Page 3 of Advantage Love

My cock twitches again, remembering how she tasted, how she felt. Mixing business with pleasure is a rookie mistake, but then again, playing it safe has never been my strength.

I open my phone, scroll to draft a message, then stop. No. This needs to be face to face. I want to see her expression when I lay out my proposition. I want to watch those green eyes flash with that familiar fire anger or arousal. I didn’t care which, as they look the same on her.

"Julie," I call to my assistant. "Book me on the next flight to Melbourne."

"Tell me you’re not going to do what I think you are?”

"Trust me." I start packing my briefcase, already imagining Avery's reaction. She'll fight it, of course. That's half the fun. "This is exactly what I need to make partner."

I pull up the video one more time, freezing on a frame of Avery, all attitude and barely controlled power. My body responds again, and I welcome it. By the time I'm done, she'll be back on top of the rankings, and the headlines, and if I play this right, back on top of me.

Chapter 3: Avery

There's something depressing about eating ice cream straight from the carton in a hotel room while watching your career implode. I dig my spoon deeper into the chocolate chunk, trying to ignore the footage playing on repeat.

"In her latest meltdown, former French Open champion Avery Jenkins showed once again why sponsors are distancing themselves..."

I click through channels, but it's everywhere. Tennis Channel. Sports Center. Even the local news. Each replay makes me cringe. The racquet throw looks worse than I remember, and did I really flip off that entire section of the crowd?

My phone buzzes again. Probably another reporter. Or my agent, ex-agent now, with more bad news. I've been avoiding calls all day, hiding out. The championship suite I'd booked at the Hilton seems like a bad joke now.

A knock at the door makes me jump, sending ice cream dripping onto my oversized t-shirt.

"Miss Jenkins?" A male voice. Familiar. "Your agent, or should I say, ex-agent, said you were in here."

I frown. I know that voice. That deep, slightly raspy timbre that had whispered filthy promises against my skin one hot Miami night.

"Go away, Luke."

"I can't do that." Another knock. "We need to talk business."

"I'm not decent." It's true. Between the stained shirt, ratty shorts, and day-old mascara tracks, I'm about as far from decent as possible.

"I've seen worse."

You've seen better, I think, remembering how his eyes had devoured me in that black dress.

No. Not going there.

"Five minutes," he says. "That's all I'm asking."

I consider my options. Hide in here until my savings run out, then slink home to teach tennis to bored housewives? Or hear what Luke Mitchell, rising star agent and former whatever he was, has to say?

"Fine." I open the door but block the entrance. "Talk."

He looks exactly like I remember, damn him. Perfectly tailored suit that emphasizes broad shoulders. That subtle five o'clock shadow he always had by evening. Eyes that see too much.

His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my disheveled state. One eyebrow lifts. "Love the outfit."

"Four minutes now."

He holds up his hands in surrender, but I catch the ghost of a smirk. "Can I come in? Unless you want to discuss your future in the hallway?"

I step aside, suddenly aware of every flaw in the cramped room. The unmade bed. The empty ice cream carton. The tennis bag I'd thrown against the wall earlier.

Luke closes the door and leans against it. "You're trending on socials."

"Thanks for the update. Is that all?"

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