You're All I Think About_Second Chance Romance

by Scarlett Avery

  Clearly, this case is going to be vastly different from the others.

  “I have no bloody idea how I'm going to get through this,” I mutter under my breath as I peel out of my bespoke suit in favor of a pair of running shorts and nothing else. Even with the air-conditioning on full blast, I can't seem to regulate my body temperature.

  How can I?

  She looked ravishingly beautiful. I mean, smoking hot doesn't even start to describe it.

  Those long legs that never seem to end.

  That soft and supple skin that begs for my touch.

  That perfect smile.

  Those full lips.

  That silky blonde hair I just wanted to fist.

  Damn.

  “Charlotte Louise Wentworth.” I let her regal name linger on my lips.

  Yeah, my girl is blue blood.

  Scratch that.

  She’s no longer mine.

  Although I had other things on my mind, accepting Christos and Dialina’s lunch invitation was my way to keep focused on something other than Charlotte.

  Did it work?

  Not at all.

  I thought I was managing well without pussy, but seeing Charlotte again unleashed an overpowering need for me to be buried balls-deep inside her.

  Fuck.

  “Is that why you sent her my way, God? As a painful reminder?” I shout as I walk out of the bedroom and into the living room, pacing determinedly towards the bar.

  I need a drink.

  With my mind distracted, I pour myself three fingers of Macallan Rare Cask. After that unexpected run in with my ex, I need something rich and velvety that will go down easy. Expensive Scotch whisky was the only answer.

  I barely finish downing my drink when my phone rings. When I recognize a New York City area code, I pick up.

  “Barrett,” the voice on the other end booms.

  “Landan.”

  “I called Felicity to get your new number. I tried a few times, but it went straight to voicemail.”

  “My phone died, and I had to buy a new cord," I explain.

  "I see."

  "Not to mention, I had a few errands to run. I arrived at the hotel not long ago."

  "The hotel is to your satisfaction?" Landan asks.

  "Absolutely!”

  “Good stuff. What time is it over there?"

  "It's five o'clock in the afternoon.”

  “It's ten o'clock in the morning in New York and I've already been at it for four hours. I'm ready for some good news.” Landan cuts to the chase. "Tim is going bat shit crazy. He's been running around the office like a headless chicken—that’s when he’s not growling at everything that moves. As if we’re responsible for Jason Belvedere not being able to keep his dick inside his jeans. Southerners. They’re so dramatic."

  Landan Inglis and Timothy Raines are the top execs at Groove Renegade with offices in New York, LA and London. They’ve owned this trend-setting record company for over a decade and boast a string of chart-toppers. Landan grew up in San Francisco while Timothy is from Nashville, Tennessee. So far, Landan has been my point person.

  “It's understandable that he would be worried. This story supersedes everything else in the news right now," I say.

  "Tim has been trying to get a hold of the publicist, but she isn’t answering her phone. Did you see her?" Yes! Every delicious inch of her.

  “The waiting game at the precinct is ridiculous. Her phone might've died."

  "Good point.”

  "I didn't know Charlotte was your publicist?”

  “Tim deals with that side of things. Is she difficult to work with?” On the contrary. “I’m sure we can find someone else if she’s giving you a headache.” Headache? No. Blue balls? Absolutely.

  “Not at all. Charlotte is the best in the business. I just didn’t expect to see her,” I explain.

  “Sounds like you know her.”

  “You could say that,” I offer cautiously.

  "It’s not as if you two hate each other's guts, right? We have enough drama on our hands as it is."

  I'm sure she resents me. "We’re both strong-willed."

  "We need someone who's feisty and tenacious enough to fight this, Barrett."

  That's a good way of describing Charlotte.

  That standoff which stretched out for several electrifying seconds during which she bored her gorgeous hazel eyes into mine had my cock twitching.

  What’s new?

  She does that to me.

  Even after six months.

  I had to get out of that precinct like my suit was on fire to resist the urges that were stirring deep inside me.

  Bloody hell.

  “We’ve worked together in the past to our client’s benefit," I offer.

  "I like the sound of that. So, the headlines have some truth to them? It’s not fake news?" Landan asks.

  "With a headline like, ‘BLIMEY: NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD JASON BELVEDERE’S WILD NIGHT OF SEXUAL DEBAUCHERY IN ATHENS’, there's usually more than just smoke. Those explicit photos are pretty self-explanatory."

  "They aren’t Photoshopped?"

  "I've asked an expert in my graphics team in London to double check, but I doubt it."

  "Who’s the girl?” Landan continues without giving me a chance to answer. “Fuck, those are some pretty massive knockers. And how many fucking piercings do you need on your nipples? That must hurt like a bitch." The breasts shots are only a few of the tell-all photos circulating. Jason was caught by police while getting a blowjob in a rented Ferrari 458 Italia. His companion made sure to smile for the camera. "Jason is a megastar and he's nineteen now, which makes him an adult. I pray to God the girl is of age."

  “I’m working with a local law firm because dealing with Greek police is no walk in the park. There's still so much we don't know."

  "So, what do I tell Tim? The man's one breath away from an ulcer."

  "The local firm has their junior lawyer, Alek, digging up as much as possible. My junior lawyer, Derek, is working with me. At this point, it's a waiting game."

  “Tim hates waiting. So do I—”

  “Landan, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have another call coming through." I pull the phone away from my ear to look at my screen. "It's Derek. Let me call you back."

  "Sounds good," Landan says. "I need some good news."

  "This is an explosive situation we’re dealing with. I'd be a fool to promise good news. That said, I will keep you up-to-date," I caution before switching to Derek.

  "Talk to me, mate," I tell him when I accept his call.

  "We’re still at it. Alek is on the phone right now working his list of contacts. He's already made at least a dozen calls, Mr. Ascott."

  "And?"

  "We’ve been consistently hitting dead-end streets. I'll never complain about British bureaucracy for the rest of my life. "

  "Derek, mate, that's not what I wanted to hear," I huff.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Ascott. Everyone is tightlipped about this girl."

  "There’s always someone who's willing to talk."

  "Speaking of which, that woman was something else,” Derek says.

  Huh? “Which woman?”

  “The one you were talking to at the precinct.”

  “I thought you had left.”

  “Alek and I came back to tell you we were going to stop for lunch first, but it was clear you were busy.” I hear the amusement in his voice. "That woman is smoking hot.”

  “That woman is Jason’s publicist,” I snap, my tone sharper than I intended it to be. “We were ironing things out,” I add in a softer tone.

  “She wasn’t dressed like a publicist.”

  “Tread lightly,” I warn.

  “Pardon me for speaking my mind, but those were some really short-shorts. And those sandals…”

  “I said, careful, mate.”

  “Sorry,”

  “Charlotte Wentworth is an award-winning publicist.”

  “Wow. I guess you really can't j
udge a book by its cover," he concludes.

  “No, you can't. Charlotte’s firm deals with the biggest celebrities and top luxury brands. Four months ago, she was voted number one in the ‘PR All Star’s’ 10 best London PR firms in London. She came in at number one."

  Sue me. I've been keeping tabs on her since she refuses to return my calls.

  "I'm impressed. I guess we’re in good hands," he says.

  Yes, my mind went straight to the gutter because no one gives a hand job like Charlotte. And all I could think about as I drank her up in that sexy-as-fuck outfit was dragging her by the hair to one of the restrooms in that precinct and fucking her sweet, tight pussy deep and rough until her fingernails dug into the skin of my back.

  Instead, I agreed to keep it professional.

  I already regret that bloody decision.

  What was I thinking?

  Just colleagues?

  Just fucking kill me now.

  "Barrett? Are you still there?"

  Fuck.

  "Sorry, Derek. I have a lot on my mind."

  "I have to go. One of Alek’s contacts came through. We know which prison the girl is being held at. We’re driving out there now."

  "Call me immediately when you find something out. Anything. It doesn't matter how late it is," I tell him.

  "Will do."

  CHAPTER 6

  Charlie

  Not only do I have to get over my shock at the realization that my ex and I will be working together again, I also have to deal with how fucking hot he still is.

  I love, love, love how his square jaw is now dusted in dark stubble. Would it be too desperate of me to admit that I just wanted to run my tongue across his chin, roughened with that manly short beard?

  As if he wasn't handsome enough.

  God.

  His intense gaze held mine during the entirety of our exchange, holding me captive. Those piercing green eyes drilled into me so intently, it was hard to even breathe, let alone think. As usual, the weight of his stare was much too sensual to be legal.

  I was about five seconds away from dropping to the ground, spreading my legs open and begging him to ‘take me now’! Even as the warning bells blared in my head, my traitorous pussy was doing all the thinking.

  Has he been working out more? My money is on a new fitness regime or perhaps it’s a new diet? More protein?

  I let out a long, frustrated sigh.

  Why does Barrett always have to look fifty shades of hotter than fuck?

  My stomach twists just flashing back to that jaw-dropping bespoke suit. No one, and I mean no one, wears a suit like that man.

  Damn.

  “Charlotte.”

  I hear a woman's voice and snap back to the bustling police precinct. I look down at a pair of perplexed brown eyes.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  "You didn't hear a word I said?" Athina Oikonomakou, the translator the record company hired for me, asks.

  Guilty as charged.

  After a meeting with Jason Belvedere, Athina had to run to the loo before we set off. Given the less than desirable condition of the restrooms, I decided to wait for her in the corridor. I guess my mind wandered.

  "I'm sorry Athina, there's so much going on, my brain is trying to process it all.”

  "Of course," she smiles. "As I was saying, the guards warned me that we wouldn't be able to get a second meeting with your clients until six o'clock tonight. After an already interminable day, I'm not sure you want to hang around here for another three hours."

  After Barrett’s meeting with Jason, Athina and I had to wait another hour for the visitor’s room to free up before I was able to meet with Jason. It feels like I've been in this precinct forever.

  "You're right. I don't. I'm dying to get to the hotel," I say.

  One of the advantages of flying via a private jet was that I was able to freshen up on the plane before landing. That said, I desperately need a shower.

  "I understand," she sympathizes.

  "But first, I need to buy some clothing. The allowance money the record company gave me is burning a hole in my pocket. Not to mention that I can't stand the way these guards have been looking at me since I walked in here." Dirty perverts.

  "We can stop at a few shops on the way to the hotel, but the crème de la crème, when it comes to shopping in Athens, is near your hotel. I know we just met, but something tells me you prefer designer wear," she laughs.

  "Nonsense. I can't live in Louboutin heels 24/7. I like a pair of fashionable Converse trainers like any other girl."

  "Like I said, designer wear.”

  We both laugh.

  * * *

  Since this was the day from hell, I decided that Athina and I needed a decent meal and a drink. Okay, okay, make that three. By the time we were done and we had to contend with Athens’ rush hour traffic, it’s five-thirty when I step out of the chauffeured car.

  The second I walk into the hotel, I’m hit by its beauty and opulence. The décor is absolutely breathtaking. One thing is certain, you can’t accuse Timothy of being cheap. As I stride past other guests, I can't help but shake my head. I usually pack a smart outfit for every occasion, and here I am strolling my way to the front desk holding my only three possessions—my handbag, my laptop, and a plastic bag containing as many personal hygiene products as I could buy at the pharmacy.

  Athina was right. None of the shops she took me were to my liking. I figured I’d check in, run up to my room and then make my way to the shop located in the lobby. Athina assures me I'll be quite happy with their fashionable selections. I can always hit the stores in the neighborhood tomorrow.

  “Good afternoon and welcome to the Rhodes Royal Olympia Hotel. My name is Despina. How can I be of service today?"

  "Good afternoon, Despina. My name is Charlotte Wentworth."

  "Let me pull up your reservation," she says lowering her gaze to the screen. It doesn't take long for her eyes to meet mine again. "I have you here. Good news, your room has been upgraded.”

  “It has?”

  Wow, Timothy must feel guilty for forcing me to leave London so suddenly.

  "Yes. Mr. Ascott requested one of our exclusive rooms."

  What? "Really?" I ask surprised.

  "You were booked in our classic room, but you've been upgraded to our Grande Royal room. Mr. Ascott is one of our valued Spire Ambassadors. We go above and beyond to satisfy our elite clients and their friends. Always."

  "I'm not sure about this," I hesitate. “I have no doubt that the classic room is more than enough," I say.

  Weighing the implications, I pull my lower lip between my teeth and frown. I don't want to owe Barrett anything.

  "I'm certain you'll be more than delighted with the upgrade. It's a much bigger room and the spa-like bathroom is one of our clients’ favorites. That very deep tub is a godsend. So I've heard," she laughs. “Did I mention that we offer a complimentary selection of Bergamo Maggiore bath products? They're imported from Verona and they’re to die for. So I've heard," she laughs again.

  I was dead set on refusing Barrett's gesture, but the idea of soaking in a deep tub lathered with expensive bubbles from Italy wins me over. Don't judge, I'm completely exhausted. I need this.

  "I'll have to thank Mr. Ascott," I say.

  "Speaking of which, he left you an envelope. Let me go and grab it." Despina is back in a flash. "Here we go," she says handing me the envelope. The confident handwriting I know too well.

  "Thank you," I say.

  "I just have a few things to finish for your reservation and we’ll be ready to go."

  As she busies herself at her computer, I rip open the envelope. Barrett kept it straight to the point. He scribbled his Greek number.

  "You’re all set, Miss Wentworth," Despina announces.

  "Thank you."

  "Will you need a valet for your luggage?"

  "No. I'm traveling light."

  “That reminds me, your purchases are already
up in your room," she says with a wide smile stretching across her lips. "It so happens I was the one who accepted them."

  Huh?

  "Oh no, there must be a mistake. This is all I've bought so far," I say, lifting my lowly shopping bag.

  Despina looks up at me cautiously, like I've lost my mind.

  "There’s only one Charlotte Wentworth staying at this hotel," she tells me. "Those are definitely your purchases."

  * * *

  Come on. Come on.

  If I could will this lift to go up faster, I would.

  Just my luck, there’s a guest getting off at each floor.

  Crap.

  Clearly, in these skyscraper heels, climbing up the stairs to my floor before sprinting down the corridor heading to my room isn’t an option.

  During the ride up the lift, I pray really hard that Timothy decided to treat me for the work I've already done for their roster of clients, but the thundering in my head—and my heart—lets me know that I’m fooling myself.

  Finally, the nine floors!

  I do my best to walk as fast as possible to my room. When I swing open my door, I’m completely dumbfounded. I gasp. It's as if Selfridges and Bergdorf Goodman have exploded all over the suite. Everywhere I look, there are shopping bags. There are even two rolling racks weighed down with clothing covered in garment bags. Designer, I’m sure.

  "Blimey!"

  There's only one person in the world who would be responsible for something like this. Barrett.

  With my mouth gaping open, I drop my handbag and other belongings on the little table next to the door before shutting it with my foot. I kick off the sandals that are killing my feet and make my way to the bedroom, just to be greeted by the same treatment—more bags.

  "Has he lost his bloody mind?"

  I turn around to go back to the other room so that I can call Mr. Ascott to give him a piece of my mind, when I notice an envelope on the bed with my name on it.

  Cautiously, I approach the bed and reach for it. I don’t know why, but I bring it up to my nose in the hopes of smelling his masculine scent. After a few brief seconds, I realize how ridiculous this is and snap out of it. Instead of lingering on the past, I open the envelope.

  Dear Charlotte,