I sputtered, but he paid no attention as he continued talking.
“Terms are as follows: you work for me for a year or until you find out. Whatever comes first.”
“A year! How am I supposed to pay rent, bills?”
Flynn leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Do you know how much my cocktail waitresses make on any given night?”
I shook my head.
“On average, they pull in five hundred dollars.”
My head spun. “Five hundred dollars?”
“Aye.” He leaned forward. “I need someone undercover more than I need a bed partner, but I intend to make back the money I lost, Barrett. It’s your choice how I get it.”
“You got me drunk,” I murmured, my eyes drooping closed. I tried to keep them open, but they were adamant about shutting.
“Aye,” he said, sounding amused.
“Why?”
“Because you looked like you needed it.”
“Oh,” I breathed, falling onto my side on the expensive, plush, very comfortable couch. “Are my shoes still on my feet?” He laughed softly, and I felt my heels being pulled off.
“I should go home,” I said even as I snuggled into the couch pillow.
Flynn tossed a blanket over me, and then his hand stroked my hair. “We’re not done talking, Barrett.”
“Not tonight, honey. I have a headache,” I said and then passed out.
I woke up when light crept through the drapes of the living room windows, my face pressed into a couch pillow, and just a tad hungover. The night before came flooding back, and I remembered I wasn’t in my own apartment. My eyes were gritty which meant I had fallen asleep with my contacts in. I had a feeling that last night’s makeup was smudged and smeared all over my face and—yep—all over Flynn Campbell’s gray couch pillow.
I grimaced, throwing off the blanket and looking around. Flynn was nowhere to be seen, and I wondered if I could sneak out without him knowing. I knew it was childish, but I needed time to think. I’d passed out in my boss’s penthouse suite. I shook my head, trying to clear all the confusion—and anger. He wasn’t my boss. Was he?
Damn scotch-head.
I stood up and picked up my heels, not even attempting to shove my feet into the tight leather. Before I could make the decision to leave, the bedroom door opened, and Flynn strolled out, his dark hair damp from a shower. He looked perfect and sexy in a pair of black slacks and a blue button-down—and he didn’t look hungover at all.
“Good morning,” he greeted, his voice low and raspy. Alert.
“Morning,” I muttered, suddenly aware that I didn’t look my best.
“How are you feeling?”
“Parched,” I admitted.
He smiled, and it did something to me. Maybe it was the scotch hangover. I hoped.
Flynn went to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water, and brought it to me. “Breakfast is on the way.”
“Oh, thanks but I—”
“We’ll have some breakfast.” His tone left no room for an argument.
“Okay,” I answered weakly. “Mind if I freshen up?”
“Sure. There’s a spare toothbrush by the sink.”
