Fucking hell. “Mark?”
“Bold move, Pixie Stick,” Brian adds.
“And by the look on his face, Kong liked it,” Zac drawls in a bad nature documentary accent.
Is everyone on this call?
“I did not like it,” I state, matter-of-factly.
Who am I kidding?
I liked it enough that I’d trade caffeine, carbs, and two nights of sleep for five more minutes with Pixie Stick.
Not that these clowns need that kind of ammo.
“So you wouldn’t want to know where she is now?” Mark asks.
Yes, I would. But the trap is in plain sight. I sidestep it and cover my tracks.
“Nope. Not at all,” I lie. “Why would I? I’m not here for her. I’m here to check on Gabe’s baby sister and make sure her flight got in okay.”
“From LAX?” Brian asks.
This is the downside of working in intel. Everyone knows your shit.
Before I can reply, he adds, “Welp. You’re out of luck. That flight landed a while back. Pretty sure Gabe’s sister is halfway to Manhattan by now.”
Dammit.
“But,” Zac cuts in, “if you’re interested in your lady friend?—”
“I do not have a lady friend.”
And certainly not Pixie Stick. The woman is an emotional cactus. Bristly. Armed with ten-foot spikes.
Her walls are higher than the moon.
Frankly, so are mine.
Then again, she’s also…
Feisty.
Curvy.
Hotter than New York City asphalt in July.
And those lips…
She’s the kind of raw, dangerous energy every cell in my body craves.
On my face.
Stop it.
“She’s waiting for her luggage at Carousel Three,” Brian adds.
“I don’t care.”
