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Easton arrived at the end of our row and moved sideways, easing past knees, apologizing and flashing that million-dollar smile the entire time. A possessive pit suddenly twisted in my stomach. There was no way Nicole Fagnani wouldn’t fall for him. Everyone fell for him. Hell, even Chelsea had had at least six smitten days before she’d seen another shaggy-headed athlete and waltzed away. I glanced back at the court, expecting to see Nicole watching him. Instead, the muscular blonde drilled the tennis ball over the net with a serve that almost cracked the air.
“He was buying microwaves and then returning them, but putting old microwaves in the box.” She snorted. “Can you believe that?”
“No, but I’m not sure that’s considered shoplifting.” I said absently, my eyes catching Easton’s as he made it to our seats.
Settling into his, he squeezed my knee. “I miss anything?”
“Yeah, the ball went back and forth over the net,” Chelsea remarked. “Oh, and the crowd cheered.”
“Thanks. Very helpful.” He ran his hand higher up my leg and let it settle on the bare skin just before the hem of my shorts. “I forgot the attention to detail you guys give sports.”
“We paid much closer attention to your games,” I swore, leaning into him and pressing a kiss on his neck. “And I understood the scoring system, which helped.”
“Other than the multiple sexual innuendos I can make about balls, this isn’t nearly as exciting,” Chelsea drawled. “At least at your games I had asses in baseball pants to stare at.”
“I’m so sorry,” he quipped. “Next time, I’ll pick my clients based on the simplicity of their sports.”
“Hey, let’s not forget who got you this client,” Chelsea pointed out.
“Touché.” He lifted his drink and they clinked stadium cups before me. “That’s Nic’s manager, Anne.” He pointed toward the front row, where Shakira was sitting next to a guy that Chelsea swore was Lenny Kravitz, without the dreads. “See the brunette in the hat?”
I saw the brunette. I also noticed the shortening of Nicole’s name. Which was an absolutely ridiculous observation given that I was entertaining fantasies and trading emails with my husband about his best friend. And maybe… maybe that was why I was more on edge than possible. Because I wanted to make sure that there was no misunderstanding that my honesty about my proclivities allowed him any sort of leeway at all.
Settling back in his seat, his fingers caressed my thigh in small circles, triggering an instant reaction between my legs. I captured his hand and threaded my fingers through his. He glanced at me. “No deposit yet,” he said quietly. “But we set a meeting for Monday. So, hopefully then.”
I nodded. “I’m sure she’ll do it then.” It was a transfer of funds, from Morgan Stanley to Easton’s firm. Nicole had verbally discussed moving six million dollars over to test the waters—yet had avoided actually pulling the trigger. Easton’s one percent management fee on that amount would allow us to pay off the credit cards and cover five months of mortgage payments.
If she followed through.
If not, I was wasting a potential open house opportunity by sitting here, and Easton was kissing her athletic ass for nothing. Either way, I needed to swallow my stresses and jealousy and support him through the process. I squeezed his hand and he leaned over, brushing my hair off my neck and planting a gentle kiss just above my pearl necklace. “You are so beautiful.”
I turned my head and met his lips, our kiss short and brief, the moment interrupted by Chelsea.
“Hey E.” She leaned halfway over my lap and grinned at him. “You know why you should never get into a relationship with a tennis player?”
“Why?”
“Please don’t encourage her,” I begged, the joke one I was about to hear for the third time.
“Guess.” She beamed at him.
“Ummm… they like to smack balls?”
“No, though that is an excellent point.” She pushed her sunglasses on the top of her head and paused dramatically. “Because… to them love means nothing.”
It was kinda funny, but only because—to Easton and I—love meant everything.
19
My libido woke back up Thursday afternoon, midway through a call with a buyer’s agent whose voice sounded like pure sex, dipped in chocolate. I ended the call and pushed away from my desk. Reaching back, I unzipped the top of my skirt, then hitched the Banana Republic number up around my hips. Spinning in the desk chair, I swung the door closed with my toe and flipped the lock. I had a half-hour before Easton got home. Maybe longer, depending on traffic. Plenty of time. I kicked my heels to one side and put my bare feet up on the edge of the desk, opening my knees and working my panties down around my thighs.
I felt edgy. Hungover. The dull headache in the back of my skull throbbed in concert with the ache between my legs. Last night, we’d come home from the charity match drunk, fell asleep without sex, then both overslept. I’d dealt with morning traffic and Wayland’s doggie daycare facility, who didn’t want to take him after 9am because it would “disrupt the other dogs.” Like, what the fuck? He was a hundred-and-forty pounds of unrestrained energy all day long. If he wasn’t disrupting the other dogs by his mere presence, something was horribly wrong with him.
