Page 23 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks since I had sex with Ethan Cross in the back of his car…shamelessly,and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

I’ve tried, really.

After mistakenly calling a client by his name, I decided I needed to get the incident out of my head, so I tried yoga.

Then ice baths.

Then, more ice baths and a solo spa date that got me so relaxed I slipped into the events of that night. The masseuse never noticed, even when a moan slipped out, but I’m too mortified to show my face there ever again.

The sound of my ringtone cuts through the air again, and I hurry out of the bathroom, almost slipping on the wet tile in my haste to answer it.

It’s an unknown number, but I answer it anyway—in my line of work, I never know who’s reaching out to me, and I’d rather take a chance on a stranger than miss a gig.

“Hi!” I hear a chirpy voice on the other end that makes me pause. There’s something about the way it sounds… it’s Anthony!”

Ah.

Aha.

I knew it.But—I shake my head in confusion, bringing my phone to my face as I check the number again—Why would he call me from a stranger’s number?

“Anthony Cross?” I repeat with some hesitation to get clarification.

“Yup,” he says, sounding like his usual animated self, although there’s an extra kick in it today. “Hey. I’m sorry for calling out of the blue, but I thought I’d reached out already, but then I realized that I hadn’t. Could I trouble you for a favor?”

Yes?There’s a lot of this and that in his ramble, but I’m almost certain it’s a gig.

“I need you to come over to an address,” he continues before I can respond, and I’m forced to the bedside table, rummaging through the dresser drawer, when he starts to rattle off an address.

I tell him to repeat it twice before I’m certain I have the right information. “I’ll see you there in an hour. I promise it’s totally safe,” he adds with a laugh before the call ends.

I sink on the bed with a sigh as my breathing becomes choppy from the unexpected use of adrenaline. Then it occurs to me that I never bothered to find out what Anthony wanted me for. I just assumed it was a job.

“What else?” I mutter as I stand up, dragging my naked self to the bathroom. He’s never made a pass at me, even though Danielle was insistent that he looked at me a certain way.

He’s not going to ask me on a date, right?I’m panicking already, and my brain doesn’t make it worse by feeding me scenarios of a surprise date.

“You’re not delusional, Natalie,” I say firmly, staring at my reflection while my fingers grip the sink’s edge. “You’re definitely not his type either.”

Does Anthony Cross have a type, though? Every blog and gossip issue that has featured him and his sexual or romantic escapades has been different women—blondes, brunettes, small, plus-sized. But it’s always been obvious that he felt something for them, as shallow as it was.

Besides, I shrug with grudging acceptance; Anthonyisn’t my type.

If I’m being honest, despite my lack of recent dating history, I lean towards men who look like they have secrets to protect.

Men with jagged scars and permanent scowls—

“What the hell am I saying?” I groan as I gain control of my thoughts again, slapping my cheeks to focus. “Work, Natalie. That’s your type. You need to work and make money.”

Right. I nod vigorously.

Shower. Dress. Strange address. In that particular order.

***

The address leads me to a luxury apartment building in Rittenhouse Square. The concierge at the door smiles at me when I approach and waves me in without asking for a means of identification.

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