AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Fast packing’s my superpower,” Reagan explained with a grin. “I’ve been sent on last-minute trips for my dad’s campaigns a lot.” He stood by the sofa, pillow under his arm, and glanced down the narrow corridor of the bus, all the way to my bedroom at the back. “So. I guess I should have asked before, but… where am I sleeping?”
It was an innocent enough question, but it caused images of Reagan—naked, aroused, with his head thrown back on a very different pillow—to flash through my brain in time with the throbbing of my headache. Coupled with the easy, friendly smile he’d given McGee—McGee, who was nearly Reagan’s age and was not his boss—it was enough to make my temper flare.
“You’re looking at it.” I pointed at the racks of single beds that lined the hall between the kitchen area and the bedroom. There were four narrow bunks in total, two on either side of the hall, and each had a curtain to provide some level of privacy. “I’m sure it’s not the spacious accommodations you’re used to, but the only bedroom on this bus is mine.” My tone made it clear I wasn’t sharing. “You can store your stuff on one of the other bunks, or McGee can stow it in the cargo area. Your choice.”
I sounded far more surly than I should have, given that I was the one who’d called a “truce.” Knowing this didn’t improve my mood or my headache. Neither did the way Reagan’s lush mouth pursed and he instantly straightened his shoulders, matching my energy.
“Inside, I think.” Reagan pulled back one of the curtains and contemplated the bed before tossing down his pillow. “This will be just like summer camp. Of course, I was a bit shorter then.”
“You’ll be fine,” I said flatly.
McGee didn’t say a word, but his entire body radiated disapproval as he hefted Reagan’s luggage onto one of the other bunks, and that only made me more annoyed.
What did McGee expect me to do? Offer to share my king-sized bed? Give it up entirely? Why should Reagan be comfortable while I would be anything but for as long as we were stuck together?
Reagan emptied his sack of groceries into the refrigerator—a giant bottle of oat milk, three coconut milk yogurts, several cans of sparkling water, some apples, and a six-pack of mead, not that I was watching closely—then turned to me with a look of exaggerated dismay. “Oh, darn, I should have asked permission before I put my things away! Is it okay for me to store my oat milk in your refrigerator, Mr. Pennington? Or should McGee put it in the cargo hold instead?”
McGee—the traitor—snickered as he headed back to the driver’s seat.
“Stow your damn groceries, Wellbridge,” I said sourly. “And be silent, please. I have work to do.”
I stood to retrieve my laptop from my bag, but the moment I sat back down, Reagan slid into the seat opposite me. “You know, maybe you’d feel better if we discussed what happened.”
“Nope.” I opened my computer as McGee pulled out into traffic.
“Are you sure?” he taunted. “Before I left the hotel last night, you seemed to want to?—”
I gave him a look that could have melted asbestos. “Reagan.”
He held up both hands with overblown innocence, like he knew exactly how close I was to losing my cool entirely and he enjoyed it, the provoking little shit.
All the things I’d wanted to clarify last night—that it had been a mistake, never to be repeated—seemed patently obvious to both of us already, and talking about sex, even in the past tense, while Reagan was right there, all aquamarine eyes and flushed cheeks, was asking for trouble.
When my phone rang again, I answered my assistant’s call with the desperation of a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. “January, perfect timing. Have we gotten an update on the Munich project?—?”
“Thatcher,” January cut me off. “Thalia called.”
Just when I thought my headache couldn’t get worse.
My first ex-wife and I had started out as good friends with common goals. Even after our divorce and her remarriage to a Hollywood producer, we’d remained friendly. But there was only one reason Thalia ever called these days. Which meant…
“Brantleigh’s in trouble,” January confirmed.
I straightened in my seat, ignoring Reagan’s frown of concern. “What kind of trouble?” There was a tremor of fear in my voice as visions of Nova Davidson’s paparazzi photos swam across my brain. “Tell me he didn’t wreck another car, January. Or crash that stupid little plane of his?—”
“No,” January said firmly and apologetically. “Sorry, Thatcher. I should have led with that. He’s not sick or injured.”
“Okay.” I blew out a breath. I could deal with anything else.
“You know how Thalia is. When I told her you weren’t in the office, she just started relaying all the information to me, like she didn’t have time to hang up and call your cell phone?—”
“I get it. Stop apologizing and tell me what she said.”
“Apparently, Brantleigh got personally involved with an actor starring in one of his stepfather’s movies?—”
I’d foreseen this, but I felt no joy at being proved correct. “Again?”
“Yeah. Brantleigh has been working as a production assistant for his stepfather under the strict condition that he, and I quote, keep it in his pants while he’s on set, but unfortunately… he didn’t.” She sighed. “I don’t get why anyone would risk their career and their family for a guy, no matter how hot he is.”
