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“You just want to put that big, juicy cock in me again. Don’t you?”
Mace’s eyes went wide. The look on my face must’ve confirmed to him that she was telling the truth, because he went from looking shocked to contemplative a moment later.
“Get lost, Mace.”
He stood, threw back the rest of his drink, and leaned into Chelsea’s ear. “I enjoyed our conversation, sweetheart.”
“Outside,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah.” Chelsea slurred. She had to lean on me to make it outside while remaining upright.
I called my driver while she hummed something tunelessly.
Chelsea rambled about anything that seemed to cross her mind on the drive home. She went from the best way to cook bacon—a griddle, apparently— to the fact that if you re-read Harry Potter and replace the word “wand” with “penis” it becomes the greatest fantasy comedy ever written.
She was staggering out of the car while mumbling, “Wizard’s duel, Malfoy said. No contact. Penises only. Harry gripped his penis tight, eyes wide.” She giggled madly but let me help her up the steps of the apartment.
I frowned when a thin man who looked around thirty answered the door. “Ah, shit,” he said, taking her from me gently. “Too much to drink?”
“You are?” I asked. I barely controlled the rage I felt bubbling up. The moment I saw some guy open up the door to her place, I realized I didn’t know Chelsea at all. That shouldn’t have pissed me off, but it did. She’d been flirting with Mace at the bar while some guy waited at home for her? And what about me? Maybe we sparred, but—
Stop it, dumbass. You don’t own her, and she doesn’t owe you a thing.
“Her brother. You must be the asshole boss.”
A small voice called out from deeper in the apartment, followed by tiny thumping footsteps. “Mommy!” A little girl with dark curls jumped up and latched onto Chelsea’s leg like a baby monkey. “Who is he?” She asked, turning her attention to me.
Chelsea was a mother? I kept staring because the fact didn’t want to settle in. She couldn’t be a mother. She was too… Something. And who was the father? It felt like my head was spinning now.
Chelsea hugged the little girl back, looking a little more sober. “Mind if we stay over tonight, Grant?” She asked.
“Yeah, no worries.” He looked up at me. “Uh, thanks for bringing her back.”
“Make sure she remembers to show up to work tomorrow. On time.”
He regarded me quietly. “You really are an asshole, huh?”
I closed the door and headed back to the car.
She had a kid. I didn’t know how that changed things, but it did. Maybe it should’ve made me feel more guilty about trying to terrorize her into quitting. Or maybe it should’ve made me feel like more of a creep for still revisiting the memory of what we’d done together five years ago.
Instead, I wanted answers. Who was the father, and why hadn’t she told me she had a kid?
Because you’re a monumental prickhead to her and she had no reason to tell you anything remotely personal?
I sighed. None of it mattered. I was forgetting what really mattered, like the fundraiser I’d paid a shitload of money to attend. The same one I’d walked away from without a moment’s hesitation to bring my drunken personal assistant home.
I was losing my touch, and I needed to stop letting my games with Chelsea distract me from my business.
I was not going to let Chelsea become the next Trish. Not this time. Not again.10ChelseaKeys clattered, computers hummed, and the woman near my “desk” with the messy bob hairstyle crunched down her thousandth handful of peanuts in the last hour. Last Friday had been my first day, and this was officially the start of my first full week. When I came in this morning, I thought it was a Monday miracle to learn Damon had granted me with my own personal working space.
Then I’d been led to the dead center of the floor where a ridiculous little desk and stool sat. The other twenty or so men and women who worked on the floor had cubicles or elegant little partitions to give them some semblance of personal space. The girl who had shown me to my desk apologetically let me know that she was sure some kind of walls were probably going to be delivered soon.
I wasn’t so sure. She hadn’t sounded very confident, either.
I’d also been issued a company laptop, which I quickly learned was slow and a fire risk—namely because I wasn’t sure if I could use it for an entire day without dumping a can of gasoline on it and lighting a match. The desktop wallpaper was plastered with a cheesy graphic that advised me to “Smile, because you’re a Rose now!”
Barf.
My email inbox was graced with a request from Damon to organize every payment one of his athletes received in 2017 in descending order. He gave me a link to some sort of directory with all the information, which required me to dig through countless files.
