Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dylan
“Mr. Colt? Sir?”
There’s no way in hell that this is happening again.
My hand runs over the sheet beside me. I come up empty.
“Dammit,” I mutter. “Where’s Eden?”
“Eden?” Gunner’s voice ticks up an octave. “Are you talking about Eden Conrad?”
I force one of my eyes open. Sunlight is pouring in the room. My assistant is dressed in his usual garb even though today is Saturday.
Wait a goddamn minute. It’s Saturday.
“Why are you here?” I wave a hand in his general direction. “Shouldn’t you be at home annoying the hell out of someone else?”
“Is Eden Conrad your girlfriend?” he presses on. “She’s representing Mr. Alcester. She called the office to leave a message. I never forget a name, especially one as nice as Eden.”
I manage to open both eyes. “Go home.”
“We had plans this morning, sir.” His tone edges on frustration. “It’s important.”
It can’t be as important as Eden.
I ate her to another orgasm last night after we fucked. I couldn’t resist.
She fell asleep in my arms afterward. I thought it was a guarantee that she’d be here this morning since her clothes are still at the dry cleaners.
I had visions of breakfast in bed, sex in the shower, and then I’d run to grab her shirt and skirt sometime this afternoon.
I scrub my hand over my face. “What plans?”
“Brunch with Mrs. Jenkinson.” He scribbles his hand in the air. “She’s ready to sign on the dotted line with a retainer check in hand.”
I remember now.
I did set that up. I’ll do business every day of the week, any hour of the day.
Boundaries don’t fit into my business model. Extra hourly fees for weekend meetings do.
“I don’t need you to hold my hand through this.” I shoot Gunner a look. “I can handle it.”
“She requested that I be there.”
I swear to God he blushes at that admission.
Martha Jenkinson is more than double his age, but if she floats his boat and they play safe, who am I to judge?
“I’ll handle the paperwork. You’ll take over after that.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, taking care to keep my dick covered. “I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes.”
His gaze drops to his watch. “Eighteen would be optimum. Mrs. Jenkinson requested brunch at Axel Tribeca at eleven. It’s the restaurant inside the Bishop Hotel.”
Eleven?
I point at his watch. “What the hell time is it?”
“Ten-fifteen on the dot,” he says proudly. “We’ll make it with time to spare.”
I shake my head. “I can’t remember the last time I slept this late.”
“It does a body good.” Gunner offers words of wisdom that I’m guessing he lifted from a billboard in Times Square or an ad he saw online. “It’s nice to see you enjoying life outside the office.”
I’d enjoy it more if I knew when Eden left and why she took off without her clothes.
Exiting Axel Tribeca, I pull my phone out of the pocket of my suit jacket.
I silenced it before the meeting with Martha Jenkinson.
My clients pay me enough to guarantee they have my undivided attention when I’m sitting in front of them or chatting with them on the phone.
Gunner is the go-to if a problem crops up during my one-on-one client time. His gaze drifted to the screen of his phone only once during brunch. He didn’t make eye contact with me after he read the text message that popped up, so it wasn’t vital.
I scroll through the log of missed calls and text messages.
There’s nothing from Eden.
It’s closing in on one p.m. now. I can swing by the dry cleaners, pick up her pressed skirt and shirt, and put them back in her hands.
I type out a quick text to her.
Dylan: Thanks for taking the time to say goodbye this morning.
Her reply is quick.
Eden: Do I detect a hint of sarcasm? Does someone feel used?
The sad face emoji she tacks onto the end of the message draws a laugh from me.
I catch the eye of a woman standing a couple of feet away from me.
Normally, convenience like this wouldn’t go unappreciated by me. I’d strike up a conversation and suggest we go into the restaurant for a drink. By mid-afternoon, we’d be back at my place.
She tosses her light brown hair over her shoulder with a wave of her fingers.
I respond with a brisk nod and a drop of my eyes to my phone’s screen.
Dylan: You can use me whenever the hell you want. Now is good.
Eden: I’m working on destroying your client’s reputation, but I’m available tonight.
The scent of cloying sweet perfume catches my attention.
I turn my head to find the woman I noticed moments ago, standing next to me.
“I’m Kim.” She extends a hand with bright red fingernails.
I ignore it. “I’m leaving.”
Her mouth pouts into a scowl. “My loss.”
I leave it at that, brushing past her to make my way down the crowded sidewalk.
Before I can respond to Eden’s text, she’s sent another.
Eden: Did you get my clothes back from the dry cleaners?
The dry cleaners is my next stop before I put in a few hours at the office.
Dylan: Your blouse and skirt will be waiting for you at my place tonight. Does 8 work for you?
Eden: Eight works. What do I owe you for the dry cleaning?
I stop to wait for a crossing light.
Dylan: A picture of you in whatever the hell you ran out of my place wearing.
By the time the light changes she still hasn’t replied.
She didn’t take the dress shirt she had on last night, and my belt was still where I left it on the floor of my bedroom.
My phone chimes when I turn the corner toward the subway station.
I drop my gaze to the screen and the picture attached to the simple message she sent.
Eden: I found this in your closet.
“Jesus.” I breathe out on a heavy sigh. I wasn’t expecting this.
It’s obvious that she’s sitting on a bed.
Her beautiful legs are in view. The picture only captures the bottom half of the jersey she’s wearing. The hem hits her mid-thigh.
I wore that football jersey in every game I played in high school.
My dad brought it to New York in a clear garment bag right after I bought my apartment. I told him to take it back home, but he insisted on hanging it in my walk-in closet. He told me I’d thank him one day when I had a son who wanted to pick up the game.
It all went back to the fact that I wore his high school football jersey when I was a twelve-year-old kid tossing the ball with him on Sunday afternoons.
I haven’t looked at my old jersey in years. It didn’t mean anything to me until now.
Another message pops up on my screen.
Eden: You’ll have to earn it back, Colt.
I’m instantly hard. I don’t want the damn thing back. I want her to wear it, sleep in it, keep it.
I type back a simple response.
Dylan: We’ll talk terms tonight.
Eden: I can’t wait.