Overnight Service (Always Satisfied Book 4)

by Lauren Blakely

  “‘Dressed down’ it is, then.” She casts her gaze toward my computer and the angled screen, then leans in close to whisper, “Joshie, were you being naughty?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She drops next to me in the seat. “You’re such a scofflaw. I can’t believe you were watching porn on a plane.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not watching X-rated videos on the plane.”

  She nudges me with her elbow. “Fine. Tumblr. We all know it’s one and the same.”

  “And yet I’m not.”

  She gives an if you say so shrug. “Okay, but you have the whole Tumblr screen angle thing down pat. You dirty boy.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “Yes, you caught me. I was watching Tumblr. Any chance you could grab me a blanket so I can whack off under it?”

  “Why bother with a blanket? Just go au naturel.”

  “You’re right. I’ll whip it out and rotate the drive head right now.”

  A laugh bursts from her throat, but she catches it before it goes on too long. “If you insist.” She glances to the couple in the row across from me. The woman wears yellow pants, a white silk blouse, and pearls around her neck. She sits stiffly. The man sports a cravat. A pipe sticks out of his sports coat pocket.

  Haven drops her voice to a church whisper. “They won’t be offended. They’re planning on nabbing their fifth time in the mile-high club on this flight,” she says, spinning a story about these random strangers, which is something we used to do.

  This is better than fighting, so I go along with it. “Please. They’re in the double digits.”

  She studies them, the anthropologist in her element. “True. It’s always the ones you least expect.”

  I tip my forehead to the flight attendant arranging bottles in the galley. “He’ll find them though. Bang on the door. Make a show of calling them out. It’s his method-acting practice for his next audition.”

  “For a police procedural.”

  “Naturally.”

  She wags a finger at me. “All the more reason for you to be careful. He’ll try to bust you for your tawdry little habit.”

  I swivel the screen in her direction, flicking it open higher. “It’s just email. Nothing tawdry.”

  “I don’t know,” she says suggestively. “Some emails can be quite racy.”

  I arch a brow. “Been sending dirty emails, Haven?” As soon as I say it, a semi-truck of jealousy slams into me. Is Haven involved? I haven’t heard anything to that effect, but she’s a private woman. She kept us private. She wouldn’t tell me if she was seeing someone.

  Now I’m greener than a stack of hundred-dollar bills. I do my best to deflect my feelings, tossing the barbs back at her. “Maybe you want me to bring you a blanket.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she murmurs, but her tone . . . it’s different. Breathy. Bordering on sensual. I cock my head to the side, curious as a thousand cats. Is she aroused by this talk of self-love? If she is, I’m not surprised. She was shameless in that regard, and I fucking loved it.

  And just like that, I’m remembering the time she asked me to come to her room when we were traveling. She’d said the door would be unlocked for me at precisely midnight. “It’s a fantasy I have. I want to let it play out.”

  I’d gone to her hotel room, so damn eager for her midnight fantasy.

  When I went in, she lay on the bed, her brown hair fanned out on a white pillow. She’d worn one of those skirts that drove me wild, and on top, she only had on a white lace demi-cup bra. Her skirt had been pushed up to mid-thigh, her legs wide open. Her hand played beneath the waistband of her lacy white undies.

  I was swallowed whole by desire.

  I’d never witnessed anything sexier in my life.

  Until she kicked it up a notch.

  “Watch me,” she’d whispered, letting her knees fall open wider.

  As I crawled onto the bed, I groaned so loud the next county could’ve heard. “You act like it’s possible for me to look away,” I said as I set my hands on her ankles, gazing at the hottest sight ever.

  Right now, I can’t look away either. We’re sitting here, face to face in two leather seats, talking all around the topic of pleasure. Even if we’re joking, even if we’re lobbing insults, I still read sex and fire in her eyes, the same wild desire I feel when I get close to her.

  It’s dangerous. So damn dangerous.

  My throat is arid as a desert, and I want to ask, Do you remember that night?

  But that’s not how this works.

  That’s not how we work.

  Not now and not ever.

  Even before our fling, we weren’t soft and supportive coworkers. Not office buddies or laugh-a-minute friends. We were always prickly because she was such a damn provocateur. She thought she knew better than I did, and I made sure she knew I had one job: to teach her the ropes at CMA after she’d joined from another agency.

  Except we didn’t see eye to eye.

  We needled, pushed, pulled.

  We were a textbook case of friction.

  I remember what Ford said the other day. Talk.

  I don’t know that we’re ready to hash out the shit that went down before, during, or after our affair, but I know this: I need to get as far away from sex and zippers and memories as possible. So I grab the steering wheel and take a sharp detour, squealing down a side road that surprises even me.

  “How’s your mom?” That is the only safe topic right now. “Is she doing better?”

  A soft smile seems to tug at her lips at the mention of the person she adores, the woman she’s credited her success to. “She’s great. She got an all clear at her most recent appointment.”

  “That’s awesome. There are no better words in medicine than ‘all clear.’”

  “I know,” she says, her voice catching. “I was so worried about her.”

  Her mother battled breast cancer two years ago, and Haven helped take care of her, bringing her to appointments and sitting next to her during her chemo.

  “Understandable that you’d worry. I’m glad she’s better though. Your dad must be too.”

  “He’s very happy,” she says, then sighs with relief.

  “Have you seen them recently? Sunday dinner in Westchester?”

  She smiles. “Just last weekend actually. And I took her shopping. We had a blast.”

  “I bet you did. Is she back to writing her travel blog?”

  “She is.” When she talks about her mother, her face lights up with a pure kind of joy. “She just went to Niagara Falls and wrote a piece on—” She stops, narrows her eyes, cocks her head. “Wait. Why are you asking about my mom?”

  “Because she’s your mother?”

  Her expression hardens. “Were you listening to me on the phone?”

  And this is what I get for trying to play a safe card. “I was not eavesdropping. I heard you say ‘maman,’ so I’m asking. And if it was so goddamn private, why were you having the conversation on the plane?”

  “I didn’t say it was private. I asked if you were listening. There’s a difference,” she whispers harshly. “And don’t act like it’s such a strange thing to ask if you were listening. Not after what went down when I left.”

  “Haven, I had nothing to do with that shit, and you know it.”

  “Do I?”

  “You ought to. And look, all I heard was you talking to her. I wanted to know how she was doing. It was a legit question borne of a legit concern.”

  She sighs then shakes her head. “I’m sorry. My fault. Sensitive topic. All of it.” Her tone softens again. “But thank you for asking. Better topic than Austin or masturbation.”

  I laugh at her frankness. “Yes, let’s not discuss either of those.”

  “We could discuss our bet,” she suggests. “For the next rising star. Or have you forgotten it?”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to wriggle out of it. I can’t wait to see you wearing that T-sh
irt singing my praises.”

  I narrow my eyes, going mano a mano with her. “You’re going to look so good in my number eighty-eight jersey.”

  “You. Wish.”

  “I do wish. And my wish will come true. So, do you have someone in mind for our rising star bet?”

  Her dark eyes shoot are you kidding rays at me. “You think I’m going to let on? Not a chance. It’ll be obvious when it’s time. But don’t think for a second it’s Austin.”

  I scoff. “Of course it’s not Austin.”

  She arches a brow then hums. “So you signed him, then?”

  I laugh at her cleverness. “Was that your way of trying to find out?”

  “Um. Yeah. Duh.”

  I lift a brow. “Do you really want to know?”

  “I do. I really want to know.”

  I could go full peacock and tell her I signed the guy yesterday. I could make some dig about how I can do a better job than she can. I could strut my stuff and cock-a-doodle-do and tell her he’s the latest in a string of clients I’ll win.

  All of those are better than the truth—that he’s one of those athletes I’m not wild about but will manage to rep. That I can’t stomach how he talked about her. That I hate that Austin wants to fuck her. That I hate that anyone wants to have her, and I hate that anyone might.

  Instead, I do what we always do.

  Needle.

  Push.

  Pull.

  “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t,” I say, playing coy.

  “Gee, thanks. I’m sure it’s so hard for you to tell me.”

  But just as I’m about to tell her I’m repping him, the actor-turned-flight attendant ambles over. “What can I get for you two? Oh, I see you switched seats, Ms. Delilah.”

  “I’m heading back to mine,” she tells him sweetly. “But white wine would be great.”

  “And for you, sir?”

  “I’ll take a whiskey, and I need a Coke for the lady in 2B.”

  “Coming right up.” The flight attendant spins around, heading for the galley.

  Haven arches a brow. “A Coke?”

  I pat the armrest of her seat. “She asked me to grab one for her.”

  “You’re so nice to perfect strangers.”

  “Would you like me to pretend you’re a stranger?”

  She stares at me intensely. “You don’t want me to answer that, do you?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She sets a hand on my arm. “But thank you for asking about my mother.” She points to her seat. “And now it’s wine o’clock.”

  When she stands, I hear Ford’s words again. Talk it out.

  I make a go of it. “If we were strangers . . .”

  She jerks her gaze to me. “If we were strangers, what?” Her tone dares me to say something.

  “If we were strangers, I would buy you a drink,” I say, attempting to play nice.

  She gestures to the galley. “I guess it’s a good thing they’re free, then, in first-class. That means you wriggled out of that.”

  So much for talking it out.

  Trouble is, there’s a part of me that likes it this way, likes the not talking it out.

  There’s a part of me that likes it too damn much for my own good.

  6

  Haven

  I would have liked to take him up on that offer. I would have loved to have a drink with him. To talk more. That’s the trouble. That’s always the trouble. And that means it’s time to add a new set of rules to my handy rule book.

  On the ride to the hotel, I start a new list of rules.

  Haven’s Rules for Resistance

  1. Maybe next time, don’t make a joke about DIY habits.

  2. Or maybe just don’t laugh at his comebacks on the topic of giving yourself a hand.

  3. And don’t be so lured in by his family chatter. He was always like that. It is how he was trained.

  4. Safer topics to discuss with Josh Summers: The awesomeness of snow. The benefits of composting. France’s contributions to culture.

  5. Or to be safe, let’s just avoid him, shall we?

  That’s all well and good but there’s that little matter of my schedule and what’s coming up next. Drinks with him in an hour. But the reporter moderating the panel will be there, so I won’t be alone with him when I go to the Lily Bar and Lounge. That means I won’t let a single bit of innuendo fall from my lips.

  But when I arrive at the bar, I mutter Merde under my breath. She’s not here. Where the hell is that woman?

  No idea, so clearly it’s time for whiskey.

  7

  Josh

  As I exit the elevator, I finish reading the email from Dom telling me that Lucas Weylan, Jackson Pierce’s best friend and the de facto head of the tennis star’s entourage, is supposed to be here at the Bellagio tonight.

  The rest of his note reads: I talked to Lucas earlier. They love sushi, but I presume you know that.

  I reply as I walk: I do know that. And I will find him and romance him with the freshest raw fish in the city of sin.

  I’m about to tuck my phone away when I spot a message from Lily, the reporter we’re meeting tonight, and I read it as I weave past the baccarat tables with their sharply dressed dealers and equally sharp gamblers.

  Hello, Josh and Haven! I’m running five minutes late—please forgive me. Hold a stool at the Lily Bar for me! (No relation!)

  That’s hardly late at all. But that also means I might have to see Haven solo again.

  It’s too much to hope she’s running late too. Haven is never late. She’s always ten minutes early. Just like me.

  I enter the Lily Bar and Lounge, an opulent establishment with panoramic views of the swank casino that’s my favorite in all of Sin City. That’s not only because the Bellagio and I are tight—I won twenty grand here a few years ago in a blackjack tournament. But also it reminds me of one of the best flicks ever: Ocean’s Eleven. That’s the kind of movie that made me wonder if I should have gone into the entertainment business instead of the sports business. But I love sports too much to do anything else but negotiate top-notch deals for pro athletes.

  I loved any sport as a kid. I loved playing football in college.

  And I love striking deals for ballplayers as an adult.

  Sports has always been my happy zone, and the reason long work hours feel short to me.

  I make my way across the bar, girding myself for more torture in the form of Haven. Patrons drape across plush ottomans and velvet lounges, and electronic music pipes through the place, but it’s not too loud. It’s just right for background music.

  Haven is perched on a stool, a glass of scotch in her hand. She’s changed from the flight. She’s wearing a simple black dress with no visible zipper.

  Shame.

  Wait. No, that’s a good thing. One less distraction.

  With a now-familiar cocktail of dread and desire in my stomach, I stride over to her and park an elbow on the bar. “This is my favorite casino.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I flash her my best movie-star grin. “You’ve got three pairs. You can’t have six cards! You can’t have six cards in a five-card game.”

  She regards me inquisitively, then snaps her fingers. “Brad Pitt. Ocean’s Eleven.”

  “One of the top-five best flicks ever.”

  “And the reason this is your favorite?”

  “I’d say that’s reason enough.”

  She raises her glass. “Good reason. Good movie,” she says, then downs more of the amber liquid. She sets the glass on the bar and gives me a plastered-on smile. “How was your day?”

  I drag a hand through my hair. “We don’t need to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “The bullshit banter. The banter at all.”

  She breathes an over-the-top sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. I was so worried we were bound by some rules I wasn’t aware of.”

  Another veiled, or not so veiled, r
eference to the rules CMA has about promotions and how they’re voted on.

  I shoot her a look, then I force myself to stare anywhere else but her carved cheekbones, her full lips, her deep brown eyes. I scan the crowd, counting gobs of men and women, men and men, women and women. They’re dressed down and dressed up to the nines. They’re drinking and laughing and chatting.

  None of them look like they want to cut each other to tatters.

  And maybe it would be better like that.

  Maybe it’s time Haven and I hashed it out.

  Ford could be onto something.

  But before I can assemble those words, Haven goes again, with a note of resignation, “Also, we don’t have to sit together while we wait for Lily. It’s not necessary. We don’t have to pretend we’re colleagues or that we like each other.” She heaves a sigh like the fight is nearly too much for her as well, then takes another swallow of her drink.

  My jaw tightens, and I’m desperate to sling a comeback at her.

  But Ford’s words echo louder.

  Talk it out.

  “Haven,” I say, sitting on the stool next to her, “what would you say to talking it out?”

  She nearly spits out her drink, coughing.

  My lips quirk up. I can’t help but laugh. “It’s not that funny.”

  “You want to talk it out? You never wanted to talk about anything.”

  “What? That’s not true.”

  She stares at me like I’m an exhibit at the zoo, a giraffe walking on two front legs. “You didn’t even try to talk to me about what happened.”

  I blink, shaking my head. “You didn’t want to talk! I called, and you said, quote, ‘You better have a damn good excuse, like you were stuck under a bus during the voting.’”

  She straightens her shoulders. “And you weren’t stuck under a bus, were you?”

  “No, but I bet you wish I had been.”

  The bartender swings by. “What can I get you?”