by Olivia Chase
I feel like he and I made a genuine connection though. And in truth, it sucks to be recognized for my effort…then told to give it up and let it go.
I sigh. “I’ll work harder on reducing my learning curve so I can start contributing in a real way.”
“I know you will.” His hand continues to touch me for another moment, and then he pulls it back. Sits up and looks around for his clothes.
I sit up too, suddenly feeling every inch of my nakedness. I guess this is the part of the night where he goes back to his room and I stay here and overanalyze the entire encounter. “Um, so…are you really going to reassign me to someone else? I mean, if you want to and think it’s best for the company, that’s fine, but—”
“If you think you can handle working with me, we can continue,” he says evenly. But he’s not looking at me now. He’s slid off the bed, and I take a moment to enjoy his very fine, very naked body before he gets dressed again. Will this be the one and only time I see him like this? Naked in more than just the physical way?
The thought is a little depressing, and I make myself shake it off.
Ryker faces me, and gone is the wild man who just made love to me. In his place is the cool, confident businessman I met. The walls are back up between us, and I try not to dwell on the fact that I’m stinging with disappointment. “Gotta get back to my room and crash. Meet me tomorrow morning at eight, okay? Gives you a little time to sleep in before we fly back home.”
Right. Sleeping in. As if I’m going to sleep much tonight at all, given what just happened. I smother a snort. This is my world now, and it runs at all hours of the day and night. I fight the urge to cover my body with a blanket and just offer a nod. He’s seen all of me—no point hiding it now. Even if I am feeling super self-conscious.
Ryker leaves without looking back, the door clicking softly behind him.
I pad to the bathroom and pee, then draw a bath. My muscles are sore in the most delicious ways. But I can’t focus on that. I need to be practical and think about what just happened. I slept with my boss. Did I throw my career into jeopardy for that?
A sharp twinge of guilt swirls in my stomach. Shit. What do I do now?
I dump a packet of lavender-scented bubbles into the running water. Because I can. Because for tonight, I can experience luxury and self-care. And because my poor brain is overrun with questions…and concerns.
The Ryker I crushed on was a fantasy. Someone who was larger than life, a godlike sports figure. Not human, not attainable. It was safe to have feelings for him because I didn’t know him, not personally. He could never hurt me that way.
Now I’m actually getting to know him. Hell, we just slept together—I’d say that’s more than just “getting to know.”
I slip into the hot, bubbly water and give a sigh at how good it feels. The tub is deep and welcoming, and the scent calms me, encompasses me. I scrub my body all over, and it’s totally fine that I’m basically erasing any evidence of what happened between me and Ryker. Totally fine.
Ryker the baseball player was a fantasy. I know that. I was okay with that.
But Ryker the boss is a reality. A man I’m starting to develop real feelings for, despite how crazy quickly it’s happening. I can see the depths in him, the way he doesn’t let anyone get close enough to see the real him beneath the business exterior.
Could it be due to the tragedy that occurred when he was just a boy? His mother murdered in cold blood…surely that has to deeply scar him. It would explain some of the inexplicable wall that I keep seeming to hit with him.
Or maybe that’s just how he is built, maybe I’m reading too much into every little thing between us.
Regardless, I think it’s rare for anyone to pierce through his walls and see the man.
I did tonight, even if briefly.
Yeah, I’m developing feelings for him, but it won’t lead anywhere good for me. And the knowledge makes my chest hurt in a weird way I don’t want to acknowledge.
The bath suddenly isn’t as relaxing anymore, but I linger in the water anyway until my fingers and toes are pruny. Rinse off, wrap myself in a warm bathrobe. Head back to bed and slide between the sheets. The room feels different without him here. Like some of the light left when he did.
What is Ryker doing right now? Is he thinking about me? Is he asleep? Is he torn, wondering what is going on between us? Was this a one-night stand, or will sex happen again? And would I even want it to?
I think about the arousal I experienced when I looked down and saw his face between my thighs. The sheer pleasure in his eyes as he feasted on me. The way he touched me like I was a previous flower.
Oh, yeah. I’d definitely want to do it again.
Ryker
I stare up at the ceiling and groan. Guilt batters at me, relentless.
What the fuck did I just do?
All that talk in the bar about how I was going to be honorable and respectful, not be a dirt bag. And then what do I do? I drag her up to her room and fuck her senseless. And got fucked senseless too in return. Jesus, that woman is dangerous for me.
Inexperience practically oozes from her pores, but she didn’t let her shyness stop her from getting what she wanted. Pleasure. And with one look from her sultry eyes, I would have moved the heavens to give it to her. I wanted her to know exactly how good it could feel. To be pushed past the brink of self-consciousness and explode.
So very noble of me.
Like I wasn’t getting something in return. Admittedly, I had a mega ego rush when I found out she lusted after me during my pro ball years. But then, watching her respond to me on the plane…how she sank into the moment and let me talk her through an orgasm…
And then tonight, when I just couldn’t fucking keep my hands to myself. I had to taste her. Plunge into that hot cunt. She was so perfect, so right and responsive and hungry. I wanted to wreck her and burn myself into her skin, to mark her. I’ve never had that impulse before.
Why her? Why now? Worst time, and the worst person to happen with.
I keep seeing her earnest smile in my mind, her face as she stood up to me, not backing down. Her eagerness and wit and intelligence. And those gorgeous eyes, those plump lips, that honeyed skin…
Fuck.
I need to step back from this, now. Before it gets worse. I can still taste her, still smell her on my skin. That’s probably not helping.
I get up and strip. Shower. Enough of this bullshit. Yes, I crossed a line. A huge line. But that doesn’t mean I need to keep crossing it. I dry off and go to bed, listlessly flipping through channels on the flat-screen TV mounted on the opposite wall. If Andrea was here with me, I wouldn’t be watching this shit. I’d be fucking her until neither of us could move.
I instantly banish that line of thought.
Andrea is a professional, and I’m going to treat her that way. Despite the fact that I swear I can still smell her on me. Despite the fact that I can hear her soft sighs in my ear, feel her warm body pressed against mine.
I click on some late-night show and will myself to focus on it. Doesn’t work. I grab my laptop and flip it open. Check emails. Set up appointments with potential clients. I may have to consider expanding my clientele base, developing better contacts to suit them. Maybe I can bring on an agent or two who deals in gymnastics, or other Olympic sports? Tennis?
First, I need to do more research in those fields. Learn them inside out. I type up a note to myself outlining short-term and long-term goals to help grow the company. I already have a lot of sports endorsement connections, which helps. Most athletes want some form of the big four anyway—sneakers, sports drinks, autos, and clothing. Not to mention public appearances.
After a couple of solid hours of research, I craft a list of cold contacts—managers, team owners, and the like—to reach out to. I’ll get Andrea involved in this as well. It’ll be a good way to keep her away from me, and busy.
Rebranding might not be the worst idea. It’ll at least keep reven
ue coming in while we stave off damage.
It’s late when I finally shut my laptop, eyes bleary and tired. Thankfully, I fall into a dreamless sleep.
Monday morning, I am in control. Prepared. Andrea’s email is set up now, so I sent her the list of contacts I want her to get further information on for me. She’s going to be buried in her elbows in research. I also pointedly inform her that I want those sent to me by email, with very specific parameters for presentation.
I’m being nitpicky. A bit of a dick. But it’s better this way.
My cell rings. It’s my grandmother. I draw in a steadying breath. “Hello.”
“Look, he’s alive,” she says.
I give a flat chuckle. It’s always like this when she calls me—because I’m so busy, I rarely make it home anymore. I already know what we’re going to discuss. She’s going to confirm that I’m coming to dinner and I’ll try to back my way out of it—because I really am so busy—and she’ll guilt me into coming anyway.
“So when will you be here?” she asks without preamble. “I want to get dinner on the stove in time.”
I pause.
“Ryker,” she warns. “It’s been six months since I’ve seen you. That’s long even for your standards.”
“You are aware that I’m in an incredibly difficult situation right now, aren’t you?” I spin my chair around and face the windows, staring at the cloudy skyline. The sounds of traffic honking is muffled but there.
“Your grandfather and I do know how to read, you know,” she says primly. “Doesn’t excuse you from your obligations. I thought we raised you better than that.”
A good, sharp dig at me. I smother the urge to huff out a hard sigh on the phone. “I’ll try to get out early.” It’s a good four-hour drive to get home, and they’ll push for me to stay overnight. And then they’ll push and push for information on what I’m doing, who I’m seeing, am I ever gonna settle down.
There’s a reason it’s been six months since I visited. We don’t get along well.
My grandparents were saddled with a young, wild boy and didn’t know what to do with me. My mother was gentle and sweet, and I heard growing up how easy she was to raise. As opposed to me, the rebellious hellion.
“I’ll have dinner ready at seven,” she says and then hangs up.
Fuck. Somehow, she always knows how to get to me. Rattle me. Few people can crawl beneath my skin that way. But Grandma and Grandpa know all my weak spots.
I call Marietta into my office and tell her I need her to rearrange my schedule so I can leave at 2:30 today, and odds are I won’t be in until lunchtime tomorrow. Then I get back to work.
Hours pass. My growling stomach makes me realize I skipped lunch. I dig a protein bar out of my desk and devour it quickly. Maybe I should place an order for delivery? I’m pondering the question when there’s a brisk rapping at my door.
“Come in,” I say, not looking up from my computer.
The door opens, and in walks Andrea. She’s wearing a pale pink sweater and black pants, and her eyes are hooded. “I had a question about the list you sent me.”
“Email it to me,” I tell her and fix my attention back on my laptop. God, I’m being such a dick. But it’s better for me to force distance here. At least for now until I can stop remembering how good she felt under me. On top of me. Her head thrown back…
Her voice is tight. “I already did. You didn’t respond.”
“Then I’ll get to it when I can,” I clip back.
“Ryker—”
I fix her with a hard stare. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are filled with emotion I don’t want to analyze. “Andrea. It’s better this way. Please. Go back to your office and communicate with me the way I requested you to.”
A muscle in her jaw ticks as a flash of anger lights on her face. But she gives a stiff nod and leaves.
I whoosh out a breath. Fuck. I have so many knots in my shoulders from all the stress and tension I’m carrying there. How the hell am I supposed to get through this shit in one piece?
I’ll do it because I have to.
A few moments later, Marietta comes in without knocking, bearing a bag from a nearby deli. “I noticed you haven’t left your office. Figured you might be starving. Pastrami on rye, no mustard or pickles, with chips.”
I give my first genuine smile of the day and take the bag. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says with a raised brow, but I can see she appreciates my praise. “Is there a problem with the new girl?”
I narrow my eyes at her as the smile slides off my face. “No problem. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“I just ask because she left your office like a bat outta Hell,” she continues, ignoring my latent threat. “She was mighty pissed.”
“It’s fine,” I growl. Damn Marietta. She’s been with me since day one and feels that somehow entitles her to chime in on my business. Okay, probably because she is entitled—she saved my ass numerous times during those early rough years when I made rookie mistakes, double-booked appointments, and so on.
If she ever wanted to, she’d make a helluva sports agent. But she’s happy working with me as my assistant, and I’m lucky.
“Keep in mind, she’s new,” Marietta says gently. “She’ll figure it out fast. She’s smart and eager. I recognize that look on her face. You were like that too when you started.”
I know she’s trying to help, but her words make me feel like an even bigger pile of shit for how I’ve treated Andrea. How could I have fucked her? Huge mistake. I can only do what’s right now.
Marietta must read something in my eyes, a rare moment of me dropping my guard, because her lips thin. “Hmm. Okay, just let me know if you need me to help out with her.” And with that, she’s gone.
Fuck. Did she see? Is it written all over my face? Who else in the office will figure it out? Jesus, less than a week and shit is already getting out of control. Enough of this. I gotta finish work and get the hell out of here. Time to go irritate my grandparents.
I pull my Maserati into the driveway of my grandparents’ house and stare at the steering wheel, steadying myself to go inside. It took me a solid two years to convince them to move out of their small two-bedroom brick bungalow into a bigger place. They protested—they didn’t need more room. They couldn’t afford the upkeep anyway.
I bought the house, promised to hire assistance. They visit there a couple of times a year and consider it their “vacation home.” Even though it’s only twenty miles from where they live.
I guess their ties to this place are too deep.
Not me. I was ready to get the fuck out of here when I could. College and ball became my saving grace.
I finally exit the car when I can’t stall any longer and stroll up to the front door. Knock. I don’t feel comfortable letting myself in. This isn’t my home anymore. Never really was, despite moving in here when I was eight. The knot in my chest is tight—it won’t go away until I leave here tomorrow.
Grandpa opens the door. He gives me a quick smile and hug, then glances over my shoulder at my car. Here it comes. “Another one, Ryker? How big is your garage?” Grandpa has made sure to offer me financial advice every time I come over. “Maybe invest in bonds. Those are steady moneymakers.”
I don’t want to remind him that I already have done that, and this car was a special treat to myself for helping Damon snag a big client endorsement with Pepsi last year. The commercial went viral online, bringing in more revenue than anyone expected. Of course, Damon fled with all the money….
I move past him and head inside. Instantly I’m hit by the smells and sounds of my childhood. Grandma in the kitchen, fussing with the oven and clanking pots and pans on the stove top. The low hum of the heater. The television on in the living room—most likely set to whatever game is playing. Grandpa’s a huge sports fan and that was the biggest bond between us as I grew up.
Grandma and I didn’t even have that.
I head i
nto the kitchen, which is still in the same 90s color scheme of dark green and purple—the last time they did a renovation in the house. Kiss her on the cheek and offer a bottle of wine. “I’m here and on time.”
She gives me a brisk hug and takes the wine. Looks at it and nods with approval. In the last couple of years, I’ve come to realize Grandma is a fan of red wines, so I try to find new brands for her to try. “A red blend. Should go nicely with lasagna.” She puts it on the counter. “How about you set the table?”
I’m a billionaire, with my own staff in my penthouse suite at my beck and call. When I enter hotels, they know me and cater to my desires. But Grandma always manages to keep me a little humble. I think she views it as her job or something.
I reach into the cupboards. Pull out three plates from a new set I gifted them last year. Set out glasses and silverware. Grandpa moves back into the living room and I hear his groan as he settles into his old recliner. I bought him a really expensive one a few years ago.
It sits in the corner of the room, unused. I overheard him tell Grandma it doesn’t feel comfortable because it isn’t broken in. It was on the tip of my tongue to yell out that it would be comfortable if he actually used it.
But what good would that do me? They think I’m trying to buy their love, make up for the years of me being a shithead.
Maybe I am. I don’t know. Maybe I just feel obligated to help them because they took me in, even though they’d already raised my mother.
I look up at the dining room walls. And there she is, her fourth-grade face, surrounded by hair the same color as mine. So familiar, yet so removed at the same time. I can barely remember her in real life; it’s been twenty-two years since her death. My most vivid memories of her now are sitting in this house and seeing her everywhere.
It hurt when I was younger. Now I’m just numb to it. My grandparents cling to her memory to keep her alive. They never understood that this place felt like a funeral home to me. Being surrounded by her and missing her but knowing she was never coming back…a special kind of hell for a kid.