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Meghan
Maria? LOL, that’s not even my middle name!
The messages continue on and as I put my phone on the bathroom counter. I make a mental note to check through them on the subway. With the shower heating up, I undress and throw my hair up into a bun. I don’t have the two hours required it takes to wash and dry it. I don’t even have the thirty minutes needed to straighten it.
Under the warm spray of the shower, I scrub my body with my favorite body wash and loofa, then rinse off. Everything is going to be much more rushed than it normally would, and I hate it. There’s nothing worse than being late.
After washing my face, I step out of the shower and pat myself dry, mentally going through my wardrobe for an outfit to wear. Casual should be okay. Maybe jeans, t-shirt and a sweater to cover up, what with the cooler weather we’re getting.
With a light dusting of makeup and my hair tied into a high ponytail, I make my way into my bedroom to get dressed.
God, I’m so annoyed with myself.
Why did I go out and get drunk last night?
Especially since I knew I needed to be prepared to see him, considering this isn’t just a quick meeting. I’m going to be stuck, for days, with the one man that seems to have a hold over me and who I can’t seem to resist.
Within minutes, I’m dressed in a pair of skinny navy-blue jeans and a white t-shirt. I’m going to have to make do with whatever the hell Savannah packed for me. My only saving grace is that she knows this is a business trip, but to be on the safe side, I grab the suit I originally packed, stuffing it into my case.
With my luggage trailing behind me, I pick up my phone charger from my bedside table and walk into the hallway. My handbag is knocked over on the side table by the door; I must have left it there when I came stumbling home.
From the hallway closet, I grab my sneakers and walk over to the couch to put them on. I have one shoe on when there’s a knock on my door that has my brow pulling into a frown.
I pull on my other sneaker as I contemplate who could be there. All my friends know I have a flight to catch and probably think I’ve have left by now. I’m not expecting any packages, plus it’s a Sunday, so they aren’t likely to be delivered today.
With both sneakers now firmly on my feet, I walk to the door and pull it open. I don’t bother to check the peephole, which in hindsight was a stupid thing to do because I’m greeted by the beautiful face of Sebastian Worthington.
Our gazes roam over each other as if we haven’t seen each other in months. He too is dressed casually, wearing a pair of black ripped jeans, a plain black t-shirt that stretches across his taut chest, and a leather jacket. His clean, woodsy fragrance assails my senses, and I’m seconds away from grabbing the front of his t-shirt and pulling him into my apartment.
It annoys me that he looksandsmells so good.
Pulling my focus away from his chest, I ask, “Why are you here?”
“You asked me to pick you up,” he says with a question in his tone and a furrow to his brow.
“No, I didn’t. How did you get my address?”
We’ve only ever hooked up in his club. I’ve always kept him out of my personal space.
“You texted me your address. Last night. When you asked me to pick you up.” He looks down at me like I’ve lost my mind, and maybe I have.
“I’m telling you now—” My words trail off as I remember sitting in a booth in a club texting him.
Fuck! What the hell was I thinking?
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps the screen a couple of times before turning it toward me.
I shove his phone back to him, not wanting to see the evidence of my drunk texting. “I don’t need to see. I remember now. Thank you for collecting me, Mr. Worthington. I’ll just get my things.”
“You’re welcome, Alex.” He puts the emphasis on my name then continues, “If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to have to call me Sebastian, or even Seb, but this Mr. Worthington crap has got to stop.”
There’s a gruffness to his voice and a hint of a threat, that if I do it one more time, I’ll be over his knee. Which doesn’t actually sound that bad. Maybe I should keep calling him by his last name.
Oh, my God. What the hell is wrong with me?
Using his last name isn’t supposed to be some sort of foreplay, but a reminder for myself that he is a business associate andnotsomeone I can fuck. Again.
I feign nonchalance and shrug as I turn away from him to grab my bags.
