Page 87 of Catfish

“Did you hire her?” Em's voice trickles into the small kitchen and up my fucking nerves as I grab my mug from the coffee machine. It only took her twenty-two minutes to hunt me down and ask me.

But who the hell is counting?

“I gave her the contract to take a look at,” I deadpan, tearing at a sugar packet.

“I already gave her a copy,” she states, standing alongside me. She leans her slim hip against the countertop and looks up at me.

Expectant.

Excited.

Annoying.

“I had a few changes made.”

Em crosses her arms. “Like what?” I tear open another packet of “I need the energy to get through this with her today” and dump it in my coffee.

“Would you like a copy, Em?”

“I just can’t think of anything you’d change,” she offers. “It’s a pretty lengthy non-disclosure and—”

“Just a few personal things,” I reply. “She’s...different than your off-the-street hire.”

Like the simple fact that I want her.

Or the fantasies that still populate my brain since I pretty much told her to take a long walk off a short pier in a text message. It's bad enough I agreed to her stupid meeting about her 'personal requests' when I should've just had Em handle it. But I was curious about what the little hellion required, so I agreed. I conceded against my better judgment, which was off its damn game lately.

So I decided to torture myself by watching the way the sun beamed off her skin, looking like a goddamn piece of art. Beautifully sculpted, everything about her perfect.

Too fucking perfect.

Too fucking tempting.

I can’t even fucking believe I’m letting Em talk me into this.

But let’s be fucking serious…I want Reagan within my greedy grasp at all times.

Even if I just get to look at her all the fucking time. However, there were strict rules, ones we’d both have to follow.

Mine were simple—don’t fucking touch her.

Hers were more complex—no skin-tight dresses, no talking to reporters, no posting on social media about any behind the scenes bullshit, and no fucking boyfriends in my office or events.

Especially the last fucking one.

I’m only a man with limited patience, I can admit to that all damn day long, but I won’t be enticed to strangle a man with my bare hands while he touches her in front of me.

Never did play well with others.

“Did you give her the full forty-eight hours?” Em presses before I turn on my heels and head back to my office.

“Yes.”

"Is she going to call you or me?"

“Probably you.”

“Did she look excited? I was hoping I was going to—” I swivel on my heels and face her in the middle of the office.

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