Page 4 of Lucky Puck

“I’m sorry, I was talking to someone else⁠—”

“Is everything alright?”

“Fine. I mean, no, but the problem isn’t about flirting—what was your name?” I say and blow out a breath. At least not yet.

“Bigelow.” I summon up my professional voice and smile into the phone. “It’s like this, Bigelow, I need a big favor from you. I would appreciate it very much if you could procure some clothing for me—very discretely, mind you—and send them up to the room as soon as possible. Here’s what I need.” Without waiting for him to agree—because we’re at a five frigging star hotel and the premium we’re paying for rooms has to come with some perks, right?—I proceed to tell him the exact sizes and items Brody will need to look presentable making his entrance at the arena and hope to heck they won’t cost the agency too much. And I truly hope Jett won’t take it out of my bonus.

When we’ve come to an agreement, I hang up the phone and turn around.

And holy shit, I find him sitting there in the chair watching me with those bluer than blue eyes, his messy bed hair and those rippling abs looking like butter and begging to be touched. Calm down, Bianca. At least he has the towel wrapped sufficiently enough to cover those unforgettable strategic body parts that I wish I hadn’t seen because now I’m imagining them under the towel. Shit.

“That was impressive. You know my pants size⁠—”

“Of course I do. I make it my business to know everything about you. Don’t make a thing about it.”

He grins and looks me up and down. “No problem. Same here. I know your size because I make it my business to know⁠—”

I put up a hand to stop him as my face heats up. “You don’t know anything, Mr. flirty pants.”

He snicker-laughs, then ignores my hand-order to stop flirting. “You’re a size twelve and you fill out your clothes to perfection,” he says.

I open my mouth and then close it, trying desperately not to be flattered or alarmed or impressed, but failing. Putting up my defensive wall to shield myself from his efforts, I’m wondering if he even considers this flirting or if it’s his normal behavior. Either way, I flatten my mouth and furrow my brows into a stern frown.

“Stop flirting. It’s unprofessional.”

He chuckles. “You’re funny, Brooks. I’m sitting here in a towel—and you’ve already seen everything there is to see, so I think worrying about professionalism this morning might be what you’d call a lost cause.

I don’t know what to say to that, partly because my mind keeps reliving the moment I laid eyes on his everything there is to see which is very distracting and partly because he has a point.

He picks up his phone and starts tapping.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling my bank to cancel my credit cards.”

“That’s right. Your wallet…” shit. “I can take care of that for you.” I’m all business now, finally remembering my role and that I have more work to do here—grateful that I have more work to do while we wait for his clothes. I grab the pad of hotel paper and pen and toss them to him. He catches both with one hand. The feat mesmerizes me for a split second.

Not again, don’t get distracted all over again, Brooks.

“Make a list of everything that’s missing, starting with the contents of your wallet.”

“You can start by reporting the theft⁠—”

“No!” I take a breath because his eyebrows rise at my overreaction. “I mean, not at this time. We need to get through the game without the complication of a police investigation.”

“Or the publicity. I imagine it wouldn’t look too cool if⁠—”

“No. It wouldn’t.”

He shakes his head and swipes a hand through his substantial head of hair.

For the first time, he breaks from character and no longer looks like the devil-may-care kid out for a good time and be damned the consequences. He actually appears worried, or at least bothered.

Well of course, he’s bothered, Brooks. He was just robbed blind and left naked and vulnerable. Could he be traumatized? And here I am all business and uncaring, worried only about the publicity. Shit. What’s wrong with me?

Heart pounding and sweating with guilt, I ask in a whisper, “What did that showgirl do to you, Brody? Are you alright? Did she drug you?” I glance at his ring finger as he swipes at his hair again.

“I don’t think so.”