket.

“Don’t bother. You’re the sick princess today; just stay where you are. I can load a dishwasher, you know.”

“Since when?” The natural quip leaves my mouth before I can stop it. He does have a copious number of stray cups littering his streaming room, so it isn’t completely invalid.

“Since I was fifteen.” His tone is a little too serious. I can’t tell whether he is telling the truth or not. I mean, this is the same guy who still gets his underwear dry cleaned.

I give up on untangling myself and resume my earlier admiration as he bends down to place the bowls on the bottom rack of the dishwasher.

It is a pity he doesn’t wear sweatpants more often. The man has a dump truck.

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