Page 6 of Delicious

Are we dogs? Sure, a good portion. Me? I’ll admit, I have a reputation for it. So do most people at the top of this business. I’ve heard stories about my associates, Jackson included, and I’ve leaned into my canine side over the years, but even with my bravado in front of my brother and friends, it’s been a good year since I indulged.

I’m not sure what happened. I was pretty sure it was just a phase, but now that Andrea has taken over my brain and my dick, I’m wondering if the universe knew what was coming and needed me to clean up my shit before it delivered an angel into my lap.

The first time I heard her voice, it was like coming home. Like she’d been whispering in my ear and in my dreams for years, but I’d been deaf, dumb and blind until now.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, staring down at the screen of my phone.

“…so I thought maybe we could get together for a drink tonight, before I have to head down to Houston to hash out this other deal. What do you think?” I realize Jackson has been talking to me while I was texting, but I have no clue what he said, except meeting up for drinks.

He’s staring at me expectantly, but the only thing I care about in my life right now is my little Tootsie Pop.

I’ve never waited for a text message in my life. But since her? I’ve been glued to that fucking screen, feeling like my life hangs in the balance until I see those three little dots pop up, knowing her fingers are tapping out a reply. I hold my fucking breath until her words appear in that glorious little blue bubble.

I shake my head. “Sorry. You know how it is, work doesn’t sleep. Next time I’m in New York…”

“Sure.” Jackson shrugs as I stare at my screen, scrolling back over the messages from the last three days, pausing on a few that make my heart speed and my dick jump.

For the first time, it’s her well-being that lights me up, not just the burning desire to be inside her pussy. The force is strong there too, I can’t lie. My dick wants in there, and I already know the craving for her walls wrapping around me will never be quenched. But it’s deep down, what she’s awakened in me, that I’ve never felt before.

I want to know when she wakes up and what all her dreams were. I want to make sure she doesn’t text and drive, and that her car has had an oil change recently.

Is she eating enough red meat and taking her iron when she’s on her period?

That last one had me fucking shaking, when I went online and asked google how much iron a woman needs during that time of the month.

I’m losing it, but if this is what being lost feels like, I never want to be found.

Me: I also asked you to let me know what you had for dinner last night and how you felt when you woke up this morning. Don’t ignore me, Tootsie Pop. I’ll have to come track you down.

The red button on my desk phone flashes in three rapid blips, telling me Lauren, my executive assistant, needs something.

I smash the intercom button. “What?”

My usual stoic calm has been rattled, and it’s not good for business, so I heave a ragged breath and remember what I’m doing here.

“You on your period?” Lauren snaps back as I grind my molars, resting an elbow on the edge of the desk. I grip my forehead, pressing my fingertips into my eye sockets until I see stars. “You’ve been particularly charming the last few days.”

Jackson chuckles, standing and motioning toward the door. I nod, watching him go, but I’m not in the mood for laughter. Lauren is fluent in sarcasm, and it’s something I’ve come to tolerate, but right now, my patience with everything in my life that is not Andrea is paper-thin.

“I’m assuming you want something.”

“Yeah, so two things. First, Mr. Buffalino sent a package over with a courier. It’s the final paperwork for the go ahead on that old house that’s holding up his project downtown. He wants the crew there tomorrow to demo it before there’s some other delay. He said he wouldn’t put it past the old lady and her niece to chain themselves to the porch or something.” I nod as though she can see me, but after eight years together, it’s almost like she can see through the walls. “Then,” Her voice changes, the pitch rising with an unusual hint of humor, “you have a visitor. She says she has an appointment, but there’s nothing on your calendar. She said to tell you she’s here to deliver a grape flavored Tootsie Pop, whatever the fuck that means. She doesn’t look crazy, but—”

“Send her in,” I answer, shoving my chair back so hard it smacks against the floor to ceiling window behind me, which offers an amazing view of the Detroit River and the Canadian Club sign on the other side.

I’m on my feet in a breath, lunging around the corner of my desk, knocking over the chrome trash can in my rush and nearly sending me face-forward into the floor.

“Fuck,” I seethe, catching myself with a locked arm on one of the leather chairs that sit in front of my desk.

“You okay there, Hoss?” Lauren adds a little snort but knows me well enough to decode the silence that greets her, so she clicks off the intercom, leaving me checking the front of my shirt, running one hand down my tie, the other through my hair.

She’s here?

I glance back at my phone, wondering if I missed something, but there are no replies to my messages.

Four heartbeats later, after I’ve righted myself and brushed some invisible lint off my jacket sleeves, Lauren appears in the open doorway, ushering in the object of my obsession dressed in a lavender silk slip dress with an open black trench coat and knee-high black patent leather boots with six-inch heels.

She’s a femme fatale of the highest order, and I can’t fucking breathe.

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