Page 60 of The Wrong Move

“Miss Monroe. Charlotte should be in her office, and I think Byron has left, but you’re welcome to head to the locker rooms and check. You know the way?”

“I do. Thanks.”

I take the elevator to the basement and walk the long hallway, admiring the framed images of basketball greats who have played for the LA Sharks. I hear Charlotte’s voice. It’s faint, but I know it’s her. I’m walking toward the locker room, apprehensive about whether I should enter. What if other players are showering or getting dressed? Charlotte is used to being around the players.

“Brandon,” she says playfully, but in a gentle way. Are they flirting?

I assume Byron is with them, and I can picture the three of them sitting around chatting. I never imagined I would be comfortable hanging out in a locker room, but with Byron, I would be comfortable anywhere. I slow my steps. Charlotte’s voice is off. Is she moaning? I reach the locker-room door and stop.Oh my Lord.Her moans are of pleasure.

With one foot inside the door, I see her clinging to the cubicle wall, Brandon’s name above her head. Her legs are wrapped around Brandon’s waist, his bare ass clenching as he pumps into her.

I stumble back, my hand covering my mouth. Scanning the halls, I make sure no one else is around. What if someone sees them? What if Byron walks in on them? Jesus, they have a death wish. I spin around and rush back toward the elevator.

My heart is racing. I’m so nervous for them. I know how Byron hates secrets, and I am aware of how protective he is of Charlotte, especially regarding his teammates. When I’m far enough away not to be heard, I pull out my cell and call Byron.

“Hey,” he answers. “Where are you?”

“I’m at your second home, hoping to watch the end of your training.” I’m panting, slightly out of breath.

He chuckles. “Serious?”

“I am.” I look along the hallway. Still no sight of anyone.

“We finished early. I came straight home hoping to find you here.”

My heart thumps hard in my chest. “I’m sorry.” I hesitate and decide my news can wait.

“I’ll meet you at yours, Gigi. I’m taking you out.”

“Out? Like on a date?”

He laughs. “Not on a date. We are dating. I’m not sharing you with anyone.”

My heart swells. While I want to add that I’m not sharing him with the hundreds of women who would like one night with Byron, I clamp up, remembering my meeting and the offer of my art expanding beyond the canvas and the fashion world.

“It sounds perfect. See you soon.”

When your family is billionaires,it has perks, like a last-minute lunch booking at Bloom. It also helps if your brother is the owner of said restaurant.

I’m learning more about Byron’s family than he ever shared with us at school. Sure, when we were teenagers, I knew he was wealthy, but the extent of that wealth was never discussed, nor did he care. Byron cared for basketball and trained in classic athletic wear. While I remember he wore a suit well at prom, it was probably Armani, Dior, or Gucci, but he complained about it all night. He never spoke about their riches, and apart from the polite pitch in his tone and the fact he could speak different languages, he didn’t act rich. But I guess that’s the thing with wealthy people—they never talk about their fortune.

Sitting in one of the finest restaurants in LA, I’m surrounded by classy people. It’s evident not only in the way they dress but in the way they conduct themselves—low voices, articulating words slowly and with deliberate pause, every word holding meaning. While I am kind of wealthy—not like Byron—and I’m wearing a beautiful Leto Designs dress and matching purse, I feel like an impostor in a millionaire or billionaire’s world.

“You choose the wine,” Byron says, bringing my thoughts back to the table, red roses in a crystal vase between us. “I’ll order the food.”

“I’m paying,” I tell him. “We’re celebrating today.”

He closes the menu and grins. “Gigi, my brother is paying today.”

“That doesn’t feel right. It was kind of him to secure us a last-minute table.” It’s at the back of the restaurant and more private than the others. If you wanted to be seen here, then you wouldn’t choose this table. Our table is the best for privacy.

He leans close. “This table is reserved for last-minute bookings for family or close friends.”

“Oh.” I inhale sharply, understanding the privilege, only to be hit with his fresh, citrusy scent.

“You smell good,” I whisper. “It’s a shame Byron Hendricks is not on the menu. I could?—”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to get me excited in a public place?”

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