Page 65 of Playing Mr. Perfect

“Seth, you do realize it’s bizarre to call an assistant you’ve never met your buddy, right?” I ask.

His brow furrows in confusion. “Taylor is my buddy. He’s worked for me for years, and he’s always got my back.”

“Yes, but you’ve never met him or even spoken to him on the phone,” I reiterate.

Seth holds my gaze, unfazed, and takes a drink. As he sets the glass down, he says, “You want him to get you a room or not?”

“Of course. It’ll save Doogie the hassle. I was just pointing out that it’s a little weird.”

Ignoring my comment, Seth looks across the table at Sutton and Flynn. “What time do we need to be there for the rehearsal dinner?”

“We haven’t nailed that down yet,” Flynn says.

“We’re still trying to decide between having it at the Silver House or at Rock Bottom Bar and Grill,” Sutton explains.

“Rock Bottom?” Seth eyes Victory with an amused expression. “Isn’t that the place your boyfriend owns, Vic?”

Victory shoots him a warning glare.

“That’s right,” I exclaim, remembering the guy who had flirted with her relentlessly when we visited Flynn and Sutton on Silver Island last Christmas. “What was that guy’s name?”

“Wells Silver,” Seth says.

“That’s it. He was definitely into you, Vic,” I say.

“I have a feeling he’d be into any willing woman, and I am definitely not one of them.” Victory takes a drink, eyeing us over her glass.

We’d all like to see her find love again, but that narrow-eyed stare has us falling silent as the waitress brings our meals. Flynn and Sutton share more of their wedding plans as we eat, and before we move on to other subjects, Victory raises her wineglass in a toast. “To Sutton and Flynn for grabbing that brass ring and enjoying every second of happiness while they can.”

I hear the implication she’s drilled into our heads—Tomorrow is not guaranteed—and I’m sure Seth and Flynn do as well, but my thoughts return to Pepper. I wonder if there is more to her decision than just our lives being too far apart or hers being too busy. Could Seth be right? Is she intimidated by me? Our connection is electric, and she was honest about not trusting athletes.

I think about our last night together. Wrists or blindfold, baby? Pepper’s voice whispers through my head. I’ve never done either. Can we try both? The image of her blindfolded, her wrists bound, blooms to life.

You trust me, Reckless.

The question is, do you trust yourself?

Chapter Seventeen

Pepper

Focus, I tell myself for the millionth time Thursday afternoon and stare down at my notes.

Ravi and I have a conference call in twenty minutes with the executives of a major medical supply company to pitch the concept for our migraine device in hopes of securing funding. This meeting has to go well, and I’m definitely not at my best. I haven’t been sleeping well. I can’t stop thinking about Clay, wondering if I made the right decision. Every time I start reading my notes for the pitch, it brings back our last night in Paris, when he had a migraine. It still boggles my mind that he was going to play it off like he wasn’t in horrible pain just so he didn’t disappoint me.

I glance at my phone and tap the screen. It lights up, revealing a few unread messages from my family, but nothing from Clay. It’s been two days since I’ve heard from him, and even though I’m the one who severed that connection, a pang of sadness moves through me. I keep telling myself the longing will pass. It has to. I can’t function like this. I glance at my notes again, trying to concentrate, but it’s Clay’s smiling eyes I see, and in my warped brain, they intensify, the way they did over the weekend when he looked at me like I was all he saw. Nobody has ever looked at me the way he does.

Did. The way he did.

I blow out a breath, trying to clear my head. I must be really exhausted, because it’s like his face is etched in my brain. Coffee. That’s what I need. I push to my feet and head out of my office. The chime above the front door rings out, so I head for the lobby to see who it is.

A man wearing a black jacket is standing just inside the doors with his back to me. “Can I help you—”

He turns around, and my mouth goes dry. It’s Clay, holding a bouquet of gorgeous red roses.

A slow grin that says There you are spreads across his handsome face. “Reckless.”

My thoughts stumble at the mix of longing and relief in his voice.