Page 53 of One Little Victory

“I’m going to go ahead and call you winter because I know you’ll be coming later,” she deadpanned, letting the silence hang between us until her breathy laugh filled my ears.

“You win at life. Let me help with your errands.”

“You mean that?” she asked.

“Of course. You left me coffee and plenty of shampoo choices.”

“You are my lifesaver, Thor.”

“Jesus, honey. Keep referring to me as a Norse god, and I’ll be putty in your hands,” I said, palming my cock in my briefs as it tried to convince me to have a bit of sexy phone time with her.

“Would you be able to check on the progress of the Seabee house alone? Since I’m here helping Charlotte with her issue, I’d like to stay for the staff meeting, then go over some marketing strategies.”

“Sure. I can do that. Want to have dinner later?”

“Yes, but I already agreed to dinner with my parents, and I’m not subjecting you to that shit-storm. Tomorrow?”

Damn.

“Brunch with my parents, then visiting Nana with Beth and the girls. Monday?”

“Yes. We’ll make something work Monday.”

“Good, honey. I’ll text you later.”

“Not if I text you first,” she said.

“As you wish.”

I tossed my cell on the bed, still riding the high of last night. It would only be forty-eight hours until I’d see her again, but I had a feeling I’d be itching for the time to go faster.

I was a guy completely secure in my masculinity. Sure, I turned a blind eye to my anxiety most days and dressed better than eighty percent of the population, but I knew who I was. I enjoyed the niceties—from expensive wine and tobacco to imported food and the finest cashmere. So when I pulled into the house on Seabee to see a huge black pickup truck and a police cruiser, I adjusted my lapels and didn’t blink.

The officer in the vehicle was on the phone, animatedly waving his arms, while a guy in plain clothes sat next to him, staring out the window. I gave them a wide berth, hearing voices coming from the back of the house and heading in that direction.

“Where the hell is she?” a baritone voice boomed, freezing me in my tracks. My balls shrunk to the size of raisins and threatened to crawl back into my body as all traces of my prior masculinity disappeared.

Fight or flight?

More like freeze-frame.

I’d turned into a bad eighties music video.

Heavy footfalls crunched the fallen leaves on the pavement behind me, and a voice in my head screamed for me to move, but my feet were two cement blocks.

“Dude, move,” the same bass voice said, practically shoulder checking me out of the way and sprinting to the back.

“Sorry about that,” a similar voice said, stopping beside me and holding out his hand. The guy was my height—give or take an inch—with dark hair, blue eyes, and built like a brick shit house. I was no stranger to staying in shape, but this dude had muscles on top of muscles like he spent every spare moment at the gym.

“I’m Maverick of TriVolt Electric. We’re doing the lighting upgrades on the house. You’ll have to excuse my younger brother. It seems my other brothers have played an obnoxious prank on him, and he’s overreacting. Who are you?”

His hand was still hanging there, so I grasped it, shaking firmly, and finding my voice now that my balls had grown back to their perfectly respectable, if not above average size.

“Simon. Addison’s assisting her intern with a problem today and asked me to stop by in her stead.”

“Good to meet you. You’re the guy who helped with the designs.” He furrowed his thick brows, the eleven between his eyes prominent, and opened his mouth when raised voices echoed from the backyard. Maverick sighed and rubbed his temple, then clapped me on the back, making me stagger forward.

Seriously, I was completely confident with myself, but this guy was a mountain troll crossed with a lumberjack, and I imported fucking olive oil. Geezus.

---