Page 80 of Can't Get Enough

“Divorced.” She screws up her face with disgust. “Her husband was a trash ass… Hmm, hmm, hmmm. He wasn’t good to her. And not your standard-issue trash. We talking embezzled money from work, cheated with his secretary, got a baby on his side piece, went to jail—”

“Wait. That’s some soap opera shit.”

“Oh, believe me. It was OTT drama, but it all happened to Sol,” Hendrix says, a rueful twist to her mouth. “It was hard as hell for her and the girls.”

“You and Yasmen were there for her,” I guess.

“Of course we were. They’re the sisters I never had. We ride for each other always.”

Ms. Pearl approaches the table, balancing loaded white Styrofoam plates on her arms.

“Here we go,” she says, laying out all the plates. A young man comes up behind her and puts the last of the items Hendrix ordered on the table.

“This looks delicious.” I grab the syrup and douse my pecan waffle. “Hungry as hell.”

“Me too,” Hendrix says. “Hold up. Be right back.”

She stands, grabs the second All-Star meal she ordered, and speed-walks up the aisle and out the door to the parking lot. When she reaches the Bentley, Matthew rolls down the window, grinning andlooking half lovestruck when he accepts the plate of food. He watches her when she walks back to the diner, appreciation in his gaze. I can’t blame him. Even dressed down, she manages to look sophisticated. Fucking forty and looking that young and pretty and fly.

No, I can’t blame Matthew for looking at Hendrix that way, but if he keeps it up, dude will be out of a job. That’smygirl.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

CHAPTER 25

HENDRIX

I’m not inviting Maverick up. He’s not coming into my apartment. We’re saying goodnight right here in the car, and that’s it.

“Nightcap?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say unhesitatingly, shocking and kicking my own self in the ass. Before I can withdraw the offer, Maverick gets out on his side and quickly crosses around to open the door for me. I stare at his proffered hand like it’s a hissing snake instead of a polite way to assist a lady.

“I changed my mind,” I blurt. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“One drink,” Maverick says, grasping my hand and tugging until I get out of the car. When I step down, he doesn’t step back, and there’s little to no space separating us. The heat coming off our bodies is not just physiological, not generated from mere metabolism or circulation or the mechanics of keeping us alive. Theairis alive between us. It breathes. It seethes. It has a pulse that pounds loud in my ears every second we stand too close.

“Uh, okay.” I’m still holding his hand and drop it like a live grenade. “One drink.”

I step around him and away from the Bentley SUV.

Which, by the way, is the most baller vehicle I’ve ever been in. I know it’s rented while he’s in Atlanta and doesn’t actually belong to Maverick, but this is indicative of how this man lives. As if the private box at the NBA playoffs, chartered plane, and Miami mansiondidn’t already give it away. I’ve dated rich men before, but Maverick is a whole new level. But his bottom line is not even close to being the most attractive thing about him. I’ve never felt this connected, this drawn to a man before.

Can’t have him. Can’t have him. Can’t have him.

The reminder singsongs in my head as we take the elevator up to my apartment. The ride is quiet, the air charged but slick, dripping with desire, longing. Hell, I don’t know what to call it, but every molecule of my body is tuned to his. Magnetized. This has been building, not just all night, but since the moment we met at his party. I keep my eyes trained on the climbing numbers taking us to my place, even as I feel his stare boring into my profile. Fixed on me.

The ding of the elevator arriving at my floor and the doors opening jolt me into action.

“You know,” I say, turning to press my back against the door to my apartment, “it’s been a long night. I’m stuffed from all that food. Aren’t you stuffed? I’m thinking we skip the drink. Thanks for walking me up, but—”

“Hen.” He takes a step closer, sandwiching me between his body and the door. “Let me in. Ten minutes. Please.”

The air in my lungs gathers and hovers like a storm cloud, and I nearly choke on how bad I want to close those last few inches between us. To feel him go hard against me.

“Ten minutes,” I finally breathe out, resigned and knowing I’ll regret this. “One drink.”

As soon as we’re on the other side of the door, he takes my wrist and guides me to the couch. We sit side by side, and he holds my hand loosely in his.

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