Page 28 of The Love Bandits

With that, she tugs me aside, toward the thick, almost impenetrable shrubberies lining all four sides of Smith House. Casting a quick glance back at the guests, most of whom are gathered outside of the playpen, perfunctorily patting goat heads and tittering nervously under their breath, she says in an undertone, “I need you to talk to Anthony’s friend. Find out why he invited him at the last minute.”

“You hadn’t met him before?” I ask, angling my head to better study her. She’s in one of her kaftans with her white hair curled at the ends. Her makeup is so expert it looks like she’s not wearing any.

“No,” she replies, her lips pressing into a flat, disapproving line. “Anthony stopped bringing his friends around when he was a teenager, after I caught them smoking marijuana and forced them to weed the grounds.”

My first thought is goddamn, this place has at least ten acres.

My second is that it doesn’t necessarily mean anything that Mrs. Rosings has never met him. I’m guessing Anthony doesn’t like parading around his pals. She’s probably just asking me totalk to him because she’s one of the most suspicious women I’ve ever met.

Suits me. I have to talk to him anyway.

“I’ll do it,” I say bravely, as if I’m taking one for the team.

I take a couple of steps toward the playpen. It looks like Jake was the only person brave enough to step inside of it, and he’s cuddling a baby goat in his arms as if it’s a newborn. Another glance confirms that every woman present, from Mrs. Rosings’s cousin Jennifer to an awkward teenager, someone’s niece or cousin twice-removed, is staring at him with heart eyes.

I don’t blame them—it’s sexy as hell—but it doesn’t do it for me, because there’s no question he purposefully did it for the attention.

I shouldn’t be disappointed. This man hates me and is possibly involved in a scheme against my boss. We were never going to be friends, but showboating is one quality I absolutely can’t stand in a man. It instantly takes me back to Todd, who never did anything without considering what kind of reaction it would get.

“Jake,” I say from the front of the makeshift pen.

He gives me an incredulous look—like he can’t believe I have thecajonesto approach him after I lied to him and stole his necklace.

I figure I should make some sort of public excuse for pulling him aside, even if Mrs. Rosings herself ordered me to do it, so I clear my throat and say, “Your car’s going to get towed unless you move it.”

He sets down the baby goat to a chorus of sickening coos.

I smile at the enraptured women as Jake picks his way out of the pen—and feel a little smug when he steps in a pile of shit left by one of the adorable little creatures.

He shuts the pen behind him, rubs his shoe aggressively against the grass, and then starts walking toward the front of thehouse. I fall in beside him, easily keeping pace. He doesn’t say anything until we round the corner of the house. Then my breath leaves my lungs when his big, warm hand envelops my wrist, and he tugs me past the thick, leafy bushes—his grip insistent but not punishing—and backs me into the stone siding, planting a hand on either side of my body and leaning down toward me.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks gruffly, his gaze fixed on me. His hazel eyes are galaxies of brown, green, and gold, surrounded by long lashes, presided over by dark, serious eyebrows. His fingers are so close to my arms, they’re brushing my flesh, his body essentially pinning me to the stone. There’s less than an inch between me and his hot, hard chest.

My breath is coming out in ragged puffs, but not because I’m scared. Ishouldbe scared. I don’t know this man. I don’t think I even like this man. But the truth is, I’m deeply, deeply turned on. I can feel his breath against my face, his hair brushing my forehead as he bends over me. And I can remember what it felt like to have his tongue in my mouth, one hand lost in my hair and the other wrapped around my hip like he had a right to it. His hard dick captured against me—a feeling so delicious, I rocked into it again and again even though I thought he was a cheater, a man who’d broken Cleo’s heart.

Clearly, the vibrator’s not cutting it anymore.

I swallow those unwelcome reactions down and take a moment to consider what I should tell him, deciding to go with the truth. Mostly.

“I’m Mrs. Rosings’s assistant,” I say, keeping my voice strong though quiet, for his ears only.

“Why did you come to my apartment?” he asks, leaning in closer, his heat burning me. “I know you don’t live in the building.”

“How?” I ask with interest, and to my surprise he actually answers.

“I went door to door saying I was selling Girl Scout cookies for my niece.”

“But it’s October. They usually sell their cookies in January.”

“So you can imagine how hard it will be for me to fulfill their orders,” he says flatly, with no sign of amusement. Just his body, leaning into mine, those hands so close they’re touching but not holding me. My space, his. My breath, his. “Who. Are. You?”

I swallow. I could lie to him, but if I do, he’ll be able to find out the truth. He knows who I work for, and from there it would be easy enough to track down the rest of the truth. Better for it to come from me. “In my free time I run a business called the Love Fixers. We help people who’ve been screwed over in love. Deleting photos from social media, sending glitter bombs, that kind of thing.”

“So you’re a woman with a grudge.” My mouth falls open in indignation, but before I can deliver a scathing remark, he says, “What does this have to do with me?”

“Cleo,” I say quickly.

“Who’s Cleo?”

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