Page 111 of Playing Mr. Perfect

“Mine is,” Chris says as he walks by my office door.

“Hey, Chris,” I call out.

He circles back in his wrinkled slacks and half-untucked dress shirt, flashing a warm smile. “What’s up?”

“Would you mind taking these muffins to the kitchen?”

“Happy to, but I can’t guarantee they’ll all make it there.” He takes the box from Clay. “Thanks for keeping us stocked up with the good stuff.”

“My pleasure,” Clay says.

Chris turns his attention to me. “I had an idea. Since Clay gets so much social media coverage, maybe he can talk up some of our work. That might help gain more funding.”

It was a big relief not to have received any flak from our funding sources over those unflattering headlines. Although, I did have to resort to putting the phones on auto answer because of the media trying to reach me. As if I have something to say? No, thank you. The attention has also brought an even bigger influx of unqualified applicants for the receptionist position. But on the upside, Ravi, Chris, and Min rallied around me the morning after the news broke, and my family has checked on me a lot the last few days. When they realized I was past wanting to hide my head in a hole, they made light of the situation, which helped me move on from the sting of it. The new headlines are less obnoxious, pointing to a serious relationship, but they still make me a little nervous. If Clay and I don’t work out, I worry I’ll face more public humiliation. I said as much to Sable earlier, and she said not to let the public steal my happiness. One look at Clay solidifies how right she is.

“Chris, Clay is not our marketing rep.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Clay says as he shrugs off his coat and hangs it on my coatrack. “It could help with funding.”

“No, no, no. I’m not going to turn you into a billboard for my company. Chris, we’ll be in the lab.” I take Clay by the arm and head out of my office.

“Why are you so against my help?”

“I’m not against your help. I’m against using you for my company’s gain. I can just imagine the headlines. Is Mr. Perfect Being Played for His Fame? No, thank you.”

We head into the lab, and I set my coffee on the table where I laid out the measuring tools.

Clay takes my hand and pulls me into his arms. “I know you’d never play me for anything, but you’re doing important work, and my face does sell. Maybe in this case headlines shouldn’t matter.”

“When it comes to my business, they do. I just think it’s best to keep our relationship separate from my work. Now take your shirt off.”

He grins wickedly. “Is this a personal visit, Dr. Montgomery? Because if you’re asking me to take my clothes off personally and not in order to take measurements for research and development reasons, then I’m going to proceed a little differently.”

My entire body goes into heck yes mode. My nipples pebble, my insides flame, and my mouth even waters at the thought of all the delicious things we could do.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” he says coyly.

“It’s really unfair that all you have to do is imply something dirty and my brain turns to mush.” That earns a bigger grin. I swat his chest. “Stop grinning.”

“I can’t help it if you’re adorable.”

“You make it impossible to be serious.”

“Trust me, Reckless. I know you’re serious about me.”

I shake my head, but now I’m grinning like a fool. “Take your damn shirt off, Braden.”

“That’s it, baby, get sharp tongued with me,” he says as he takes off his shirt.

He leisurely places it on the table, plants his hands on his hips, and draws his shoulders back, giving me a show and bringing with it flashes of our last few nights together. We’ve been staying at his place, and we not only christened the hot tub, but we got down and dirty in the kitchen, the living room, on the dining room table, and in the gym. Who knew a weight bench was so versatile? But it isn’t just those things that have my heart thrumming. It’s the small, unexpected things. The closeness of cuddling on the couch and watching a movie, the intimacy of waking up in the arms of the person who always makes me happy, and the comfort of holding hands as we walk down the street.

He grabs the button on his jeans, snapping me from my reverie.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn.

“Always so controlling,” he says in a low voice. “Just like in Paris when you tried to convince me our first night together didn’t happen.”

“Clay, if you don’t stop it, I’ll get one of the others to take your measurements.”