The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(59)

Usually, I close the deal on the first night or, at the least, the second. This is my third date with Avril, and as she sits across from me—and as usual—I find myself wondering what Claire is doing.

What is it about her that has me captivated?

She’s wrong for me . . . in every sense. There is nothing that we have in common, and she’s right—we live different lives in different worlds.

Avril picks her phone up and pouts and takes a selfie. She instantly posts it on her Instagram and tags the restaurant.

I watch her in a strange detached state.

Why is she so unattractive to me, when I know for a fact that she’s beautiful?

What did that fucking Claire Anderson do to my sex drive?

My dick may as well have shriveled up and died. He doesn’t want anybody but her.

And I don’t get it, because I’ve dated some beautiful women over the years and yet have never had this happen before. I’ve always had to try to reign in my sex drive, control it to be loyal. It’s been a conscious decision.

But now, nobody seems to be good enough to make him even think about wanting to come out and party. Now my traitorous body has only one woman on its mind.

I sip my red wine, annoyed with myself.

Snap the fuck out of this.

Claire Anderson is no good for you. Stop thinking about her.





Witch.


If I had my time again with Claire, I’d give it to her good. I’d break her in half. I get a vision of her riding my cock the other night, and I clench in appreciation . . . so fucking hot.

What am I doing here?

“Well?” Avril asks.

Huh? I glance up from my daydream. Did she say something? “I’m sorry?” I ask.

“I said, let’s go back to my place,” she whispers. “I’ve made you wait long enough; it’s time.”

I smirk, amused that she thinks she’s made me wait. Poor deluded woman.

I don’t want this.

“I have to be up early tomorrow . . . rain check?” I ask.

“Are you serious?”

I hesitate, hardly able to believe it myself. “Yeah, I am.” I sigh.

Her eyes hold mine. “You’re just not into me, are you?”

I puff air into my cheeks, feeling guilty. “It’s not you. It’s me.” I sigh. “I’m sorry.” I shrug. “I have no excuse, because you’re perfect.”

She gives me a lopsided smile. “Do you want to talk about it in bed?”

I chuckle and sip my red wine. “As tempting as that is . . . no.”

“So this is our last date?”

I wince. “I think so.”

“I really thought we had something.” She pulls a whiny face, and as I stare at her, I remember Claire teasing me with that exact line, as if she knew I heard it often.

And I do . . . but I never knew how it felt to hear it from someone I cared about.





It sucks.


I read the report as Fletcher stands in front of me, nervously waiting for my opinion.

A smile crosses my face. He’s worked hard on this; I can tell. “This is good, Fletch.”

“Really?”

“I like it. I would have perhaps added a little more information on projected earnings for the first quarter.” I look up at him. “But it’s good. You did well this week.”

He smiles. “Thanks.” He turns to walk out, and I notice it’s dark outside. I kept him later than usual. “How are you getting home?”

“Subway,” he says.

“I can give you a lift if you want.”

He frowns. “You want to drive me home?”

“No. I’m offering you a lift because it’s Friday night, and I know you’ve missed your usual train. And besides, your mother will have a conniption if something were to happen to you.”

“Ah.” He thinks about it.

“Contrary to what you believe, Fletcher, I’m not the devil. I have no plans to kill you and bury you in a ditch on a deserted road.”

And besides, I want to see your mother.

“See, the fact that you said that . . . is just creepy,” he mutters dryly.

I chuckle. “Was a little.” I turn off my computer. “Okay, let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later we arrive at my parking space, and Fletcher’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “This is your car?”

“Nice, huh?” The lights blink as I unlock it.

He whistles as he walks around it. “A brand-new Aston Martin.”

“Uh-huh.”

“In sapphire black.” He gasps in awe.

“You got it.” I smile. “You like these cars?”

“I love these cars.”

I smile. “Maybe if you get your license, you can have a drive of it.”

“Really?” His eyes widen in excitement.

I shrug. “Sure, why not?”

Fletcher has grown on me. He’s not a bad kid after all. Smart and funny, like his mom.

He flashes me a broad smile and climbs into the passenger seat. I pull out of the parking lot with speed, and he smiles goofily through the windshield.

She better be home.

A long hour later we pull into his street. “Just up here on the left,” he says.