Page 25 of Nash

“That was a secret, Vale!”

“All things are fair in monster cock sheaths and love, Blair!”

“You’re such a bitch.” She turns, storming toward our showroom.

“Yes, sister,” I shout after her, “and so are you. So quit feeling sorry for your fucks and fight back. It’s been months.”

Jace watches Blair stomp up the grand wooden staircase. After a moment, his face bends. “Should I go check on her?”

“She’s fine,” I answer, opening the mail. “She needs to get mad to get over that man. I swear if I could, I’d kill Beau Bronson for breaking her heart, but he’s too damn famous, and I heard the cheeseburgers suck in jail.”

Silently, I sort through junk and bills as Nash clicks on the mouse, scrutinizing every transaction I entered last year.

“What’s this?” He points to one.

“Oh.” I read it. “That’s our quarterly donation. Stacey donates thirty percent of our proceeds to a local women’s shelter.”

“Proceeds,” he asks, “orprofit?”

I hate this. I hate feeling dumb. “Proceeds,” I snap overconfidently.

“Vale,” he lowers his eyes behind those fake, nerdy glasses, “do you know the difference?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

My sigh is long, my eyes rolling back like I’m losing consciousness.I wish I could.“Fine. Lecture me, please. I know you’re dying to.”

“No, it’s my job,” he answers coldly.

I snort, “Yeah, right, Don Corleone.”

“Ahem.”

Now, Jace clears his throat, which is weird because he usually stays out of the drama. I glance at him in his dark Armani suit, sitting stoic on his stool.

Raising a suspicious brow, I turn back to Nash, who leans in, mad and grumbling, “I’mnotthe godfather, and I’mnotyour father. I’m the accountant hired by you to tell you that proceeds don’t account for cost. If a monster cock sheath costs you ten dollars to buy and you sell it for twenty, yourproceedsare twenty dollars, but yourprofitis ten. You should be donating profits, or you will run your generous boss out of business.”

Why does he have to look so damn hot teaching me? If he’d been my math professor, I would’ve majored in it. “Why, Mr. Allen, I get so wet when you talk cock sheaths and costs.”

“Vale.” He glowers, “Professional. Remember?”

“Mr. Allen.” I bat my lashes, pointing at my D-cups. “Sexprofessional. Remember?”

“Do I need to take a lunch break?” Jace interrupts us, and again, it’s weird.

Usually, he’s the sweet, silent, sexy mountain of muscle who sits by the door, not a meddling co-worker who gets all up in my hot mafia man business.

“We’re fine,” Nash clips, then cuts Jace a look I’ve never seen.

They were strangers until I introduced them two weeks ago. But now? They’re speaking a secret language I can’t translate.

“Just making sure.” Jace spins the ring on his pinky before the bell rings. He checks the camera screen, then buzzes a customer in.

“Hi.” A tall, blond man fidgets in the foyer. It’s obvious he’s new here. “I, uh. I heard about you guys and thought I’d come by.”

Usually, Blair helps our customers, but she’s upstairs, pining over NFL penis, so I jump to my feet.

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