collar.
“The fuck’s wrong with you, McDevitt?”
I shook my head and scrubbed a hand over my face.
“Not a thing.”
He smirked and put his feet up on the immaculately shiny table.
“Fuck you. Remember? I don’t buy into the McDevitt charm.”
I smiled thinly.
“Don’t knock the McDevitt charm, friend. It’s the reason you’re here and not working for chump change in some asshole’s IT department.”
“Ouch. What the fuck crawled up your ass?”
“A twenty-three-year-old stripper—cocktail waitress, actually. Redheaded siren.”
He jumped off the boardroom table.
“Are you fucken serious, dude?”
I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked out over San Francisco’s business district. When I nodded, Chris howled with laughter. Fuck me. I was not used to this bullshit. I had always been the one giving my friends and colleagues shit for being melodramatic, moody fuckwads about women.
“Is that why you begged out of everything for the next week?” he asked disbelievingly.
“Call it a vacation.”
Chris shook his head.
“Mayhem McDevitt taking a vacation? Instead of taking a tour de strip clubs across the city?”
My hands clenched and unclenched in my pockets. I was really starting to hate that fucking moniker. Sure, in undergrad, I had deserved it. Oh, fuck it. I had deserved it last week. In addition to being called a bastard, I had been accused—on a number of occasions—of never growing up. Peter fucking Pan, if you will.
“So? Why aren’t we at her show? I want to check out this nubile piece of ass who’s got your panties in a twist.”
I turned around.
“Fuck off, Hanover. I said cocktail waitress, not stripper.”
I grinned wolfishly to soften the menace in my voice.
“Is she that good of a lay?”
When I didn’t say anything, he stared at me with a dumbfounded expression.
“You are fucking her, right?”
My knuckles cracked. Jesus. Hindsight hit me like a blow to the solar plexus. I could see now why Bennett had sucker punched me that day at his house.
… I could try her out and report back if that would help you make up your mind.
My words. Damn, I had been an asshole. Because I had always assumed that those who knew me best—no one truly knew me well—wouldn’t take anything I said too seriously. Now it made sense to me why Ryan Bennett hadn’t spoken to me after the shit I had pulled. It was bro’s before ho’s … until it wasn’t.
“Don’t expect to hear from me until next week,” I leered as I picked up my jacket and started walking toward the elevators.
“Right, buddy. Since when has one chick been able to keep your attention for more than five minutes? And that’s being generous.”
“Asshole,” I called over my shoulder as I pressed the button for the elevator.
I had to wonder, though: When the fuck had I turned into such a sensitive bitch? On the way back to the hotel, I called the concierge and left instructions with him to prepare the suite for after dinner. I told myself that everything I was doing was an elaborate game to get Cass Flynn into bed, and maybe it was—but I was beginning to lose sight of what I really wanted. What I wanted was usually simple, but Cassia Flynn was anything but simple.
What she didn’t know was that I had scheduled a couple’s massage, and she was registered at the front desk as my wife. The irony of checking in as a married couple was not lost on me. I stopped by the room and dropped off my jacket before walking to the spa. When I arrived at the front desk, the receptionist looked up at me with a worried expression.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. McDevitt. Your wife is nearly finished with her massage.”
I smiled disarmingly.
“Not a problem. I’ll just slip in and surprise her.”
After I signed the bill and tipped out the spa staff, the woman at the desk helpfully pointed to the door. The masseuse was just on her way out as I stepped inside. I touched a finger to my lips with one hand and held up
“The fuck’s wrong with you, McDevitt?”
I shook my head and scrubbed a hand over my face.
“Not a thing.”
He smirked and put his feet up on the immaculately shiny table.
“Fuck you. Remember? I don’t buy into the McDevitt charm.”
I smiled thinly.
“Don’t knock the McDevitt charm, friend. It’s the reason you’re here and not working for chump change in some asshole’s IT department.”
“Ouch. What the fuck crawled up your ass?”
“A twenty-three-year-old stripper—cocktail waitress, actually. Redheaded siren.”
He jumped off the boardroom table.
“Are you fucken serious, dude?”
I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked out over San Francisco’s business district. When I nodded, Chris howled with laughter. Fuck me. I was not used to this bullshit. I had always been the one giving my friends and colleagues shit for being melodramatic, moody fuckwads about women.
“Is that why you begged out of everything for the next week?” he asked disbelievingly.
“Call it a vacation.”
Chris shook his head.
“Mayhem McDevitt taking a vacation? Instead of taking a tour de strip clubs across the city?”
My hands clenched and unclenched in my pockets. I was really starting to hate that fucking moniker. Sure, in undergrad, I had deserved it. Oh, fuck it. I had deserved it last week. In addition to being called a bastard, I had been accused—on a number of occasions—of never growing up. Peter fucking Pan, if you will.
“So? Why aren’t we at her show? I want to check out this nubile piece of ass who’s got your panties in a twist.”
I turned around.
“Fuck off, Hanover. I said cocktail waitress, not stripper.”
I grinned wolfishly to soften the menace in my voice.
“Is she that good of a lay?”
When I didn’t say anything, he stared at me with a dumbfounded expression.
“You are fucking her, right?”
My knuckles cracked. Jesus. Hindsight hit me like a blow to the solar plexus. I could see now why Bennett had sucker punched me that day at his house.
… I could try her out and report back if that would help you make up your mind.
My words. Damn, I had been an asshole. Because I had always assumed that those who knew me best—no one truly knew me well—wouldn’t take anything I said too seriously. Now it made sense to me why Ryan Bennett hadn’t spoken to me after the shit I had pulled. It was bro’s before ho’s … until it wasn’t.
“Don’t expect to hear from me until next week,” I leered as I picked up my jacket and started walking toward the elevators.
“Right, buddy. Since when has one chick been able to keep your attention for more than five minutes? And that’s being generous.”
“Asshole,” I called over my shoulder as I pressed the button for the elevator.
I had to wonder, though: When the fuck had I turned into such a sensitive bitch? On the way back to the hotel, I called the concierge and left instructions with him to prepare the suite for after dinner. I told myself that everything I was doing was an elaborate game to get Cass Flynn into bed, and maybe it was—but I was beginning to lose sight of what I really wanted. What I wanted was usually simple, but Cassia Flynn was anything but simple.
What she didn’t know was that I had scheduled a couple’s massage, and she was registered at the front desk as my wife. The irony of checking in as a married couple was not lost on me. I stopped by the room and dropped off my jacket before walking to the spa. When I arrived at the front desk, the receptionist looked up at me with a worried expression.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. McDevitt. Your wife is nearly finished with her massage.”
I smiled disarmingly.
“Not a problem. I’ll just slip in and surprise her.”
After I signed the bill and tipped out the spa staff, the woman at the desk helpfully pointed to the door. The masseuse was just on her way out as I stepped inside. I touched a finger to my lips with one hand and held up
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