Haven: Gah. I love otters.
Sloane: Everyone loves otters. And a good Shiraz. And you’re missing both.
Haven: I am the worst friend in the world.
Sloane: I know. I’ve accepted it. It gives me a chance to beat you in the painting animals race. But enough about the amazing otters I’ll paint. Good luck this weekend. And by good luck, I mean good fucking luck resisting Josh “Sexy Pants” Summers.
Haven: It’ll be easy this time. Vaughn Channing will be there, and so will Alicia and Jackson.
Sloane: There were people in Vegas too. And yet you didn’t resist him.
Haven: That was different. We were in a hotel. It gave off that hotel sex vibe. Anyone would give in.
Sloane: And what if the house in the Hamptons gives off a beach sex vibe?
Haven: See Item 1: Alicia, Jackson, Vaughn. Plus, I devised a whole new plan for Sexy Pants.
Sloane: And that plan is?
Haven: Be friendly. The grr, I hate you conversations only fueled the hate sex. So, I need to do the opposite to douse my desire—be kind. :)
Sloane: Kindness is good.
Haven: It is! I’m going to focus on friendship, getting along, and all that jazz. Brilliant, right? Anyway, paint some pretty otters for me this weekend. Send me pics.
Sloane: Tell you what. I’ll send you a report on my otters, and you send me a report on your otter.
Haven: Did you just call my lady parts an otter?
Sloane: I did.
Haven: The otter is closed this weekend.
Sloane: As it should be. But just in case someone flips over the ‘Closed for Business’ sign, I’ll be here with my wine and paintbrush, waiting.
Haven: There will be no otter report. And no reports on anything else. Because there will be no sex. No hate sex. And no not-hate sex.
Sloane: So, hate sex with Sexy Pants is a thing of the past?
Haven: Absolutely. The last time made me realize it’s so much more than hate sex. And if it happens again, I might tell him everything.
17
Josh
The car arrives on Friday at eleven thirty.
Alicia said she wasn’t sending it till eleven forty-five, but I had a hunch, so when the sleek black vehicle pulls up early, I’m curbside, dressed for the Hamptons.
Fucking Hamptons.
Fucking Alicia.
Fucking jumping through hoops.
And Haven.
But I’m primed today. I’m prepped. It’s been a perfect week of not thinking of her.
It’s been work every day, dinner with Jason and some friends one evening, courtside seats at Madison Square Garden the next, then on another night, a bowling game at a cool retro bowling alley with one of the linebackers I rep. Good friends, good deals, and some entertainment. I even watched Inception again while riding the elliptical the other night. Yes, the entire film. That was a helluva workout. I had a ton of frustration—I mean, energy—to burn.
And not once did I think of Haven.
How could I? My week was packed like a socialite’s suitcase for a trip to the south of France.
With my overnight bag slung over my shoulder and aviator shades on, I head for the door of the limo, but the driver scurries around and grabs it first. “Let me get that for you, Mr. Summers.”
“Thank you very much,” I say then slide into the back seat, expecting to see Haven, since she lives in Chelsea and he’d logically have picked her up first. But she’s not here.
Vaughn Channing is though. He’s a twenty-something wunderkind who’s surprisingly laid back for a guy so driven. I was sure with his combo of chill personality, sharp eye for talent, and dedication to clients that he’d rise to the top at CMA. Instead, he departed for Dick Blaine’s agency.
His smile is huge, and he stretches across the limo to shake my hand. “Hey, man, it’s been a while. How the hell are you?”
“Good to see you.” That’s mostly true. The guy did leave to work for someone who’s a nine on the asshole scale, and I’m not sure I like that, but I do like Vaughn. “How’s it hanging?”
“Low and to the right,” he answers.
I laugh. “Better than high and tight.”
He grins, and it feels like old times in the office, when he’d swing by to chat. “Did you see that epic free throw last night?”
We shoot the shit about basketball for a few blocks, since we can always talk sports. Obviously. He has the same passion for it that I do, the same love of the game. Vaughn moves on quickly to music, mentioning a nightclub he likes, and he’s chattier than I expect, darting between topics almost like he’s covering something up.
That possibility nags at me.
I don’t need to dig too deep into Vaughn’s business, but since I have no problem giving straight talk to general managers, it’s time to do the same with a former colleague.
“How the hell is it working with Dick Blaine? Didn’t hear much from you after you left. I admit, I was shocked you’d gone to his shop.”
He heaves a sigh and drags a hand through his short dark hair. Then he gives a what can you do shrug. “Ever make a decision you regret?”
“Gosh. No. Never.”
“Yeah, same here.”
“So that’s not a ringing endorsement of the Dick?”
He blows out a long stream of air. “Look, it’s a long story. There was a girl, and yada, yada, yada.”
I laugh. “It’s always about a girl, isn’t it?”
He stretches across the limo to offer a fist for knocking. “It’s always about a girl. Girls make you lose your head, don’t they? You do things you’re not so sure you’d have done otherwise. And then you spend the better part of a year untangling yourself.”
“True that,” I say, and that’s as far as I want to trudge in that minefield. I’m not about to ask for more intel. He’s the competition now, and even if we have girl trouble in common, we’re both vying for the same prize this weekend.
Wait. I don’t have girl trouble. How the hell could I have any girl trouble? I’m single as the day is long, and Haven is not on my mind whatsoever.
Except when we stop at—what the hell?—the W Hotel, I do have girl trouble.
As in, jealousy trouble.
Why are we picking Haven up at a hotel?
Who did she spend the night with? And why isn’t he me?
Wait. Hold on. Those thoughts are not allowed in my head. I don’t care who she’s spent the night with.
She gets in the car wearing casual clothes, no zipper skirt or heels, just a yellow sundress with a pink flower pattern. Her sandals reveal coral-pink toenails.
She’s so goddamn beautiful, and I hate the effect she has on me—the way my skin heats up, my throat goes dry, and my heart thunders in my chest.
Her chestnut hair spills out in waves from beneath a straw hat, and everything—every single thing—about the look is in complete contrast to her business attire.
And it’s thoroughly enticing in a whole new way.
It’s warm and inviting, and so is her smile. She flashes it first to me, saying hi, then she sits next to Vaughn as she sweeps off her hat.
I grit my teeth. Lucky asshole.
“Vaughn! How the hell are you?” She throws her arms around him. Really lucky asshole. “I haven’t seen you in so long.”
“A year. Don’t I know it. Missed you, girl.”
“Missed you too. We need to talk more. Catch up.”
Vaughn gives her a duh look. “Um. Yeah. I’m missing all your epic advice on girls and gifts and family and every-damn-thing. It’s killing me, Smalls.”
She pats his arm, and the dragon of envy beats its wings and breathes fire as she says, “Don’t you worry, Channing. Your very own advice columnist is here for you.”
I clench my fists. Why the fuck is she so chummy with Vaughn? He works for the enemy, the guy who uprooted her chance at a promotion. Was she even close with Vaughn when we all worked at CMA?
A memor
y surfaces from before those epic two weeks Haven and I were together. A bunch of us went out for drinks, and Vaughn and Haven laughed and joked about the differences between playing professional sports and repping pro ballers.
Is this the whole only an athlete knows what an athlete wants dichotomy? The reminder that this is her ace, that she’s tight with an agent who’s also a former player?
I bet it is.
I bet she’s psyching me out.
And I won’t let it get to me. I’m done being riled up by her.
As they chat, I grab my phone and answer messages, reminding myself to stay in the zone.
The phone keeps me busy till we’re out of Manhattan, and soon Vaughn is yawning, popping in earbuds and saying cars have always made him sleepy. “If I crash, I trust you guys won’t draw dicks on my face like my teammates did?”
I wiggle a brow. “Tempting. Very tempting.”
Haven holds up her hands. “I make no promises.”
He shrugs with a smile. “I’ll take my chances.” He eyes the entire back seat longingly.
Haven gets the message. “I’ll switch.”
“Thanks, girl.”
As she moves next to me, Vaughn stretches, and a few minutes later, he’s out cold.
It’s just us.
And I’m just fine.
Doesn’t matter why she’s chatty with Vaughn. Doesn’t matter where she was last night. Doesn’t matter if she’s psyching me out.
“My mom was in town. And my little brother. I stayed with them at the W,” she says, offering up that tidbit as if it’s something she wants me to know. And I like knowing it.
“Oh,” I say, trying to strip the delight from my voice. “That sounds fun.”
“We had a good time. Went to dinner at a new French place. We found it almost as suitable as bistros in the homeland.”
“‘Almost’ is high praise from you,” I say, feeling the tug of a small smile as some of the jealousy slinks away.
But there’s still the issue of the sleeping dude. I tip my forehead to Vaughn. “So, you’re friendly with the competition?”
The corners of her mouth curve up, an amused grin. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to play nice with both friends and rivals, Josh?”
She has me there. “Fair point.”
“He’s a good guy,” she adds, then eyes my khakis and short-sleeve button-down. “Also, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in Hamptons gear before.”
I glance at my getup. “I prefer a suit and tie, but hey, this is better for the weather.”
“The casual look works.”
It feels like a compliment. A friendly sort of compliment, different than the ones we’ve given each other in the past.
“Thanks,” I say, meeting her gaze. “Your casual look works too.”
“Thank you.” She leans in closer. “Confession: I love the beach.”
“Why is that a confession?”
“Hello? Snow queen here. I can’t let my beach love ruin my mountain cred.”
I drop to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll always be a mountain woman to me.”
She arches a brow. “You do know how unsexy that sounds?”
I laugh. “Were you trying to be sexy when you brought up your mountain cred?”
“No, actually. But it did sound totally unappealing.”
“Don’t worry. You still sounded sexy to me,” I say. Resistance is futile.
A flush spreads over her cheeks, and she lowers her head. This is the shy side of Haven. It’s so strange that she has one. Such a bold woman, but there’s a part of her that’s still so . . . girly.
And like the rest of her, it’s irresistible. I gesture to her dress. “Also, you look . . . really great in a sundress.”
She fingers the hem of the skirt. “Thanks.” Her voice flutters, as if she likes the compliment. A lot. She takes a deep breath, shakes her head like she’s shaking something off, then points from me to her. “Also, what the hell is this?”
“What is what?”
“Are we getting along?”
I wink. “No way. We would never get along.”
“Right. Never.”
“So, that’s definitely not what we’re doing,” I say with a smile.
“That’s what I thought. We’re just passing the time, right?” she says, a little grin on her face.
“Passing the time on the ride to the Hamptons.” Since not fighting with her is going so well, I add, “This whole weekend is odd. Don’t you think?”
“It is, and that’s why I better win,” she says playfully. “Especially since I’m missing my painting class.”
I cock my head, intrigued by that nugget of info. “You take a painting class? Are you serious?”
“Surprise, surprise, right? I go with my friend Sloane.”
“That’s so not you. What do you paint?” I ask, trying to picture Haven in a spattered smock, a paintbrush in her teeth as she studies an easel. The image doesn’t quite gel.
“It’s definitely not me, but I wanted to expand my horizons. Push myself. Plus, it’s wine and painting, so that helps.”
I recite one of her mantras. “Wine makes everything better.”
“And when I’ve had a glass or two, I’m convinced my hedgehogs and otters and foxes rock. Want to see them?”
“I would love to.” I mean that from the bottom of my heart. This is a whole new side to her.
She takes out her phone, slides a thumb across the screen, and shows me some shots of simple paintings. They aren’t Picassos, but they’re cute.
“That’s impressive. A woman of many talents.”
She lifts a brow, a curious look in her eyes. “What’s your hidden talent?”
“You know my hidden talent,” I say in a dirty tone.
“What do you mean?”
I inch a little closer. “Giving multiple Os.”
She trembles. “You are quite good at that.” She taps my thigh. “But I meant other talents.”
“But that’s a good talent.”
She meets my gaze, her eyes a little darker. “It’s a great talent,” she whispers. “But it’s not hidden from me. Tell me a talent I don’t know about.”
I hum, considering, then hit upon it. “Don’t tell a soul, but I can do a few kick-ass hairstyles.”
“On you?”
“No. Please. On women. Did you forget I have three younger sisters?”
“Why did they teach you to do hair when they had each other, plus your parents?”
“I lost a bet in eleventh grade.”
She laughs loudly. “You and your losing bets. What was it over?”
“A game of Scrabble. I bet I’d win, but my little bookworm sister, Amy, beat me. She built onto my E and spelled ‘maximize,’ thoroughly decimating me. So, I had to learn to do hair.”
Haven flicks a few strands of her lush hair. “So, you could do my hair in a twist?”
The thought sends a wave of heat through me. I nod. “I can do a twist.”
Another flick. “A French braid?”
The flames lick higher. “That too.”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “A ballet bun?”
And I’m roasted. “Yes.”
“How about Princess Leia buns?” she asks, defusing the sexual tension.
But only a little, because as I stare at her face, I heat up. “Yes, and you’d look beautiful. Like you do every single time I see you.”
And this right here is why I think I’m going to lose the bet, the client, and my whole damn mind.
She holds my gaze, her lips parting, her shoulders rising and falling. “So do you,” she whispers.
If Vaughn weren’t here . . .
If we weren’t rivals . . .
If my phone wasn’t buzzing with a text . . .
Fuck.
My phone is buzzing with Dom’s text notification sound. I grab it and click on the message.
Dom: Good luck this weekend. Get him for us. Get him.
Yes, the reminder. Business. I need to think of business, not of Haven’s hair, or Haven’s face, or of the sweet side of her that makes me forget everything else.
I need to focus on the fact that getting along is better than firing arrows. “This is better, right? We’ll be able to manage business better without slinging mud at each other.”
“It’s so much better,” she says.
* * *
When we arrive, Alicia greets us with a smile the size of the sky. Decked out in running shorts and a sports bra, she points this way and that, showing us the guest rooms. Vaughn calls dibs on the first one, and Alicia tells him to go for it. She guides Haven and me to the other side of the house.
“That leaves these rooms for you two. Haven, take this one,” Alicia instructs.
“Works for me,” Haven says.
“And this is for you,” Alicia continues, showing me my room.
I’m right next to Haven, a Jack and Jill bathroom connecting the two rooms.
“Just make sure to knock before you go in,” Alicia says, then laughs. “Or you’ll get more than you bargained for this weekend.”
I push out a chuckle.
Haven seems to do the same. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Let me show you the view.” Alicia returns to the living room overlooking the deck, and we follow her there. She waves to the beach. “I have to run down to the end of the beach and take some pictures of Jackie while the light is perfecto. Be back in two hours.” She gestures to the deck. Stairs lead down to the pool below. “You guys can relax or nap or sunbathe. Or you can enjoy the pool. It’s the perfect temp. Ciao.”
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