Page 61 of Tied Up in Riches

I rip the left AirPod from my ear, David Goggins’ voice narrating his book immediately stopping. It’s not like I was paying attention anyway. Reaching for my Nalgene bottle I stashed under the bench, I unscrew the cap and take a swig. Pumping out the stress didn’t make the impact I hoped for. I dig my phone from the pocket of my joggers and send an uncharacteristic text to Dean.

Marcus: Talk me out of making a move on Brooke.

We’ve been friends coming up on twenty years, but we’re still guys. Emotional shit is not morning coffee talk for us. I move to set my phone back down, determined to get in another set, but it vibrates in my hand.

Dean: No can do. I’m on strict orders to encourage that.

I probably should have just texted Maci. But while that may be a more comfortable conversation, Dean still knows me better.

Marcus: I like her, man.

Dean: No shit. You took a vacation for her.

Marcus: Fuck off

Dean: What’s the problem then?

Marcus: She doesn’t live in the same state, for starters.

Dean: She could.

Marcus: I don’t want her to have to add me to the mix when she doesn’t know what she wants yet. She’s stressed about it enough.

Dean: What if adding you to the equation makes the decision easier?

Marcus: I’m not even sure she’s interested.

Dean: Is she with you right now?

Marcus: No. Why?

Dean: Because I’m reading Maci’s group chat text over her shoulder.

Dean: Pretty confident you should make a move.

I want to know the details, but I picture Maci slapping him away when she catches him spying for me and decide against it. I shake my head, amused as much as I am determined. I lay back on the bench and reach for the bar.

The bathroom knob turns, drawing my attention from where I’m leaning slightly over the hotel room desk doing a quick Google search on my laptop. I fold it shut so Brooke doesn’t catch the magazine feature I have up about helping a woman get past her mental blocks when it comes to orgasming. I’m confident in my ability to make her feel good but smart enough to know helping Brooke feel how she deserves is far more important than keeping my pride. I lock away the possibly helpful bits of information from the article and stand, buttoning my charcoal suit jacket over my crisp white shirt and solid black tie that I had room service press.

Hands still on the button, I freeze. Because fucking hell. Brooke looks up from where she’s smoothing her hands over the sparkles of her black dress. It’s short–short enough to immediately make me recall the memory of having my fingers inside her last night as she was pressed against me. It would probably be inappropriate for a fundraiser event like the one we’re attending, but the sleeves are tight and long and the front doesn’t cut low. She straightened her usual waves and tied her blonde hair into some sort of messy but controlled side bun, strands of hair framing her face. Her neck is exposed, and I wish I could kiss her.

Her brow furrows. “What’s wrong? Do I look okay?” She moves like she’s headed back to the bathroom to check herself out, giving me a view of the back of her dress–an intentional cut-out revealing a good portion of her back.

“Brooke.” She freezes at the sound of her name, turning to look at me through her eyes, dark with black and gold eye makeup in a way that screams “high-end casino night.” “You look incredible.”

“Oh.” She smiles without a single ounce of insecurity, and I fucking love it.

I take advantage of the moment and press my luck, stepping closer to her. “You’re making my job easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t have to fake being attracted to my fake girlfriend.”

Her cheeks flame, shyness taking over as she scans my suit, my perfectly trimmed beard and neatly pulled back hair. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“We’ll look even better together.” I wink before turning to the door. “You ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

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