Page 67 of The Love Wager

I can’t help how her words stab through me, but I try to hide the reaction from Indie.

I ruefully grip her apex, making her gasp and try to scoot away from me. “Part of you is on the same page as me.”

“Brooks. I—” she starts, and I want to cut her off and tell her not to decide right now. I’ve put her on the spot, and it’s not very fair of me.

I want her to have time to acclimate to the idea that I’m here, waiting, wanting only her, but then again, I want her to leap into my arms and ride off into the sunset like in the movies. But this isn’t the movies, and Indie isn’t that kind of girl. She’s vexing and hard-headed, which is part of why I love her.

“This is a lot, and I’m mid-workday, and then you’re here, and I wasn’t expecting…”

“You need some time,” I realize.

She bites her lower lip. “I do.”

I nod. “It’s only fair. I had all this time to realize you’re who I wanted. Not that I wanted it.”

She gets off the edge of the table and shimmies her skirt back down, covering the curves I’d love to get lost in for the rest of the day.

“I’m at the Hilton a few blocks from here.” Leaning over, I pocket her business card from the mess of papers across the table.

I deleted her number, thinking it was smart, so I wouldn’t call or text her after she left. Then, when I wanted to contact her, Taylor tried to be difficult and told me to get her number myself.

“Brooks,” she says as I reach the door. I turn and look at her. She seems more refreshed than when she walked in the door, and I grin inwardly at my being the cause of the new color in her cheeks and the swell of her lips. “It was good to see you.”

After grabbing my hat off the conference table, I tip it to her. “It’s always a pleasure, red.”

Leaving her leaning against the side of her conference table, I tip my hat to the very red-faced assistant before finding my way back out into the California sun.

Hours have passed, and I’m sprawled out on the bed in my hotel room, toying with her card over my knuckles back and forth as I contemplate bothering her. She said she needed time, but time is relative, or so I heard somewhere.

What are you wearing?

It’s well after ten p.m., so I know my little redheaded minx is probably stripped down to nothing but her undergarments, sipping a glass of something to relax from the day. Though, I’d like to think I’d given her a dose of relaxation earlier.

Who is this

Really?

Oh, sorry, Steven. Is this your new number?

Who the fuck is Steven, and why does he have your number?

I wish I could see your face right now.

The comment has my insides clenching like a schoolboy.

Not funny.

Neither was you asking what I was wearing.

I was genuinely curious.

My mouth drops open as an image loads into the text thread. The angle tells me she’s lying down, and her hand is somewhere I can still taste, beneath dark panties I’d like to shred.

Not fair.

I don’t play fair.

Clearly.

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