Mercy (Salacious Players Club, #4)(6)

I almost wish he would sneer at the little details that only I notice. But, of course, he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles, approaching me with arms wide, and presses a friendly kiss to my cheek. “The house is beautiful, Maggie. Congratulations.”

It’s hard enough to compete with Mr. Perfect himself when he’s rich and smart and in control and basically has the world kneeling at his feet without effort. The real cherry on the sundae is the fact that Emerson Grant has never treated me poorly in all of our time working together. But maybe that’s why it hurts so much that he doesn’t see—or rather, acknowledge—how unbalanced the dynamic is between us.

We run different races to cross the same finish line.

“Thanks, Emerson,” I mumble with a smile as he pulls away.

Outside a loud horn honks twice, which means Drake is out there parking a truck holding everything I own.

“He’s here,” Hunter announces, leading the pack out the front door.

Emerson lingers with me for a moment, studying my face with concern. “Everything all right?”

I fake a smile and nod.

But inside I’m thinking, no. Everything is not all right. I just bought a house I don’t need that’s going to require a lot of work I definitely don’t want, and I did all of this to prove that I’m just as successful as him when, deep down, I’m probably using this house to cover up something that I haven’t had enough therapy to identify yet.

And to top it all off, I haven’t been properly laid in almost two years, and I’ve given up on dating altogether because, no matter where I look, the only men interested in me are boring, middle-aged divorcees with giant egos and tiny penises.

I’m not afraid of spending my life alone. I actually like being alone, but I’m tired of being unfulfilled and I’m terrified the best years of my life are behind me, and unlike being a sexy rich man in his forties, I’m a thirty-four-year-old workaholic woman that never gets to play the starring role in anyone’s fantasy.

So on top of probably living and dying alone, I’m also doomed to spend my years having sex alone too.

“Yep. I’m great,” I lie with a smile, and he buys it. Throwing an arm around my shoulders, he drags me toward the door, where he helps me and four other guys unload everything I own into this giant emotional Band-Aid of a house.

And I really wish I could hate him, but he makes it so freaking impossible to do so.





Rule #3: Wine and friends is a dangerous combination.





Maggie





Two hours later, the six of us are sitting on my still plastic-covered sectional, exhausted from unloading the truck, when a car horn blares outside.

“The girls are here,” Hunter announces as he lifts a cold beer up to his lips.

“The girls?” I ask.

“Yep. They wanted us to let them know when we’re done so they can surprise you,” Garrett replies.

“No…” I say carefully.

Emerson laughs. Maybe he’s the only one who picks up on it, but I don’t do so well with the girls. I work with men. I’ve always worked with men and I’m used to them. It’s easier this way, and I love the girls, I really do, but they are exhausting in the best way possible.

But still…exhausting.

“Housewarming party!” Mia exclaims as she bursts through the door with a stack of pizza boxes in her hands, and as much as I’d like to tell them I’m too sweaty and exhausted for company—not to mention everything I own is in boxes—their energy is too infectious to ignore. Oh, to be twenty-two again.

Charlie follows behind Mia with a box of wine and a package of plastic cups.

And behind her, Isabel waddles in, looking far too sexy in those yoga pants to be pregnant. Meanwhile, I’m a hot mess.

“You guys did not need to do this,” I say as I stand up, greeting the girls with a hug. The four of us head into the kitchen, leaving the guys in the living room, and Mia wastes no time cracking open the wine.

While they busy themselves with small talk and dishing out food and drinks, I settle into the corner of my kitchen, checking my work email, just in case anything has popped up today. The guys keep to themselves in the living room as the girls go on and on, mostly talking about Isabel, who is now resting her forearms on the kitchen island and letting her belly hang, looking relieved from the weight off her legs.

“Oh my gosh, Isabel, let me get you a chair!” I say, jumping away from the corner.

“I’m fine, really,” she argues, but I wave her off as I rush into the dining room. It’s littered with boxes, but the chairs are stacked along the wall, just out of reach. If I lean over this wall of boxes, I can probably hoist one of the chairs off the pile. But as I stretch, nearly toppling over, I feel my shorts riding up my backside and the cool air from the air conditioner brushing against the lower side of my ass.

“Need some help?” a deep voice asks, making me scream as I lose my balance and fall head first into the pile of boxes. Just before I’m completely vertical and upside down, I feel a pair of firm hands latch onto my hips, pulling me back up until I’m pressed against a solid wall of warm muscle.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his cool and slightly unfamiliar voice just next to my ear. As I turn my head, staring directly into the piercing eyes of Beau Grant, I let the mortification wash over me.