He peels my blouse off, unhooks my bra, bending to kiss each nipple. He looks up and I smile but keep my face only vaguely interested.
“You’re tired.” He kisses my cheek. “Shower. I already have steaks on the grill.”
I go limp with relief. It’s ridiculous. Zo is one of the country’s most eligible bachelors. A humanitarian. Handsome. Wealthy. The kindest man I know. And I’m relieved over a sex pardon?
I shower and pull my wet hair into a loose knot on my head, slip on my fave “at home” dress. It’s like a hooded sweatshirt but with cutoff sleeves and hangs almost to my knees. Barefoot, I pad out to the patio, lured by the smell of grilled meat.
Zo already has salads on the table, so we’re just waiting for steaks when the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it.” He presses my shoulder until my butt hits the seat. “You sit.”
As soon as he’s gone, I want wine. He’s done everything else. I can at least do that. I walk back into the kitchen, distracted by the rumble of two distinct deep voices. I assumed it was a package being delivered or something, but my curiosity gets the best of me. I walk toward the voices in the front room and stop in my tracks.
My nemesis in my house.
Jared Foster is everywhere. In my dreams. In my conversations. In my thoughts. And now in my damn house.
“Why are you here?”
The words barge out, rude and rushed, before I remember my manners.
Both men turn to me, and I’m struck by the contrast and by the sameness. Both beautiful men. Both oozing confidence. Zo is a couple inches taller. Physically, he’s dark and Jared, in the late evening sun framing him in the arch of my front door, is gilded. Breathtakingly bronzed and beautiful. But beneath their skin, he is the darker of the two. There’s a barely beating black heart under that Tom Ford suit. He and Zo know each other by sight, reputation and not much else. Zo heard someone ask me about attending Kerrington with Jared Foster once. That’s all he knows about our connection. The three of us stand trapped in an awkward silence for a few moments. Awkward for me at least, but a pleasant smile curves Jared’s lips.
“Sorry to show up unannounced,” Jared says, darting an apologetic look—that I don’t buy—at Zo. “I tried to call.”
“I turned her phone off,” Zo says, eyes steady on Jared’s face. “It’s after hours and she needs to rest.”
“I get it.” Again the false apology of a smile. “I’m exhausted, too.”
Lies. He practically vibrates with energy even at the end of the day. The man’s a damn robot with no off button.
“But we have a meeting tomorrow,” Jared says, shifting to me. “And when I couldn’t reach you, I thought I’d come by and make sure you’re prepared.”
“What meeting?” I walk deeper into the room, conscious of my bare legs and feet and face. Of the hair piled messily on my head. I’m always armored when I see Jared. I need to be, and I feel strangely vulnerable having him in my house. Even with Zo standing between us, it feels too intimate.
“Did Kenan talk to you?” Jared asks. “About the golf tournament?”
The smell of the steaks seems stronger all of a sudden. Zo must notice, too.
“Excuse me,” he says, watching Jared watching me. “I’ll check on the grill. Good seeing you again, Foster.”
They offer each other civil smiles. Zo drops a quick branding kiss on my lips while cupping my neck with one hand, the other hand at my waist, uncharacteristically possessive. He doesn’t need to know I slept with Jared to recognize a male threat. I feel threatened, too—but by the dream that held me hostage this morning.
“Rápido, mi amor,” Zo mutters by my ear and heads back to the patio.
Jared watches his departure with a wry smile. It’s our first time alone since the confrontation at the hotel. Since I blocked his shot. It feels weird to just dive right into discussing the golf tournament without at least addressing what happened.
“Look, if this is really about Lamont,” I say, slipping my hands into the front pocket of the dress. “You deserved that. I’m not sorry, and you know he’ll do better with me anyway.”
“Ah, yes.” A sardonic press of sinfully full lips. “The Rookie Whisperer.”
“Whatever.” I shrug faux carelessly. “Lamont will be under intense scrutiny, and we both know he has some issues that could derail him. I’ll t
ake care of him.”
“You’re right. I don’t play babysitter to grown men making millions of dollars,” he says. “I agree he’s better suited to you. I thought he was signing with Mitch, in which case I would have been doing him a favor.”
“He was actually. I intervened after hearing Mitch’s choice words about me at the bar that night.”