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“Right. Sorry.”
“Hey, it’s all good. Lesson one, you don’t just go dumping a bunch of drugs out on the coffee table like a piñata at a kids’ party. That’s how you get people killed. How you get caught.”
“Um. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Sure thing, Miss Michaels, the advice is free. Just make sure you thank me by paying up on time, or you won’t feel so grateful. The interest on late payments is a bitch.” He accents the words with a crack of his knuckles. And then he calmly slips around me, through the door and out the back.
He knows my fucking name.
A shuddering sigh, a gasp of air I desperately needed, and I’m sinking down against the closed door, trying to catch my breath. That was terrible. But it’s done. Or as done as it can be until I get him paid and never, ever contact him again.
I’m just pulling myself together when I hear a crash out in the dining room. Probably a fight, or an idiot knocking over the…
Yep. The drinks table.
A vodka-soda-soaked bro hops to his feet, wearing nothing but a backward baseball cap and his underwear, holding up a football. “FUCK YEAH!”
And he’s off into the fray again, launching the ball to someone else.
“Damnit. Another mess to clean up.” I bend down, grabbing a few cups, and reach for the table when a hand brushes over mine, reaching for the same thing.
“Oh, sorry. Here, I got it.”
Holy. Shit.
Emerald green eyes knock me back a step, and I pause to take in the man helping me set the table back up. He might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Like straight out of an underwear ad.
And holy crap, would I love to see him in his underwear.
There’s no way he’s under six-five, lean, but his chest and shoulders fill his T-shirt like I wish he’d fill me?—
Whoa! Settle down, girl.
The stress from my illicit encounter with Yellow-teeth must have me on edge.
A flip of that honey brown hair distracts me further, teasing just above that mischievous glance. The color is accented by flawless skin, touched with a hint of a golden tan that draws my eye down the curve of his triceps, his cabled forearm, and…
And our hands are still touching.
Time speeds back up, and I jerk my hand back, bending down to continue cleaning. “Th–thanks. This happens WAY too often.”
“And you have to clean it up because…?”
“Because I’m the maid, apparently.” The laugh that slips out with my sarcastic remark sounds like someone else. So embarrassing. But the look he gives me as he stacks red cups is intrigued, eager.
“I’m sort of the party planner, hostess. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Oh, so you’re the boss around here? I was looking for someone to complain to. The doorman seems to be letting way too many drunk college kids into this awesome club…”
“I’ll have to have a word with him about that. I usually only let stunning celebrity types in like y?—”
“Like you?” And that smile again. It has me biting my lip like a lust-struck teenager. And that corny line? Please.
Well, dammit, it’s working. Not to mention that he’s standing so close, in my space, and I can feel the warmth of his body through my shirt.
“Hell–Hellena Michaels. Frat party planner and all-around doormat.” I offer my hand officially, feeling my hip tip out to the side, wanting to lean in toward him.
“Hell never looked so appealing,” he mutters just loud enough to be heard over the music, and I honestly can’t tell if he meant to say it. But it has heat flooding my face, even as a part of me wants to laugh in his face at the bad pickup lines. He catches himself and turns to face me. “I highly doubt you’d let anyone walk all over you, from what I’ve heard about SHSU’s “Fixer”. And it’s not being a doormat if you get paid for it, right?”
