Page 6 of The Labor Date
“Perfect. Come on, Winston. Nap time.” She leaves the room, never once appearing tired of lugging the likely twenty-pound cat around. Then again, with a body like hers, it could be part of her fitness routine doing so.
“Bye, Winston.” I call and wave, earning another hiss and growl from him. Jeez, he better not get in my way as I pursue his cat-mom.
4
WINSTON, THE CAT
How canI nap knowing this Jerk-face is eyeing my Holly? I reposition and growl on the chair by the window, looking out at the pool. Why does Jerk-face keep eyeing her backside? And why does she laugh at every stupid thing that comes out of his mouth? Humph. Does he think he has a chance with my human? He'd better think again. He might have her fooled, but he has to tangle with me first.
5
HOLLY JACOBS
The Montana sunwarms my shoulders as I lounge under the striped umbrella, laptop open, a contract and a script across my thighs. The potential new movie role for Winston could launch his career into the stratosphere. Not that he isn’t already a success.
A popular organization for female entrepreneurs has asked me to join their podcast next week. I prime myself with answers to the questions they sent me to prepare in advance.
What’s it like to manage Winston’s career?
I type on my laptop:Being a cat manager takes up most of my days. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Winston had originally been my auntie’s pet as a kitten, the inspiration for her series of cozy cat mystery novels. And a few years later, the star of a limited-run TV series based on her books.
One summer, as a preteen when my parents divorced, Mom sent me to live with Auntie. I spent the few months training Winston to do funny tricks, and we became glued at the hip. Auntie could see how much Winston helped me in a time of great family distress. So, she gave the cat to me. Ever since then, I took on overseeing his career.
I couldn’t imagine what else I would want to do with my life. Or spending my life without him?—
A splash of water cuts clean through my thoughts.
I tip my sunglasses down. Scott slices through the pool in smooth, powerful strokes, like this is his private training lap pool.
Rude. Also extremely titillating to watch. And a major distraction in my life. I mean, look at him.
He touches the wall and surges into a flip turn, water sheeting over shoulders carved for sin. When he surfaces at the shallow end, his eyes find me. They rake once—slow and unapologetic—over my pink bikini and white strappy heels propped on the lounge.
Heat pulls low in my belly. I bite my lip so hard it could have drawn blood. It has been far too long since I let a man touch me. Time I needed to heal from my ex and all his games and cheating. Since him, the only date I’d been on was the one with Scott back in Vancouver. I still can’t believe I resisted him that night. He’d have made an excellent rebound fuck.
But now? Spending the past few nights talking and watching movies together? Trying to sleep knowing he was one door down from me? I don’t know how much longer I can resist him.
I push my sunglasses back up. “Are you planning to do that all afternoon, hotshot?” I call, aiming for bored and landing somewhere between breathless and flirty.
“Depends.” He braces his forearms on the edge, grin wicked under dripping lashes. “Am I bothering you, or helping you procrastinate?”
I focus back on my laptop at my side. “I’m working.”
“Yeah? I already worked my ass off on the ice today.” He launches himself out of the pool in one easy, obnoxiously athletic movement. My eyes forget all about the computer screen, instead noticing water running in rivulets down hischest as he snags a towel. He dries himself off across his abs, down his V, pushing his trunks down lower, my eyes following, until I could almost see a bulge.
I lick my lips. Mm. Are all hockey men built this solidly with muscles everywhere or just him? Why have I always blocked out men who play sports from my life? I always go for the jerks in suits with money and supposedly class. Men my mom would approve of. Suitable for our status, she’d always say when I’d bring bossholes home for her to meet.
Forget them. It’s out with the old me. The new me wants to get down and dirty with a guy who plays nice with a big stick.
“Holly? Did you hear me?” He laughs and sits at the end of my lounge by my feet. His gaze drops to my heels. “Not complaining, but do your feet ever hurt in these? Ever hear of flip-flops?”
“Beauty is pain.” I wiggle my toes, getting blood flowing, and hating how I sound like my mother. She spends way too much on herself, trying to remain youthful and chic at any age.
“In your case, from what I can see, beauty comes naturally.” Could he be any smoother with the compliments?
He takes up my foot, and I don’t complain when he slides the buckle on one heel free with a practiced thumb. The other follows. Before I could snark about it, he presses his thumbs into my arch, slow and sure. He rolls a knuckle along a line of tension I didn’t know I’d been clenching since I left L.A.
“Oh.” I moan. My head falls back against the cushion with a sigh and a swallow. Every nerve ending tingles from his touch. “Didn’t know you were so talented. There are women in L.A. who would pay thousands for your treatment.”
