He crooked his finger at her. “C’mere.”
“Why?” She searched for her clothes on the floor.
“Because I said so.”
“Who died and left you boss?”
He rolled his eyes, sprang to his feet, and grabbed her around the waist. “Thank you.”
“For what?” She snatched up her thong, which had landed on the arm of his leather club chair.
“For rocking my world.” He dipped down and kissed her.
When she gazed up at him the heat was gone, but his blue eyes were smiling.
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you have something you want to say to me?” He looked smug.
“Not particularly.”
“Bullshit. I blew your mind.”
She ran her fingers through his lightly furred chest. “If you say so.”
He shook his head and slipped into his jeans, leaving the top button undone. “We both know I did, but whatever.” Sawyer strolled out of the bedroom.
She followed him into the kitchen, thinking she should probably leave. It had to be after eleven. “What are doing?”
He held up the package of tortillas and grinned. “Quesadilla time.”
Chapter 12
Gina woke to pounding on her door. In her sleep-induced haze, she glanced at her cell phone on the nightstand. It was seven in the flipping morning. She’d fallen into her own bed about three, after she’d left Sawyer’s.
Who the hell came calling this early in the morning?
She pulled the blanket over her head, hoping that if she ignored the knocking whoever it was would go away. But the banging just got closer. It sounded as if someone was tapping on her bedroom window.
She yanked the covers off, padded across the floor, and pulled the blinds up. A man—a stranger—stood there with a camera lens pointed at her face.
“Gina DeRose, did you get what you want? How do you feel about Candace Clay filing for divorce?” he shouted, snapping a succession of pictures.
She flinched, then jerked the blinds closed. Scooping up her phone, she ran to the bathroom and hid in the tub.
“Please answer, please answer,” she prayed aloud as she hit Sawyer’s number. It made more sense to call Aubrey and Cash. They were just across the creek. And Cash was law enforcement. But Sawyer was press. He’d know how to deal with the bloodsucking leech.
“Morning,” he answered on the second ring, sounding more chipper than anyone had a right to this early. And after what they’d done all night. “Didn’t you get enough last night?”
“A tabloid photographer is outside my window,” she whispered.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
She repeated herself, raising her voice just a fraction, afraid the person outside would hear her. Which was ridiculous. He’d seen her. He knew she was here.
“On my way,” he said. “Until then, don’t go outside.”
She considered crawling out of the tub back to her bedroom. Still in sleep shorts and a tank top, she’d like to at least put on a bra. Run a comb through her tangles. But she didn’t budge, fearful that the man would capture her on camera, streaking down the hallway like a lunatic. She could already see the headlines: Insane Celebrity Chef Lives in Old Unabomber Cabin.
