This was no normal backside. I’m talking firm, high, and shelf-like. His tight and toned back muscles narrowed in and then BAM, his ass poked out unlike anything I’d ever seen. Think Giancarlo Stanton, but better.
I couldn’t look away, nor could any other girl who walked by him.
I wasn’t alone in the lust department.
Never have been when it came to Jason Orson. Whenever I went to baseball parties, with the goal of finally talking to him, he was always surrounded by an ungodly amount of women.
But that was back in college. I doubt he looks the same, or acts the same for that matter. He’s a famous baseball player—which means he’s probably hotter.
I look away from my computer just long enough to grab a slice of apple, then back to the email.
My hand itches to open it up, to see what he’s been up to.
Maybe he gained a bunch of weight or grew a hideous beard, one of those long horrors baseball players grow for some weird reason. Isn’t their face hot? Doesn’t it get all sweaty and dirty from long hours on the ball field?
I know one way to kill my libido for the man; one of those beards. Maybe that’s what I need to see, a beard on him, and then all will be right with the world. I can get back to the Briar Hurst folder.
Yup, just one peek; that’s all.
Come on, beard.
I move the mouse to the email and hover over it.
No, I shouldn’t. Opening this email will only result in a rabbit hole of Google searching; I can feel it in my bones.
Step away, Dottie.
Taking a deep breath, I turn back to the folder, giving the bullet points another once-over.
Something, something, something, they’re ready to sell . . . something, something . . . wait, what am I reading?
Focus.
Deep breath.
The words swirl on the paper into a terrible version of a bubble butt . . .
“Oh, fuck it,” I say out loud while clicking on the email.
In the body, Lindsay wrote, “Mr. Bubble Butt himself, doing good. I dare you to be a rebel with him . . .”
“Jesus,” I mutter while clicking on the fundraiser link.
I’m a sucker for a fundraiser. I might seem hard as stone on the outside and keep a safeguard on my heart, but when it comes to raising money for a good cause, I can’t help but say yes. Then again, I make more money than I can possibly spend, I have no children, my friends only let me buy them so much, so why not help out those who are trying to do good?
At least that’s what I tell myself while Jason’s fundraiser home page opens up.
I’ve heard of Charity Hustle. It’s a great company that specializes in helping celebrities raise money while giving their fans a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I might have bid on one a while back. It was a dinner date with Emily Blunt and John Krasinski, and the only reason I did it was because I watched Emory bid on it, and I wanted to give her a bigger chance than her fifty-dollar donation. I donated two thousand dollars in hopes she would win, but she didn’t . . . clearly. Unfortunately, it’s by chance, but the more money you donate, the more entries you’re allotted. I thought two thousand would give us the win, but I should have done ten thousand.
You live and you learn.
With a quick glance past my computer to see where my assistant is, I bite into another apple slice and explore the fundraising page.
Front and center is a picture of Jason with his arm around a guy who’s holding himself up with a walker. Well, that right there opens the door to the crush I had many years ago. Not to mention the size of his biceps, the span of his chest, and the way his shirt fits tight across his upper torso but tapers and drapes over his hips.
God, look at all those muscles.
I prop my chin on my hand and sigh.
And then his gentle smile accompanied with his kind eyes. From the picture alone, I can tell he’s not like the guys I’ve dated in the past few years. If I lifted his baseball hat off, I know I’d see family man tattooed across his head.
But even so, he’s gorgeous. The only thing that’s changed about him is his bulk. Everything about him is bigger. Stronger jaw, thicker neck, more powerful chest.
Are there other pictures of him?
I scroll down on the page, skipping over the info about his fundraiser, and scan for more pictures, but I don’t see any, just the top one.
Picking up my pen on my desk, I tap it against my chin and then check out the time on my computer. Still ten minutes.
What kind of cyberstalking can I do in ten minutes?
Only one way to find out . . .
I pull up Google and start to type his name when I stop myself.
No. I shouldn’t. I’m a serious businesswoman, not a besotted college girl.
I lean back in my chair, eyes fixed on my computer, pen flipping through my fingers.
Maybe . . .
No. I mentally shake my head. Not happening. No good will come of it if you type Jason Orson shirtless into the search bar.
And you know I’ll add shirtless in there, because I’m desperate and lonely.
Did I say that out loud? No, I thought it. I’m not lonely, I’m just . . . unprepared for nighttime activities. One can only play solitaire so many times by themselves at night before it starts to become pathetic.
That’s all this is, boredom and lack of focus.
Okay. I shake my head and sit tall in my chair. Briar Hurst, let’s see what—
Oh, fuck it.
My fingers type out Jason Orson shirtless before I can stop them. I bite down on my pen, sitting at the edge of my seat as the search results load.
It’s taking so long. Mental note: ream out IT for faster Internet so I can cyberstalk faster. Although I’ll phrase my request a little differently, of course.
Pen lengthwise in my mouth like a horse bit, my fingers tapping at my desk, my excitement ready—just a little glance—I scroll the mouse over the images tab and click.
My . . . oh . . . my.
Would you look at that?
As if someone is lifting the blinds to a window that looks over Narnia, pictures upon pictures of Jason Orson—shirtless—appear in front of me.
I prop my chin in my hand and lean in even closer. Bronze, ripped muscles decorate my computer screen. A variety of “props” are sprinkled throughout every picture. A bat, weights, workout ropes, catching gear . . . backwards hat . . . a smile.
Is that . . .
Is he in . . .
Gulp.
A towel?
The pen falls out of my mouth, clattering to the desk, as my breasts unapologetically heave, sending out a Morse code to my finger.
Click.
Click.
CLICK GODDAMNIT!
The tits have spoken.
My finger hovers over the picture, ready to click. Just one little punch down and the towel glory is all for me to see . . .
“Good Morning, Miss Domico.”
“Jesus . . . Christ,” I yip while frantically clicking at my screen, doing everything in my power to shut down the almost-naked man gracing every last section of my twenty-four-inch computer screen.
But in my haste to exit out, all I do is make the pictures bigger.
Man nipple covers my screen.
Smooth man chest in full view.
Bulge poking the towel on . . .
Bulge?
I lean in for a better look as my assistant clears her throat. “Am I interrupting something?”
“What?” My head pops up over my screen. I’m thankful she can’t see anything I’m looking at. “No.” I click the exit button rapidly, but can you believe it, my computer freezes on me. “Not interrupting at all. Nope.” I shake my head and clear my throat while adjusting my blouse.
Is it hot in here?
“Just finishing up some uh, research.”
My cheeks flame and for a brief moment, I let down my wall, showing an ounce of vulnerability to my assistant. Probably the f
irst time she’s ever seen me flustered, which leads me to believe this is exactly why I shouldn’t be getting involved with anything when it comes to Jason Orson. Not even donating to his charity, which I’m sure is for a good cause, but staying as far away as possible is smart on my end.
“Okay.” Jessica studies me. “Are you feeling all right? You seem a little flushed.”
I pat my cheeks, willing my body to cool down. I click on the exit button for the shirtless images again, and this time they go away. Thank God.
“I’m fine, just got a little fired up about an unanswered email.” If anything, Jessica knows how much I hate it when people don’t answer me.
“Would you like me to send a follow-up for you?”
She’s so efficient. Annoying when I’m trying to cover up my obscene work conduct.
“No, I’ll send something later.” I bring the Briar Hurst file closer and flip through it, acting like I’m making sure everything is in it when in actuality, all I can see on the paper is Jason’s taut nipples winking at me.
Damn it.
“Well”—I pat the folder—“looks like everything is ready. Any last things I need to know before heading into the meeting?”
“Yes, actually.” She lights up her iPad and with her Apple pencil and scrolls through her checklist. “The meeting with the Carltons next week. They asked if they could move it to eight, rather than seven.”
“That’s fine. Give them whatever they want, I’m flexible.”
“They also requested Italian when I asked what they preferred.”
“Great, we’ll take them to Piccolo. Make reservations for four.”
She winces. “I think it will have to be six.”
“Six? Sure, they can bring whoever they want.”
“That’s the thing.” Jessica adjusts her glasses. “They want to bring Heller and Parks with them.”
My eyes widen, my jaw growing firm. “They want to bring my competition to the meeting? Why would they want to do that?”
“They said they want to make the same pitch once and then go from there. They’re ready to sell, but they want to make it as easy as possible, really get to know the candidates.”
“Jesus.” I pull on my long black ponytail. “Fine, make it for six. Did you get the tip sheet yet? Do you know what they’re looking for when it comes to making a deal?”
The Carltons are selling one of the biggest pieces of real estate in the Chicago area, a ten-acre lot along the lake that’s currently used for warehouse storage. Heller and Parks, and of course Domico Industries, have been after the lot for a while. It’s now down to our two companies, and I’ll be damned if I let Heller and Parks win the bid.
“I wasn’t able to dig up too much. They want to know about future plans, how they’ll influence the city of Chicago, and then some inside factors that have not been revealed yet. They said they’d talk about it at dinner.”
“Great.” I stand from my desk and smooth down my pencil skirt. “I love being caught off guard. Ask for the rooftop table for added privacy. Tell them it’s for Dottie Domico, and they’ll make it happen.”
“Got it. Also, got a call from Frankie Lazaro looking for a donation . . .”
“Ugh, Frankie. He won’t get off my ass. Yes, it’s on my desk, so just fill it out for me.”
“Your usual amount?”
“Yeah, he’ll call me out if it’s anything less.” I round my desk, after plucking my phone from the drawer. “When is my dad coming into town?”
“Next week, day before the meeting. He confirmed his attendance for the Carlton dinner.”
“And what about the Hanks account, was that finalized?”
She nods. “Papers were signed last night. I sent them to Goldman and Zenlow.”
“Perfect.” Goldman and Zenlow Law had been handling our legal needs for a long time now. Thank God. They’re the best. She hands me a cup of coffee she must have set on the credenza when I was staring intently at the fine circular shape of Jason Orson’s nipples.
So symmetrical.
I take a sip from the perfectly tempered coffee and say, “Did you order the catering for lunch today?”
“Yup, and emails went out to all the employees, appreciating them for their hard work during the Hanks acquisition.”
“Did you give yourself a raise?”
She smiles. “Just waiting on your signature.”
“Remind me later.” I tilt my cup of coffee in her direction. “Thank you, Jessica.”
I give her a quick goodbye and then head down the bright black and white hallways of our newly renovated offices. Urban chic is what I call it, with exposed piping and brick and soft touches here and there with comfortable couches, lounge areas, and one hell of a break room with free food and drinks, and games to clear your mind. Am I trying to impersonate Google? Maybe, but then again, no one likes to live eight hours of their life in a humdrum cube farm.
My goal for every conference is to not only conduct a meaningful meeting, but to also be the first person to show up. Thanks to my peeping Tom Internet searching, I’m the second person to show up. Matthew, the intern, is already sitting in a chair in the back.
I give him a kind smile and then go to the front of the conference table where I place my notes. My phone lights up with text messages and because I’m a glutton for punishment, I unlock my phone and see what my idiot friends want now.
Lindsay: You totally checked the link out, didn’t you?
Emory: You entered to win, didn’t you?
I will take my snooping to the grave with me.
Dottie: You know I have better things to do with my life than look up pictures of Jason Orson.
Emory: ^^^ Did you read that, Linds? She said look up pictures . . . we never said anything about pictures.
Damn it.
Lindsay: Busted! How’s he looking these days? Fine, right? Did you see that towel picture?
Emory: Even I studied the towel picture, and I’m utterly devoted to Knox. It’s hard to miss the towel picture.
Lindsay: Or the obvious bulge. Oh God, I’m getting hot just thinking about it.
Dottie: You both are in the presence of children, texting about a man’s penis. Don’t make me report you.
Lindsay: You wouldn’t.
Emory: Too far, Dottie.
Dottie: Drop the Jason thing and I’ll drop my threat.
Lindsay: Where’s the fun in that?
Dottie: There is no fun in it. That’s exactly the point. Jason is not an option when it comes to my love life, not that I’m looking for an option. So this goes out to the both of you . . . Drop. It.
Chapter Three
DOTTIE
“Jessica, can you come in here for a second?” I call out, looking over my expense sheet and trying to figure out this last charge. This last enormous charge.
“She’s out getting dinner,” Lindsay says, strutting into my office, Emory tagging closely behind.
I glance at the date on my computer and realize it’s our weekly dinner I’ve been holding at my office lately. With the Carlton dinner a few days away and my dad coming to town shortly, I’ve spent every waking moment in this office, forcing Jessica to work extra hours so we can make sure we’re completely prepared to win over the older couple.
“Let me guess,” Emory says, sitting in a chair across from me, “you forgot about our dinner again.”
“Things have been crazy around here.”
“Same story, different day.” Lindsay takes the other seat across from me, moves her satchel to her lap and gives it a good pat. “Don’t worry, I brought papers for Emory and me to grade while you do your work. We can call it a working friend-inner.”
“I never agreed to helping you grade papers. And what could you possibly grade? They’re third graders.”
Chin stuck up in the air, Lindsay says, “I’ll have you know, I run a tight ship in my classroom. I make those kids work. I have spelling tests, math tests, and stories about what they want to
be when they grow up to grade.”
Emory waves her hand at Lindsay. “Throw a smiley face sticker on them and call it a day. It’s not like you’re actually going to fail any of these kids.”
Chuckling, I say, “Look at the librarian being lazy.”
“I’m not lazy, I just don’t want to have to decipher third grade handwriting all night. I had a second grader spit in my face today, so I’m done with children for now.”
“You’re cranky,” I say, which is abnormal for my usually very positive friend.
She sighs heavily. “Knox has been holding out on me lately. We got in a disagreement and now he said he’s going to withhold the goods until I agree with him.”
“Still wants you to get rid of the lease on your apartment?”
“Yeah. He said keeping it is insulting to him, as if I don’t think we’ll be together forever. What he doesn’t realize is that the apartment meant something to me before he came back into my life. It was my place of solace during the rough times.”
Growing serious, I say, “But don’t you think it’s time you build a new place where you can find peace? Knox means everything to you. I don’t think you need an apartment to remind you of what you went through. You need a place that will remind you of where you’re going.”
Lindsay touches her heart. “Good God, Dottie, that was really fucking touching.”
“It was,” Emory agrees, tearing up.
“Are you okay?” I ask, motioning to her eyes. “It looks like you’re going to cry.”
Emory waves her hand in front of her eyes. “I think I’m just hard up. All these pent-up orgasms are really getting to me.”
“If that’s the case, Dottie and I should be bawling every day of our lives from lack of sex.”
Jessica takes that moment to walk into my office, two to-go bags in hand from one of our favorite Greek restaurants.
“I seem to have bad timing every time you guys have dinner here,” she says with a blush.
“Oh, we’re besties by now.” Lindsay motions to another seat. “Please, Jessica, sit down, talk about our sex lives with us.”
The Lineup Page 3