Page 16 of Café Diablo

I actually do. I click the end button on my phone and throw it on my desk.

I said I was in a mood.

The last thing I want to think about is Olivia. Or Connor trying to play matchmaker, or being a gossip queen. I don’t ask him about Arie. I don’twantto know about him and Arie. Nothing to discuss. End of story.

My phone buzzes a second later and I ignore it. But after the fifteenth text message notification, I pick up the phone and rattle off a message that says,Fuck Off!without reading a single thing he’s sent.

I understand that sending Oliva to my office on Friday night was his plan and that he let her handcuff herself to me all night, but I don’t want to hear about whatever crass thing she’s told him that happened while we were both drunk. And I know it would be crass, because the mouth on that one—!

Damn! I’mnotgoing to think about it. Not that mouth. Not the mouth that was a gorgeous Swiss army knife of wicked pleasures.

I’m not thinking about it.

Not her tongue.

Not her lips.

Not the way she looked at me through her lashes as she—

Fuck. I really do have work to do, and the last thing I should be fantasizing about is that black-haired vixen with the moped, and the silky skin, and the seduction skills of a ninja assassin. Not to mention, she’s clearly more than happy to chat it up with my brother and tell him all the things that ought to be left private. Which actually makes me pick up my phone to see what hedoesknow. And surprisingly, it’s very little. In fact, he seems to be peppering me with the third degree:

Connor:How was your birthday?

Connor:What’d you think of Olivia?

Connor:Tell me you haven’t been thinking about her all weekend?

Connor:She’s single.

Connor:Do you want me to give you her number?

Connor:How hot was it to be handcuffed to her all night?

Connor:You realize everyone thinks you two are dating now.

Connor:On a scale of one to ten how would you rate—

But, after all the normal questions (normal for Connor, mind you) comes one question I don’t expect:

Connor:Olivia called in sick for two day’s straight. Is that your doing? Are you two fucking like wha-bbits and you don’t even have the decency to say thank you? Or, better yet, send me a salacious picture?

I frown.

Clearly, my brother thinks I’m Don Juan and has forgotten that the last time I charmed a woman was, well … never!He’sthe one with the silver tongue and the sex appeal and the shameless need to walk around shirtless and flash his skin to all things female and breathing. Granted, that was before Arie, but I’m sure that bad-boy attraction never quite wears off and Arie is beating away all the other wannabe Connor-ettes with a metal ladle.

Ned:I haven’t seen Olivia since the party. And if you have her number, you should callher yourself. Not my business.

Oh yeah, and before he says anything else …

Ned:And fuck off.

I throw my phone in my briefcase and tell Judy to hold all my calls for the next hour, unless it’s urgent. And I clarify, if my brother callsit’s not fucking urgent.

I’ve got work to do—lots of it—and the best way to forget a girl that is unforgettable is to work. Work all day and all night. From sunset to sunrise. Sunrise to sunset. Until my damn fingers bleed, and I’m half-awake, and all my employees are convinced I’m Satan. If that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes, because the last thing I want to be thinking about right now is Oliva Reese.

And handcuffs.

And the silk of her hair.

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