Page 55 of Off the Grid

I snort. “I guess that means you should sleep twenty-four seven.”

“That’s not what the public thinks.” He winks. “Need anything else from me, ladies? My good looks? My witty charm? My unwarranted opinion?”

“How about better driving skills?” I offer to which he hisses in a breath at the dig. Then the rich sound of his laugh fills the conference room as he turns to face us, his grin sinful.

“No worries. I’ve got those in spades.”

“I haven’t seen proof of anything yet.”

“Bitch. Bitch. Bitch,” he singsongs while rolling his eyes playfully. “I can show you my skills firsthand.”

Our eyes hold and no matter how impassive I try to keep my features, my smile wins. “I’d say you wish, but we both know you don’t.”

“What is it they say? One man’s dare is another man’s pleasure.”

“I don’t know who they are, but I think they have the saying wrong.”

“They are me, and the saying is right.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Thank you.” He mock bows. “It must be brutally hard staying mad at me.”

“Not hard at all.”

He quirks an eyebrow, gives a suggestive purse of his lips, and rocks on his heels. I swear to God that smile has a mainline to something in me even I don’t understand. A slow, simmering ache that flutters about and makes me shift in my seat to abate it.

He chuckles and heads out of the room with both Elise and me watching his swagger as he does so.

“Was he just flirting with you?” Elise asks, tone awed. “Because I’m pretty sure that was flirting.”

“It was bantering. And it’s . . . we met by fluke before.” I wave a hand in indifference as if it doesn’t matter. “It’s a long story. Chance encounter where neither of us knew who the other was.” Time to redirect. “Where were we? Oh. Right. Graphics. I think we all agree on which ones work best.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Am I doing a good job of it?”

She snickers and points to the graphic. “He’s right about the villain one.”

“Let’s not give him any credit, shall we?” I joke.

“Okay, but there’s something I want to show you. Something I think we can use somehow to the Moretti advantage.”

“What’s that?”

She shifts her laptop so we can both see the screen, types a few things in the browser until a social media site pops up, and within seconds, Riggs’s face is on the screen.

It’s clear he’s been running. His shirt is draped around his neck and hanging over his pecs. His hair is wet, making it curl. His chest is misted in sweat, and his face is slightly red from exertion.

“Another one that’s viral,” she murmurs.

I can see why. The man is definitely not a hardship to look at.

Riggs is holding the phone out as he takes the final strides up a steep dirt trail with lush greenery surrounding it.

“Okay, so I was finishing up my run, a bit hungover if truth be told, so I’m trying to concentrate on anything and everything other than throwing up. And I got to thinking about some advice a friend asked for. Something I want your opinion on.” He pauses and takes the end of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. He looks over his shoulder at someone and then grins at the camera.

Very convenient placement of his bicep flexing, if I say so myself.