Page 37 of Bone Deep
Sometimes landing a client means playing their game.
Think of it like golfing.
I detest golfing. The only eighteen holes I’ve ever played was a wild weekend in Palm Springs.
“I don’t have anything to work out in,” I say, then. “And even if I did, I’m not putting couture in a gym locker.”
Ryan brightens. “No problem. We can swing by your place so you can change.” He tilts his head. “Do you live close by?”
From outside my office, a voice chirps. “He lives two blocks away.”
I drop my head back and groan. “Not helpful, Dita.”
From the hallway comes a cheerful, “You’re welcome!”
I push to my feet. “Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s go.”
Ryan’s smile splits his face in half.
I grab my bag and grumble under my breath, “I’m going to regret this.”
Nine
Close To You
Ryan
Who do I think I am?
The thought rolls through my head for about the tenth time in the thirty seconds since I followed Spence out of his office. Seriously…who do I think I am, just barging in like that?
I totally ambushed him—sabotaged whatever plans he had for the night. But hey, I just want to be friends with the guy. If I have to show up half naked, so be it.
I lean casually against the wall beside the elevator bank, pretending I’m not watching him. Pretending I’m not studying the hell out of his profile.
God, he’s so hot. All masculine and broody. My tongue about fell out of my mouth when I saw him in that suit. He was sexy the only other time I’ve seen him—tight jeans and a button down at the karaoke bar—but Spencer Stark in a suit?
Fuck.
Me.
Dead.
The hallway lighting catches the sharp angle of his jaw, and the fucking dark stubble that has me risking it all. His hair is still perfectly styled, not a strand out of place even after what I assume was a full day of intimidating people.
I’mintimidated.
The suit jacket is no doubt custom tailored. I know custom tailored. I could care less about my day-to-day fits, but I don’t play when it comes to my game day suits. And fucking hell,custom tailoring wrapped around thighs like his? I realize I’m staring when he shifts slightly and glances toward me.
Shit.
Luckily, I’m saved by the elevator doors—they slide open with a soft whisper, taunting me.
You’re obsessed.
Spence steps in first. I follow behind him, planting myself against the mirrored wall on the left. The cool glass presses against my back through the thin hoodie, and suddenly the elevator feels tiny. Tinier than the shorts I thought were a good idea an hour ago. Spencer turns to face forward, then slowly—very slowly—his gaze sweeps over me.
Down.
