Page 17 of Aim Assist

"I'm so sorry. This is my first time using a car service." Her voice tickles my ear. It's familiar, giving me a niggling feeling that I've met her before.

Oh, right. She's Sam's boss, isn't she? I'm sure I've heard her voice over speakerphone before.

"Am I supposed to tip you? I have cash…" Despite being beleaguered by suitcases and a dog leash and the empty pet carrier hanging off her shoulder, she makes a movement toward her purse.

She's fucking adorable. Shit. She thinks I'm a driver. I'm here to pick her up and deliver her safely, so it isn't so much wrong as misunderstood.

Somehow, I don't want to correct her. "Don't worry about it, sweetheart. It's all taken care of." I add a smile, hoping it sets her at ease.

"Are you sure? I really don't mind—"

She's generous. Fuck. All that sex appeal and a warm heart, too.

Is it creepy to ask your coworker to drinks after meeting her two seconds ago? Yeah, that hits the perv-o-meter. Damn. Maybe I'll wait a day or two.

We're here for a week. I have a little time.

"I insist. Your money's no good here. Consider it a welcome gift."

A hesitant smile curves her lips beneath those ridiculous sunglasses. "That's very kind of you, thank you."

There's a huge part of me that wants to step forward, to get a little closer and see how she responds. If it's favorable, I can ask her out for a drink. If she shrinks back, then I'll step back. I don't want to scare her, after all. I want to see if she feels this connection, too.

But then I remind myself that I'm way too close to creeper territory. Her dog sneezes, which is the universe telling me I need to get a grip.

Good dog.

I give her a little pat, enjoying the soft doggy kisses.

"Alright, hop in. Let's get you ladies to the hotel."

She hesitates, but eventually heads to the door as I grab her things. Her little dog dashes around on her lap, sniffing inside the car.

Cute.

Both of them.

Her suitcases don't seem to match her personality—they're a vibrant pink that would blind you if you looked too hard—and I'm tempted to buy the same ones. Damn. They must be so easy to find on the conveyor belt. How many times have I cursed my black luggage as I check tag after tag to see if one's mine?

My girl's smart.

Wait, no. Fuck. Shit. Damn. She's not my girl. I can't think of a stranger this way.

Damn it, Asher. He's got me bit with the bug for a gamer girl partner so badly that I'm claiming any woman in my radius that knows what a controller is.

The next time I get him into a game of Shadow Ops, I'm going to blow his fucking brains out.

Amy

The car slows to a stop under an imposing stone archway. Beyond the glass doors, a grand lobby sprawls out, all marble and gold.

Damn.

Swanky.

You can see the ocean, right beyond the beach that identifies as the backyard of the building. There are people everywhere. Everywhere.

Vague suspicion rings bells in my head. Why are we at such a picturesque location for a streaming opportunity? Are we supposed to be playing outside near the ocean? Fuck that. I won't be able to see shit on a screen with the sun out.

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