Page 11 of His to Possess

I make a face at him and move closer. But first, I set the gun aside and make sure it’s out of his reach. Despite his long-ass arms. “If this is a trick, I will hurt you,” I promise him in a lethal voice.

“The proof of my identity is in the back pocket of my shorts,” he repeats stubbornly. “Once you see you’re wrong, you can let me go. Although, take your time, kitten.”

“Why?” I ask suspiciously.

“Because I’m going to thoroughly enjoy your hand on my ass.”

I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat and shake my head. “Just lean forward so I can grab the wallet out, funny guy.”

He tosses me a flirty smile and leans over while I walk around, looking down at where his ass is on the seat. Crouching down, making sure I stay well out of his reach or at least as much as I can, I slide my hand into his back pocket. The tips of my fingers brush a leather wallet and I bite my lip. I’m trying really hard not to come into contact with his very firm behind.

“Don’t be shy. Get in there good and deep,” he encourages me and I can hear the smirk in his voice.

Gritting my teeth, I shove my hand in hard and he jerks forward. I yank the wallet out hard and flip it open. My mouth drops open and I’m glad I’m standing behind him so he can’t see my shocked expression.

The picture on the license is obviously him and, damn him, it’s a really good picture. I mean, who actually looks good in their driver’s license photo? It’s super annoying. But what bothers me the most is the name I read: Angelo Rossi.

Not John Grady.

Fuck me. This isn’t good. Who the hell is this guy? And where in God’s name is John Grady?

“Told you,” he says, and I clench my free hand into a fist, trying to stifle the urge to punch something. To punch him right upside his stupid, non-Grady head.

I never get the wrong target. Ever.

Suddenly, this job has become way more trouble than it’s worth. How did it all get so screwed up? Why does this guy here—Angelo—have Grady’s bag? My head is spinning with questions and I feel a headache begin to pound to life.

“What? Nothing to say now?” he goads.

“Shut up. I’m thinking.”

I need to figure out how to fix my mistake before shit goes completely off the rails.

Releasing my pent-up breath, I consider my options: Let this idiot go and keep trying to call Fox seems like the best solution. But there’s still the slightest possibility that he’s lying, trying to trick me. The more I consider it, though, the less it makes sense. Grady didn’t know I was coming for him. And maybe the bag swap was an honest mixup.

Something about the whole thing doesn’t sit right with me, but I can’t quite place my finger on what’s bothering me.

“How did you get John Grady’s bag?” I ask, walking around so I can study his face, see if it looks like he’s lying. Not that he has any reason to if he is who he says.

He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“Think hard,” I say, unable to hide my sarcasm.

“I went straight to the racquetball courts to meet my sister, set my bag down in the little room and that was it. Why would anyone else go in there and purposely swap bags?”

Why indeed?

And, I couldn’t miss how he called the gorgeous woman with him his sister. It shouldn’t make any difference to me who sheis, but I can’t help but feel a twinge happy about the revelation. With hindsight, I totally see it.

“Wait a minute,” he says slowly, eyeing me closely, “are you saying you think someone purposely switched bags with me?”

Before I can respond, my phone starts buzzing and I check the screen to see Fox’s name. “Thank God,” I grumble and swipe the bar over. “Fox, I’ve been calling you forever.”

“You called me twice,” he states, “and I couldn’t answer because the shit just hit the fan.”

My stomach sinks in dread. “What happened?”

“Well, for starters, you grabbed the wrong guy.”

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