waiting for a month for you to come home. Leave Rocki to Slater for the time being. We’ll know soon enough if I’m right—and I haven’t been wrong yet.”
Bree shook her head. “You’d better be careful, Pete. People don’t like feeling like pawns on a chessboard of your own making. No matter how right you are.” She leaned over the desk, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and swiped the cigar right out of his pocket before turning on her heel and slipping out of the office.
It was a damn good thing he had more where that came from. He just prayed that Bree didn’t make good on her threat to talk to his suppliers.
• • •
Slater drove to Rocki’s place and searched for a parking space as soon as he turned onto Mott Street.
“You can park here.”
“In the loading zone?”
“It’s fine. I know the owners—they’ll say I’m waiting for a delivery.” She got out of the car, went to the restaurant, stuck her head in, and spoke to one of the women by the counter.
Slater waited on the sidewalk and then followed her up to her apartment.
Rocki opened the door, and when he stepped in behind her, he was greeted by a wall of shoes—the entryway had nothing but shelving from floor to ceiling. The floor space in front looked like a Payless after a blowout sale. Shoes were scattered hither and yon. There were so many bright colors it made his head hurt.
He couldn’t imagine what one person did with that many shoes. He had his running shoes, his biker boots, and a pair of hiking boots. That was all he needed.
Rocki pointed to the door at the end of the hall. “Bathroom’s through there if you need it.”
The hallway opened into a large room containing a baby grand piano, a twin-sized daybed with rumpled sheets, a dresser, and a small bistro table and two chairs. Clothes littered just about everything. There were two laundry baskets beside the bed, one full of clothes in a heap, and the other containing neatly folded clothes.
“Do you want a water?” She pointed to a kitchenette so small it looked as if there was just enough room between the oven and the refrigerator to open the oven door—maybe. “I don’t have much else. There might be a yogurt or something in the fridge, but do yourself a favor, check the expiration date before you dig in. The last thing I need is a chauffeur with food poisoning.”
So he was a chauffeur, huh? He gave her a look that said
no-fuckin’-way
, but didn’t voice his opinion. He didn’t need to.
Her return volley was an expression that told him in no uncertain terms, he could think anything he wanted. In her mind, he was nothing more than a glorified cabbie. Great. “No, thanks. I’m good.” And he was, when it came to just about everything, including sex—he was good for way more than a ride.
She cleared the clothes off one of the bistro chairs and tossed them on the bed. “I’m just going to pack a few things.”
He slid his laptop out of the messenger bag he was never without and sat down at the bistro table. “Do you have Wi-Fi?”
“No. I use the restaurant’s. The password is
chopsticks
.”
“Original.”
She shrugged and raided her dresser, pulling out all the small silky things he’d spent the last week imagining. She had all the colors of the rainbow in her lingerie drawer. She definitely wasn’t the white-cotton-panty type—not that there wasn’t something to be said for little white cotton panties. Or none at all. He shifted in his seat; the last thing she needed was a freakin’ chauffeur with a raging hard-on. Not now at least.
Rocki got on her hands and knees to search beneath her bed, her black leggings hugging and accentuating her long legs and heart-shaped ass. The oversized T-shirt or dress she wore—he wasn’t sure which—slipped over her hips and showed off the dimples on her lower back and enough pale, smooth skin to make his mouth water and his jeans tight. Shit.
She rose, pulled a bag out from under her bed,
Bree shook her head. “You’d better be careful, Pete. People don’t like feeling like pawns on a chessboard of your own making. No matter how right you are.” She leaned over the desk, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and swiped the cigar right out of his pocket before turning on her heel and slipping out of the office.
It was a damn good thing he had more where that came from. He just prayed that Bree didn’t make good on her threat to talk to his suppliers.
• • •
Slater drove to Rocki’s place and searched for a parking space as soon as he turned onto Mott Street.
“You can park here.”
“In the loading zone?”
“It’s fine. I know the owners—they’ll say I’m waiting for a delivery.” She got out of the car, went to the restaurant, stuck her head in, and spoke to one of the women by the counter.
Slater waited on the sidewalk and then followed her up to her apartment.
Rocki opened the door, and when he stepped in behind her, he was greeted by a wall of shoes—the entryway had nothing but shelving from floor to ceiling. The floor space in front looked like a Payless after a blowout sale. Shoes were scattered hither and yon. There were so many bright colors it made his head hurt.
He couldn’t imagine what one person did with that many shoes. He had his running shoes, his biker boots, and a pair of hiking boots. That was all he needed.
Rocki pointed to the door at the end of the hall. “Bathroom’s through there if you need it.”
The hallway opened into a large room containing a baby grand piano, a twin-sized daybed with rumpled sheets, a dresser, and a small bistro table and two chairs. Clothes littered just about everything. There were two laundry baskets beside the bed, one full of clothes in a heap, and the other containing neatly folded clothes.
“Do you want a water?” She pointed to a kitchenette so small it looked as if there was just enough room between the oven and the refrigerator to open the oven door—maybe. “I don’t have much else. There might be a yogurt or something in the fridge, but do yourself a favor, check the expiration date before you dig in. The last thing I need is a chauffeur with food poisoning.”
So he was a chauffeur, huh? He gave her a look that said
no-fuckin’-way
, but didn’t voice his opinion. He didn’t need to.
Her return volley was an expression that told him in no uncertain terms, he could think anything he wanted. In her mind, he was nothing more than a glorified cabbie. Great. “No, thanks. I’m good.” And he was, when it came to just about everything, including sex—he was good for way more than a ride.
She cleared the clothes off one of the bistro chairs and tossed them on the bed. “I’m just going to pack a few things.”
He slid his laptop out of the messenger bag he was never without and sat down at the bistro table. “Do you have Wi-Fi?”
“No. I use the restaurant’s. The password is
chopsticks
.”
“Original.”
She shrugged and raided her dresser, pulling out all the small silky things he’d spent the last week imagining. She had all the colors of the rainbow in her lingerie drawer. She definitely wasn’t the white-cotton-panty type—not that there wasn’t something to be said for little white cotton panties. Or none at all. He shifted in his seat; the last thing she needed was a freakin’ chauffeur with a raging hard-on. Not now at least.
Rocki got on her hands and knees to search beneath her bed, her black leggings hugging and accentuating her long legs and heart-shaped ass. The oversized T-shirt or dress she wore—he wasn’t sure which—slipped over her hips and showed off the dimples on her lower back and enough pale, smooth skin to make his mouth water and his jeans tight. Shit.
She rose, pulled a bag out from under her bed,
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