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If I agree to meet up with their friend and we don’t hit it off, I’ll run the risk of offending Ivy, Jax or both of them.
It’s not worth it.
“What’s his name?”
West. A part of me is tempted to say that just so I can hear his name coming from my lips again.
“Roland.” I opt for the safe choice since I’ll be seeing him again in a few days and it’s not a total lie.
“The four of us should do dinner.” He glances over his shoulder at the door to the store. “As soon as Ivy gets back, we’ll set something up.”
Dammit.
I think I just arranged my third date with Roland Elgar, even though the man I can’t stop thinking about is Jeremy Weston.
Chapter 17
Jeremy
I haven’t been able to get Linny Faye out of my mind.
After I got back to my office earlier, I did what any rational man with a raging erection would do.
I locked my private bathroom door and pumped one out to the vision of Linny on the bed in my hotel room.
I’ll never forget the way that woman looks nude.
I’m grateful for that since it’s been my sole source of masturbation inspiration since I got back from Las Vegas.
After I cleaned up, I tore into Trent about the unauthorized contest he held when he was in Rio de Janeiro last year.
He posted a selfie on Instagram offering a free drink and a year’s supply of our traditional vodka to whoever met him at a local bar first.
According to him, the bar was overrun with customers. They pulled in more money that night than they had in years. To repay Trent, they offered to carry our vodka exclusively in all of their locations in Brazil.
I wondered how he landed that deal.
The free case of vodka sent to an address in Rio makes a lot more sense now too.
“Why are you still here?” Blythe pokes her heard into my office. “It’s late. Go home.”
I look down at my watch. “I’m the boss. I can stay as late as I want. You know I don’t pay overtime so why the hell aren’t you home with Harve?”
She shrugs as she settles into one of the chairs opposite my desk. “It’s poker night.”
“Harve plays?” I lean back. “I play with Rocco and a few of his friends twice a month.”
She claps her hands together once. “You do? Are spectators allowed?”
“Not if they’re dressed like that. You look like a candy cane, Blythe.”
No exaggeration.
She’s wearing a white dress with red diagonal stripes topped off with a green scarf around her neck.
As usual, she ignores my critique of her wardrobe without batting an eyelash. “Harve could use some new poker buddies. He’s always beating the three he plays with now.”
“He’s good?”
