Page 12 of Synced to Us

A large chunk of me is ashamed at cutting off my mother, but the smaller hit of relief at ending the conversation fills my nostrils like a succulent drug.

I take a deep breath to invoke calm.

I’m already offering myself up as Dee’s breakfast. I don’t necessarily relish becoming my mother’s brunch.

* * *

It’s five after eight by the time I hit Dee’s floor. The receptionist down below was too enticing to simply walk away from. Her name is Elena, a curvy brunette—I have a weakness for those—with a sweet, toothy smile.

She also recognized me.

As the keys guy on a riser toward the back of a stage, it’s always a pleasure when a fan comes forward and admits you were the one she used her neck massager for at night.

I whistle the sunset tune I’m working on as I spin my phone in my hands, now containing Elena’s number. The floor’s deserted, the overhead lights dimmed, and I’m hoping Dee ditched this morning the way I’d like to, and I can head back down to Elena. Admitting to anyone, even a professional, that I need help with my dire financial straits is akin to swallowing razorblades, and I’m not looking forward to appearing so weak. In front of Dee Sparrow, no less.

“You’re late.”

I come to an abrupt halt before I trip over the shadow looming ahead. “Holy fuck.”

“Did I scare you? Good.” Dee spins on her spiked heel, walking away. “You’re lucky I love McKenna. This way.”

“Five minutes isn’t late,” I correct, but her steps don’t slow.

Against my better judgment, I cock my head as Dee leads the way, her all-black pantsuit hugging her curves and shaping her ass in all the right ways. Her low ponytail hangs down, bouncing against the small of her back with her long strides.

I picture dimples there, that rope of silky hair slapping between them every time a good thrust—

“Regardless of how empty this office looks, I don’t hold meetings in the hall.” Dee stands in her doorway, her hands on her hips and her blazer flaring, revealing her tapered waist. “Unless you want me to air out your confidential information?”

See, this is my problem with Dee Sparrow. She’s hot and mean. A lethal combination, and one I inevitably manage to piss off every time I say more than two words to her.

Her large brown eyes narrow into slits. “Are you even listening?”

“Truth? I’m afraid if I open my mouth, you’ll bite out my tongue.”

Silence stretches between us. Then she says, “I don’t do tongues. Scrotums are more to my taste,” she says, then disappears into her office.

“This should be fun,” I mutter, saying a silent good-bye to Elena and my balls as I tuck my phone into my pocket and follow her into the dragon’s den.

5

Dee

He looks ridiculous.

Wyn Riley is a lot of things, but a preppy country club member he’s not. He’s barely squeezed into a light blue polo shirt, so tight he might as well have borrowed it from Mason. It has awful success in showing off the boulders of his biceps and the rigid muscle of his torso, the fabric so stretched, I can tell his nipple piercing is a hoop and not a bar.

My core clenches again when he steps into the light of my office, his slacks un-tailored yet fitting against his tree-trunk thighs and nether region like a bonus peekaboo layer of skin.

When I first ran into Wyn in the hall, on the way to pour my third cup of coffee as I waited for him to show, the one thing that pinged into my mind was pecs for days. Now, I’m cataloguing every fine piece of him, reserving the last blank section of my brain’s readout for his ass. He’s yet to turn around, and I’m appalled I’m waiting for him to do just that.

“That looks good.” Wyn gestures to the steaming mug in my hand.

Startled, I unfreeze and round my desk, taking a seat in my chair.

“Can I have some?”

“No.” I pretend to busy myself with papers as I wait for him to sit across from me. After a minute of motionless silence, I look up. “Are you going to take a seat?”

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