Page 58 of The Playboy

I was the housekeeper who had left that note.

That realization hadn’t just eaten at me this morning, it ate at me when we’d arrived at his suite last night. While Macon had waved his key in front of the lock, I’d taken in the room number, connecting that number to the note I’d written.

A note I assumed had been thrown away.

But somehow, it had resurfaced, and when I saw it moments ago, the teeth that were already gnawing at me bit down even harder.

And I was doing everything in my power not to let it show on my face.

Oh God, what have I done?

SEVEN

Macon

The bar was off the hotel lobby, tucked in a corner by the windows, built in an oval shape with stools positioned around the entire circumference. Half of the seats were vacant, yet the stranger chose the one directly next to me. Without looking, the movement of them sitting sent me a wave of air, the scent telling me it was female. And the moment she was settled on her seat, I instantly felt her eyes on me. I heard her breath. I sensed the swish of her pants as she crossed her legs, the fabric brushing across the side of my thigh.

When I glanced in her direction, her expression confirmed exactly what I had suspected. She hadn’t randomly chosen that stool, nor had her pants accidentally touched me.

This woman had a motive, the look in her eyes telling me it was sex.

She wanted it.

Now.

And she wanted it with me.

I’d been here many times before. It seemed wherever I was, regardless of what I was doing, women were drawn to me. I’d been told it was due to a combination of my good looks and that I was a man whose sex appeal dripped from every pore.

My friends called me a magnet.

Whatever it was, it happened nonstop.

And for the last seven years, it was a quality I had been blessed as fuck to have. I wanted as many women as possible around me. I wanted to pick my favorite and take her home.

I wanted to drown myself in pussy.

But last week, all of that had changed.

I wasn’t that man anymore. Shit, I didn’t even know who I was.

As I sat here with a tumbler of scotch, staring out onto the beach, for the first time in all these years, I wasn’t looking for a woman to bring up to my bed.

I wasn’t engaging in conversation.

I didn’t even want her to glance in my direction or coat me in visual attention—something I always craved since eye-fucking was the first step of foreplay.

Because what I wanted was Brooklyn.

And only Brooklyn.

It was that thought, that realization, that caused me to lift the glass to my lips and take a sip of the amber liquor.

“Hi.”

There it was—the initial start-up. Her way in. Her voice all soft and seductive, like she was hoping the small talk would lead to real talk.

This was what I’d been trying to avoid all along, which was why I’d chosen this particular spot since it wasn’t around anyone else.

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