“Women who jump with me, that’s who.” I peer past my shoulder, wondering where the fuck that alpha macho voice came from. It was all possessive and virile like I’m warning Tyrone to step the fuck back from Jamie without words. “If you saw the gleam in her eyes, I’m guessing you didn’t miss the big-ass ring on her finger. She’s engaged, douchebag, so she isn’t wetting anyone’s dick any time soon.” I stop in just enough time to hold back my final six words—not even her fiancé’s, I hope.
He smirks a wolfish grin. “Yeah, I saw the ring. Why do you think I’m imagining what her panties look like?”
My teeth grit when he emphasizes ‘panties’ as no man should. Unlike me, Tyrone has no issues mowing another man’s turf. As far as he’s concerned, it should be in the bro-code. He believes he’s doing his brothers a favor by plucking out the weeds messing up their pristine lawns. In a way, he’s right. No one says a woman has to sleep with a guy because he flirts with her, but I’d rather he defend that logic to anyone but the woman who could decimate our business.
“She still wants to ground me, you know? Says I’m a liability to the company.”
Tyrone shrugs. “You are, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The Drop Zone isn’t for the faint at heart. If clients are coming here expecting a polished, safe afternoon, they entered the wrong address into their GPS. It’s your edge which exposes that for all to see, even women who don’t realize their missing something until you show them.”
My tongue peeks between my teeth when I attempt to stifle a grin. “Thought you said I only base jumped with her as I want to get into her panties?”
Tyrone arches a brow. “Thought you said you would quit pretending every memory was your last when you turned twenty-four. That happened months ago, yet I’m still waiting for you to uphold your pledge.” Once he has the pamphlets in a presentable order, he heads for our office to do the businessy-shit I pretend doesn’t exist, so I don’t have to gouge my eye out with a pencil. “By the way, I wouldn’t recommend logging into social media any time within the next century.”
“Why?”
Tyrone enters our office, slamming the door behind him. His eagerness to shut down our conversation has my back molars grinding together. That man should have been born as a woman in his eighties as he loves to chat.
“Goddammit, Tyrone! What did you do this time?”
He wasn’t joking when he said he makes out I have an STI to exterminate my loft. With how many so-called infections I’ve had the past year, I’m shocked I have any bed companions left to notch on my bedposts. I guess I can thank the he’ll-change-his-ways-the-instant-he-meets-me girls for that. Every woman wants to tame a playboy, even when the odds are stacked against them.
While climbing the spiral staircase of my loft, I dig my phone out of my pocket and fire it up. It’s cracked like an Easter egg, but the many messages I get each day are still visible. The first two dozen texts are the standard, hey, wanna hook up ones I get a hundred times a day. The next twenty are GIFs of women in all stages of crying, and the last five are straight-up, You’re engaged! comments.
My pulse spikes to a dangerous level. “Are you serious, Tyrone? Engaged! What the fuck!”
Even with me reaching the top of the stairwell, I can hear his chuckle. It’s thick and full of mirth. “You did see that big-ass ring, right? Easy explanation as to why you went running. No one wants their fiancée to run into the woman he just messed his sheets with.”
I grip my phone harder, fighting with all my might not to throw it at the glass box he’s hiding in. I’d march down these stairs right now if I were unaware he had fixed the lock into place the instant he slipped into his shelter. Sly fucker most likely reinforced the door with his chair too. Coward.
“I would have preferred another STI story.”
“Yeah, well, I would have preferred for you not to jump off a cliff with our business strapped to your chest like napalm, but we can’t always have what we want, can we?”
He has a point—somewhat. Won’t ever let him know that, though.
After a silent “fuck you” directed at his door, I weave through my loft that smells of sticky sheets and someone packing in a hurry. I don’t know what Olivia had to pack, but I’m certain that’s the scent I’m smelling in the air. As I make a beeline to the bathroom, I log into my emails to delete the hundreds of requests I get for an interview every time a scandalous event unfolds about me. Then I’ll reply to my brother’s one email assuring him the rumors aren’t true. Cate will blow up my phone once the stories reach her ears, and Clara is too busy being Clara to worry about what her little bro is up to.
Cate and Clara are my sisters. Cate is the baby of our family, two years younger than me, and Clara is three years older. Up until a few years ago, I would have straight-up said Clara is a thorn in my backside. Thank fuck she met someone so unlike her, she had no choice but to change. Cate is still a thorn in my ass but in a good, mischievous type of way. She’s pretty much a female version of me. She’s in her final year of college after taking a year off to do whatever people do when they take a year off.
My steps into the bathroom halt when I discover an unexpected email weaved through the riff-raff. It’s from Jamie.
Dear Mr. McGregor,
It appears as if I misplaced my satchel somewhere between the foyer of The Drop Zone and the boardroom where our meeting was held. I’ve organized a courier but thought best to seek an appropriate time for him to arrive. We don’t want another incident like the one we had this morning, even with him assuring me he’s wearing a non-buttoned shirt.
I will await your reply.
Ms. Jamie Burgess.
Her email makes me smile. It’s formal with a hint of cheekiness. It suits her well.
After shrugging off my shirt, I punch out a reply, my mood rather playful considering the way we departed.
Dear Ms. Jamie Burgess,
I found your satchel haphazardly dumped on the carpet pile when I returned home from our rendezvous today. Let me say, it was a somewhat unexpected surprise—much like its owner.
Cancel the courier. I’ll bring your satchel to you. I’ll let myself in since I have your keys.
See you once I’ve showered!
Colby Can’t-Wait-To-Hear-You-Scream-My-Name-Again McGregor.
PS: For future reference, the flooring between The Drop Zone’s foyer and our boardroom is in rustic wood. I guess you missed that fact since your focus was on anything but the decor.
Her reply arrives faster than I can remove my jeans.
You can’t come here. It’s inappropriate.
I smirk like the smug prick I am.
Inappropriate is emailing me while I’m naked. What would happen if I accidentally hit the video call button? The bathroom is extremely foggy. An error could occur.
Can you hear someone’s annoyance over an email? If you had asked me an hour ago, I would have said no. Now I’m certain you can.
You’re incorrigible!
I could formulate a reply, but it will be more fun this way. After dumping my phone onto the granite vanity, I slip into the shower, smirking about a frazzled insurance assessor and her impossible quest to get away from the big bad wolf.
* * *
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I gallop back down the stairwell. Tyrone spots me coming, the smile on my face having him unsure of whether he should duck for cover or check me for a temperature. While I hosed off the salt making my skin more pasty than normal, Jamie sent email after email after email. They all followed a similar path about us needing to maintain an amicable, yet professional relationship.
That all changed when she switched from her work email to her private one. Not going to lie, her email tag already had my lips curling, much less the threats she sent. Who knew Ms. Goody Two Shoes had it in her?
“I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon, doing damage control for the avalanche you started.”
Yep, that’s what I’m runni
ng with. I’m not visiting Jamie at her place of residence because I’m dying to know why she plays the dorky insurance assessor when her insides scream ‘wild child.’ I’m doing it purely to soothe the volatile waters Tyrone started.
Yeah, right.
If you believe that, sit down, I have a heap of tales to tell you, none of which are true.
* * *
With traffic gridlocked, it takes me longer to get to Jamie’s apartment building the second time around. After snagging her satchel off the passenger floor, I toss my keys to the valet before hot-footing it into her foyer, barely making it through the big wooden carved door when my elbow is seized in a tight grip, and I’m dragged back out.
“I told you not to come!” Jamie must have a drawer of hideous glasses as the glare she’s giving me only hits me with half its strength since it’s blocked by thick, ugly frames. “I’m supposed to be at work, not waiting around for you to gallivant across town.”
“Then why aren’t you?” When she peers up at me in surprise, I add on, “At work? If you really didn’t want to see me, your doorman could have told me you weren’t home.” When I stray my eyes to the large man with a gentle smile eyeballing our exchange from the side, he dips his head in agreement. “Seems to me you were eager to see me… again.”
She whacks me in the gut, snatches her satchel out of my hand, then whacks me again—with the satchel this time. “If I recall correctly, you’re the one who drove off in a tizzy like the head cheerleader who didn’t win the prom vote, so why the hell would I sign up for a second round of that?”
“About that…” I’m over being eyeballed by her doorman, so I guide her to the side of her building. “That’s why I said to cancel the courier. I wanted to say I’m… sorry about what happened earlier today.”
One of my words is barely a whisper, and Jamie knows it. “Did you say something?”
“I said, I’m… sorry about what happened earlier today.”
“Nope. You need to speak up. With everything going on, I can’t hear you.” She waves her hand around the empty street like we’re standing in the mosh pit of a heavy metal concert.
“I said I’m sorry about what happened today.” If she missed this one, I won’t be just replacing her glasses, I’ll be booking her in for hearing aids as well. “I acted like an ass, which is pretty much how I act around all my friends. You’re welcome. It usually takes a good two to three months of courting for me to treat you the way I did. You brought out my assholery within minutes. You could quite possibly be a new record.”
She whacks me again. Lucky my abs are made of steel, or I might have crumbled by now. “Don’t act like you know what courting is. The only court you know of is the one a basketball bounces on.”
Jamie has me there. “True, but the way I acted was wrong, so you deserve an apology.”
She appears shocked and she isn’t the only one. I can’t remember the last time I gave an apology, much less two in a row.
“And…”
Before I can shock her for the second time, the flash of a camera bulb steals my words. When it arrives with a barrage of questions, I bundle Jamie under my arm, enter the foyer of her building, then make a beeline for the elevator banks.
“Colby, is this your fiancée?”
“When’s the wedding?”
“How’d you two meet?”
“Does she know about the recent chlamydia claims?”
Out of all the questions, Jamie only hears the last one. Her eyes rocket to mine as her mouth falls open.
“It’s not true.” I shove her into the elevator before gesturing for Jamie to hit a button. It doesn’t have to be her floor, but anywhere is better than here. We’re like goldfish in a bowl being eyed from all angles.
After selecting ‘P’ for the penthouses, Jamie spins around to face me, tapping her foot like K does anytime I’m in trouble. K is my grandmother. Don’t say a bad word about her, or I’ll never speak to you again.
“I don’t have chlamydia. Never have.”
Either she has faith in me not even I have, or she’s not bothered about my STI denial because she knows we’ll never mess the sheets together. I’m not sure which one I prefer the most.
“And the engagement rumors, are they true?”
Don’t make me place my hand on the Bible, but I’m reasonably sure she’s jealous. Her pupils are as wide now as they were when her head bobbed out of the ocean, but steam is billowing out of her ears like she’s about to blow her top.
“Not true… but the paps think we’re engaged.”
She chokes on her spit. “Us! Why would they think that?” I only rub a kink in my neck, but it tells her everything she needs to know. “You made out we’re engaged!”
“Not me, specifically.” Her foot tapping doubles, urging me on. “When we fled—”
“The blonde saw us leaving together and assumed I was your fiancée.”
She’s not right on the money, but it’s close enough. “Yeah.”
I could throw Tyrone in the deep end with me, but since my nuts are still attached to my body, I let him sidestep this throw-down. It’s the least I can do after what I’ve put him through the past few months.
After the elevator arrives at the top floor, I shadow Jamie down a long hallway. My nose screws up when we enter the fancy-schmancy foyer of her home. The vaulted ceilings with crown molding aren’t responsible for my ghastly response. It’s the scent lingering in the air. Much like my apartment, it reeks of dirty sex and someone leaving in a hurry.
Now that I think about it, Jamie’s hair is wet, and she’s changed out of the clothes she was wearing when I dropped her off earlier. Her fiancé must have been so excited about her unexpected return home in the middle of the day, he took care of her needs—in under an hour. Loser.
“Anyway, now that I’ve said I’m sorry, and you know about my second dumping of the day, I better get going.” There’s nothing like the scent of another man’s spawn to make you eager to leave. “Don’t worry about the paps. As long as we stay away from each other, they’ll die down in a week or two.”
“A week or two?”
I don’t hear anything else Jamie says as I’m out her door faster than a bullet being fired from a gun.
Chapter 8
Jamie
“Colby?”
I stare at my door for several minutes, certain I didn’t imagine his visit. I can smell his manly scent lingering in the air. It’s mixed with another not-so-scrumptious smell but undeniable all the same.
After checking the hall, which is empty, I move to the large bay windows that face the street below. It appears to be as it generally is—until the quickest blur of blond darts between the alcove of my building to an idling sports car the valet just brought to the front. I could mistake him for any of the dozen Hollywood heartthrobs who live in this building if Colby didn’t peer up at me staring down at him for the quickest second. It’s him. I’m certain of it. But why did he flee? I’m not overly presentable in a plain black skirt and satiny blouse, but I’m certainly putting a better foot forward than the one I walked away from him only an hour ago. Perhaps it’s my hair? I let it dry out naturally, meaning its ringlets of curls makes it appear half the length it does when I straighten it.
Shrugging off my confusion, I move to my walk-in wardrobe to replace my shoes that are harboring seaweed. Halfway there, my phone dings with a text message.
Brad: Do I need to turn around?
I’m confused by his message until I spot a link attached to the bottom. I don’t need to open it to know what it’s about. The headline tells the story.
Forbes Top Man to Watch is Engaged
Me: It isn’t as it seems. You know reporters, Brad. They’re rarely accurate.
Take the many times they cited you as having an affair for an example. That comment wasn’t for Brad. It was to appease my anger.
Me: They photographed me leaving his office, saw my ring, and assumed wrong.
Bra
d’s message pops up just as I slip my feet into a swanky pair of Milano pumps.
Brad: Okay, then explain this.
Fuck!
I’m not a fan of curse words, but there isn’t a more appropriate one for the image attached to Brad’s text. It shows Colby and me in the foyer of our building.
Me: He was returning my satchel.
I don’t get any words with his next message. Just a picture of Colby following down the hallway that leads to our apartment. I should be panicked, but more than anything, I’m mad. This photograph wasn’t uploaded by a member of the media. It’s from the security cameras positioned around our building for the safety of its residents.
My fingers fly across the screen of my phone so fast, I’m certain my stubby nails are scratching the screen.
Me: Are you spying on me?!
Brad: Spying entails being sneaky. I was merely checking in on my fiancée.
I grip onto my phone for dear life while sucking in big breaths. My endeavor to quell my anger does me no good. Instead of replying to Brad’s text, I send my phone flying across our walk-in closet. It smacks into his pricey suits that line one wall before landing in a heap on the plush carpet that fortunately saves it from being smashed to smithereens.
I’m not overly angry at Brad. For once, it’s nice for him to think he has competition. I’m just confused. Today has been one major commotion after another, even with me feeling the most alive I’ve ever felt. I heard adrenaline does wonders for your heart—I assumed it was only needed once it stopped beating.
After a few big breaths, I gather my phone from the floor, spotting my amethyst stud earring on the way. I must have bumped it off when getting dressed in a hurry earlier. The backs are so loose they come undone all the time.
The Drop Zone Page 6