Page 69 of Loverboy
His hand pauses on my back. “I know that, Paxton. I just wanted to be near you. Turn around.”
Reluctantly, I turn to face him. The water rains down on us as I stare up into his gorgeous eyes.
“I’m coming to work with you this morning,” he says.
“Why?”
“Just to make sure you’re safe.” He picks up a bottle of shampoo, dispenses a blob into his hand, and then begins to rub it through my hair.
Holy moly. His hands are magic. Maybe I have some kind of undiscovered scalp-rubbing kink. It feels so good.
When I close my eyes to keep the soap out of them, it makes the moment seem even more unreal. I’m naked in a fancy shower with Gunnar Scott. Is this real life?
I plant a palm in the center of his chest. His skin is slick and warm. “Mmm,” he says, and I feel the vibration under my hand. “Are you sure you can’t open late this morning?” Soapy hands take a quick, gratuitous trip down my breasts. And then he kisses my neck.
“Oh, I’m sure,” I say quickly. Because if I get into bed with him again, I’m afraid I’ll never leave. I tilt my head back to rinse off the shampoo. “Behave yourself.”
I hear his chuckle, and when I can see again, Gunnar is already lathering himself up in a businesslike fashion. As if this were a perfectly normal way to start the day.
It could be, my hormones suggest.
But they’re wrong. Gunnar is a temporary blip in my life, and I’d better not forget it. I wouldn’t even be here right now if it weren’t for the mess I’m in. “How much danger am I in, exactly?”
Gunnar closes his eyes to rinse his hair, and I ogle him shamelessly while he can’t see me. There’s that tattoo again. A work of art, on a work of art. “Probably not much, but I don’t want to risk it.”
“Who was that guy last night?”
“I’ll explain while we walk to work,” he says, turning off the water. “Ladies first.” He opens the shower door, and points at the towels. “I’d offer you coffee, but I don’t have any. I don’t even have a coffee machine.”
I step out and grab one of the fluffy white towels. “Did you learn to make espresso just to work in my shop?”
“Yup.” He ties a towel around his lickable waist. “But if you want that story, you’ll have to get it out of Max or Duff. You’ll laugh your butt off, I’m sure.”
“And when I called that reference for you in California—”
“Just one of Max’s agents. Sorry,” he says.
That icky feeling comes back—the one that makes me feel certain I’m doomed to be duped by fast-talking men. “Were you eveninCalifornia? Where did the lies begin?”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m in San Jose about three quarters of the time. I hate New York.”
“And this apartment?” I ask, leaving the palatial bathroom. Even in the predawn darkness I can tell that Gunnar’s place is beautiful. If it’s even his. “Where did it come from?”
“It’s mine. I bought it. But it’s empty most of the time.”
“But why?” I ask.
“Well, it’s an investment.” He walks over to a nice maple dresser and opens a drawer. “And my company is based here. I don’t just work for Max. I own a stake in The Company. But that’s not really what motivated me to buy this place.”
“Then what did?”
“Owning a sweet pad in the city was a bucket list item. I spent the first twenty years of my life getting stomped on by rich New Yorkers. So owning a piece of the pie felt like revenge. But maybe the joke’s on me, because the taxes and the condo fees aren’t cheap.”
“Revenge on who, exactly?” I grab my shirt off Gunnar’s bedroom floor and try to shake it out.
“Rich assholes in general.” He shrugs, and then removes his towel to step into a pair of boxer briefs. “It’s not the most logical thing I’ve ever done. But this is a great neighborhood.”
God, that butt, my hormones sigh.The most perfect butt in New York City.
