Page 96 of Playing Mr. Perfect

Clay chuckles.

I think about how Sable would respond and quickly thumb out a response.

Me: He doesn’t pay me, but I’m sure he’ll thank me later.

I send a winking emoji, and my heart races as his response rolls in.

Seth: You should ask for money. I’m sure it will last longer.

I’m so far out of my league, my head is spinning. I shove the phone into Clay’s hand. “You’d better take this. I was trying to be coy, but I’m not good at that. I haven’t even met him yet. What’s he going to think of me?”

“He’s going to adore you as much as I do.” Clay reads the texts and responds.

Clay: Stop flirting with my girl.

“I don’t give a damn what he thinks. Seeing you stick up for me like that turns me on.” He pulls me into a hard kiss.

“In that case, give me your phone. I have more to say.”

“There’s my naughty temptress.”

As he lowers his lips to mine, I notice the person who works there watching us and say, “Behave. We have an audience.”

He lets out a frustrated growl, and we quickly clean up and leave with our paintings in hand, kissing as we hurry out to the Rover. We put the paintings on the back seat, and Clay pins me against the side of the vehicle, taking me in a ravenous kiss that makes my every nerve ending flame. His hardness is deliciously tempting, and his scruff tickles my skin, making me crave it between my legs. I almost forget we’re in the middle of a parking lot.

I’m stuck in a mental tug-of-war, wanting more and knowing I should step back to keep from becoming an even bigger spectacle. Before I can gather the strength to break the kiss, he does it for me, and our eyes lock. The desire and restraint warring in his nearly unravel me.

“I think we found a hobby we both enjoy,” he says.

I laugh softly, clutching his sweatshirt, telling myself to let go. But the desire burning in his eyes has me throwing caution to the wind and leaning in for more.

“Not here, sweetheart,” he grits out. “You have a reputation to uphold, and I’m not about to spoil it.”

“Right. Of course,” I stammer, grateful one of us is thinking straight.

We stop on the way home to buy a gaming system and pizza because Clay is dead set on teaching me to play the video game in which he is a character, and we are both hungry. We start a fire in the fireplace, put a blanket and pillows on the floor, and eat the pizza in front of the fire. Then he teaches me how to play the video game.

Or rather, he tries to teach me how to play.

We’ve been playing for half an hour and laughing our butts off, because I am every bit as bad as I told him I would be. There are a million things to remember, and it’s too much to keep track of.

“Throw the ball,” he says ever so helpfully as his player rushes my quarterback.

“I’m trying!” I feverishly push the buttons. “Stop running at my guy!”

“That’s how you play the game.”

His player sacks my quarterback, and I yell, “Nooo!” He cracks up, and I throw a pillow at him. “This is so hard.”

“You’re doing great.”

I roll my eyes. “I am not.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll throw in some incentives. We’ll play touchdowns for clothing. Every time one of us gets a touchdown, the other one has to take something off.”

“That’s hardly fair. I’ve gotten one touchdown to your five.”

“Okay. I’ll make it easier.” He stands up and whips off his sweatshirt and the T-shirt he has on beneath it.