Page 16 of Aim Assist

Other than her phone number and the fact that she's not family friendly, I know nothing about her. Asher's secretary, Miriam, had sent a bunch of information to my e-mail, but… I don't read boring shit.

Aside from investing in the company and receiving a title that's mainly lip service, I haven't had a specific role or job. It's just been me helping here and there. Asher roped me in last year when their marketing team decided they needed an influencer to bring on board as the face of the game.

And now I'm supposed to be doing some sort of duo-shoot as we live-stream the game or something. I didn't pay attention. I figure I'll follow directions when we get there.

Like when Asher called me this morning to pick up Ms. Sloane—my new partner—from the airport, because he's running behind. His kid was in the ER last night for a runny nose.

Asher's a bit of a mess since he met Sam, even more so after their new baby was born last month. He's still killing it, but the slightest thing wrong sends him into a spiral of worry.

It's the kind of thing that makes a man think long-term relationships and kids might not be worth it. But—I see how he looks at her, and how she looks at him.

Low-key jealous. For sure.

But only a little.

A sharp rap on the window startles me out of my thoughts. I glance up to see a woman dragging two brightly colored suitcases, an empty pet carrier, and a leashed dog. Must be Ms. Sloane.

No one mentioned the dog, but it's a pleasant surprise.

I hop out and round the car to help. As I approach, my steps falter.

She's... not what I expected. A loose crop top skims over generous curves, revealing a strip of pale skin at her midriff, and a glint that I'm pretty sure is a belly button ring. Fuck. I'm a sucker for piercings. Faded jeans hug the swell of her hips and thighs. They're thick and luscious, like a place to call home. Half her face is obscured by comically large sunglasses and her blonde, curly hair flows freely.

Damn.

What do the kids call it these days? Thicc?

Because she's definitely that. The kind of armful who thinks she's fat when she's perfect.

There's no hint of glamour about her. She's a simple girl gone traveling, with a cute little dog in tow. Even so, I'm captivated. There's an understated appeal to her casual appearance, a refreshing change from the overly polished influencers on every video you see on social media. My gaze drifts to her hands as she adjusts her grip on the bags. No garish acrylics or bright polish. Only neat, unadorned nails. I approve.

She tilts her head, studying me from behind those oversized shades. I'd bet good money she's gorgeous under there. Maybe this week will be more than just a job, after all. If she likes what she sees, and I like what I see, then—

A tug on the leash draws my attention downward. Peeking out from behind her legs is the most adorable little ball of white fluff I've ever seen.

"Well hello there, cutie," I croon, crouching down. The dog yips and strains against the lead, tail wagging with furious levels of joy. I've always loved dogs, though I've never been responsible enough to have one myself. Maybe someday.

Ms. Sloane releases her grip on the leash, letting the white furball at my face. She licks me as though I'm a doggy lollipop, and it's fucking adorable. I'd always wanted something larger, like a Boxer, but now I kind of want a tiny little puffball.

Laughing, I rub all over her soft fur. "Aren't you the sweetest thing?"

As much as I'd love to play with the dog, I've been tasked with a job, so I pet her again as she licks my nose, then stand and gesture toward the Tesla behind me. "Go ahead and get settled. I'll take care of your bags."

She seems startled, her fingers clutching harder at the suitcases she's dragging along. Her hands are delicate, with slender fingers that must look like they belong to a goddess when she's playing games. Fuck, what does she look like with a controller in hand?

Hot. Yep. Definitely hot.

Shit. Yesterday I was excited, like a teenage boy with a crush, over shooting zombies again with AmYDeadYet. Now, I'm lusting over my coworker. All because of games.

Fucking Asher. This is all his fault. I've turned into a fucking dog sniffing under the skirt of any female who looks at a game twice.

"Oh, um, thank you." Her feet—in bedazzled flip flops that make my heart pitter-patter like a lovesick boy, somehow—shift from side to side. There's a cute little ring on her second toe, decorated with a butterfly.

The urge to worship her feet is strong and bizarre.

Who the fuck looks at feet? Fucking weirdos, that's who. Perverts. Fetishists.

As soon as I get Ms. Sloane and her sexy little toe ring out of my general vicinity, I'm going to need to google how normal this urge is, because what the fuck.

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