Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(26)

“At you?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t expecting to see Alex with a guy.”

“And you rubbed it in, I guess?”

“A little. I sent a message.”

He’s quiet for a second. “And the break-in happened an hour later.”

“Right. Which seems ridiculously aggressive for a rich guy with a romantic grudge.”

“I think so, too,” Max chuckles.

“Which means someone else broke in,” I conclude. “Who?”

“Not sure,” Max grunts. “I’m working on a couple theories.”

“Care to share?”

“Not at this time.”

I groan. “So let me get this straight. Either her ex has sociopathic tendencies, or some other character is stalking Alex. But you won’t tell me anything more.”

“That sums it up pretty well. But Eric—this is normal. All my clients are at risk, pretty much all the time. Worrying about them is what I do. Alex’s break-in is just another day at the office. Let me go do my job, and when I have actionable advice, you’ll know it.”

“And you wonder why I’m eager to work with you. I don’t even know the name of your company.”

“Because you don’t need to. It’s not a secret because I’m an asshole. It’s a secret because it makes an important point. Anyone who works for me needs to understand that secrets are currency. If they can’t accept that, they aren’t a good fit.”

Then I’m not a good fit. I don’t say it aloud, because I don’t wish to prolong this conversation. And ultimately, I don’t need to know the name of a company I’ll never work for. “Whatever.”

“Stay the course, Eric. It’s either the boyfriend or it’s not.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” I grunt. “Alex is more afraid of him than anything else.”

“Agreed. Which is why you’re so important to this equation. Your job is twofold—to keep Jared Tatum away from Alex, and to make Alex feel safe. You keep an eye on Alex so that we can keep an eye on everything else.”

“Fine,” I agree. “I have to get off the phone now, or I’ll have an uneven tan on my face.”

Max belly laughs. “It’s good to hear your priorities are in line.”

“As always. Later, killjoy.”

“Later, dumbass.”

And people say I’m not very cuddly.

I set my phone to wake me up in twenty minutes, and then I take a catnap on the beach.





My day of leisure ends abruptly at six, when Alex tries to remove my copy of Sports Illustrated from my hands.

But I have fast reflexes. I catch her manicured hand just as it closes around the pages. “No way,” I argue. “I’m right in the middle of this article.”

“The cocktail party is already starting, and I want to be there in half an hour.”

“So?” I hold tightly to my magazine. “It’s a ten minute walk to the other hotel. That means I still have fifteen minutes to sit here.”

“You’re not dressed. You need a blazer and tie for this.”

“Yeah, I allocated five minutes for getting dressed.” I close the magazine and look up. And that’s a mistake, because I almost swallow my tongue. Alex is wearing a halter dress that seems to offer her breasts to me like gourmet treats on a buffet table.

“What?” she says, and I realize I’m staring. “Is it too much?”

“No!” I say quickly, because I’m not an idiot.

“Really—am I bursting out of here?” She lifts her hands and cups her breasts. “Nothing quite fits me right now. But this dress has a fit-and-flare shape, so it covers up my expanding ass.”

My mouth is suddenly dry. The sight of Alex touching herself—however briefly—is going to live on in my dirtiest dreams, I just know it. “You look great,” I rasp. “’Scuse me. I better…” I get up from the sofa and head into the bedroom.

I have got to get a hold of myself.

Putting on a suit ought to do the trick, though. Who wants to wear a tie in Hawaii? In fact, fuck the tie. If I’m supposed to be her bad boy arm candy, I can buck convention. I’m skipping the tie. And I’m not shaving, either. Three days worth of scruff is a good look on me.

I put on a linen jacket over dark jeans and a white shirt, open at the neck. When I check the mirror, I see a guy looking sharp, and a little more dangerous than a tech executive. I grin at my reflection. Who knew acting could be so fun?

When I walk into the living room, I find Alex standing in front of a full-length mirror, fussing with her hair. She turns around, and my pulse kicks up a notch.

“You’re staring,” she whispers. “You’re going to make me self-conscious.”

“Why? You look hot in that dress.” It’s just the truth.

She looks down. “I’m not the same shape as I was a few months ago. Jared might notice and wonder why.”

“No way. That’s not how men work,” I point out. “When he looks at you, there’s no chance his brain says”—I deliver this next part in a weird, nerdy voice—“she looks curvier, in a way that indicates early pregnancy.”

“No?” She smiles.