The Lineup(8)

Only one way to find out . . .

I pull up Google and start to type his name when I stop myself.

No. I shouldn’t. I’m a serious businesswoman, not a besotted college girl.

I lean back in my chair, eyes fixed on my computer, pen flipping through my fingers.

Maybe . . .

No. I mentally shake my head. Not happening. No good will come of it if you type Jason Orson shirtless into the search bar.

And you know I’ll add shirtless in there, because I’m desperate and lonely.

Did I say that out loud? No, I thought it. I’m not lonely, I’m just . . . unprepared for nighttime activities. One can only play solitaire so many times by themselves at night before it starts to become pathetic.

That’s all this is, boredom and lack of focus.

Okay. I shake my head and sit tall in my chair. Briar Hurst, let’s see what—

Oh, fuck it.

My fingers type out Jason Orson shirtless before I can stop them. I bite down on my pen, sitting at the edge of my seat as the search results load.

It’s taking so long. Mental note: ream out IT for faster Internet so I can cyberstalk faster. Although I’ll phrase my request a little differently, of course.

Pen lengthwise in my mouth like a horse bit, my fingers tapping at my desk, my excitement ready—just a little glance—I scroll the mouse over the images tab and click.

My . . . oh . . . my.

Would you look at that?

As if someone is lifting the blinds to a window that looks over Narnia, pictures upon pictures of Jason Orson—shirtless—appear in front of me.

I prop my chin in my hand and lean in even closer. Bronze, ripped muscles decorate my computer screen. A variety of “props” are sprinkled throughout every picture. A bat, weights, workout ropes, catching gear . . . backwards hat . . . a smile.

Is that . . .

Is he in . . .

Gulp.

A towel?

The pen falls out of my mouth, clattering to the desk, as my breasts unapologetically heave, sending out a Morse code to my finger.

Click.

Click.

CLICK GODDAMNIT!

The tits have spoken.

My finger hovers over the picture, ready to click. Just one little punch down and the towel glory is all for me to see . . .

“Good Morning, Miss Domico.”

“Jesus . . . Christ,” I yip while frantically clicking at my screen, doing everything in my power to shut down the almost-naked man gracing every last section of my twenty-four-inch computer screen.

But in my haste to exit out, all I do is make the pictures bigger.

Man nipple covers my screen.

Smooth man chest in full view.

Bulge poking the towel on . . .

Bulge?

I lean in for a better look as my assistant clears her throat. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What?” My head pops up over my screen. I’m thankful she can’t see anything I’m looking at. “No.” I click the exit button rapidly, but can you believe it, my computer freezes on me. “Not interrupting at all. Nope.” I shake my head and clear my throat while adjusting my blouse.

Is it hot in here?

“Just finishing up some uh, research.”

My cheeks flame and for a brief moment, I let down my wall, showing an ounce of vulnerability to my assistant. Probably the first time she’s ever seen me flustered, which leads me to believe this is exactly why I shouldn’t be getting involved with anything when it comes to Jason Orson. Not even donating to his charity, which I’m sure is for a good cause, but staying as far away as possible is smart on my end.

“Okay.” Jessica studies me. “Are you feeling all right? You seem a little flushed.”

I pat my cheeks, willing my body to cool down. I click on the exit button for the shirtless images again, and this time they go away. Thank God.

“I’m fine, just got a little fired up about an unanswered email.” If anything, Jessica knows how much I hate it when people don’t answer me.

“Would you like me to send a follow-up for you?”

She’s so efficient. Annoying when I’m trying to cover up my obscene work conduct.

“No, I’ll send something later.” I bring the Briar Hurst file closer and flip through it, acting like I’m making sure everything is in it when in actuality, all I can see on the paper is Jason’s taut nipples winking at me.

Damn it.

“Well”—I pat the folder—“looks like everything is ready. Any last things I need to know before heading into the meeting?”

“Yes, actually.” She lights up her iPad and with her Apple pencil and scrolls through her checklist. “The meeting with the Carltons next week. They asked if they could move it to eight, rather than seven.”

“That’s fine. Give them whatever they want, I’m flexible.”

“They also requested Italian when I asked what they preferred.”

“Great, we’ll take them to Piccolo. Make reservations for four.”

She winces. “I think it will have to be six.”

“Six? Sure, they can bring whoever they want.”

“That’s the thing.” Jessica adjusts her glasses. “They want to bring Heller and Parks with them.”

My eyes widen, my jaw growing firm. “They want to bring my competition to the meeting? Why would they want to do that?”