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I shot him the look I generally did when I was getting thoroughly tired of his shit. Still, I took a seat and caught the last few outs before the seventh inning stretch, and as the customary rendition of “God Bless America” rang out, my mind drifted off.
I tugged on my lip.
God bless those fucking curves.
Thanks to Emmett, I was back to that dangerous rabbit hole of thinking about my mystery brunette from my night at the hotel. God bless those curves and the way those full tits jiggled when I spanked that perfect ass over the couch. Reliving the memory of her pink tongue on the tip of my dick was enough to get me both rock hard and pissed off, because I hadn’t even gotten her name.
All I’d gotten were her panties.
They were silky, black, and I could have left them in the hotel room after checking out, but at this very moment, they sat on my dresser at home, next to the silver plate I put my watch on at the end of the day. As far as I was concerned, they were mine now. They were my only reminder of the nameless knockout who’d gotten me so hard so fast that I was ready to chase her out when she left and fuck her on the street if I had to.
Of course, shortly after I yanked my pants back on, Emmett’s never-ending stream of friends came in, and just like that, she was lost forever.
But it was for the best.
That was at least what I told myself as I stared blankly at the field, watching the grounds crew prepare the dirt for the bottom of the seventh.
I had enough names to deal with. Turner Roth, Carter Roth, Hayley with the Braids, Cass with the Ass. Once I put a name to a face, I didn’t forget it. I’d built my business from the ground up and along the way, I’d discovered there was no predicting when information could come in handy, no matter how insignificant it seemed.
“Jennifer.” I stopped the waitress in the suite on her way out. She halted eagerly.
“Yes, Mr. Hoult?”
“I have to get back to the office, but I’d like you to do me a favor if you can.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
“I need you to go to my suite a few doors down. Turner Roth is the blonde-haired guy around six feet tall. He’s wearing a blue shirt and he’s with a girl in a yellow dress named Cass. I apologize in advance for whatever you might see them doing, but when they’re done, will you give him this?” I handed her the business card I’d just scrawled a message on the back of.
She laughed breathily. “Of course, sir.”
“Thank you, Jennifer.”
“You’re very welcome, Mr. Hoult.” She hung around quietly for a second, like she always did. Then she was off, and I was up from my seat, sliding my phone from my pocket.
I had let go of any illusions that I’d be able to recapture Turner’s attention tonight, so I decided to make the best of the situation by doing some maintenance. With a call, I reserved Turner the same penthouse I’d half-enjoyed last week at the Victorian Hotel, and I made sure to request a note beside the Cristal on ice, which would address both him and Cass – a simple gesture that would undoubtedly make her feel special, since making her feel special was at least half the battle in sealing the deal.
Yes, I was winging for the assholes.
Because like sex, business was about making the client feel special, taken care of – like something between a friend and a rock star. So if I couldn’t have a productive meeting with the Roths, then I was going to at least garner favor with them on a personal level by guaranteeing what they clearly cared about most – getting laid. Which was despicable, sure.
But too often, despicable happened to be great business.
4
SARA
This past week had not gone as planned – not by a long shot, and it showed on my face when Lia swung open the door of our favorite coffee shop and spotted me in the corner.
“Oh, bubs,” she instantly pouted.
I was sulking at our usual table, wearing a long red maxi-dress and epitomizing the phrase “all dressed up and nowhere to go.”
“I’m guessing dinner didn’t go so well.”
I made a face. “It was… bad. And awkward. And a little sexist at times.”
“What? What did he say?”
