Right Man, Right Time (The Vancouver Agitators, #3)(67)

My mouth waters at the sight of that rear end again and her bare, muscular back with the rarest of glimpses of side boob as she fits her outfit on. She pulls it up, revealing a black one-piece of sorts with pant legs and a tight-fitted top.

“I need you to zip me up,” she says, her back still toward me.

Pushing off the bed, I walk up behind her. I drape her long hair over one shoulder, then rest my hand on her waist. Her back stiffens, and as I grip the small black zipper, I move my hand up her rib cage until I pause right below her breast. Holding tightly, I slowly pull the zipper up, the entire time feeling her breath inflate and deflate her lungs until she’s all the way zipped up, and I pull away.

Without a word, she storms off into the bathroom and closes the door.

She wants to play with fire by stripping in front of me? She’s going to get it in return.

I sit on her bed again and pull out my phone. I scroll through emails for the next ten minutes, and when she’s finally ready and opens the bathroom door, she emerges with her hair pulled back into a high ponytail, a heavy smoky eye, and what looks like fake eyelashes. She topped the look off with bright red lipstick.

Yup . . . she’s fucking hot.

Not to mention, the neckline of her outfit cuts down to the spot just below her breasts, once again offering an abundance of cleavage for all to see. It must be her signature move, to show off her breasts whenever she gets a chance. And I’m going to tell you right now, it fucking works.

As she slips her shoes on, I realize one thing. I hate that even though I’m mad at her, I still think she’s hot. I don’t want to be attracted to her, but it’s inevitable. I can’t stop it. And I can’t stop the way my eyes scan her, resting for a moment too long on her breasts, on her lips, on those eyes.

She stands tall, flips her ponytail over her shoulder, and snatches a clutch from her closet before stuffing her phone, wallet, lipstick, and key in it. She tucks the clutch under her arm and says, “Let’s go, master.”

Better than fart face. Guess I’ll take it.

We’re silent the entire trip out of the dorm. I honestly expected nothing less than her glacial attitude.

When we reach my car, I open the door for her and watch her get in, then, taking her seat belt, I loop it over her and click it in. When I pull back, I hear her sharp inhale, only for her eyes to connect with mine in confusion.

“Just want to make sure you don’t bolt.”

Her face falls. “Aren’t you a funny guy?” No. Just a bit desperate it seems.

She doesn’t bother talking to me, and I don’t bother talking to her until we’re five minutes from the event.

“You’re going to have to act like you like me in there.”

“This is not my first rodeo, Potato.”

Ah, so we’ve sunk to that level of pettiness. Guess it’s fair, given what I had to say to get her in this car.

“There will be major sponsors here, people who pay me a lot of fucking money, so no donkey pervert story. Just say we ran into each other at the zoo.”

“And shield them from the true story of who you are? That’s doing them a disservice.”

“The real story would be you assaulting me in a bar, but I have enough class to hold back on telling that tale.”

She whips her head toward me. “Are you saying I don’t have class?”

“Take it as you want,” I say as I pull up to valet.

“Well, if that’s the way you want to play the game,” she says.

“Don’t, Oliana,” I say in a stern voice. “I swear to fuck, if you embarrass me in there, you won’t like the repercussions.”

“Oh Potato, I have zero plans of embarrassing you.”

Why do I find that incredibly hard to believe? But I don’t have time to hash it out with her because the valet is opening our doors.

I hand them the key and then make my way around the car where I meet up with Ollie. She takes my hand and snuggles in close to my side just in time for a few cameras to flash in our direction.

Fuck, I completely forgot about the press.

I turn to Ollie and say, “Don’t talk to anyone. Just smile, and I’ll guide you inside.”

Surprisingly, she does as she’s told, and we make it past the press box and into the venue, where we’re immediately greeted by Hector Fuentes, the CEO of Skin Leisure, the clothing brand that I recently signed a seven-figure deal with.

“Silas Taters, glad you could make it,” Hector says while patting me on the back. “And who did you bring with you tonight?”

“Hector, it’s great to see you,” I say, turning on the charm. “This is my girlfriend, Ollie Owens.”

“Ollie, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Ollie says.

“Well, help yourself to drinks and food. There are gift bags for everyone as well. Enjoy the night. We’re looking forward to cheering you on this season, Silas.”

“Thank you. We’re looking good. I feel like we have another shot at the cup this year.” I give him a handshake, and then I press my hand to Ollie’s back and guide her into the main ballroom. “Need a drink?” I ask her.

“As if you care,” she says, smiling up at me, and then grips my hand in hers. “But yes, I’m thirsty.”