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“That proves nothing,” he said, going in for another delicious neck kiss. “You’re just turned on.”
“They go hand in hand.” She sighed and her head tipped back further. “God, Dylan. You make me melt every time you do that. I’ll never get through these contracts if you keep kissing me like that.”
He released her hair, glancing at the cabinets he still needed to reface. “How about we schedule a halftime make-out session?”
She hooked her finger in the collar of his T-shirt, pulling it low, and pressed a kiss there, leaving it slick from a swipe of her tongue, which drove south like lightning to his cock. “I’ll hurry with the contracts.”
She pushed off the counter and he reached for his tools again.
“See, you didn’t need my help at all,” she teased.
“Got you here, didn’t it?” He gave her a quick kiss. “How’s your dad doing? You haven’t mentioned him.”
“He’s fine. I spoke to him this morning.” She headed into the living room.
“When are you seeing him again?”
“I don’t know. We mostly talk on the phone. My schedule’s always crazy.”
Dylan crouched to screw on another cabinet door. “You should go see him.”
“With all my extra time?”
“I don’t want you to miss out on seeing your family because of me.”
“I won’t. When do you see Bethany again? I’m working on connecting her with Anika.”
“Thursday, hopefully around five.”
“Oh shit!”
He turned as she shot to her feet, eyes locked on the television, and snagged her phone from the coffee table.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s my client Gary Rickon they’re carrying off the field. Shit, shit, shit. I just got him a stellar six-year contract and a major endorsement deal. This could take him out for the season—or for his career. Everything is on the line until they figure out how bad his injuries are.”
“So, what happens now?” he asked as she brought her phone up to her ear.
“Now,” she said with an apologetic gaze, “my life gets even more complicated.”
TIFFANY SPENT THE rest of the evening getting updates every twenty minutes on her injured client and fielding phone calls. Her client had a concussion and possibly a torn rotator cuff, which could mean the end of his season. Her make-out session with Dylan, and her contracts, went by the wayside, and as the hours blew by, a new fear trickled in. Fear of losing Dylan over her all-encompassing job.
But every time she tried to talk with Dylan another phone call interrupted them. The media was going crazy, forcing Gary’s public relations team—and his coaches and sponsors—into panic mode. Tiffany didn’t panic over work. That wasn’t the way she was wired, but panic fluttered inside her over the wasted hours with Dylan.
It was a little after ten o’clock and she’d just gotten word from the team doctor that with rest and physical therapy Gary could be back on the field terrorizing his opponents in four to six weeks. She breathed a little easier.
Dylan looked up from the notebook he’d been writing in. He was sitting on the couch with his feet on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. He looked casual and sexy—and annoyed. She couldn’t blame him. Their night was shot to hell.
“Good news?”
She told him what she’d learned.
“So, you’re cool, then?” He set down the notebook with a sigh. They’d ordered in Chinese for dinner and he must have cleaned up while she was lost in work.Add another brick on the guilt pile.
“I’m sorry our night got so messed up.” She sank down beside him on the couch. “At least my being sidetracked gave you time to finish your kitchen. It looks incredible. All it needs is a sink and dishwasher.”
“My kitchen?” His jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask you to be here so I could finish my kitchen, babe. I’m glad your client isn’t out for good,” he said gruffly, “but don’t think for a minute that getting my work done replaces time with you. This gave me a chance to see what your job is really like, and I have to ask. Is this typical? Or when Miranda’s not on vacation, does she handle some of it?”
