Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5) by Rachel Gibson

you.”
    Only seven thousand? Mark glanced up from the computer monitor on his desk. He looked over his shoulder and raised his gaze past his assistant’s big breasts covered in shiny gold ruffles, up her throat, and into her blue eyes. Today she wore a short, crazy-colored skirt, probably “Pucci,” and a pair of big wedge sandals that clunked across his floor when she walked. Her clothes were toned down, for her.
    “Are you going to answer them?”
    It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate hockey fans, he certainly did, but he hated writing a short grocery list let alone seven thousand e-mails. “No.”
    “You could send out one mass thank-you. I really think it’s the decent thing to do.”
    “Good thing I don’t care what you think.”
    She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I’ve also been asked if you plan on playing in the Chinooks’ celebrity golf tournament this summer?”
    She was like a gnat buzzing around his head, annoying the hell out of him. Too bad he couldn’t swat her. If he thought for one minute that a good swat on her ass would offend her and she’d go away, he might be tempted. It was just after eleven A.M . and he was tired as hell. His physical therapist, Cyrus, had stopped by earlier and they’d worked out for an hour in the gym upstairs. But that wasn’t the only thing causing his fatigue. He hadn’t slept well the night before because he hadn’t taken his sleeping medication. Partly because he wanted to see if he still needed it and partly because he didn’t want any more freaky dreams where the assistant popped up.
    She tilted her head to one side, and the ends of her bright reddish-pink hair brushed one side of her soft neck. “Did you hear me, Mr. Bressler?”
    “Unfortunately, yes.” He turned back to the monitor and looked at the real estate property in Newport Hills. It was on the water and he wasn’t interested. Living close to any water was damn buggy. “I’m not playing this year.”
    “Why? You’ve always played in the past.”
    “I can’t play one-handed.” Which wasn’t necessarily true. If he wanted to play, he’d play holding a club with his teeth.
    “I could help.”
    He almost laughed, and clicked on the next property she thought might interest him. “Yeah? How?” Stand in front of him and hold the club with her right hand while he held it with his left? He thought of her back pressed against his chest, his nose in her hair, and his hand just above hers on his nine iron. His brain skidded to a halt at the double entendre, and an odd weight settled at the top of his stomach.
    “I could look into special clubs.”
    The weight was so unexpected it disturbed him. Probably because he recognized it. He hadn’t felt anything like it in a long time, but he knew the heavy pull for what it was. “A club for disabled players? No thanks.” The last thing he wanted was to feel any sort of anything for the assistant. It wasn’t like he was opposed to feeling desire for a woman again, just not this woman.
    She leaned forward and pointed to the condo on the screen, and he was forced to look at her small hand and the smooth skin of her fingers and palm. She kept her nails short, and without any sort of color. Usually he liked color. His gaze slid to the delicate blue vein of her wrist. She was so close that if he wanted, he could press his mouth to the inside of her bare elbow. She was so close that he was surrounded by the scent of her perfume. It was kind of flowery and fruity, just like her.
    “The view out the windows is spectacular,” she said and leaned a bit closer. Her hair fell forward and her soft breast brushed the back of his shoulder. The weight in his stomach slid a few inches lower and if he didn’t know better, he’d suspect that he was about to get turned on.
    “I don’t want to live downtown. It’s too noisy.”
    “You’d be high and wouldn’t hear it.”
    “I don’t get the good drugs anymore. I’d hear it,” he said, and brought up a