Page 8 of The Player (Close Quarters 5)

Now I realise that managing people is a giant headache.

“Lover’s spat?”

I cringe at the sound of a voice that Ireallydon’t want to hear right now. Rowan is walking toward me, keys dangling from one hand and a smug smile shaping his perfect lips. He’s in a suit today, which would normally be a turn-off for me—I like guys who are a bit rougher around the edges, and Rowan is spit and polish all the way through. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t look like he wasbornto wear a suit.

It’s a deep blue, but not navy. Bright enough that it makes a statement without verging intoDumb and Dumberterritory. A tan belt highlights his trim waist and flat stomach, and it matches his dress shoes. A white shirt sits open at the collar and his dark hair, which probably started the day styled, is now delightfully rumpled. There’s the barest hint of a five-o’clock shadow, which sends a tremor through me as I imagine what it would feel like scraping across my skin.

Dammit. Why is this mansohot?

“Excuse me?” I ask, putting my hand on the door handle to signal I’m not going to stay and chat.

“Lover’s spat?” he repeats, walking past his door and up to mine. Up close, he’s even more arresting. His dark stare is like being trapped in a spider’s web.

“Professional discussion,” I correct. “We’re not lovers.”

“Ah, that’s right. We established last night that you’re in a bit of a drought.”

I glare at him. “We didnotestablish that. You made an insinuation—and an inappropriate one, I might add—and I ignored you.”

“If you’d really ignored me, then you wouldn’t have turned up on my doorstep demanding I keep it down.” He’s speaking low, so even if one of my employees is on the other side of this door, they wouldn’t hear anything. And the low voice does something to me—it’s like sparking flint against steel inside me. “I think you had an issue ignoring me, and that’s why you were so annoyed.”

Heat pools in my gut and in my cheeks. I hate that he’s right—onbothcounts. That I couldn’t ignore himandthat I’m in the middle of a sexual drought. Not for a lack of trying, mind you. I seem to be a glutton for punishment when it comes to putting myself out for rejection.

“AndIthink you have an inflated sense of your own influence.” I smile sweetly, my hand tightening on the doorknob. The hallway is quiet, neat rows of wooden doors interspersed with soft-glowing lamps, and totally empty. “You’re not all that and a bag of chips, Rowan.”

When he laughs, the sound is real and deep and it rushes through me like endorphins, lighting me up. Oh, hell, how is he evensexierwhen he laughs?

“I like you, Emery,” he says with a grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“Sadly, I can’t say the feeling is mutual.”

“Oh, come on.” He knocks my arm. “I’m not that bad.”

He’s really not. But Rowan reminds me of the guys I avoided in high school—charming, confident, fully aware of their appeal. The kind of guys who could totally crush a soft-hearted little weirdo like me. Keeping him at arm’s length is about protection.

“Why were you fighting with your workmate?” he asks, deciding to drop the conversation about my feelings for him. The question takes me a bit by surprise—I’m not sure why he cares. “And why were you fighting here?”

“We work here sometimes,” I say before I can think about whether any of this is his business. “I run my own company.”

“Oh.” His eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t know that.”

Why would he? Our exchanges for the entire time we’ve lived next door to one another—a few years—involve him teasing me in some way and me glowering at him. Add to that the thin walls and...let’s just say, it’s complicated.

We don’t really talk much, which is why it’s unusual that he’s come up to me today. Maybe that’s because he wants to milk my humiliation for as much as it’s worth.

“Managing people is...” I blow a strand of hair out of my face.

To my surprise, Rowan chuckles. “Yes, all of that.”

“Really? You seem like you’ve got the people thing all handled.” I flick my hand at him. “You’re so extroverted it makes my brain hurt.”

A strange look flicks over his face, but it’s gone before I can decipher it. “It’s part of my job.”

I know he runs some fancy-pants art gallery with his brother, and I figure that involves a whole lot of schmoozing. But beyond that, I have no idea what he does.

“But managing people is a lot of work and not always rewarding.” For a moment, I feel a flicker of mutual respect and understanding pass between us, but it’s gone the second Rowan’s signature smirk melts back into place. “That’s why I prefer tomanagemyself.”

Ugh. I wish I’d never knocked on his front door.

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