Sweet Rivalry (1001 Dark Nights)(15)

And it’s because of Ryder. All of it.

Because I want him and can’t have him. Sleeping with the enemy is not an option this time around, but the memory of his kiss way back when is enough to make me want more.

Because he looks so very different but is so much the same. A good guy who now has a bit of an edge to him, with that sexy beard and those mysterious tattoos.

Because he’s irritating and knows just how to get under my skin and regardless of how hard I tell myself to shut him out, it almost seems like an open invitation to let him in.

How did Hot-Suit-Guy in the lobby and a promise of possible reward sex for getting the job turn into Hot-Suit-Guy being Ryder and oh-how-do-I-want-to-sleep-with-him but after everything in New York, sleeping with anyone who is affiliated with my work is off limits?

A deal breaker.

And now I’m tired and irritated with a long-ass day of work in front of me—across from him no less—because all I did was toss and turn all night. And the few times sleep did come, I dreamt of him. And not just any dreams, but ones where he was unbuttoning that shirt of his and then pulling it off.

Toned. Tanned. Etched in ink.

Of course those were my dreams—not reality—but that doesn’t mean I didn’t lie in bed this morning wondering if his chest is as delectable as my subconscious has created it to be.

And then there is that damn beard of his. If my dreams were any indication, it sure as hell felt like heaven between my thighs.

The problem is, now I want to know if it feels just as good in real life.

“And that’s why you need to work from here for a bit,” I mumble to myself as I force the thoughts from my mind right along with the memory of the incredible orgasm that ripped me from my dreams to find my fingers between my thighs earlier this morning.

There are definitely worse ways to wake up than from a powerful orgasm but the problem is now I’m obsessing over Ryder and how it would feel if my fingers were replaced by his hardened dick.

I shake my head and laugh at my lunacy. There’s definitely no way I can head in to the office just yet. All it will take is one glance his way to bring my dreams to the forefront of my mind. To recall how his hands had parted my thighs before his mouth and beard lowered its way to taste and tempt and taunt me into oblivion. No doubt I’d be so distracted by the memory that I’d purposely make every one of my calculations equal sixty-nine or something.

Subtle. Real subtle.

God, things were much easier when the irritation factor outweighed the sexual attraction factor when it came to him. So I’ll work from here for a while before I head in.

Let the dream fade. The image I made in my head dissipate. The feel of his touch lessen.

Focus on being irritated with him. That’s safe. That’s productive.

And time to get to it.

I look out across the square where Century Development sits opposite my hotel and then to my makeshift project plot map I’ve made on the wall of my hotel room. The one I started working on last night when I couldn’t sleep. Color coordinated notes litter the diagram in clusters––one grouping for each building: pink for things I need to remember, blue for questions I need to ask myself, and yellow for information that links one building to the next.

I’m missing something in my calculations—I know and can feel it—but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is yet. Some tiny detail that will set my numbers apart from everyone else and land me the job.

And I need to use this distraction-free space to find it.

Just as I step forward to reread my notes, the dull throb in my temples I’ve been ignoring all morning begins to pound stronger. My body’s subtle reminder that it’s been way too long since I’ve had a caffeine fix is demanding attention.

I’ll go get coffee first.

And then I’ll come back here with a clearer mind, the buzz of caffeine, and work for a bit.

Distraction free.





Chapter Eight



Harper




I never do well with spontaneity.

Case in point: I’m currently lost in this maze of a mall trying to get back from the Starbucks that took me way too long to find, and all I want to do is get to work.

Somehow I got turned around, had a mild panic attack when I came out the opposite side of the coffee house, spent way too long trying to get my bearings, and then when I finally did, couldn’t find the elevator.

But I know where I’m going now. Up five floors to the sixth and then across the parking garage to my hotel. And with coffee in my system, the elevator door in front of me, and my headache subsided, my mind is already working through mental bullet points about what I can do to strengthen my proposal and trim some dollars.

Details I neglected to consider yesterday because I was distracted by a certain someone. A someone I am determined today to ignore.

My brain is a Ryder-free zone. Or so I told myself over and over as I waited in line for my coffee. And I repeat the mantra again as I step into the elevator car when it arrives on the second floor.

“Sixth floor, please,” I ask with a polite smile to the man standing by the buttons and shift against the wall as more people pile in behind me.

Just as the door begins to close, I hear a “Hold up.”

It’s only two words, a common request, and yet I know who it is before his hand prevents the doors from shutting. My brain may be a Ryder-free zone, but fate has just determined it’s going to be a close-quarters elevator-ride zone too.