Page 17 of The Arrangement
Jason
My stomach growls, breaking my concentration—something I’ve battled to retain all afternoon and evening. Focus isn’t something I struggle with. If there’s work to be done, I can tune out a marching band. Hell, I can even ignore Tate if it means completing a task.
But the one thing I can’t keep from infiltrating my thoughts is Chloe.
Friday at seven. See you then.
I straighten my desk, make notes for later—leaving off a reminder to have Chloe work late on Friday—and then rise to my feet. My stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten since morning's breakfast bar, so I make my way to the kitchen.
The sun hovers on the horizon, bathing the house in a warm, muted light as I make my way through the foyer.
Chloe hasn’t mentioned dating anyone in a long time. I usually try to avoid those discussions, knowing they’ll wind up pissing me off. The two guys I know she’s dated haven’t known their ass from a hole in the ground. How do you manage to get her to date you and then fuck it up?
I don’t know what makes me want to fuck them up more—the fact they didn’t treat her right or that they’re obviously too stupid to have deserved a chance with her in the first place.
“Not my problem,” I mutter, opening the refrigerator. I find leftover chicken breast, brown rice, and vegetables and pop them into the microwave. The plate spins in a circle. My thoughts spiral, too, reminding me of all the contracts I need to peruse before morning.
But before I can retrieve my plate and return to my home office, my doorbell rings.
“You good?” Tate shouts before the door closing echoes through the house.
“In the kitchen.”
Steps tap across the hardwood, getting louder as they grow closer. Tate and Renn round the corner and grab seats at the island.
The two of them together are hell on wheels. They’re the same height and mostly the same build now that Renn has lost some of his rugby muscle, thanks to his retirement. I’m not sure who is cockier between them, but I know that I’d call Gannon or Ripley if I had an emergency. By the time Renn stopped trying to be a hero and Tate had taken enough selfies to post on Social, I’d be dead or in jail.
“Calvin was in the guardhouse and said you were home,” Renn says. “Do you know what I don’t understand?”
“Mathematics? Tact? How to properly eat spaghetti?” I ask, taking my plate from the microwave.
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t understand how Calvin works in personal security. Where did Landry Security find that guy? He just tried to big dog me.”
Tate snickers at Renn’s annoyance.
“I really think he expected me to cower to him,” Renn says, pointing at himself. “Me. A professional rugby player. What doeshe think is gonna happen? Nothing his little lanyard can save him from, I’ll tell you that.”
“Formerprofessional rugby player—ow!” Tate says, rubbing his shoulder where Renn punched him.Hard.
I chuckle at them.
“I mean it,” Renn says. “The only scary thing about Calvin is that he might just be dumb enough to think he could take me.”
“Have you been talking to Foxx?” I ask, getting a fork from the dishwasher.
His brows pull together. “No. Why?”
“Well, Foxx isn’t a big fan of Calvin’s either,” I say. “I guess Bianca used Calvin to make Foxx jealous, and although she was kidding, Foxx doesn’t kid.”
“Ooh. Bet that went over well,” Tate says.
I shrug, pouring myself a glass of wine. “Considering Foxx doesn’t joke around about anything, let alone our sister, let’s just say Calvin is lucky he can still form words.”
“Foxx Carmichael.” Renn laughs, shaking his head. “That’s one motherfucker I wouldn’t want to fight.”
“Do you two want a drink?” I ask.
They shake their heads and follow me to the table. Renn sits across from me, and Tate takes a chair beside him. There’s a twinkle in Renn’s eye that makes my stomach tighten.
