His grin spreads. “Both of them?”
“Twins. We adopted them through Children’s Aid when they were two.”
He flops over on to his back again, humming to himself. “Twins. That’s a lot of work.”
“It was,” I say. Less when you only get them for five or six days out of every fourteen.
“Bet you’re a great dad,” he says.
What made him think that? I push up on my elbows, suddenly uncomfortable. I should go. Orgasms have been had. Time to hit the road.
“You ready?” Brady says, sitting up as well.
“Yeah.” I say, but before I can get to the edge of the bed, he’s crawling onto his hands and knees and straddling my lap. His kiss is hungry, and he pulls my palm down to the erection swelling in his briefs.
“Good. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to do another round.”
“What?” I can’t help the way I squawk.
He pouts like the smug bastard he is. “Well... someone your age. If you were—”
I grab his lip between my teeth. “Don’t be a know-it-all, Brady.”
He swallows my growl in a laugh.
15
Brady
Dear Sir,
I am not nearly old enough to be a sir.
Dear Mr. Jensen,
Technically—no, wait, what’s bigger than technically? Literally? What word meansin every sense? Omnisciently?—my last name is Jansen, not Jensen, but you get half points for trying.
Dear Hiring Manager,
Oh, man. If you think this is the kind of company big enough to have a hiring manager, you are going to be sorely disappointed on your first day when you show up and find out it’s only me.
To whom it may concern,
Oh, come on, now you’re not even trying.
Hiring people is the literal—technical, metaphorical and every other-alyou can think of—worst. From the new graduates who don’t know the difference between a printer driver and a screwdriver, to the laid off corporate IT managers who want me to pay them—and rightly so, given their qualifications—50 percent more than I am capable of shelling out, the pool of applicants is both overwhelmingly large and dismally small. How can the largest city in the whole country yield not a single person I actually want to meet?
The week has been busy. I’ve been out on calls almost every day with Ramona, reacquainting myself with clients that she took off my plate and I have not had to worry about in ages.
“We’re sure going to miss her,” one client says.
“You and me both,” I say. He doesn’t even know.
Nash is over almost every other night. He’s insatiable. I’ve slept with my fair share of guys in my tender young life, but never anyone who responds the way Nash does. He arches into my touch like he craves it and begs shamelessly as I tease him with my cock. So much of my life is spiraling out of control, but with Nash, when he’s naked and needs me, everything makes sense, at least for a little while.
He’s late too. It’s Friday night. He said he’d come by after work, but now it’s closer to eight o’clock. I can’t exactly text him and ask him if he’s still coming. I don’t know what this is between us, but it’s too casual for me to be sending needy “where are you?” messages. Not like I haven’t had enough orgasms already this week. If something came up—maybe with one of his kids—I’m not really in a position to complain.
Instead, I pour my frustration over the poor souls who had the audacity to think they might want to work for me—hundreds of them, and each one leaves me more certain that I’m going to wind up running this company alone. For the amount of time it would take me to hire and train up some of these people, I could be making client calls myself.
