Page 97 of The Thing About My Rival

Giving up on ever seeing my blue thong ever again, Itake my head out from under the bed and grab my leggings.

When I sit on the edge of the mattress to put them on, he circles his arm all around my waist and kisses my bare hip. “Going commando, eh, Wilcox? You should do that more often.”

The touch of his mouth on the sensitive area so close to my center sends a quiver to my clit, making me want to flop back and get down to business with him all over again.

Hell, this man knows how to drive me wild. And he hasn’t run out of new ways to do it yet.

I slide my fingers into his thick, luscious hair, always unable to resist it. “I have to go.” He circles his tongue around my hip bone. “Argh. You know I have to go. I can’t go into the office smelling of you.”

“And what do I smell of, Wilcox?”

I cry out as he rolls onto his back, pulling me down on top of him so I’m lying across his stomach. “Annoyance. Workplace inappropriateness.” I crawl up his warm, naked body that actually smells of sleep and sex and me, until my face is over his. “And the hottest damn hotness in the world.”

“Good, because you staying over has brought us luck.” He buries his face in my neck and kisses the spot just under my left ear that he’s so fond of.

I fight the shiver running down my side and ease back to look at him. “You mean because since the first night I slept here we’ve won every game?”

“I do.”

“Yeah, even the one where Ramon sat on the bench,” I can’t resist adding.

“Yes, oh wise one. Even that one.” He trails his fingersup and down my spine in a way that does not encourage me to leave.

“You athletes and your superstitions.” I kiss the end of his nose because if I kiss his lips I’ll be here for another hour, maybe two, and definitely miss my meeting.

In fact, it’s harder and harder to say goodbye each time I see him. Dragging myself away is as difficult as trying to pull an extremely sucky suction cup off glass—I just slide around on top of him without actually breaking free.

But I force myself to roll off him. “Gotta run.”

As I stand to pull up my leggings, Hugo slaps my bare ass. “Fuck off then, spoilsport.”

And if he knew what I was heading off to do, he might actually mean that.

Why, oh why, oh why, did the pub’s Wi-Fi have to choose today to die?

The office is the last place on earth, actually in the universe, where I would ever want to take this meeting. But after getting home from Hugo’s and discovering there was no connection, I had no choice but to head straight here.

I would have used one of the meeting rooms upstairs for privacy, but Amelia was in one, making goodie bags for Kids’ Day, and had candy, pencils with soccer ball erasers on the ends, bobble heads and other goodies laid out all over the table.

And Prince Oliver was pacing around in the other, brow furrowed, talking into his phone. Even with the door closed I could make out him saying, “I’m not coming back,Grandpa. I’m not.” And I figured it was best not to interrupt a domestic dispute with an actual king.

The stadium Wi-Fi’s never reached the old storage room where we hold the sharing circle, so that leaves me with one spot—the least private place of all—my desk. And, to make matters even worse, without headphones or earbuds. Because in my panicky scramble to get from the pub to here in time, I totally forgot to pick them up.

I did remember to lock the office door before I sat down, though.

I run my hands over my hair to smooth down the flyaways and stare at the message on my screen that says, “Please wait for the host to start this meeting.”

It’s hard to know whether my heart is racing because of the panic of wondering whether I’d be late, the risk of being caught, or the prospect of the imminent conversation.

With a tinkle of electronic bells, my screen changes and there’s Jill Clements sitting in her office three thousand miles away with a Portland Cedars banner on the wall behind her.

“Hello, stranger.” The voice of my old boss, who gave me my first job in soccer, booms from my laptop. I tap the volume key frantically to turn her down to a whisper.

“Hi, thanks so much for being willing to chat.”

“Of course,” she says with a big smile. “When I got your text, I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased to hear from you or worried that there’s a problem.”

“Ha.” My laugh is awkward and makes me feel even more embarrassed for myself. “Well, you know…and I’m sorry to get right to the point, but I’ve ended up talking to you from work, which isn’t an appropriate location for this conversation, but I didn’t want to cancel or postpone and let you down, so I thought?—”

---