Overnight Service (Always Satisfied Book 4)

by Lauren Blakely

  She grins like the devil then pats my chest. “I was thinking the bet is on.”

  “What are you talking about?” I furrow my brow, like I can throw her off the scent.

  She chuckles. “You are so cute when you play dumb.”

  Fuckkkkkkkk.

  I say nothing. What could I say to that?

  “I’d say the object of the bet is evident, wouldn’t you?”

  I heave a sigh then strap in, offering her my hand. “Jackson Pierce. You’re going to look great, eighty-eight.”

  We shake on it officially. “Get ready to sing my praises at Wimbledon.”

  I straighten my shoulders. “So we’ve found ourselves a new rising star to pursue.”

  “And you’ll need to catch up.”

  “What do you mean?” My stomach drops.

  She tilts her head to gaze up at me. “Why did you think I said yes to this panel? I met with him before I saw you tonight.”

  When we reach the eleventh floor, she steps out then turns back. “Also, the whole excuse you gave? Calling the office then denying it? You can do better. I knew what you were up to the whole time.”

  “Good for you, connecting the dots. I would expect nothing less. And if the tables were turned, would you have told me what you were doing? I don’t think that for a second.”

  She stares sharply at me. Her lack of a response is her answer.

  “That’s what I thought. We’re both in business. We’re both competing for the same fish.”

  “And I’ve got one hell of a fishing rod, Summers.”

  “I told you, Haven. I already conceded. Your dick is bigger.”

  She lets go of the door and saunters down the hall, stopping at the first door on the right.

  I should be thinking about the competition.

  The bet.

  The all-consuming need to win Jackson.

  Instead, I’m thinking of earlier and Haven’s three perfect words.

  I wanted to.

  8

  Josh

  It’s a Haven lovefest the next day.

  I’m not jealous in the least.

  Not when Lily gushes on stage during the Negotiation Skills panel over Haven’s performance in the Olympic Games.

  “That has to help when you’re negotiating,” Lily says. “The fact that you know what it’s like in the heat of the moment, to have everything on the line.”

  Haven nods crisply. “I do think it helps, and I would urge anyone considering a career in sports marketing to do some research to truly understand the mind of an athlete.”

  “That’s a great point.” Lily turns to me. “Now, Josh, how do you get into the mind of the athlete when you’re negotiating for them?”

  No way am I playing into this mind-set. Time to take the conversation where I want it to go. “That’s honestly not my goal, Lily. I don’t try to get into the athlete’s head. I’m trying to make the deal work for everyone. For my client, first and foremost. But if the deal doesn’t work for the team or the marketer or the brand, then it won’t come together. My goal is to make it work for all parties.”

  “Good point. You always want to try to find common ground,” Lily says, seconding me.

  “A deal isn’t always about finding common ground,” Haven pipes in. “The key is to be strategic when negotiating. Be tough. Stare down deals as fearlessly as you would a mountain, then haul ass down the hill like you’ve got nothing to lose. That’s how you conquer it. That’s what I bring to table: I know what it’s like to set everything else aside, to devote twelve hours a day to your body, to your sport, to the competition. I understand that intimately, from deep inside my soul.” She takes a beat, meets my gaze, then says, “In many ways, when it comes to agenting, only an athlete can truly understand what an athlete needs.”

  Sucker punched. She fucking sucker punched me in public.

  And it’s not like I can point out that I played college ball, because I’d look like an idiot.

  I’d look exactly like the type of jackass who puffs out his chest, and says “hey, gold medalist, look at me.”

  “Whoa.” Lily’s eyes widen. “I have to imagine Josh disagrees.”

  You have no idea.

  I clench my fists, imagine I’m in yoga, even though I hate yoga, then do my best to channel Jason’s advice.

  Be calm. Be cool. Don’t ever let someone know they got to you.

  Fuck that.

  The gloves come off.

  I lean back, cross my legs, and smile. “You have that on me, Haven. No argument there. I can’t compete with a gold medal. But,” I say, raising a finger, “I’d argue that a law degree matters more. A helluva lot more. The business is all about deals, and as agents, our job is to strike the best ones. It’s not about who can keep pace on the slopes or at the gym. It’s about who delivers the deals. Knowing the law is the only thing that helps with that. Let the current athletes make the goals, hit the homers, win the medals. We’ll make the best deals for them so they can focus on the field.”

  A bell chimes, the cue that the panel is ending. Lily jumps in. “There you go. There are two sides to negotiating. Both bring their own benefits.”

  Lily ushers us offstage, thanking us. “Guys. Wow. That was great. The way you brought such contrasting viewpoints. It’s everything I could want in a session. I can’t thank you enough for being so vocal and opinionated.”

  “It was a pleasure,” Haven says with a smile then a whisper for Lily, “And I do hope you enjoyed your engagement present.”

  Lily blushes. “More than I ever imagined I would.”

  “You go, girl.”

  I don’t even want to ask. They can play their girl games, and I won’t care.

  I leave before either one of them can say more, and before I say something I regret.

  9

  Josh

  At dinner with the rising star, I say nothing I regret. I say only things I mean.

  I am on fire. I am the motherfucking man. Because I am not letting Haven win this bet, nor this battle, nor the game.

  I am playing at peak performance over drinks and sushi then over a few rounds of poker with Jackson and Lucas.

  I push Haven out of my mind. Hell, I shove all thoughts of her out the goddamn door.

  I laser in on the potential client, and it works. Plus, Jackson is a zero on the asshole scale, and I like that.

  At the end of a game of poker, Jackson raises a glass toward me, flashing a smile that makes him look like a young Taye Diggs. “You sure know how to show a couple of guys a good time.”

  “Glad you had fun,” I say.

  “But do you think we’re having more fun than Alicia is having at the Magic Mike Live show?” Lucas says, teasing his friend.

  Jackson growls. “If that’s where she is, there’s no way she’s having fun.”

  Lucas cracks up. “If that’s where your woman went for the girl’s night out, I can guarantee she’s having a blast.”

  Jackson pats his flat stomach and flexes his arms. “I can go toe-to-toe with those Magic Mike guys.”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, I don’t think it’s the toes the ladies are interested in,” I deadpan.

  Both men laugh, and Jackson points at me. “Oh that’s good. That’s very good. And you’re damn good with business too, Josh Summers. You’re making me rethink everything. Every single thing.”

  I smile. But I don’t let myself get too cocky. Everything could change tomorrow. “That’s the goal, man. I’m telling you, I will take care of you. Everything you need.”

  “I’m all for that, man,” Lucas says.

  “I know, I know. I just need to talk to Alicia.”

  It’s like when the guy test-driving the Ferrari says he needs to talk to his wife. The mention of the woman can kibosh any deal.

  But you can’t let it. You need to deal with it head-on. “Definitely. Bring Alicia in. Talk to her. I’m happy to chat with her anytime too.” That’s the key with any overly involved girlfrie
nd or boyfriend. Make them feel welcome, then actually welcome them.

  Jackson shakes my hand. “Awesome. Appreciate that. We will set something up soon. She’s the best, man. I am lucky to have her watching my back.”

  We say good night, and on the long walk back to my room, I fire off a text to Jason, telling him he’d be proud of me for using his scale for assessing business potential.

  His reply is classic, long, and sarcastic.

  Jason: Dear Diary, Josh Summers here. You’d be so proud of me. I’ve learned everything I need to know about life from my good friend Jason. He is so smart. And so handsome. I want to be just like him when I grow up. Also, I swear I didn’t think about that someone I used to sleep with at all today. Not when I did the session with her. Not before the session. And not after. I don’t think about her at all. I’m just thinking about how awesome my buds are. Love, Josh

  Josh: You really are a terrific dickhead.

  Jason: I’m the best. The absolute best.

  I close the text and vow to keep Haven out of my head as I hit the hay.

  Normally, I sleep like a guilty man—easily, quickly, and deeply.

  When lights dim in the movie theater, I snooze. Lower the seat on the plane, and I’m down for the count. So at midnight in this Vegas hotel room, with a downy-as-fuck comforter and a mattress that is practically giving my back a massage, I ought to be comatose till the morning light streams in.

  Instead?

  I’m as tense as a verb form.

  I can’t stop replaying the panel.

  I can’t get her out of my head.

  How the hell do people deal with insomnia? Reading this thriller is only winding me up more. A bubble bath? Please. Guys don’t take baths unless the tub is full of ice and they just threw more than one hundred pitches.

  I glance at the time. I have an early flight and back-to-back meetings in New York to finalize the details of Alfonso’s trade. I don’t have the luxury of insomnia, so I’m going to have to do what I do with every problem I encounter.

  Deal with it head-on.

  And that problem is one floor away.

  I get up, tug on some jeans, pull on a T-shirt, slide my keycard into my back pocket beside my wallet, and drag a hand through my hair. Grabbing the door handle, I stop, turn around, and take a look in the mirror.

  Nice. I look damn good, and that’s exactly how I want to look when I see her. Not because I want to impress her. I just want her to always know what she’s missing. I’m thoughtful like that.

  I head for the elevator, stab the button, and zoom one floor down. I march along the hall, fueled by determination to get to the bottom of her comment today. Why the hell would she say that onstage in front of an audience?

  Only an athlete can truly understand what an athlete needs.

  When I reach her door to the right of the elevator, I raise my fist to knock.

  Wait.

  Could she be in there with a guy?

  I flinch at the thought, then an unexpected, red-hot fury lashes through me.

  I grit my teeth. I need to get her out of my mind. That’s why I’m here. To extricate her from my head.

  I rap hard.

  A few seconds later, she opens the door, just enough to peer over the chain lock. Her eyebrow climbs. “Funny. I don’t remember ordering room service.”

  “Yeah, I’m here with your French fries and tomato soup. Would you like to let me in so I can serve them to you?”

  She tilts her head to the side, hmming, then answers, “I don’t think that’s what I ordered though. I specifically requested a contrite chocolate cake with humble strawberries on the side. I think you’re going to need to try again with a big fat slice of apology dessert.”

  I point down the hall. “Great. I’ll get two forks. I’ll even pour two glasses of cold milk, and we can sit and discuss what went down today. But I’m not apologizing for calling you out on your comment, and you know that.”

  She laughs. “Of course not. Apologies aren’t your style.”

  With steel in my gaze, I answer her. “Nor are they yours. You could say we’re a lot alike in that regard.”

  “Too alike,” she mutters, then clears her throat and unhooks the chain. “You really should have brought a peace offering, Summers. But since I’m enjoying how you showed up at midnight to grovel, I suppose I can let you do it. Proceed. Grovel.”

  The door inches open another sliver.

  “I’m not here to grovel. You know why I’m here.”

  “I can’t read your mind.” She takes a beat. “That’s probably for the best though. I’m sure it’s a dark, dark place up there.”

  “As is yours,” I fire back, then I ease up because more bullets won’t help. “Look, I’m here because we have things to discuss. Last night we agreed to talk it out at the bar, and then that all fell to hell today. We need to get this shit sorted because, like it or not, we’re going to keep running into each other.” I stare at her, stone-faced. “Can you open the door the rest of the way?”

  She laughs, that husky, smoky sound that once drove me insane. Still does. Everything she does drives me wild. She’s earned her gold medal in getting under my skin.

  “But you didn’t actually ask to come in,” she says. “You just showed up at midnight and knocked. I thought you wanted to have a door conversation. Was I wrong?”

  “Fine. I see how it’s going to go.” I press my palms together in a plea. “Haven, will you please let me in?”

  She gives me a saucy little look and purses her lips. “Mais oui. Since you asked so nicely. Do come in.” That accent sends a bolt of lust straight down my spine. I bet she knows it too. She knew it was my Achilles’ heel when I was with her.

  Hell, she was my Achilles’ heel.

  She swings open the door, and I step inside.

  “Merci beaucoup.”

  She lifts her chin and gives me a sexy, sultry look. “Oh, have you been working on your French? It seems you’ve improved. Admit it, Summers. You’re trying to impress me. Tell the truth.”

  My God, she’s never getting the truth. She’s never going to know what I said to Dom about how I feel for her. I mean, felt for her.

  Now, though, the truth is, as I stand there in the foyer of her hotel room, taking in what she’s wearing, I want her as much as I did before.

  With just as much ferocity.

  More, actually.

  So much more.

  She’s wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt, and neither of those hides her toned, trim, muscular body. Even her skirts with the sinful zippers aren’t as sexy as this—nothing is sexier on this woman than clothes that accentuate her power. Her strength was a gift she treasured and knew what to do with. She nurtured and developed her gift, and that’s one of the greatest things anyone can do with a God-given talent—she used it to its fullest.

  I rip my gaze away from her arms and legs and look back to her big brown eyes. “You want honesty? Here it is. What the hell? We agreed last night we would do our best to keep the toxic cloud of hate fumes away from us. So why the fuck would you say that when it comes to agenting, only an athlete knows what an athlete needs?”

  “Only an athlete,” she repeats, slipping into that French accent like it’s a scarf she can toss on and off. It sends shivers down my arms. “Why does it bother you? You were an athlete too,” she adds, but quickly taps her finger against her lips. “You shouldn’t feel bad that you don’t have an Olympic medal. Just like I don’t feel bad that I don’t have a law degree, as you so thoughtfully pointed out onstage, over and over and over.”

  “You know a law degree does come in handy with contracts,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “And you made that clear. I’d argue that a law degree matters more,” she says in an eerily accurate imitation of me. She taps my chest lightly. “So, really, I’d say we’re even.”

  “‘Even’? Why did you say it in the first place?”

  “Because she asked me a question. Because I belie
ve it. And because you and I are competitors. You never let me forget it.”

  But I don’t agree with her assessment. “You don’t want to forget it. You’re a fucking Olympic gold medalist. You love competition.”

  She sighs, conceding my point. “Fine. I do. But you’re just as ruthless.”

  I smile wickedly. “Thank you. I’ll consider that a compliment.” I take a deep breath. “But we had a truce. We had an agreement.”

  “Ah, let’s review our agreement, then. It’s that we could hate each other in private but not in public?”

  “The understanding was that we wouldn’t publicly try to undermine each other.”

  She takes a step closer, stepping into that accent again. “So what are we allowed to do in private, then? I’m just not clear on what the rules are. Because the rules seem to change with you all the time. In private we should cut each other? And in public, we suck up? Maybe we should write these rules down.”

  I can barely think straight with her this close to me, and I’m starting to regret coming to her room. Because she’s in my space, and everything about her is a red-hot distraction. “I’m talking about common courtesy. And part of that—”

  “Yes? Part of that is what exactly?”

  I stop, trying to shake off the absolutely intoxicating effect of her. “Why the hell are you talking like that around me? Are you trying to turn me on?”

  She’s inches away, and I breathe in all that delicious honey scent. It swirls around my head, toys with my brain, and tangos with my libido.

  She arches a curious brow and gazes at me far too seductively for my own good. “Does it turn you on? I didn’t realize it did that for you.” Her eyes travel up and down my body. “Or maybe that it still does.”

  I inhale sharply, trying to clear her from my mind, an absolutely futile effort with her so damn close. She is my mind right now. She’s the only thing in it, on it, and around it, but I have to get her out. “Haven, I thought we were trying to move on.”