Page 6 of Puck Yes

Tempting cleavage thanks to some kind of twisty neckline on a light blue flowered shirt.

I force myself to look at her face, which is no hardship.

“I’m invited to their wedding. To cover it,” she bites out. “For my new fashion newsletter and social channels.”

“Sounds more like a righteous quitting than a rage quitting to me, then.”

She gives an appreciative smile. “But the cherry on the screwed-over sundae? I need to find a date for this event.” Her long, frustrated sigh sounds like she’s running out of steam, and she shrugs. “So that’s my night. I’m out of a job, and I need a plus-one for a wedding,” she says, naming the date of the nuptials. “I don’t know which will be harder to find.”

For the first time tonight, she sounds sad. Maybe a touch desperate. Whateverwholly necessaryanger she displayed earlier has faded.

I study the button display on the elevator, taking a beat or two to give the situation some thought. While I can’t help with the first dilemma, the second one is up my alley. I run through my schedule. I don’t have a game that day. I’d be a dick if I didn’t help. My ex sure thought I was a jerk—cold and unfeelingwere her exact words—but would a jerk rescue a damsel in wedding-date distress?

As the elevator slows at her floor, I turn my gaze back to her. She’s not looking directly at my face. She’s taking another furtive tour of my body.

Enjoy the view, sweetheart.

After she travels the scenic route, she raises her eyes to mine, blinking, looking the slightest bit caught. It’s a hot fucking look, so I seize my chance. “I’ll take you.”

Possibly I say it in more of a commanding bedroom tone than I should. But I don’t regret it when a slight tremble seems to run through her body.

Her lips part, and she’s quiet for a few seconds, her eyes glittering and her chest flushing. She bites the corner of her lips, and as the doors open on the eighth floor, she says, “Yes.”

“Give me your number.”

That’s said like an order too. One she seems to like since we’re trading digits on our phones before she says, “I’m Ivy.”

“Hayes. Also known as…your wedding date,” I tell her, then hand her the box I’ve been carrying.

She takes it then steps out of the elevator. But before she leaves, she turns around, a sly grin coasting across her lips. “Good. Because otherwise I was going to call you…the eggplant guy,” she says, and she strides down the hall.

I’m enjoying the view too much to think on the nickname. I’m cataloging the shape of her round ass, savoring the swing of her hips, memorizing the swing of the dark hair cascading down her back. It’s not until she disappears into her apartment that what she said fully registers—the eggplant guy.

Why did she say that like it means something?

3

THE GOOD TIME GUY

Stefan

Just one more good screw. Almost done…There.

With the screwdriver in hand, I climb down from the stepladder and peer up at the rail lights above the kitchen island. I’m appraising my fantastic handiwork on the brass fixture when the door unlocks and swings open.

Hayes walks in, then groans loudly. “You’restillhere?”

“I believe you mean, ‘Thank you so much for all your amazing handyman skills, which are only superseded by your stick skills.’”

“Things I will never say. Also, you take forever.” Hayes strides farther into the kitchen, a bag of food in hand.

“No one ever complains about my stamina.” I fold up the ladder and tuck it into the hall closet along with the tools. “I could have a second career as a carpenter.”

“As long as you don’t trip on your ego.”

I join him at the counter, eyeing the bag. “Smells good. I presume you got enough for me?”

He flashes me a familiaryou’re an assholesmile. “Did youwantto share?”

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