The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

1. Very Big Things

1

VERY BIG THINGS

Maddox

It’s been two weeks since I broke every rule and, for the first time in my career, kissed a client.

The first and the last time.

I repeat that reminder as I shower on Tuesday morning, then again as I turn off the scalding-hot shower, dry myself, and wrap a towel around my waist.

I’m all focus, too, as I shave, the door open to cool the sauna of a room. While I slide the blade along my jaw, I review the day’s plan. I’ll head to the main drag in Venice Beach, claim a table at Edge & Plow, and wait for Zane’s town car to arrive.

“Ugh, Edge & Plow is so faux trendy,” I mutter as I flick stubble and shaving cream into the sink.

I’ll come up with a better spot. Text him a new location.

Wait. Nope. That looks noncommittal.

Trendy it is.

Besides, today’s agenda is to learn more about the client. Whether he likes faux trendy or not will be useful intel.

As I finish shaving, footsteps pad down the hallway and stop at the door. Bryan stands outside the bathroom, barefoot, as per my house rules, eating a banana. “Question—why the fuck do you shave after you shower?”

I roll my eyes. “Question—why do you care when I shave?”

“Someone has to look out for you, man. Keep you mildly dateable,” he says, then takes another bite of fruit.

“And you’ve volunteered?” I splash hot water on my face and pat it dry.

“I’m your best bet. So, I ask again, why shave post-shower instead of, oh, say, during the fucking shower itself? That just makes sense, man. Are you aware of the existence of mirrors for showers?”

I reach for my aftershave from the medicine cabinet. “Yes. Are you aware of the existence of other houses to live in?” I ask my guest.

“Ouch. Stab me in my free-loading heart.”

I laugh. Bryan knows he’s welcome to stay here until he closes on his new home. “Anyway,” I say, as I slap on some aftershave, “now you know my dirty little secret. Besides, I have my reasons. It’s good practice.”

My buddy arches a brow. “Fine. I’ll bite. Practice for what?”

A smirk curves my lips as I set the bottle back in the cabinet. “Some men find it fuck hot—a guy with a towel slung low on his waist, concentrating intensely as he uses a steady hand to shave precisely. Carefully. Patiently,” I say, painting a favorite picture. “And one day, some guy will wake up here in the morning—not you—and he’ll stroll across the bedroom then stop short, unable to look away as I shave.”

Bryan nods thoughtfully as he finishes the banana. “Fair enough. You get an exemption from the Guy Code on account of a damn fine answer. Also, nice fantasy you have going there in your dirty little mind, Maddox,” he says, turning down the hall toward the kitchen.

Please. That’s tame as far as my fantasies go. My head’s an adult amusement park some nights.

Some days too.

But not today.

Today, it must be a kiddy park up here.

As I head into my bedroom, I check the time. It’s ten-fifteen, and I’ve been working here at home since six. Now it’s time to look the part for the client. I get dressed quickly, putting on crisp slacks and a tailored, charcoal-gray shirt, then consider my tie rack. I run my finger across the silk of the purple one, the emerald one, the sapphire one…

Then finally, the burgundy tie. I linger on it, grazing my fingers down the fabric.

I wore this two weeks ago, the night I met Zane at a hotel bar in San Francisco. His first words to me were nice tie.

Sparks crackled down my spine, and instantly, I knew what he wanted to do with this damn piece of fabric, and with me. Knew, too, how compatible we were. Our attraction flared hot and fast, and we both desperately wanted the same thing—to leave the bar together.

That was before my boss, Vance, introduced me to Zane as one of the athlete’s new agents. Before we sat together for an awkward but important business dinner. Before we kissed clandestinely in an elevator.

As I revisit that night, a flash of heat rushes down my chest, going straight to my dick.

I shake my head. Best to go tie-less today.

With that decided, I grab some shoes and set them by the door, then I shut the closet, walk to my bureau, and grab my watch. Once I snap on the swank Victoire timepiece, I adjust the cuffs on my shirt and check my reflection in the closet mirror.

Professional. Smart. Savvy.

And in control.

That’s the image I want to project for Zane Archer. He needs to see me as his newest agent, a vital team member for his career, and a business partner he can trust implicitly.

Not as the guy he wants to fuck.

But professional me really likes ties and the power they bring to a man’s look. They’re a finishing touch for the kind of job I’m lucky to have—a job as a dealmaker. With a sigh, I give in to my own fashion tastes, returning to my closet for the sapphire one.

Blue is for trust. I want him to trust me.

After I loop the silk material around my neck, I grab my shoes, then head through the kitchen where Bryan’s pacing as he talks on the phone. Something about beams and permits. He stops, tells the caller to hold, then looks me up and down.

“You have a date at ten-forty?”

I scoff, pointing to my clothes. “This is how I dress for work.”

He shoots me a doubtful look. “You always shave before a date with a guy you really like,” he says, pointing to my face.

Ah, fuck. I should never have told him the story of my last heartache. But who do you tell your sad stories if not your friends? Still, he’s dead wrong.

“It’s a work meeting,” I reply. And that’s all it can ever be with Zane.

“Whatever you say,” Bryan says, then winks as I put on my shoes.

“What I say is…goodbye.” I head to my garage and hop into my Audi. Ten minutes of surprisingly light neighborhood traffic later, I park in a lot in Venice, take a deep breath, and head to Edge & Plow.

I check my watch. Twenty-five minutes early. Practically a lifetime in Los Angeles.

I grab a table outside and answer emails as I tick off the minutes till my client arrives.

Zane’s just a client.

He’s not the guy I’ve spent the last two weeks fighting off fantasies of. He’s not the man who visits me in my dreams after dark.

I fiddle with my watch clasp, trying to stay present in the moment.

At eleven-fifteen on the dot, a sleek, black town car pulls to the curb. The one I sent to Zane’s hotel to pick up my client.

I adjust my cuffs once more. Then, the back door opens, and the major leaguer steps out of the car and onto the sidewalk under the Los Angeles sun.

My pulse quickens. My throat goes dry.

He looks unfairly good in the bright morning light, the blazing orb in the sky shining behind him. Zane’s wearing aviator shades, trim jeans, and a snug button-down in a deep, rich shade of red with a tiny design on it.

If a movie were being shot here today, everyone would know he was playing the hot young athlete.

He’s all muscles and power, presence and charisma. A little thrill rushes through me as a couple of heads turn his way. In Los Angeles, celebrity-spotting is a game everyone plays, and a few coffee-drinkers whisper as they try to figure out who he is.

They probably won’t guess. For starters, he plays for San Francisco. Second, he’s not known widely yet.

But that’ll change soon if I have any say in the matter, and I intend to.

I square my shoulders, already pleased at the prospect of what’s to come for Zane Archer.

Very big things.

The man scans the sidewalk café for me, but when a McLaren zooms by, his gaze follows the powerful performance car as if he’d do anything to get his hands on one. When the vehicle’s gone, he returns to scanning for me, whipping off his shades. My neck goes hot. That’s such a power move.

I stand and walk to him, my pulse kicking faster with each step.

I squint at his shirt.

Are those…?

I can’t help but smile. The design on his shirt is made up of tiny cocktails zigzagging down his torso. Possibly Zane Archer’s way of delivering a clever reminder of the night we met and the story of his daiquiri tattoo?

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that shirt is for me.

So is the smile that spreads slowly across his face when he spots me nearing him.

Good thing I prepped for this. Rehearsed it in my mind and practiced keeping a handle on my lust. We’ll shake hands like business associates, then I’ll let go first. That’ll set the mood for today.

I reach him and follow my script, sticking out my arm. “Zane, good to see you again.”

He smirks, his lips curving into a crooked grin as he stares at my offered hand. “Good to see you too,” he says, taking my hand.

Shaking it.

Then, in one swift move I don’t see coming, he yanks me in for a hug.

Oh fuck.

This was not in my prep book. Not one bit.

He wraps his arms around me, and I’m inhaling that oak-y, showered scent of him.

Just like that, my mind scampers out of the kiddie park and marches straight into Adult Naughty Land.